The Brigade

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The Brigade Page 16

by H. A. Covington


  At the head of the plank bridge on the shore, Charlie and Lee Washburn had the windows rolled down in their Toyota. They heard the shots and saw the muzzle flashes in the rain. A minute later, the Yukon rolled by them, and Zack waved a friendly thumbs-up out the window. Charlie pulled around and followed him up 39th Street and out onto the main road, Zack turning left and he himself right. They would go to the de-briefing rendezvous by separate routes.

  V

  Hunting The Hunters

  Turn, hell-hound, turn!

  Macbeth—Act V, Scene 7

  On the morning of February 15th, Hatfield, Cat-Eyes Lockhart, Charlie Washburn, Tony Campisi, Len Ekstrom, and Lee Washburn met in a trailer out in the woods, which had used by their circle of friends as a hunting lodge in times past. The two vehicles used in the previous night’s assassination were parked behind the trailer under some trees to shield them from aerial observation. The Washburns arrived at 8 o’clock, and brought in paper bags of convenience store sandwiches and chili dogs, which they stuck into the microwave. “I was going to order us up some Early Bird breakfast specials from the Riverside Diner to bring out here, but I figured it wasn’t a good idea for the two of us to be seen ordering six takeouts. That’s just the kind of thing some sharp-eyed Mexican or white informer might remember if the cops come nosing around,” said Charlie. “I suspect our revolutionary cuisine is always going to be pretty hit or miss.”

  “Yeah, we’re going to have to eat a lot of shit in more ways than one,” said Hatfield. “Tony, I need you on guard duty. From now on any time we meet in a place like this, there has to be at least one guy on the lookout. We have to make sure they never catch us indoors or in any closed space where they can surround us and bring up their SWAT teams, their gas and heavy weapons, their armored personnel carriers and helicopter gunships, all their fancy toys. I don’t like this business of having us all here in one place like this today, even as important as this operation will be and as necessary as it is. We’re doing that too much, and it’s dangerous. From now on, D Company has to split up into teams, with we three Trouble Trio members each taking on a team of three or four Volunteers to assist us, and then when more people come in, we split up into more teams or crews, and those people will use pseudonyms and hopefully won’t be known to one another like we all are. Right now if one of us broke, then the feds could roll up all of D Company, and we can’t have that. We need to make sure that there are never any more of us under one single roof than can possibly be helped, never more than three or four of us at once, and always with a sentry posted.”

  He handed Tony an M-16 and a radio handset. “Go down and watch the road, and sing out if you see anyone coming, see anyone in the woods, and above all if you see or hear any sign of a helicopter. I think those vehicles are shielded by the branches, but Len, we need to make up some old-style camouflage netting for situations like this so we can completely conceal a car or a truck or anything that size from aerial spotters. Tony, if you see anyone creeping up who is an obvious enemy, you shoot first and make sure you take at least one down, then we all beat feet out of here separately and try to rendezvous back at Aladdin’s Cave.”

  “Uh, where?” asked Lee.

  “The other trailer in Knappa, not the one we used last night,” Hatfield reminded him. “We need to get into the habit of talking and thinking about our hideouts in code. One slip on the phone could break us all. Here’s a thermos of coffee, Tony, and we’ll save some of this wonderful breakfast for you. Len is going to be your partner for the day and he’ll bring you up to speed afterwards.”

  “That’s okay, I ate before I came, sir,” said Campisi. Like everyone else he had known Zack Hatfield for years, but he had fallen into the habit of addressing him as “sir” or “lieutenant,” and Zack didn’t argue the point, because he understood the psychological necessity. “Marie made me breakfast this morning. I told her I had a load to pick up out in Clatskanie.”

  “Does Marie know?” asked Hatfield.

  “She’s pretty sharp. She knows I’m up to something,” Tony admitted. “I just hope she doesn’t think I’m screwing around on her with another woman. I know you’re leery of bringing in married men because most white women can’t be trusted nowadays not to betray even their own husbands for money or to save their lifestyles, but don’t worry. They’re not all like that. Marie is one of the good ones.”

  “I know she is,” said Hatfield with a nod. “And yes, I know they’re not all like that. It’s just that so many white women have become so damaged by life in this filthy society; we’ve got to tread very carefully. It’s a real problem and we have to be aware of it. And somehow we’re got to beat it, to bring white women around and show them that their future is with us. We can’t do this without our sisters at our side, gentlemen.”

  After Tony left to stand watch, Charlie Washburn plunked down two newspapers. “Our little St. Valentine’s Day Massacre last night made the front page in both the Daily Astorian and the Oregonian.”

  Hatfield looked at the screaming headlines. “Yeah, I bet if you count up the column inches and the minutes of television air time on this one, you’ll find that the Goldmans rate five times more than mere police officers. Dead Jews get the establishment’s attention. Well, hopefully today or tomorrow we can give them some more to jabber about. But this is going to be a lot tougher, gentlemen. Last night we took down two unarmed targets, hit the Beast in the soft underbelly like we’re supposed to. But this second act is going to be different. Now we have to attack armed targets who are trained in firefighting techniques and who will shoot back. Even more than the Goldmans, we need to make sure we have our shit together on this.”

  “Any word from our girl in police headquarters?” asked Washburn.

  “She went in to work early today at Ted Lear’s request, what with all the hullabaloo,” spoke up Ekstrom. “She does dispatch for both Clatsop County Sheriff and Astoria PD, as well as for EMTs and the fire department, so she’s got her ear just where it needs to be. I bumbled into the ops center just before I came out here, brought her an Egg McMuffin and a pastry in a bag, dear old Dad just looking out for his little girl, you get the idea. No one thought anything of it, me being just old Len from the hardware store who’s been on Commercial Street since time began selling the good folks their tools and washers and fittings. Chrissie gave me the lowdown on the horrible murder of our two prominent citizens, in suitably shocked and horrified tones, right there in the break room with a dozen cops and deputies strolling by outside. They haven’t made anyone for the hit last night, but from what she hears coming and going, with this hit last night combined with the lesbo rubout in November and the mysterious disappearance of Bert Fields’ gun collection, all kinds of bells and whistles are going off down in Portland FBI headquarters, and there’s definitely some feds on the way. She’s pretty sure they’ll be in today.”

  “Good. We need to get this done,” said Hatfield. “I talked to her yesterday, and we’ve worked out a text message code for our throwaway cell phones that will enable her to give us a pretty thorough report. She’s not to call me in the clear unless she absolutely has to; I don’t want anyone from Homeland security who might be monitoring the cell sites to hear any of our voices, but especially not hers.” There was a beep from the microwave and Charlie started putting sandwiches on paper plates and pouring coffee. Then there was another beep, from Hatfield’s cell phone. He picked it up and looked in the little green window, where he saw the words MEET ME FOR LUNCH?

  “That’s it,” said Hatfield. “The FBI is coming today.” He texted back, WHAT TIME?

  NOT SURE WHEN I CAN GET AWAY. GIVE ME A COUPLE OF HOURS came the reply. “Okay, that means the feebs will be in town in a couple of hours, so let’s go over this again,” said Hatfield. The five men hunkered over the small Formica table munching on gloppy convenience store grub, way too hot from the microwave. He texted back, DO YOU KNOW WHERE YOU WANT TO GO? After a while the reply came, NO, ANYPLACE IS
FINE.

  “All right, that means the cops still haven’t got any kind of viable description of us or our vehicles from last night, at least so far as she knows,” said Hatfield. “No suspects, no APBs. It was dark and it was raining, so nobody must have noticed us. If there were any kind of description or APB out for anyone, it would have been Chris who put it out on the air. This means we can risk using the same vehicles as last night. This is a wealthy enough area to where SUVs and other gas-guzzlers are still fairly common, so the Yukon won’t stand out.”

  Washburn said, “CNN says that some people in the restaurant who happened to be looking out the window saw two men in ski masks, and they fled in what appeared to be a sports utility vehicle.”

  “Mmm, yeah, we need to work on that,” said Hatfield thoughtfully. “No one should have seen anything. They should all have been in the bathroom when the shooting started. We need to find some way to convey that message.”

  “I think a few more dead bodies will convey it with clarity. If that’s all the cops have got, no problem,” said Washburn.

  “Yah, well, the FBI may be able to shake something out of those people in the restaurant that the local boys can’t. The next thing we need to know is how many of them there are. It may be anything from two to a dozen agents, depending on whether or not the Bureau decides to give this Goldman thing a full court press. I want to pick off at least one from the herd, better yet two, but if there’s a bunch of them this will have to be shoot and scoot. Now we’ve got to figure out the most likely place to catch them so Cat can take his shots. I figure they will be bound to show in one of three places: numero uno, downtown, either in and around the sheriff’s office on Seventh Street or the courthouse on Commercial. Secondly, the Coast Guard air station on 12th Street in Warrenton, if they’re going to stay overnight. Third, at the crime scene itself. The best place for us would be Rigoletto’s, because that’s right out in the open. The other two sites are in town and there are going to be more people around, plus assorted armed enemies will be on call to return fire and chase us.”

  “I drove by 39th Street on the way out here,” said Washburn. “The sun was barely up but all you could see was flashing lights. Those poor guys must have been out there all night. What the hell were they doing?”

  “Probably they all trooped down there as soon as the sun rose to search the area in daylight,” said Hatfield.

  “Charlie slowed down and I checked it through the zoom lens on a videocam as we rolled by,” said Lee. “Videocams with zoom capability are good for surveillance, since binoculars make it too obvious you’re watching something or somebody. But nobody thinks anything anymore about seeing some dummocks with a videocam, especially filming some place where there’s been a shooting and there are a lot of police milling around.”

  “Good. What did you see?” asked Hatfield.

  “They had moved all the cars except the cop cars off the pier, they had the platform roped off with that yellow tape, and they had some cops and guys in civvies down on their hands and knees crawling around. I think they were looking for forensics, any cartridge cases or tire tracks or whatever,” said Lee.

  “That means they’re already doing CSI investigation,” said Hatfield. “They probably have a state police crime lab team down from Portland or Salem. That means most likely the feds won’t be bringing their own, which is good. Fewer FBI means more chance of cutting a couple away from the law enforcement herd when they go for pizza or something. Okay, here’s my educated guess. Two or more FBI agents are going to show up at the 39th Street pier late this morning or early this afternoon, even if the state and local boys have already done the work. The feebs will rock up at Rigoletto’s Beanery if only to show the flag and convince the local lefty establishment that they’re doing something. That’s where we need to wait for them, with Cat-Eyes in place and ready to fire.”

  “Sir, what did you and Volunteer Lockhart eventually decide about a firing position?” asked Washburn.

  “I’d be willing to take a shot from that bluff on the south side of Leif Erickson drive,” said Lockhart. “But it’s a little bit longer a shot than I would be comfortable making. I’d like a good, sure hit or two on this, my first time out for the NVA. Plus the E and E afterwards would be a bitch; I’d have to spend the first few seconds after my shot or shots scrambling up or down a hillside to get to the vehicle. The lieutenant okayed a better way.”

  “We’re going to pose as delivery men and see if we can get Cat up onto the roof of the Columbia Prospect condominiums on 39th Street,” said Hatfield. “That will reduce the shots to between 250 and 300 yards.”

  “Piece of cake,” said Lockhart with assurance.

  “Breaking contact after the shots are fired will still be a bit dodgy, but we’ll have the building itself to shield us from sight from the pier, and if we run like hell down the outside stairwell we can be in our own vehicle and rolling in thirty seconds, maybe less,” said Hatfield. “I went in there yesterday wearing a suit and tie, pretending to ask if they had any upcoming units available, like I could ever afford to live on the river. By the way, Len, those phoney business cards you got us came in handy.”

  “They weren’t phoney,” said Len. “I was delivering some fittings to a plumber doing a job at Chez Cherie, which is almost as ritzy as Rigoletto’s. They were having one of these silly contests about leave your business card in this jar and win a free dinner for two, so when no one was looking I helped myself to a handful. A good quartermaster needs to be a scrounger.”

  “You mean there really is a Martin Winfrey who runs a night club called the Mouse Trap in Seattle?” chuckled Hatfield.

  “Sounds a bit lavender to me,” said Washburn.

  “Yeah, well, if they connect my visit with today’s events on the pier, Mr. Winfrey is going to have some explaining to do to some very paranoid FBI agents,” said Hatfield, smiling. “They don’t have a front desk as such, but there’s a little sales office there with a girl who sits behind a desk for four hours in the afternoon. Guess they’re too cheap to employ a full-time receptionist. She won’t be there if we get in before noon. There is a service sticker for Steinberg Security Systems on the front door, but Charlie was able to pick up a little more poop on them. He seems to be quite taking to this intelligence officer thing.”

  “Oh, Len has to take credit for this one,” said Charlie. “They tried to stick him on their little deal. As you might guess from the name, Steinberg Security Systems is a Jew-owned outfit out of Portland, with the head office in Jew Yawk. They supposedly offer full security alarm systems, patrol services, etcetera, to their clients, but mainly the people they target are corporations or businesses who are required by their insurance companies to maintain a serious security alarm system on their premises. One of their salesmen tried to pitch this to Len for the hardware store, and I looked into it from there. For a substantially reduced fee to the customer, you can get either simply a couple of Steinberg Security stickers to put on your doors and windows, or else you can get a reduced service, for example your doors and windows are only alarmed at night or from ten to six in the morning or whatever you want.”

  “But how would these Jews profit by reducing the price for their own services?” asked Lockhart, puzzled.

  “There are a lot of ways. The customer gets a bogus certificate from Steinberg saying that they have installed an alarm and security system that is fully compliant with insurance requirements, so they save a bundle on their insurance without having to shell out themselves, and they kick back to the salesman, say half of what they save on the first year’s premium,” explained Washburn. “Then if the customer wants to have a burglary or a fire later on that destroys a lot of overpriced or nonexistent inventory, he’s compliant and covered, and the insurance company has to pay up. Remember, this scam was started in New York, by Jews and for Jews. Also, Steinberg has been able to get a lot of contracts from the government for various bonded warehouses and office buildings, some of which d
on’t even exist, but for which they have been collecting monthly checks of taxpayer’s dollars for years. As well as contracts from major real estate developers, like that Jewish consortium that put up Columbia Prospect. One kosher hand always scratches the other. Jews always do business only with other Jews.”

  “Where’d you get all this?” asked Hatfield.

  “This is just what’s on the internet,” laughed Charlie. “Steinberg has been investigated six weeks to Sunday, sued more times than anyone can count, and they just keep rolling along.”

  “How?” asked Lockhart.

  “Major campaign contributions to the Hillary Clinton for President campaign,” said Charlie sourly.

  “One thing I did tell Charlie,” said Ekstrom angrily. “Steinberg Security was supposed to be in charge of the alarm system for the apartment house in Portland where Christina lived. The two niggers who raped and tortured her just walked right in. No alarm was sounded.”

  “Looks like it was one of their special deals,” said Washburn grimly. “There’s no real way to know, but I think it’s a safe bet that you guys will be able to just walk right into Columbia Prospect. What’s sauce for the goose will be sauce for the gander.”

  “Okay, Cat, I want us to get into position in the area so that we can get in there quick,” said Hatfield. “We’ll wait at the Maritime Museum on Marine Boulevard; there are always vehicles parked there, and anyone driving by will think we’re just tourists gawping at all the shippy stuff. As soon as we get word that the feebs are in town, we drive to Columbia Prospect and park in front like we belong there. We go into the building through the lobby, with those boxes I showed you held up to shield our faces from the security cameras, just in case they’re operational. Are the boxes all scrubbed down?”

 

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