CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
The current leader of the Nation of Aryan Humans went by the name George A. Huddlesford. Among Eli, Steve’s connections in the government, and the information Rick gleaned from his beta’s extensive research, they even managed to learn a little more about the man than just that one mundane fact. To tell the truth, within two hours of reconvening at the clinic, they had moved the base of operations up to Josie’s apartment at the top of the house, and what they had learned absolutely boggled her mind.
First of all, the man’s name turned out not to be George A. Huddlesford at all; it was Frances Joseph Foryski. He’d been born in Scranton, Pennsylvania, and he had a rap sheet that made for very interesting reading. He’d also changed his name at least three times. So far.
Shortly after his eighteenth birthday, he’d gone to court to legally switch his name from the one bestowed on him at birth to Frank Allen Josephs. Three years after that, he went to prison, and when he emerged, he’d begun calling himself Joseph Allen Huddlesford, allegedly after a character in a book about a young skinhead who rose to power by brutally and anonymously assassinating the nonwhite president, vice president, and Speaker of the House of Representatives, thus sparking a race war in America. In the book, of course, the Aryans won and ushered in a paradisiacal future in which America had been freed from the oppressive influence of minorities.
Joe had lasted more than twenty-five years, but about a decade ago, he had run afoul of some rather dangerous types while living in Chicago. He’d dropped off the map for almost two years, and when he’d reemerged, his waistline had expanded, his hair had gone white, he’d grown a mustache, and careful surgery had altered his nose and chin just enough to throw his old enemies off his trail. Curiously, he’d chosen to keep most of his old name, now introducing himself as George Allen Huddlesford of Athens, Georgia. As far as Steve’s sources could tell, he’d never actually been south of the Mason-Dixon Line.
For George aka Joe aka Frank, life as a career criminal had started with his days as a juvenile delinquent, when he delighted in such constructive pastimes as graffiti writing, truancy, vandalism, petty theft, and the occasional breaking and entering of such establishments as his school, his friends’ schools, and a local youth center. From there, he had graduated to advanced breaking and entering, burglary, robbery, assault, battery, drunk and disorderly, numerous traffic violations, grand theft auto, and ultimately the trifecta of grand larceny, resisting arrest, and assaulting an officer that resulted in six years served at a Pennsylvania state prison facility. There he fell in with the community of white supremacist skinheads that altered the course of his criminal activity forever.
The Huddlesford years showed a distinct disinclination to remain a rank-and-file member of the white power and later the human power movements. Joe/George had plans, grander plans than almost all of his fellow young skinheads, and grander even than many of his elder superiors. In his mind, it wasn’t enough to subjugate those who were different—and therefore inferior; such beings should be eradicated in order to ensure that no further pollution of the white human gene pool would even be possible. And, he eagerly demonstrated, that process had already been too long delayed.
Within a month of his release from prison in Pennsylvania, Huddlesford was suspected of planting a bomb in a Philadelphia community center in a poor black section of town. No one had died in that incident, but more than seventeen had been injured, many of them children, and failure had only provided a potent incentive for the man to work harder to achieve his goals.
Josie sat and listened to the entire story, marveling at the infinite capacity of people to hate other people. It boggled her mind. She herself had taken to disliking a number of people during her life—including Helen Patterson—but she could not honestly name a single soul on the face of the earth whom she really hated. In her mind, hate required that the object of it be entirely without redeeming value. If even the smallest aspect of that person engendered sympathy or empathy or pity—or even simple logical comprehension—how could she bring herself to hate them?
For Huddlesford, though, she believed she might be able to make an exception. Although his background in an abusive, alcoholic family stirred a slight wave of sympathy within her, his actions throughout his life had demonstrated a kind of steadily increasing maliciousness that had no basis in logic or experience. As Steve and Eli continued with their list of his crimes since joining the human power movement, Josie saw no motivation for his actions other than sadistic enjoyment of the suffering of others and a baseless hatred of anything not exactly like him.
If Eli had thought she might still change her mind about joining in the hunt for this monster, he should have tied her up and locked her in another room before he began reciting this information. Now that she’d heard the full story, she didn’t just want to see this bastard stopped, she wanted to shoot him herself.
The sheriff, though, had said very little since their last talk at the clinic. After she had stalked off and left him, she had made her way outside—where Rick and Steve had been hiding from the crossfire—and upstairs to take a much-needed shower and put on some real clothes. She’d also received a clear message from her stomach that the snacky dinner she and Eli had eaten the night before had long since worn off, so she’d put together an enormous meal of pasta, meat sauce, and garlic bread that had lured the men up to her apartment faster than any invitation.
While she cooked, Rick and Steve had spent a lot of time on the phone, Ben had returned with his donated medical supplies then just as quickly fled again, and Eli eventually appeared, looking calm and even a little subdued. He’d asked politely for the use of her computer and Internet connection, then planted himself in front of the machine and begun clacking away. He hadn’t said another word until after dinner had been consumed and the mess cleared away.
They moved as a group to the living room, where the discussion naturally returned to the head of the NAH, who he was, what he could possibly have planned, and where he might currently be found. Rick’s beta, as it turned out, was fairly certain that the answer to the last question was right nearby at a former Boy Scout camp on the Columbia River.
“He bought the place about a year and a half ago,” Rick said. “The owner was retiring, and Huddlesford wanted a spot where he could not only hole up, but also turn into a meeting place for his cronies. A kind of mecca for maniacs. The camp came with a house, as well as a meeting hall, cafeteria, barn, storage sheds, and cabins with indoor plumbing and hot and cold running water. It’s a pretty nice setup, and he’s already hosted two conferences that saw upward of three thousand people each.”
Josie shook her head. Why would anyone want to join up with such a man, she wondered briefly, but she knew history could provide more than a few answers to that question—Hitler, Stalin, Pol Pot, and on and on.
“He’s also opened the place up to his followers who want to take ‘advanced philosophical seminars’ on his teachings.” Steve consulted a page of notes and made a face. “My friends at the FBI tell me they may have started out as seminars designed to fire up the youth membership in the NAH so they’d go out and make demonstrations and launch protests like the ones in Stone Creek last summer. But these days, it’s code for training camps in home-grown terrorism. They’re open-minded about their tactics, too. They support everything from old-fashioned lynchings to airplane hijackings to bombings. And now, apparently, bioterrorism.”
Eli frowned. “Yeah, and what did your fed friends say when you mentioned the part about the virus?”
One of Steve’s eyebrows shot up, and his chin drew backward. “Do I look that stupid to you? If I whispered a word about why I wanted this information or what we planned to do with it, we’d have feebs crawling up our asses before we could so much as bend over. They’d love an excuse to take Huddlesford down. In fact, they’re itching for one. But I see no reason to do all the work and then deprive myself of all the fun.”
Josie darted a gl
ance at Eli and found his gaze fixed on her.
“I can think of one,” she murmured to herself, then raised her voice. “Why don’t we just turn over all of our information to the FBI and let them raid the place and haul whoever they find there off to prison?”
Eli just stared at her. “Mainly because we lack what federal judges like to refer to as ‘probable cause.’ ”
“You don’t think that the virus and the attacks and the evidence from the campsite constitute probable cause?” she demanded.
“We can’t bring any of that to the police,” Steve reminded her, “except maybe for the newsletter, but by itself that doesn’t amount to much other than a suspicion. None of the information I’ve provided can be substantiated without at least one of us going to jail, and I can tell you right now that I’d rather avoid that if I can.”
She had forgotten about that. While Steve had been willing to take the risk of sharing what he knew with Josie and the others, she could understand why he couldn’t do the same thing with the FBI. Even if he were willing to risk court-martial, prison, and a dishonorable discharge, he still couldn’t guarantee that anyone would believe his claims. All the military had to do was deny the whole thing and no one without the proper clearance would ever know anything had happened.
It was the kind of thing that really made her wonder about space aliens.
“We’ve got no other choice.” Eli spoke flatly, his expression blank, which Josie didn’t like one bit. “We have to do this ourselves. Dr. Shad was able to retrieve the bullet, and I’ve got someone looking at it, but it had to have come from the same gun that shot Rosemary. If we can find the gun at this compound of Huddlesford’s, I’ll have more than enough to charge him with two counts of attempted murder. I can be satisfied with that for the time being as long as it gets him a prison term a long way from Stone Creek.”
“What about the jurisdictional issues?” Steve asked. “Will that be a problem? The compound isn’t here in Stone Creek, after all.”
“No, but the crimes were committed here. And it wouldn’t matter either way. The compound is still in the same county, and while officially the sheriff’s office of Stone Creek acts as the town’s independent police force, we’re technically still part of the county sheriff’s department. We’ll be fine.”
Steve nodded. “Good. In that case, I hope we find England at the compound, too. With him and any evidence of the virus on hand, I think we’ll be able to upgrade one of those charges to premeditated murder. And tack on a few more besides, like treason. I’d like to do what we can to make sure neither of these bastards ever sets foot outside a prison again.”
“Hear, hear!”
Eli turned to Rick. “What do you think some of your packmates would say to the idea of another short stint as honorary Stone Creek deputies?”
“I think they’d say, ‘Hell, yes!’ ”
“Good. Ask them to come in and collect their badges. How long do you think before they can muster?”
“If I tell them what we’re working on? An hour, tops. And the ones who are farther away from that are going to harass me for months for not waiting for them.”
Josie watched, fascinated, as Eli transformed into a calm, efficient strategist in front of her eyes. She glanced from him to Steve and caught the look of amusement on the other man’s face. It looked like she wasn’t the only one thinking that her lover would have made an excellent general.
The sheriff glanced from the clock near the kitchen to his wristwatch and nodded briskly. “Dusk should be in about two hours. As soon as the Lupines get here, we’ll go over the plan and start loading up. We can take my Jeep. Rick, make sure one of your men has a dark, smooth-running truck to transport the others. The compound is a little less than an hour’s drive on back roads, so we’ll move in after dark.”
His eyes flickered to Josie and away. “Everyone suit up. Dress dark and sturdy. We’ll be moving fast and quiet, potentially over rough ground. We meet in the back of the clinic at twenty ten hours. Questions?”
No one blinked.
“Good. I’ll see you then.”
As Josie watched, feeling a little dazed, Eli spun on his heel, strode to the door, and disappeared into the setting sun. Seriously. It was like watching something out of a modern-day Western. The hero barked out his orders and then marched out into the sunset, prepared to take on an army of villains to save the world.
All Josie really cared about was that he save himself.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
Sandwiched in the middle of the Jeep between Rick and Steve, Josie felt a little like a mouse trapped in a herd of elephants. Not that any of the men in this truck or the one following it moved with anything other than lethally silent grace, she’d discovered, which only served to make her feel even more self-conscious. Maybe Eli had been right, and she should have stayed behind. She didn’t have the experience with combat or self-defense or even just plain bare-knuckled fighting that every single one of them could boast, nor did she have the instincts of 99 percent of them. She was Josie Barrett, girl veterinarian, not girl wonder, and as they neared the location of the compound, she found herself hoping fervently that at the very least she just not get anyone hurt.
If she could avoid causing death or injury to herself and others, she would consider her participation in tonight’s operation an unqualified success.
The thought of operations at least reminded her of the second reason why she had insisted on coming, the first being the stone-faced Feline currently steering the Jeep off the narrow country road and onto what looked like an old logging trail at the direction of Lucas Fairfield, beta and second in command of the Stone Creek Clan. She clutched a compact black satchel to her chest, reassured by its lightweight bulk and the knowledge that she had packed it personally, choosing every item inside with utmost care. In it, she carried saline, gauze, Betadine, waterproof tape, a fully loaded medical staple gun, penicillin, lidocaine, morphine, and two excessively lethal doses of sux, one for Bill and one for . . . any number of possibilities, none of which she had any intention of thinking about.
Josie would gladly pray no one got hurt. She would do her best to ensure that no one got hurt, but if anyone did, she intended to make damn sure that they still made it back to their homes in one piece.
Eli guided the truck along the rutted, overgrown logging trail for a good fifteen minutes with the black Suburban behind them bumping steadily in their wake. Then Lucas said something brief and quiet, and Eli slowed, killing the vehicle’s headlights and glancing in his rearview mirror to watch the Suburban do the same.
“Okay,” he said in a low, surprisingly carrying voice that Josie had no trouble hearing. “From here on out, we’re going dark, and we’re going quiet. Remember the hand signals we went over back at the clinic, and use those for essential communication. If it’s inessential, keep it to yourself. Everybody clear?”
No one said anything, which seemed to be the correct reaction. Eli returned his gaze to the road and guided the truck approximately another half mile using only the sliver of crescent moon light and his own keen eyesight to show the way. Finally, he pulled to the side of the road next to a stand of young pine trees and cut the engine. The Suburban rolled in behind and followed suit.
Never in her life had Josie heard car doors open and close so quietly. Standing less than three feet away from the one through which one of Rick’s packmates emerged, she barely even noticed a click. These men moved with unnatural silence.
She watched as the group of ten men gathered on the road beside the trucks. In addition to Eli, Steve, Rick, and Lucas, two of Eli’s deputies had joined the mission, both of them Others. Mike Driscoll was a changeling, son of a human father and a Fae mother, and Will Chkalov an Ursal, a shapeshifter who could take on the form of a black bear. From Rick’s pack, four other men had immediately answered his summons. Josie had met each of the Lupines before, but didn’t know any of them well. Still, if they were Stone Cr
eek, she knew she could trust them.
Back at the clinic, she had distributed the four air guns Ben had been able to collect that day, keeping the one from her storage room for herself, and provided each man carrying one with a supply of tranquilizer darts with instructions to use them on anything Other. She didn’t want to see any more shifters die if there were even the remotest possibility that capturing Garrett England might lead to a cure for the virus. Bringing in anyone infected with LV-7 or -8 was likely a pipe dream, and she knew it, but it wasn’t in Josie to give up hope until every last chance for success had been exhausted.
Her hands clutched the top of her med kit as she watched the men fall into formation, adhering seamlessly to the plan Eli, Steve, Rick, and Lucas had outlined on the large whiteboard in the back of Josie’s clinic.
Thanks to the fact that the headquarters of the NAH had once served as a popular campground for Scouts, it had been easy to locate maps of the buildings at the site and even blueprints and written description of the major buildings. That had given their team a strong advantage. They had also benefited from the fascinated wariness with which Lucas viewed the supremacist group. On his own time, he had scouted the perimeter of the land twice and noted the positions of guards at the main entrance and at two additional points of access on opposite sides of the camp.
He, apparently, wasn’t the only one who felt the need for an excess of caution.
With such valuable information in hand, Eli and the others had established the best point at which to gain entry into the fortified compound. They had also gone over the most promising places to search for Huddlesford, England, and any evidence of the possession of genetically engineered viruses for use in terrorist actions.
Once through the perimeter fence, their team would divide up into three search parties of three men (and/or woman) each, with one additional two-man pairing. Josie, it had been clearly established, would go with Eli and Steve and obey every command either one of them cared to give without hesitating or asking questions. And that meant every one, up to and including a potential order to stand on her head, blow spit bubbles, and sing “Battle Hymn of the Republic” in Swahili if that’s what they told her to do.
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