Spectre Black

by J. Carson Black

  Things were tough all over.

  They arranged for a meet.

  “Dress former military,” Landry said.

  “That’ll be easy. You want to dress up, I’ve got a whole case of Mehron stuff. Wigs, makeup, all sorts of shit. Enough to turn this into an early Halloween party. You want biker? You got biker.”

  “Former military and biker. There’s a mono vault on the road up above my town house in Lake View Terrace. It’s sunk into a pullout on the right-hand side of the road, right where it gets steeper.” He gave the GPS coordinates. “Inside are a couple of identities. One is Sean Marcus Terry. It’s solid.” He mentally ran down his wish list. “Also pull out the parabolic mic and send it to me overnight.” He gave the address. “Can you pick up a truck when you get here? I’ll reimburse you.”

  They arranged where to meet. Eric thought aloud. “For this op, we go badass. Black Dodge Ram, two to four years old, am I right?”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Monster truck tires?” Eric laughed. “Just jerking your chain.”

  Chapter 17

  The headquarters of The Right Hand of God Freemen’s Militia was located in an RV park in the low hills just outside Branch city limits. The RV park and a few other businesses were cheek by jowl up against forestland. A former ranch, the campground was set back from the winding dirt road that hosted a cluster of small businesses: a filling station and minimart, a shooting range-slash-petting zoo (fortunately these two attractions were on different ends of the property) and the RV park itself—the last outpost before US National Forest land.

  While Landry waited for Eric the Red, he set up surveillance on one of the hills, having followed a track above the scattering of houses and cabins. He was high up, concealed in a copse of scrub oak.

  The blacktop wound through the canyon. A quarter mile before the general store, the road forked. The left fork led an eighth of a mile to the Pine Cone RV Park, and the right fork went through forestland, all the way to the main highway. The few homes scattered along the road ranged from ramshackle miner shacks to newer ranchettes. Anyone wanting to drive through the canyon had to pass through a militia checkpoint. Landry parked at a trailhead four miles distant and hiked in cross-country rather than risk being seen by the militia members. He did not want to make his presence known until he and Eric showed up on their doorstep, looking to join.

  It had taken a full day for Landry to figure out where the militia stayed. He’d been looking for RV parks and trailer parks and campgrounds, mainly because places like that offered a constantly changing population. People camped for a day or two and moved on. Some stayed longer—for the winter. But the transient nature of a campground made it easier for the militia to remain hidden in plain sight.

  That was, if you didn’t notice the bikers, rough characters, paramilitary weapons, and swagger. If you didn’t notice the posted signs—KEEP OUT, like something from a kid’s tree fort. If you didn’t see the big trucks, or notice the counterculture appearance of some and the paramilitary looks of others. Or the armed sentry.

  Landry watched their comings and goings. At first, they were as indiscriminate as ants in his binocs. But after a while, he saw the pattern. Cars and trucks going out at specific times. Eight o’clock was one. Ten thirty, another. He wrote it down. Punctual, like the military. Cars and trucks going in and out in an orderly manner. The sentry saluting. Landry guessed they were either going for supplies, or to a checkpoint—their day job.

  He set up the parabolic mic.

  There was no one out and about, so Landry fixed the GPS position, saved it to his phone, and sketched a map of the compound. Jotted a few notes in a memo pad. Sometimes the most obvious and outdated method worked better than fancy equipment. He’d learned long ago that if he had a chance to write his thoughts out, he assimilated them better and deeper than any other way. This was a time to get a feel for them, to begin to figure out the hierarchy. This would take hours of just watching them, and eavesdropping with the mic.

  The outskirts of the place looked like a cross between a gypsy camp and a junkyard where cars and appliances went to die. Maybe because the riverbed was lined with rusted car hulks, some of them dating to the twenties. Protection against the river flooding its banks. There were operational vehicles, too; three trucks and a couple of cars.

  The RV park itself was a sprinkling of travel trailers and campers under a row of Aleppo pines. Some of the trailers and campers were in pristine condition and some were falling apart. Tent trailers, travel trailers, trucks with camper shells, two older motor homes. And one standout: a top-of-the-line Mercedes/Airstream motor home.

  Landry photographed three buildings: a house made of cinderblock, painted yellow—someone’s domicile, a camp store with attached restrooms, and a small, one-story building that would have been right at home on a western movie set. The yellow house held down one side of the campground, and the western building, which he labeled “Bunkhouse” in his notes, was on the other. Not far from the bunkhouse was the whitewashed camp store. It too, had a low wooden porch, and offered up an ice machine and a soft drink machine. Another sign on the big cottonwood shading the building said, “Sewer Dump Station.”

  The entrance to the property was a cattle guard between two posts. Four-strand barbed-wire fencing stretched into infinity on either side. It wouldn’t stop attackers, that was for sure. The militia could have gone one of two ways: “impenetrable,” or “hide in plain sight.” They’d chosen the “hide in plain sight” model.

  As Landry watched, a man exited the motor home and walked over to the old west shack. Sound in the mountains carried and he heard the screen door slap to.

  Landry waited for the man to reemerge, which he did, a few minutes later. He was spare—no fat on him—and wore a cowboy hat that reminded Landry of the old westerns from the sixties. The kind of hat with a triangular crown. Because of the man’s hat and the confident way he walked, Landry labeled him TV Western Hat. Other than the out-of-place cowboy hat, he was dressed in jeans and a western, snap-button shirt. But Landry couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something, for want of a better word, corporate about him.

  Landry remained where he was as early morning turned to late morning, and then to noon, jotting notes on the memo pad. Anything and everything—no matter how small or seemingly unimportant.

  The parabolic mic wasn’t effective because no one spoke. All he heard were birds.

  He noted the times people came and went. He noted who went into which building, a quick description, trying to keep it down to one or two words. Like Lion Mane—a short, tough, wiry individual with blond hair that would have looked appropriate on a surfer circa 1970. Landry didn’t make any value judgments, just observed. At times like this, it was best to think clinically.

  He had looked up The Right Hand of God Freemen’s Militia, and seen Lion Mane featured in a news article. His name was Jedediah Kilbride. He and TV Western Man were similar in build. Landry wondered if they might be brothers.

  Kilbride didn’t reveal much about his militia, wisely using jargon to say very little. Lots of references to God and Country, Freedom, Liberty, and trampled rights. The usual. If you wanted to obfuscate, hit them with a flood of words and lofty rhetoric that couldn’t be pinned down.

  Whatever was going on, the main crew was gone. Landry assumed they were manning their checkpoints around the small city.

  He wanted to get an idea as to how professional they were. It didn’t matter how they looked. It was how they worked together, how they achieved their goals. It must be cleaning day. Women did that work, one of them buzzing from one outbuilding to the other with a vacuum cleaner, another taking out the trash and heading into one place with an industrial squeeze mop and bucket. They spoke a few words to one another in Spanish, and Landry got most of it. Stuff like “I’ll do that house, you do the other.” One was a thin woman with long blac
k hair. Maybe Hispanic, maybe not. Her movements were languid, verging on sexy. The men he saw going about their business spent a good deal of time shooting the breeze with her. Another woman, also with black hair, was shorter and softer-looking. But she was a dynamo, a hard worker. She was definitely Hispanic. Some just had walk-on parts, but Lion Mane, the blond surfer man—Kilbride—gave the orders. He carried himself importantly, as if a spotlight were always following him. But he didn’t overdo it, and his voice was quiet. Landry could barely hear him.

  He remembered an old TV commercial. “If you want to catch someone’s attention, whisper.”

  The remaining four men looked like central casting had sent them over. Three of them wore green Army tees, camo pants, and Kevlar vests. They were youngish men, playing soldier. They might be former military. Two of them were bulky but not big, and one was lean like a sapling. He was a kid but Landry sensed he had more on the ball than the others. For one thing, he often lifted his binocs to scan the area. He was alert but not hypervigilant. He looked like he’d be able to swing into action instantly, if need be. He had restless eyes, and when people talked, he was not among them. He was constantly taking in his surroundings, shading his eyes and scrutinizing the hills.

  The parabolic mic captured their voices, but it needn’t have bothered; it was all small talk.

  Landry concentrated his binocs on Kilbride. He looked to be in his mid-fifties. Probably dyed his hair. The other two were sloppy and lazy. One of them leaned against a post holding up the porch. Physically lazy, but also, he might have problems. Back problems, maybe, or the knee. Musculoskeletal problems.

  The other shifted from foot to foot, also uncomfortable. Hand shading his eyes against the sun. It seemed to Landry his attention wandered. He’d nod as if he understood, then he’d shift his weight, put his thumbs in his belt. “Yes, sir,” he’d say, and then his gaze would wander away again. Attention deficit disorder, in the flesh.

  “Quite a team you’ve got there,” Landry muttered.

  He reminded himself that he could not underestimate the spear-carriers. Lazy men, inattentive men, bored men—they were the dangerous ones. They could be surprised. They could be frightened. They could react unpredictably. With Lion Mane, Landry had a pretty good handle on how he would react to any situation. He’d tighten himself up. He’d be ready. He was short, probably a former Navy SEAL. Most of Landry’s fellow SEALs were short and compact. Kilbride would keep his eye on the prize. And so would the kid.

  So there they were: Lion Mane, Western Hat (who had since disappeared), the young guy Landry thought was on the ball, and the two spear-carriers in this opera. And the two women—one who seemed preoccupied with her looks, and the other, stouter woman, who was no stranger to work.

  Landry had the luxury of watching them interact most of the afternoon. One of the spear-carriers started digging postholes. The other drove off the property in a GMC Suburban. Landry recognized the Suburban from the checkpoint. Navy blue, almost black, dented and floured with dust. The guy gunned it out of there—macho.

  Landry focused on the women. He knew that women in militias were mostly hangers-on. Most, but not all. Many came with their boyfriends or husbands, but every once in a while you’d run into a tough nut, a GI Jane. Neither of these two fit the bill. The slim, beautiful one was clearly with Lion Mane. The shorter one, the dynamo who worked efficiently but thoroughly—Landry put her into another category. She wore a gray T-shirt with a navy blue logo on it, and he saw now she wasn’t fat, but muscular. Short-waisted, yes, but strong. He pegged her as former military.

  He took photos of them all, but mostly, he memorized them. The way they moved—for instance, how Lion Mane walked with his arms swinging at his sides but slightly out from his body, as if he’d spent a good part of his life hefting hay bales. The gray-shirted woman—every movement she made was economical and effective.

  Western Hat might be the boss, but Landry couldn’t get a read on him. Too short an exposure to him. The guy had walked from the motor home to the outbuilding and back again, and that was it. He could well be calling the shots. But calling the shots wasn’t always the best barometer of effectiveness. Of a potentially worthy foe.

  For now he would focus mostly on the formidable ones: Lion Mane, The Kid, and the Short Woman.

  He waited a while longer, but it must have been siesta time. No one was out and about. No trucks or cars drove in or out.

  He’d come back tomorrow.

  He had some time.

  By the end of the second day, he knew them cold. He caught only bits and pieces of the story with the parabolic mic, but he had a good idea of their operation—who was assigned which checkpoint, what worried them, and what they could not care less about. Who you could count on and who wasn’t up to snuff. The shock of losing three of their own—there was plenty of talk about that. Plenty of blame to go around, too. Who would hang tough, and who was the weakest link.

  Chapter 18

  At five thirty in the morning Cyril Landry awoke to the sound of a big truck engine idling past his motel room window. He left the light off, peered through the narrow seam between the curtains and saw the Dodge Ram.

  The Dodge idled, the big engine shuddering—still cold. The Ram was black, late model, but not new. Eric Blackburn sat in the driver’s seat, window rolled down, massive arm cocked on the door. The exhaust burbled, gray in the near dark. The motel was shaped like an L and Landry saw a drape twitch in the window of the room across the way. Landry fumbled for his phone, found it, and hit Eric’s number.

  “I hope you’re buying me breakfast.”

  “Roger that.”

  “Room Six.”

  Landry stood in the doorway and watched as the taillights came on and the behemoth truck backed up. He could hear the squeak of the suspension from here. Eric parked beside Landry’s Forenza and killed the engine.

  “Nice piece of shit you got there,” Eric said, jumping out of the truck and nodding toward Landry’s car.

  “It’s served its purpose. You can’t get more under the radar than that. You brought your bike.”

  “I brought a bike. It’s cheaper than mine, but not by much. I figure if I wrecked it you’d pay me what it’s worth. And if it comes out okay, I’ll give it to my kid. One of those offers you can’t refuse. Let’s go get some breakfast and have us a powwow.”

  The Busy Bee Diner was just a greasy spoon, but there wasn’t much else in this town except Mexican food places, and even a dedicated Mexican food fan would want a little variety now and then.

  Eric leaned back and crossed his arms across his massive chest. “What’s the planistan, Stan?”

  “I forgot how cheery you are in the morning.”

  “I’m a regular Kris Kringle.”

  “You bring the stuff?”

  “Yeah. Right here.” Eric reached down, unzipped his run bag, and let Landry get a glimpse of his biker outfit. Leathers, jeans, chains: the usual.

  “The girls are gonna love you.” Actually, Landry thought they’d be repulsed—or at least intimidated. Either one was good. He wanted the two of them to join the club, but make people uncomfortable enough in Eric’s presence that they wouldn’t stick around to chat too long. It wouldn’t take much to make the women uncomfortable. Eric had a lascivious smirk that would scare anybody. “You grew your hair long.”

  Eric fluttered his eyelashes. “You like it?”

  “It’s all good.”

  “Yeah, I’m just a former Navy SEAL turned biker turned patriot.” He slid his wallet across to Landry. Landry pulled it down under the table and checked the driver’s license. “The ID is solid?”

  “Oh, yeah. Speaking of which, here’s yours from the mono vault. Good to meet you, Sean.”

  Landry took the zippered pouch and looked through it. “Sean Marcus Terry.”

  They kept their voices low and conversa
tional. It was a busy Saturday morning and the babble was continuous and loud. Mostly they ate their breakfasts and joked a little. They knew what to do—both of them had gone through intense psych training, where you learned and practiced ways to put yourself in other people’s shoes.

  In this case, they had to reflect—and embody—the qualities of the militia members. They had to be ready to take on that persona, and wear it.

  They had to tighten up, willfully change their mindset, from belittling the weekend warriors in the militia to becoming one of them.

  Walk a mile in their shoes.

  There would be militia members who actually were clowns and wannabes, but many of them were serious—and smart. It would not pay to underestimate these men; some of them could catch on if there was even one wrong note sounded.

  For all of Landry’s belittlement of the militias privately, he knew they were dead serious. They had money, they had soldiers, they had commitment, and the group was naturally wary of strangers. If your ID didn’t pass muster, you could end up with the door shut in your face, or worse—

  Much worse. Some of these groups were disciplined and professional, and had a lot of money behind them.

  The trick was to think like them. That was number one. And that started with respect.

  “So,” Eric said, “how is this gonna look?”

  “The obvious? They’ll try to test us, see if we’re really former military.”

  “The guy who tests me will need new dental work.”

  “Also, we’re both tall.”

  Eric smeared the last of the egg on his plate with some rye bread. His eyes on Landry’s. “Yeah,” he said. “They’ll have to look up at us.”