Not that it mattered too much, because she hadn’t seen herself in a mirror for as long as she’d been here. Strange, some of the things you take for granted. Being unable to see her reflection was almost like having herself taken from her.
Even more distressing was not being able to go outside. This was the longest Pasha had ever gone without seeing the sun. It was a demoralizing experience, made even worse by the lack of things to do in her cell.
Boredom was making her crazy. Yoga helped kill some of the long hours. So did playing memory games, singing songs, and reviewing her life and the things she’d done and wanted to do. But she’d lapsed into daydreaming several times, and the daydreams were becoming more and more frequent. Once she’d imagined, and believed, that there was a secret door in her wall she could go through at any time. She caught herself gazing at the wall, looking for the pretend door for minutes on end until she realized it was just a fantasy.
Reality was becoming more and more tenuous.
Once she’d asked one of her guards for something to read. He shocked Pasha by giving her a book, a well-worn paperback called The Turner Diaries, penned in 1978 by an avid racist who began one of the nation’s largest white-supremacist organizations. She’d been familiar with the controversial work, which had been linked to the Oklahoma City bombing, and almost threw it back in the guard’s face. But boredom trumped indignation and she wound up reading it for lack of anything else to do.
It was a short novel, finished in about three hours. As expected, the book was a thinly veiled propaganda pamphlet damning Jews, blacks, homosexuals, liberals, the government, and pretty much anyone who wasn’t a white Nazi.
Pasha was surprised, however, at the literacy of the book. Rather than a poorly written screed filled with racial slurs and pointless scenes, it was a semi-competent adventure story that had Jews and blacks as the villains, much like novels by Jack Higgins or Fredrick Forsythe had the Nazis as the villains. The ideology wasn’t screamed at the reader, it was revealed subtly, step-by-step, taking the eponymous hero, Turner, from blank slate to fully realized race-warrior terrorist, ending with him flying a plane, equipped with a nuke, into the Pentagon.
When Pasha finished the novel, which ended after the White Race had slaughtered about a billion people and assumed its place as the wise and benevolent leader of the world, she dropped it in her toilet bucket. Since then she’d been given no further reading material.
She thought of Phin a lot.
She also thought of Hugo. Had Hugo killed Phin, and was going to come for her at his leisure? Or had Phin killed Hugo, which was the reason Hugo hadn’t paid a visit?
And if Phin had murdered his own brother, could Pasha continue a relationship with him?
That last part was troubling. She loved him, and longed to be rescued, but at the same time her relationship with Phin wasn’t healthy. He was addicted to several drugs, beat up people for a living, killed people (how many, Pasha didn’t know, and was afraid to ask) and would likely die of cancer, very soon. Not a lot there to stake a long term relationship on.
At the same time, she’d never felt so deeply for a man. She was in love, no doubt about it.
But was love enough?
So she sat with her thoughts and daydreams and worries, in her underground cell, cold and damp and bored and angry, with no feasible means of escape. Her walls were concrete. The door was steel. The guards always entered in pairs with guns drawn, and they never laxed in their routine.
She would be here until she was moved or rescued.
Or until I die, Pasha thought.
Three days were debilitating enough to her spirit.
She couldn’t imagine spending a week, a month, a year here. Pasha would lose hope. Then there would be nothing left to kill or save, because her mind would be gone.
Pasha already worried she was losing her grip. Through the walls, she thought she could hear, so faintly that it almost seemed like a thought, Phin screaming her name.
And then the door to her cell opened, and she yelled, loud as she could, “Phin!”
PHIN
“This is a shit plan,” said Jack Daniels, from inside the dressing room.
According to General Packer (actually, I preferred McGlade’s malapropism, Pecker), Pasha was being kept beneath an old football stadium that the CN bought years ago. Known as The Bunker, it was where the Midwest chapter held rallies and did training drills a few times a year. A rally was on for tomorrow, so there were likely a few white nationalists camping there. There were also a series of tunnels, expanded from the original locker rooms, underneath the field, where Pasha was held.
During their rallies and training, they purposely used replica weapons to stay out of legal trouble. But these were a bunch of good ole boys, and Pecker had no idea of how many were actually armed.
And it was an emphasis on boys. Women weren’t allowed.
Hence Jack’s objection to how we intended to get her inside. According to Pecker, there were two ways into the actual stadium, both of them fenced off. Armed guards let people in, and it required memorizing a litany longer than the Pledge of Allegiance. But Pecker himself could get us in, as guests, if we accompanied him.
Unfortunately, to get around the no-females rule, Jack would have to be undercover. That required a trip to a nearby 24 hour department store to do a little shopping. We’d already bought some candy apple lip gloss, fake eyelashes, peacock blue eyeshadow, and enough rouge to paint a green light red. Now we were working on clothing, and Jack was balking at the quality, price, and scarcity of her outfit.
“Jack, just buy the stuff.”
“I look ridiculous.”
“We need to save Pasha.”
“I’m not going out in public in this.”
“Then wait with Harry and Parviz.”
Harry couldn’t go with us, because he was the insurance. If Pecker didn’t obey, Harry had to be offsite, ready to upload all the dirty pictures to the world. Parviz had too dark a complexion to pass as a white supremacist. And Jack wouldn’t let me go in alone, fearing I’d kill everybody, which, honestly, was correct.
That meant Jack had to dress as a sex worker to get in. And she wasn’t pleased.
“You’ve been undercover before,” I said. “Working Vice.”
“That was a decade ago. A woman’s body changes as she gets older.”
“What are you worried about? My reaction?”
She didn’t answer.
“Jack, I’ve been with a lot of women who were sex workers. All ages, shapes, and sizes. It’s a needed profession that should be legal and regulated. These ladies should be protected, and respected. The law shouldn’t tell any woman what she can do with her body, and the fact that society looks down on women who serve an essential need, when in fact those women should be valued, is disgusting. So no matter how you look, own it. You’re too strong, and too smart, to body shame yourself.”
“I didn’t know you were a feminist, Phin.”
“There are two kinds of people. Feminists, and assholes. Everyone is equal, and if you think otherwise you need meds, counseling, or a beat down.”
There was a moment of silence, and then the door opened.
Jack, whose expensive attire was always some combination of trendy style and feminine power, was wearing a neon green spandex micro-mini, knee-high fake leather boots with stiletto heels, and a black wonder bra that pushed and lifted in a very gravity-defying way.
“Do I look whorish enough?” She asked.
I cleared my throat. “You do.”
“Do I look old?”
I cleared my throat again. “You do not. Buy it and let’s get out of here.”
Jack narrowed her eyes. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”
Yes, there was. Her body was fit and lean, she had curves in all the right places, and all slutted up she looked hot as hell. Men were pigs, I was a man, and seeing a woman I liked and respected in tight, revealing, barely-there clothing
was a turn-on. But I didn’t see how admitting that would do anyone any good, and in fact would open up a big can of worms about objectifying women, and how I sometimes thought of her in inappropriate ways, and I was trying to save my girl, not hit on a friend who was engaged and would be unattainable even if she weren’t.
So instead of any of that I told her, “It’s good enough, we need to go,” and then I turned away because I wanted to keep staring.
“You think I need fishnets?” she asked.
She’d look awesome in fishnets.
“No need,” I said, walking away. “I’ll meet you at the register. I’m getting some Tylenol.”
Awkward, Phin. You sure Pasha is the one you’re in love with?
I silently told Earl to shut up, and went to find some painkillers.
Jack changed into her hooker outfit in the front seat of my Bronco, while I leaned against the truck, staring up at the stars in the night sky, wishing I smoked because it would have been a perfect time for a cigarette. It took her longer than I would have guessed, and when she was finished she knocked on the window to let me know I could get back in.
She had bought fishnets, which was distracting. Happily, she’d also applied enough make-up to work at Ringling Brothers. I wasn’t a fan of cosmetics. I thought it made women look unnatural, and kissing lipstick or foundation didn’t have the same appeal to me as bare skin. So Jack’s garish, glam look actually made her less attractive, which I was grateful for.
“I look okay?” she asked.
“Maybe more blush.”
“You sure? I don’t want to look like a clown.”
“A lot of guys dig it.”
So Jack went full Ronald McDonald, I was grateful for the reprieve, and we drove back to Parviz’s van. Pecker was now in a Hawaiian shirt—I assumed from McGlade’s personal collection. He didn’t look pleased, with the shirt, or the situation, but he brightened right up when Jack came in.
“Well, lookee here. Aren’t you just the sweetest little piece of—”
Jack jabbed a finger into his chest and got up in his face, cutting him off. “Shut it, you creepy old asshole. Right now I’m the only thing between you staying alive and this guy—” she jerked a thumb at me “—twisting your head off your body. Pretend to be a gentleman, or I’ll forget I’m a lady. Got it?”
Pecker nodded, his smirk falling away.
“Good job getting into character,” Harry told her. “Now slap me and make me lick your boots.”
“Don’t start, McGlade.”
“Did I ever stop?”
I hoisted Pecker up by his armpit, and Harry gave Jack a walkie-talkie.
“Keep an open channel live,” he said, then he stared at the Nazi. “Anything funny, and I show the world your dirty little pictures.”
The three of us left and got into my Bronco, Jack sitting between us. Pecker still had his hands cuffed, so Jack put on his seatbelt for him. Then she reached into her shopping bag for her clothes and came out with her .38.
“I forgot to buy a purse,” she said. “And obviously, I can’t conceal it in this outfit.”
She held it out to me, her look intense. “The amount of trust I’m showing here is off the charts. I need you to understand that.”
I reached for the gun, but Jack kept a hold.
“I hear you,” I said. “I understand.”
She released the firearm. I tucked it into my jeans pocket and said, “Emergencies only.”
The walkie talkie Jack had set on my dashboard let out a crackle of static. “Testing, one two. I swallowed an apple seed, and it came out when I peed, it was quite a sight to see, now my toilet has a tree. Are you reading me?”
“Roger that,” Jack answered.
“Would you like to hear more original poetry?” McGlade asked. “I’m choking on a yak! I’m choking on a yak! Someone please hit me! On the back! Yak yak!”
“Negative on more poetry, please go silent, we’ll keep the line open. Out.”
Then I started the truck and we got on our merry way.
I’d conjured up images of a Caucasian Nation training camp in my head, and imagined it look like some cross between a prison and a military base. Watchtowers, barracks, trenches, sandbags and razor wire, concrete bunkers, armed patrols.
Reality was much less impressive. We drove through dirt roads, through a cornfield, and there at was; an old football stadium surrounded by a shitty two meter fence topped with razor wire. There was a guardhouse—literally large enough for one man to stand up in—on the East side of the perimeter, and one on the West.
There were no other buildings around, just a large stadium in the middle of farmland.
“What’s the deal with the stadium?” Jack asked Pecker. When he didn’t answer, she gave him an elbow in the ribs.
“It’s from the MFL. Midwest Football League. Lasted from ’68 to ’73. Home of the Decatur Celts.”
“How many men are inside?”
“No idea. Few dozen, maybe.”
“Armed?”
“Could be. Their Second Amendment rights are their own business.”
“And the guards?”
“Armed. But they won’t give you trouble if I’m with you.”
“I’m putting my hand on your knee,” Jack told him. “You can only speak if I squeeze it. If I don’t squeeze, stay quiet. Got it?”
Pecker stayed quiet, and then Jack squeezed him.
“Got it,” he answered.
We rolled up to the guard post and I rolled down my window. The guard was a middle-aged white guy with a Dixie baseball cap and a large enough belly to rest a beer on.
“No women allowed. Oh, hi General Packer.”
“The General is breaking the rule to treat the men to a little special show,” I said.
“I didn’t hear nothing about this.”
“It’s okay,” Pecker said. “I cleared it with the SC.”
“The Supreme Caucasian? Oh, snap! And I’m stuck out here? When is it happening?”
“An hour,” I told him. “And it’s one helluva show. Hope you can make it.”
He frowned like this was the biggest disappointment of his life. And it might have been. “I got two hours on guard duty. Shit kitties.”
I shrugged. “We all gotta do our share.”
He nodded and got out of his little enclosure to open the gate. I began to pull up and he gave me the halt gesture with his hand.
“I know it’s you and all,” he told Pecker, “but orders is orders.”
None of us said anything. The man didn’t appear armed. Maybe he left his gun in his little hut. I considered the .38 in my pocket, considered how Jack would freak out if I drew it.
“Y’know,” the guy said. “The oath.”
I looked at Jack, and she squeezed Pecker’s knee. He cleared his throat and said, “I pledge allegiance to the Supreme Caucasian and the Caucasian Nation, and for all it stands. For our captive members, persecuted by Zog and unfairly incarcerated in prisons. For our children, who depend on us to protect so they may continue the white race. For our brothers and sisters, in every white community on the planet, united in the fight. One white nation, under a white God, indivisible, with liberty and justice, for all. Except for Jews, blacks, and schlammensch. Amen.”
The guard grinned, showing he’d likely never seen a dentist. “It’s so pretty when you say it, General. Y’all folks have a good night.”
He walked out of the way, and we pulled in.
The parking lot, its aged and cracked asphalt so overgrown with weeds it looked like a prairie, contained about ten vehicles, more than half of them pickup trucks. I parked facing the exit in case we had to beat a hasty retreat.
“We’re here,” I said into the walkie-talkie, clipping it to my waist. Then I got out while Jack assisted Pecker.
“Should we uncuff him?” I asked. “It’ll look funny if we don’t.”
Jack nodded. “He knows what will happen if he misbehaves.”
I
fished out the handcuff keys, removed them, and put them in my back pocket. The parking lot was dark, so I found a flashlight from my glove compartment and lead the way to the stadium building.
The closer we got, the worse it looked. Though it had a bowl shape common to modern arenas, the exterior was beaten and worn down and looked about a hundred years old. Broken windows, vines climbing the exterior, a grandstand that was partially collapsed, cracked walkways, graffiti over peeling paint.
“Nice place you got here,” I said.
Pecker didn’t answer.
We walked through the glass entry doors, one of which only opened halfway, and followed a string of overhead incandescent bulbs, leading up like breadcrumbs to the playing field.
When Pecker had called it a camp, he’d been on the nose. The two dozen or so men were literally camping, in tents, on the field. There were several campfires, a spirited offkey sing-along to Lynyrd Skynyrd, two guys drunk-screaming at each other, and empty beer cans and bottles everywhere.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the Aryan race,” I said.
“Where’s Pasha?” Jack said. When Pecker didn’t answer, she squeezed his shoulder.
“To the right. The dugout.”
We marched over to it, roughly forty meters away, and not a single person noticed us. Jack stumbled and swore. Her boot heels were getting stuck in the decade’s old AstroTurf, forcing her to tiptoe. We had to go down a walkway to get to the dugout, and then Pecker took us through a door and down some metal stairs.
“Is she being guarded?” Jack asked, giving him a squeeze.
“I doubt it. Door is heavy. She can’t escape.”
I considered the drunk good ole boys above us. “If anyone touched her…” I warned.
“My men were under strict orders to leave her alone.”
“You’d better hope they know how to follow orders.” If he got the irony, he didn’t show it. “Where is she?”
“Bottom of the stairs, go right, follow the hallway, turn right again, last door.”
I picked up the pace, hearing Jack say, “Phin, hold up,” as I began taking the stairs two at a time. I reached the bottom, a damp, concrete corridor, a single overhead light giving it a haunted house vibe.
Phineas Troutt Series - Three Thriller Novels (Dead On My Feet #1, Dying Breath #2, Everybody Dies #3) Page 74