“You can’t be serious.”
“Dead serious. My grandfather was Klan. My father and all my uncles were. All our friends were, too. I mean, look at it … we went to church, read the Bible, and held hands and prayed to Jesus. We never hurt a soul. What I’m trying to tell you guys is there’s a lot of Christians in the Klan.”
“Hold on,” Mullins said. “We are talking about the Ku Klux Klan, right?
The guys that hung coloreds during the civil rights movement?”
“Like I said, Keith, bad segment. The Klan got started a hundred and fifty years ago for the sole purpose of protecting white southerners from the criminal carpetbaggers coming down from the north. They had a righteous purpose.”
“I don’t believe this!” Ham exclaimed looking at Rico. “He’s actually defending the Ku Klux Klan.”
“Ham, you’re not listening! All I’m saying is not all Klan people are bad. Some are just misguided. You carry prejudice around. We all do.”
“Fellas—” Cadarian Rogers stood up and faced the group. “I’m really hurting inside, men. You guys know me. You know I love Jesus Christ with all my heart. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned it’s that being a Christian is more than going to church and reading the Bible. It’s about walking with Christ.” Cadarian walked over to Lopez and grabbed his wrist. He grabbed Clean’s. “See this? Three completely different skin colors, right? Jesus died for all of us, not just people with white skin. Tony, excuse me for saying this, brother, but I think you’re the one misguided.” The room fell silent. Most men stared at the floor. Barnes shook his head and looked away. “And regarding the cross,” Rogers continued. “It’s a symbol of Christ’s sacrifice. His victory over sin. It’s not about intimidation or ritual or whatever else you want to call it. Barnes, you can’t stand there and tell me the Ku Klux Klan is a Christian organization.”
“Cadarian, that’s your viewpoint, man, and I respect it, but—”
“Gentlemen,” Rico said stepping in. “Everyone cool off and sit down. Now listen to me, everyone. I appreciate all of your comments, and you are all entitled to your opinion. We can discuss the moral fiber of the K-K-K some other time, but right now, I need you focused on this mission. Make no mistake about it, Klan or not, Christian or not, our suspects are cold-blooded killers. They’ve already murdered four people, and if I’m right, they’re bound to kill more. I didn’t show you this picture to get you riled up. Now like it or not, the Ku Klux Klan is the largest organized gang in America, and we believe the Canaday boys are members. Whether that’s good or bad is not important. What is important is we may be dealing with something a lot bigger than a biker gang. So let’s stay focused, shall we?” A hush fell over the room. Rico nodded and continued. “Now, meet the Canaday brothers.”
Rico advanced the slide and a photo of the suspects dissolved onto the screen. A collective groan went up from the group.
“Whoa,” Keith Mullins exclaimed. “You weren’t kidding about the masks, Boss. They look like they just stepped off a movie set.”
“This was taken in 2012.”
“Where’d you get it?”
“Their grandmother gave it to me today.”
“Their grandmother? Manno,” Lopez said. “I’d say that pretty much nails ’em, doesn’t it?”
“These are the guys?” Ham said. “The two clowns that killed the paramedic last night?”
“I’m convinced they are,” Rico answered. “I saw these same masks at the Terrace where Charlie Kennedy was shot. Names are Bobby and Billy Canaday. Bobby, we think, is the one that pulled the trigger.”
“Which one is he?” Mullins guffawed. “The Halloween nut, or the freakin’ Friday the 13th Jason Voorhees kook?”
“The Halloween nut.”
“Hey, Clean,” Mullins joked. “The Myers character kinda reminds me of you.”
Hicks stood and walked to the screen, his pink albino eyes piercing. “Rico, I don’t get this. I mean, Halloween masks? What’s with these two freaks?”
“Maybe this will answer your question.” Rico pushed the remote and the next slide appeared. “This is what they looked like in 2007.”
“Blue-eyed, red-headed school boys?” Hicks said with a shrug.
“Lot has happened since then.” Rico advanced the projector again. “This is them two years later.”
“Holy smokes!” Mullins jumped out of his seat. “Same guys?”
“Same guys.”
“Jeez,” Hicks grimaced. “Their faces look like melted wax. What happened?”
“Car crash.” Rico paused until all eyes were on him. The men sat quietly as he gave a synopsis of the early morning wreck and fire. “The explosion’s what killed their little brother and other family members. We believe they have a personal vendetta against the medics that responded to that scene. Claim they let ’em burn. It was officially determined to be an accident, but the brothers apparently don’t agree. Anyway, they’ve killed two of the three paramedics that were on the scene that night, as well as one family member of each. I spoke with old lady Canaday today—the brothers’ grandmother. She unwittingly filled in a lot of the blanks for us. Also, the Carteret County Sheriff’s Department has provided a wealth of information, including floor plans of the clubhouse we’ll be raiding.”
“We’re raiding a clubhouse, sir?”
“An old warehouse in the woods beside the ICW. According to Mrs. Canaday, the brothers will be there tonight.” Rico advanced the slide to reveal the layout of the building and pointed out the details with a red laser pointer. “Sits in the woods at the end of a dirt road. Two large bay doors and a back entrance. Separate living quarters upstairs, rec room and meeting hall above the warehouse, approachable from both ends by these staircases, here and here. The problem will be getting inside. A chain-link fence topped with barbed wire surrounds the entire compound.”
“What’s our objective?” Ham said standing and adjusting his vest.
“Find the Canaday brothers and bring them in.”
“Sounds simple enough.”
“I’m hoping it will be.”
“Hold on,” Hicks said. “This sounds too simple. What kind of resistance should we expect? Are they like a Hell’s Angels group? Should we expect automatic weapons?”
“Sheriff’s Department has made three separate arrests at this compound. They’ve never encountered anything more than verbal resistance. However, I believe we should proceed with caution. The Devils have known connections to drugs, prostitution, and weapons trafficking, and our suspects are wanted for first-degree murder.”
“Teams, sir?”
“Thanks. Hose … you, Hicks, and Rogers are Delta-two. You’ll enter through the door on the north side of the complex. Ham, you and Mullins are with me. Delta-one. We enter through the garage doors or the secondary door if necessary. If we meet resistance on the ground floor, we’ll deal with it, but we should expect the most resistance on the second floor in the living quarters. Plan on using flash-bang grenades.”
Rico glanced around the group and received unanimous nods.
“Ghost, you’re Delta-three. Find a good position in the trees.”
Barnes nodded.
“One more thing, guys … and, Keith, this is mainly for you. The Canaday brothers are ex-military. Army EOD. Watch for trip wires, switches, anything unusual. See anything, let Keith know pronto. Gentlemen, you should consider these men armed and extremely dangerous. Anything could happen, but if we run this thing right, it should be a simple break and take mission. Watch each others’ backs, and no shots fired unless absolutely necessary. I’ve secured a pair of boats to get us there. We’ll offload, split up into our teams, and hoof it in. Not more than a few hundred yards, but it’s thick with overgrowth and swamp.”
“Why boats, sir? Why not just drive in?”
“Element of surprise. Surveillance cameras. Now there’s a dirt road in front of the complex. It begins at the boat ramp where we’ll be landing and runs all the
way to the main road about a mile in. Sheriff’s Department is providing a dozen men. Two have been in the woods near the clubhouse all afternoon. They report six bikes inside the compound and at least one more inside the garage. They made a positive ID of one of the brothers—Billy. I’m hoping Bobby is there as well. Also, the front gate was open at last report, no dogs in sight. Anything else?” Rico glanced about the room. Mostly he saw confidence, but on one face he saw apprehension. “Rat,” he said, “you’ve been unusually quiet tonight. What’s on your mind?”
“Sir,” Rogers said, deep lines creasing his forehead. “I don’t much care for all this Klan talk. I see someone in a white hood, sir, I can’t guarantee what I’ll do.”
“Me neither.”
“Gotta get by us first,” Ham said to the agreement of most of the others. “Any redneck biker messes with you, old friend—” Ham paused and glanced at Barnes. “I’ll personally see to it he suffers.”
Barnes chuckled and shook his head.
Rico got a bad feeling in his gut. It was the first time ever he had witnessed a separation among the ranks. And Barnes looked especially stressed. Rico prayed that if the need arose for him to shoot, his trigger finger would be steady.
“Ghost? You okay, brother?”
“No worries,” he responded, standing and glancing at Andrew Hamilton. “I’ll be ready, sir.” Barnes turned and left the room. The others glanced at each other and then stood up and followed him out.
CHAPTER
19
SATURDAY—20:03—NOVEL IDEA (SLIP #23 Pair-A-Docks) Sadie glanced at her Facebook page for the fifth time that hour hoping for a private message from Jim. She realized that she was acting like an obsessed schoolgirl. After all, she had just met the guy, and she knew nothing about him. And on top of that he was engaged. She pictured the two girls that had driven up in the black sports BMW. She remembered watching them from the salon cabin, purposely staying out of sight. Jim had hugged them both, but he had kissed the older one, a petite blonde with shoulder length hair and striking green eyes.
She felt sick. Jim was the perfect character for her novel, and falling in love with him was the best way to write about him, but she knew that could never happen. Problem was it already had. She pictured the scene—a sandy beach at sunset. The couple walking hand in hand. The waves washing over their feet and a warm breeze in their hair. She stared into his beautiful hazel eyes. His rugged face smiled back. She loved his dimples. The strong embrace of his arms. The taste of his lips. Sadie decided she needed a walk to cool her head. She pulled on her flip-flops and a light jacket and jumped off the boat. She was just starting down the planks when she spotted a motorboat cruising into the harbor, a large center-console powerboat bearing an insignia on its bow—Rescue-1. Sadie felt intrigued. The growling 4-cycle outboards excited her. The boat reminded her of a sea monster. It idled slowly to the dock and stopped. The two men aboard wore black, tactical jumpsuits. Each wore a pistol on his hip. One of the men stepped off the boat and walked down the dock in her direction.
“Ma’am,” he said. “May I have a moment of your time?”
“Of course,” Sadie responded, sizing him up as he approached. He had black crew cut hair and a matching goatee that rounded out his face. He had a friendly spark in his eyes and a lazy style to his walk that said to the world, “Just try and get me riled.” Sadie liked him immediately. Another good character. She glanced at his hands. His boots. The slight limp in his stride. “How can I help you?”
“I’m Sergeant Eric Strong with East Beach Police.” He pointed at slip #25. “We’re looking for the gentleman who keeps his boat in that slip. Have you seen him today?”
“You mean, Jim? I saw him this morning. Is he in some kind of trouble?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. It’s police business.”
“He left this morning with his … girlfriend. They were sailing to the lighthouse, I think.” Sadie could feel anxiety creeping in, along with an ominous forewarning of danger. “Sir, I really don’t mean to be nosey, but is something wrong? You’re the second boat in the last thirty minutes to come in here asking about him.”
“Another boat?”
“It was a lot like yours, only red.”
“Did it have a logo on the hull?”
“I don’t know. I was focused on his face. The poor man. He was the ugliest person I’ve ever seen. He had these awful scars on his face and scalp like he had been horribly burned at some point.”
“Is there anything else you remember about his appearance?”
“I’m a writer, officer. I remember everything about him. He was about six- three with muddy red hair … what hair he had. Azure eyes. Bright white teeth. And the most outlandish clothing. Gray coveralls, soiled crewneck shirt, and boots. His accent was thick. I believe around here they call it, high-tider. A strange mixture of Irish and what I would call eastern North Carolina. Does that make sense? He asked where Jim lives. He said they were old friends. Is this helpful?”
“Ma’am, did he go over there?”
“Only for a few minutes. I told him Jim wasn’t home, but he insisted on checking. He said they were old friends.”
“Did he enter the house?”
“I can’t be certain.”
“Ma’am, it’s very important that you remember.”
“He snooped around, but I just don’t know. But I did see him leave. He was over there for fifteen, or maybe twenty minutes. Then he got in his boat and left.”
“Did he say where he was going?”
“No.”
“Okay, well, thank you very much, ma’am. You have been more than helpful. Here’s my card. Please call me if you hear or see anything suspicious. I’ll be at Jim’s house waiting for him.”
Strong thanked her and climbed back into the boat. The other police officer motored him across the creek, dropped him off at Jim’s dock and then turned the boat around and exited the harbor. Strong glanced about briefly, ascended the short staircase to the front deck, and entered Jim’s house.
“What in the world?” Sadie murmured. Sadie uttered a quick prayer for Jim, and then walked across the lawn and up the road for her walk.
CHAPTER
20
SATURDAY—20:55—CHANNEL MARKER #25 (Intracoastal Waterway) The rising moon resembled a small white light bulb set in a velvety black sky. A brilliant sheen of sparkling highlights danced across the surface of the black ICW. The lighting was perfect for a nighttime mission, but Rico felt a premonition as if their celestial neighbor had shown up to watch a good show. The dark woods raced by on both sides of the creek, an endless procession of pines and swamp grass lit by the rising moon. He tried to imagine being out there alone fighting alligators and snakes, or worse, a pack of mean redneck boys wearing white hoods. He decided he would rather be in the scariest part of Harlem, running from a bloodthirsty street gang toting switchblades and chains. He patted his right hip. His old reliable Colt .45 sat cocked and ready as always.
Rico’s earpiece crackled. “Three minutes.”
He glanced at Sergeant Greg Mulkhead. The police sergeant stood tall behind the wheel peering into the darkness, his eyes locked on a pair of flashing colored lights in the water dead ahead. It made little sense to Rico, but Mulkhead seemed to know what to do. He split the difference between the two poles without slowing—taking the red light on the left, the green on the right—and then pushed the wheel hard over. The boat heeled and then straightened again to continue its race into the darkness.
The mouth of Core Creek was wide and dark, featureless except for the reeds and trees on either bank. The boat sped past another flashing green marker and the creek began to narrow. The banks came in on both sides and the channel began to brighten. A massive, floodlighted industrial complex came into view on the right side of the creek, a huge shipyard with a long dock, and a spattering of gigantic boats sitting high on stilts. Two colossal four-legged cranes shaped like double H’s with giant tractor wheels stood close
to the docks. One held a tremendous fishing boat above the ground as if having just lifted it out of the water. Rico studied it as they grew closer. He had never understood how such an awkward looking thing could float. It looked more like a beached whale, an immense beast waiting for someone to scrape off the barnacles and repaint its belly. He shifted his gaze to the left side of the creek. It looked dark and quiet by comparison. A soft glow emanated from the woods in the distance. Mulkhead tapped him on the arm and pointed at it.
“That’s your target.”
Rico glanced at his team. A deep grin etched Mullins’ face. In his right hand, he cradled his baby—a 12-gauge Benelli M2 Tactical. The fingers of his left hand gently stroked the barrel. Ham looked more like Rico felt, anxious. His long, gloved fingers wrapped tightly around his Heckler & Koch-MP5 submachine gun tapping nervously against the plastic stock. Rico placed a hand on his shoulder. “You good?” Ham glanced at him through the clear lenses of his goggles. The whites of his eyes appeared bright against the night. “I’m good, sir. Let’s do it.”
Greg Mulkhead killed the running lights and pulled back on the throttle. The boat dropped its bow and slowed, first to a no-wake speed and then to a virtual crawl. They glided across the surface of the water in the darkness, stealthy as could be under the rapidly rising moon. Mulkhead uttered, “Two minutes,” as he swung the boat to the left side of the creek and hugged the bank. Rico reached out and touched the reeds as he rehearsed his plan: Cut the fence, sweep the complex in three man teams, enter at the garage door, and quickly move to second. Maintain security, flash bangs if necessary, watch your men, get them all back safely … “God,” he whispered. “Just help me get them all back.”
The final two hundred yards of the approach was near silent and dark, engine bubbling quietly. Rico glanced over his shoulder. The second team’s boat idled ten yards behind. Like a pair of shadows, they pulled up to a small wooden dock. Mulkhead shifted the transmission to idle and allowed the boat to drift the last twenty feet. It stopped with a gentle thud.
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