SILENT MAJORITY (Anonymous Justice Book 2)

by Boyd Craven Jr

  [Shaneen Smith] I ain’t afeared of saying shit! I ain’t never gone be some bearded foreigner’s sex slave. I’ll die before that!

  [RU American] To paraphrase the President’s last speech on the TV, ‘Let me assure everyone once again, that all Muslims aren’t bad. These are just a few bad characters.’ I call bullshit! Our law enforcement can’t do a thing about it. Well, maybe WE THE PEOPLE, need to stand up and do something about them!

  [AJ] Those that can have been doing just that, RU American. Calm yourself. Just so everyone knows, if this group is ever taken down, our blog at www.anonymousjustice.org will be there with information. Until such a time, we’ll continue to use this tool.

  [AJ] It appears that this new caliphate is having a definite effect on American soil already. We are experiencing a large uptick in terrorist activity nationwide, by those trying to prove obedience to the new caliph. Evidence, however, suggests that this is just the beginning.

  * * *

  “Dharma girl, check this out! I’ve unencrypted the mirror images of all three hard drives from the Hamtramck Islamic Center. It’s gonna take some time to translate everything though. Cool, huh?”

  “Very cool, Jade. You’re so good at this shit! You should be a spy or something!”

  “Should be? Ha!”

  “Do your thing, Jade. I’m watching what the members of Anonymous Justice are saying now. I’m invisible to them, but damn… I think they’re getting ready to start playing cowboys and Muslims!”

  * * *

  “Here’s definite communications from several different people claiming to be members of the caliphate, and they track back to Syria,” Jade says. “They don’t translate cleanly, but the gist of what they say is congratulating those brave enough to help complete phase 5 of Bin Laden’s plan, and urging their followers to begin spreading the message of the beginning of phase 6. They call for increased numbers of random acts of terror, to be determined locally, according to the doctrine of Salafism to embolden their followers, and create fear in the hearts of the infidels…”

  “Oh, shit,” I say.

  12

  Mike Thor:

  Will’s Cabin in Croswell, MI

  6:00 a.m. Wednesday, Dec 30th, 2015

  I find that the binder also doubled as Will’s journal. He’d had lots of ideas on what he wanted to do, what he knew how to do, and what he was going to try to do, based on what he’d read. Digging through his life was uncomfortable at first, but after a few days, I find that I’m actually enjoying it. I feel like I’m getting to know the quiet, oddball guy, and learning things about him that I had ever expected. Here in his cabin, in his safe place, he’d always felt at ease. He talked about his parents some, and how they’d died in a car crash.

  This cabin and his preps were for more than occupying his mind; they were also his backup plan, in case of a metaphorical crash of his own. It was his escape, and he wrote about how often he’d sat right here, where I am now, at the chipped Formica diner-style kitchen table, drinking coffee and reading. I’d found his book stash in some milk crates and blue storage totes, and they were all things I had read or would like to. Titles like “Hatchet” and “My Side of the Mountain” were on top of the pile. Most of the books had a similar theme to them, and I’d spent some time thumbing through them.

  It’s almost 6am so, reluctantly, I get up to snap on the radio. Everything before the morning radio talk show is just a rehash of yesterday, but I listen, somewhat morbidly, to all of it again.

  After a bit, they talk about the mosque in Hamtramck having been attacked and, that once the authorities had been called, a large cache of weapons and explosives were found there. Authorities appear to be starting to piece things together, as they track the identities and affiliations of the St. Stanislaus shooters to the protester group at my shop, then to the mosque. Many of the dead protesters had been members of the same Islamic center, and now their spiritual leader has been shot down. The very next day, the same thing had happened in Dearborn. No suspects...

  When the hell is this hate going to end?

  “Well, where do you think they learned to hate?” I say aloud, and then stop to think, letting the broadcast wash over me.

  Where does one learn to hate? Is it instilled by family at an early age? Is it a learned behavior over time, or is it something like a strongly held belief? How easily could a good person be affected by someone who only had hatred in his heart?

  I’m not sure, but judging by the things that this new ‘task force’ were making public, it all seemed tied together somehow.

  I wish the FBI would quit releasing little snippets that implied that this may be the start of some larger show of terrorism, on American Soil. I mean… I just heard about a drugged out woman in Las Vegas screaming Allahu Akbar as she drove her car into a crowd of people, backed up, and drove into another crowd, injuring dozens and killing at least one. What kind of hate drives a woman to do that? Especially with her children in the car?

  I hear my name mentioned a couple of times in conjunction with the gun shop. That doesn’t surprise me, nor does the report that I appear to have ‘dropped out of sight’. Anybody with half a brain would have done that – and I had underestimated what these crazies were capable of.

  I’m blown away by reports that the President spoke of, ‘a spreading pattern of hate crimes against Muslim-Americans’. A beef butchering and packing plant had had to fire over 100 employees who caused a work-stoppage, because they felt that their religious freedoms were being infringed upon when their supervisor had insisted that they only pray once, at lunch time.

  Over 200 Somalian immigrants went on strike illegally at their various places of employment for the same reason, and had refused to work for three days. All of them were fired; some were even arrested for trespassing after they’d refused to leave. CAIR and the NAACP were getting involved, and the good ole Reverend Al too.

  How the hell can the NAACP back CAIR, who supports Sharia law, and the owning of slaves in America? That doesn’t make a damn bit of sense!

  How is it a hate crime to fire people for not coming to work? I hadn’t had to do it much, but in my gun shop, two days no-call, no-show, that’s a voluntary quit. How is this different?

  Another thing that catches my interest is how in States other than Michigan, if things get tense for their Muslim population, the President is quick to lump that in as ‘hate crimes’ too.

  Through a new social media group called Anonymous Justice, names are being named, and addresses given, of those who are suspected of encouraging, supporting, or communicating with anyone planning similar attacks as the San Bernardino or St. Stanislaus shootings. Members of the group remind law enforcement and anyone else critical of their ‘public’ group that their First Amendment rights are no less privileged than any other citizen’s, and also that non-citizens have no such rights.

  Well, I gotta say I agree with them on that!

  My first thought is that it must be some secret part of the government coordinating something like this, but I discard that thought right away, because our current Muslim-loving President would never stand for anybody killing Muslim-Americans. Unless it was a drone strike. In another country, and only for the press; not an actual objective.

  “These guys are idiots,” I murmur, while rinsing out my coffee cup, so I won’t have to wash it later.

  BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMM! BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMM!

  Loud gunshots. I instinctively ducked. Suddenly my heart is racing, and the adrenaline dump has me shaking. My Kel- Tec PMR-30 is sitting on the counter, so I grab it, along with two spare magazines. I put those in my back pocket, and go to the front door, peeking out the window beside it.

  I can see a form on the ground, near the gate, rolling around. Red and bloody. A bright shock of white hair makes the figure easy to see in the gloom, despite the clouds having kept the morning darker than normal.

  “Oh shit, not again! Oh shit, they’ve found me already?”

>   The last thing I grab, before heading to the door, is my cell phone. It sounds like the man had been shot and, from a distance it looks like he had blood everywhere--

  Wait… The paintball mines?

  I’d never considered how loud they might be, and I slow down to think. I step into my shoes and open the front door of the cabin. I begin walking slowly to the figure, who is still rolling around on the ground, hands over their ears.

  “Will, I don’t know what you just did, but it isn’t fucking funny!” an elderly man screams, getting to his knees.

  I stand there, recognizing that it is paint that I had mistaken as blood from a distance. The old man’s eyes meet mine before noticing the gun I’m holding out, pointed at his head. From this distance I won’t miss. Can’t.

  Is this the neighbor?

  “Will’s dead,” I tell him.

  “Well shit, I know that. I’m just... Listen, you give me a hand out of this fucking mess or I’ll stomp a mud hole in your ass so big that Bigfoot himself would have a hard time crawling out of it.”

  I smile, recognizing the tone from Will’s description the other night, and from his journal.

  “Mr. Averill?” I ask, tucking the gun into the back of my waistband and holding out my hand.

  He takes it and pulls himself to his feet with as much dignity as he can, before answering. “Well, that’s the name Lucille wrote in my britches, so I must be.”

  “Damn, Sir, I’m sorry,” I say, looking him over.

  He’s at least seventy, wearing an old pair of bibs and a black t-shirt, with an insulated flannel over the top. His white hair is badly in need of a cut, and flies out in every direction. I grin as he wipes paint off his cheek with his sleeve.

  “Damned lucky you didn’t give me a heart attack! If some of that gunk hadn’t gotten into my mouth, I would’a thought it was blood, and I was back in the jungles again,” he spits, more from the taste than disgust.

  “Sorry, I just wanted to prevent people from sneaking up on me,” I say lamely. “I guess it worked.”

  “You got coffee?”

  The question catches me off guard, but I nod. I’m even more surprised when the spry old man starts towards the front of the cottage with a determined gait.

  “I heard about Will on the radio. Heard about you too. You’re that Ironman guy or something.” Mr. Averill says.

  “Mike Thor,” I offer, as he makes it to the front door, stomps his boots, and opens it.

  “Same thing,” he grouses, and starts to kick his boots off on the rug just to the right of the door.

  I smile, do the same, and follow him into the cabin.

  * * *

  “Them sumbitches,” he says, both bony hands wrapped around the coffee cup, seemingly to draw heat from the ceramic.

  “That’s why I came up here, to hide. They published Will’s home address and phone number, they came and firebombed my shop, and I’m pretty sure the group who gunned Will down doesn’t have me on their Christmas card list either,” I tell him, finishing off the long story.

  “You been in the safe yet?” he asks, bluntly.

  I nod.

  “Good. He always told me that he was going to leave everything to you, if something were to happen to him. I saw you in that box truck, coming down the lane. You must have missed seeing me, cuz you kept going. I figured you were a friend of Will’s, making a delivery with that big truck, like he used to get sometimes.”

  “He get a lot of deliveries?” I ask.

  “Used to. About six months ago they stopped. Actually, after it was clear that you’d stayed, I started to come over yesterday. Lucille stopped me. Said with it being Christmas break and all, you two guys might be, uh… Listen,” he says, a hint of embarrassment in his voice, “she thinks maybe you two are sweet on each other, and that I shouldn’t interrupt ya--”

  I bust up laughing. Of all the things that he could have thought… He thought Will and I were seeing each other? All the tension and fear leaves me and the old man wipes his eyes and I realize he’s laughing as well.

  “No sir, we’re just friends. I think he had a lady friend once,” I say, walking quickly to the bedroom and retrieving a picture from the dresser. “But he never mentioned her to me. I think he’s younger here.”

  I show him the picture of the dark haired beauty, and the smile drops from Mr. Averill’s face, and then he turns, his eyes meeting mine.

  “That’s Lucy. Named after her momma. She died about eight years ago,” he says soberly.

  “That’s horrible…”

  Then it hits me; the way the picture rocked the old man, the reference to being named after her mother. Lucy, Lucille. I look at the picture again, and back at Mr. Averill.

  “We had her late in life. It almost killed my Lucille. Lucy was our miracle baby. Doctors said a woman in her mid forties shouldn’t be having no babies, but she sure did. We’ve been married over fifty years now. Lucy was our miracle gift from God. Now her and Will are both gone to the angels. I hope they’re together.”

  Something gets into my eye, and I turn to the coffeepot to wipe my eyes. I remember about eight years ago, Will had been so quiet and withdrawn for a while. I’d thought that was just how he got sometimes, maybe a pattern of moods to come. Incidental evidence made me think that maybe that was the start of that pattern of moods.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” I say.

  “And I’m sorry for yours,” the old man says back. “I just heard about it on the radio today. My Lucille wouldn’t let me turn off the Christ begotten Christmas music, until today. That’s why I came over, to see what in tarnation was going on, and if it was you, Mr. Ironman or Thor… Check that you knew about the safe and the will.”

  “He told you about that?” I ask him.

  “Yeah, after Lucy died, he had it changed to you. Told me about it, was worried I’d be offended. My almost son-in-law was a very deliberate man. A planner who had lists to track his lists.”

  I smile at that. It sounds like Will to a T.

  “I was a little shocked to read that,” I admit. “I’ve been friends with him for a while, but I think I underestimated our friendship. I was afraid of getting too close, because I was his boss as well, and if I had to make a decision regarding the business…”

  My words trail off and the wave of guilt almost swamps me.

  “He didn’t have no one else, and he barely talked to me. Me and him had it out years ago and, even though he loved my Lucy, we never were right. I shouldn’t have tried to run him off so many times. Damned boy won my respect long after it was too late to tell him I’m sorry. I’m so damned sorry.”

  “Somehow,” I say, turning to fill the coffee cups and looking up, “I think he knows.” Our eyes meet, for just a second.

  13

  Detective Miller:

  HPD, Hamtramck, MI

  10:00 a.m. Wednesday, Dec 30th, 2015

  I have my own friends within the department who I can call on for favors. I’m now officially on the joint task force, but many of the men who’d died had been police officers, and I don’t know how to handle the brass casing. If I turn it over, I may lose out on the information about who did the takedown, and have it handled by the feds.

  Do I want it handled by the feds? Why or why not? I know I don’t want to be cut out of the information loop, and I console myself that if I come up with anything, I can decide then what to do. Granted, I’ll have to figure out how to get it into the chain of evidence… But, something inside of me is screaming at me to hold it back for now.

  So, here I am, visiting our own CSI gremlin, Chuck. I wish that was a nickname, but it isn’t. Chuck looks probably twenty if a day, and has big black rimmed glasses he’s constantly pushing back into place. Those aren’t the only things that make him the poster boy for abstinence. His fascination with butterflies is just plain weird. He has the dried bugs pinned behind glass, and hung around his small office like pictures.

  His trophies creep out just
about everybody, but he’s on the level. He has a way of looking at things, evidence especially, and giving what had looked obvious to me a new spin. I’d literally closed a hundred cases because I’d run some information past him, and he’d snapped out probabilities or facts, and something had clicked. It’s like the war gaming earlier. You visualize it, you run the scenario through your head in as many variations as possible, and follow those trains of thought to a conclusion.

  In his case, he sees a lot of things more clearly than most. I’d been the one to take him out for his first legal beer; he liked me, and I respected the kid.

  “Chuck,” I say, walking in. “You busy?”

  He swivels in his chair and gives me a look. Dark rings under his eyes show me he’s been getting about as much sleep as I have. He just nods.

  “Can I ask a big favor? And a quiet one?”

  “What you got?” he asks.

  I pull out the print I’ve lifted from the shell casing. I don’t want him to know that it came from a brass casing. I’m not sure if this instinct is to protect him, or to protect me.

  “A print? What am I looking for, the usual slime bags?” he asks, putting the print into his scanner, and warming up a terminal to his left.

  “No, run this through AFIS for me. Look through law enforcement or military records first. Save us some time.”

  Chuck looks at me dubiously, and puts the print in. A few keystrokes later, the print is sent and starts comparing to millions of others. The images flash by so fast. I know this might take a while, even all day. I’m exhausted, and flop into the spare chair he keeps for the infrequent visitors to the ‘bug museum’ as we call it.

  He turns so we’re almost knee to knee.

  “You going to tell me why you need a quiet favor when you’re on a federal task force?” he asks, curious and suspicious.

  “I want to, but I don’t know if I should. It’s not a matter of trust,” I say, putting my hands up to placate him as his face becomes stormy. “It’s just that… You remember the takedown of the Mahmoud family?”