Tactical Deception: Silent Warrior, Book 2 (7 page)

Rico pulled up the pictures from his cell; they were worse than blurry since he’d snapped them at a run. “Damn. The guy is wearing fatigues, brown hair, gray eyes and built.” He told them what happened from the moment Franz was shot. He gave them the sniper’s height and weight. What kind of rifle the gunman had likely used, though he never saw it, and the ammo cartridge size. “He didn’t have the Remington with him, so he must have ditched it in the woods. I can show you where he was shooting from.”

“For a guy who just happened to be taking a stroll in the park you sure as hell know a lot. Can anyone verify your story?”

Rico exhaled a load of frustration. Were he in the cop’s shoes, he supposed he’d be suspicious as well. “Why don’t we start over, Officer Carver? I’m Corporal Rico Santana, First Special Forces Operational Detachment-D stationed at Fort Bragg. It’s my job to know. And I can verify where I was. My, uh, girlfriend is on the way to the hospital with one of the victims. I was with her when the shootings started. Why in the hell are we wasting time? You can catch this guy.”

“An APB has been out since you made the call. My job is you right now. Just because you weren’t pulling the trigger doesn’t mean you aren’t involved. Why don’t you show me the sniper’s spot, then I’ll take you down to the station. We’ll put your cell pics through analysis and you can give the sketch artist a description of the suspect while we check out your story. Then we’ll see.”

Rico bit back a curse. His gut told him his ass was about to be microscoped inside and out. And it wasn’t going to be pretty.

Chapter Eight

White Aryan Vipers (WAV)

Militia Training Camp

Harnett County, North Carolina

1800 hours

“He’s never gonna shut up,” Dugar muttered under his breath from the back of the crowd as he watched Slayer pound his fist into his palm. Thirty fools stood around, hanging on the idiot’s every word. Even his friend Bean looked hooked. Believing in seedline supremacy was one thing, but this man was off his rocker. This was supposed to be a training exercise, and he was turning it into a worship-Slayer session.

“Stuff it, ’fore he hears ya,” Bean whispered. Bean moved in front of Dugar to keep him out of Slayer’s line of sight.

Dugar frowned. Why the hell was Bean even with WAV? The man avoided fights every chance he could and seemed to have set himself up as Dugar’s bullshit counselor or something. Especially when it came to keeping the peace between Dugar and Slayer. He did owe Bean though. Being a vet, the man had stitched him up and pumped him with antibiotics after that towelhead bitch stabbed him. It killed him that her ass was still running around free in America, unpunished, mooching off American money, using up America’s resources and opportunities then trashing America and what it stood for while she did it.

Dugar spat in disgust and shifted his hold on his assault rifle. He’d like to put a bullet right between her lying eyes. That’d be a shot worthy of Sugar. Oiled to perfection, Sugar was his prized possession. This evening she was smelling sweet and begging for some action, even if it was to execute dummy targets—again.

He was the only man at the camp who owned a Sturmgewehr 44. One marked by its original Nazi owner, who’d notched his kills into the stock butt. One hundred and ten to be exact. Dugar was still making up his mind on whether to add his six to it or not. He hadn’t killed them with Sugar. But getting that bitch any way he could would be a Sugar-worthy notch.

There’d been a few modifications done to make Sugar a damn good automatic, but otherwise she was a part of the Third Reich’s attempt at setting the world right, a part of history he could put his hands on and feel all the way to his bones. He usually didn’t bring this baby out of hiding, but when Slayer took over the reins of WAV after Lloyd Benson’s middle-of-the-night departure, Dugar had wanted a sharper edge among the men at the camp. Dugar had wanted something Slayer didn’t have and couldn’t get fast.

Dugar had hit pay dirt with the StG 44 rifle then rubbed it in even more with the kick-ass ’57 Chevy he’d stolen a few weeks back from a towelhead’s whore, who had no right to be driving an American classic car.

Slayer’s brown eyes were so green with envy that Dugar was now looking twice over his shoulder at night and stealing C4 from WAV’s armory every day—his get-out-of-jail-free card.

Anywhere he lived, any place he went, he always had an escape plan that he shared with no one. He also kept secret his large cache of weapons in his own brand of “secure” self-storage and only had a few of his guns on hand. Even as a kid, anything important to him he’d kept hidden. That way his father could never find and destroy Dugar’s shit ever again.

Over the years he’d gotten really good at hiding everything, himself included. He’d even managed to steal the gun he eventually killed his father with years before the deed. Cops never found the weapon and really hadn’t suspected that a twelve-year-old would have pulled off an execution-style murder.

“Lying lips are an abomination to me.” Slayer punched the air, working himself into a fire-and-brimstone lather.

“To the Lord,” Dugar whispered. “Proverbs. ‘Lying lips are an abomination to the Lord.’ He fucking thinks he’s God.” Dugar knew his Bible. He could blame his father for that. The drunk bastard had beat it into him with a rod every day and the last thing Dugar wanted or needed was another son-of-a-bitchin’ preacher shoving things down his throat.

“Politicians lie,” Slayer shouted. “Government officials lie then send their murdering lackeys after us innocents. They, the FBI, the ATF, are abominations who are unfit to live. We, the true seedline, are the future of America. We are the rightful heirs. The rightful rulers. I am the rightful leader and we must show them the way.”

“I’m gonna throw up if I hear another word.” Dugar turned around and left. Slayer was no Lloyd. Lloyd was the real deal when it came to explosives and knowing what lies the government could tell. Dugar would never tell a soul, because to say anything to anyone would get him killed, but Lloyd knew McVeigh, and Lloyd knew exactly what had been planned for April 19. He knew what the lies were. Said he’d written them down someplace real safe. Said that they were not only his insurance policy but also his retirement plan.

“Where in the hell are you going?” Bean hissed at him.

Dugar kept going.

“We’re a team. I can’t win if you bail.” Bean caught up.

Dugar wasn’t surprised Bean had followed him. Bean was like a lost puppy. “I’ll still play.” He wasn’t about to lose out on his chance at the five hundred bucks. “But if that ass is going to blow hot air, I might as well eat.”

“What’s your beef with Slayer? He’s not so bad.”

“Besides thinking he is God Almighty? I done told you, Bean, but you aren’t listening. It’s mighty convenient that Lloyd got fingered for the Judge Ted Faraday mail bombing just as soon as Slayer became the number two man around here. The investigation had been cold for over two years then suddenly the FBI knows shit and is after Lloyd? I bet Slayer gave the FBI an anonymous tip.

“Slayer has done nothing but preach since Lloyd left and you know I can’t stand any preaching. Heard enough from my old man to last me till hell freezes over. If Lloyd were here, WAV would be into some real action by now.”

Dugar hadn’t come to WAV to follow Slayer. He’d come out of hiding, down from Canada to be with Lloyd. Lloyd knew how to fight and had taught Dugar everything he knew about explosives. He’d been with Lloyd in Washington State when the Viper militia kicked ass, bombing judges, migrant camps and ghettos.

Lloyd was supposedly south of the border, lying low, and Dugar needed to blow this hellhole and hunt Lloyd down.

“Hurry.” Bean glanced back out the doorway. Dugar had no doubt the men were still listening to Slayer’s bullshit. “We need to get back quick. I’ve been eatin’ shit for weeks cause of you.”

Dugar scowled. “Me? Fuck, Bean. It’s that bitch’s fault and you know it. She should have stayed her ass in her own country. Then she never would have hit me with the fucking door and pissed me off. I don’t care what Slayer says. He can’t keep me a prisoner. I’m going to get that bitch. She damn near cut my dick off. I’ve got—son of a bitch. There she is.”

Dugar ran across the room to the big screen, kicking shit out of his way with his steel-toed Doc Martens. He couldn’t believe it. A video clip of the bitch was on the news. She was getting out of a car in the middle of what looked like some kind of riot. Part of him hoped the crowd would kill her like a pack a wolves while he watched, but another part of him wanted the pleasure of killing her all to himself. He noted the license plate and make of the car she’d exited and could see that it had happened outside of Fort Bragg that morning.

He knew she’d been hiding there. He just knew it. The news clip ended and started into something else. He couldn’t hear because Bean was running his mouth.

“Shit, Dugar. You have to forget about her. She’s nothing but trouble we don’t need. Slayer almost kicked you out before.”

Dugar heard the word sniper on the news. “Shut the fuck up, Bean. Listen to this shit. There’re snipers killing people all over the country. New York, Atlanta, Miami, DC, Chicago, Beverly Hills, Seattle. Damn…what an opportunity. I could get that bitch and we could even knock off some spooks and tell Slayer—”

“Tell me what, you sneaky bastard,” Slayer demanded as he slammed into the mess hall.

Dugar swung around. Slayer and three of his brown-nosing gorillas entered the room. Showdown time. Typical for Bean, he was in the middle of the room, wavering back and forth on his feet, unable to make his mind up which way to run. Dugar met Slayer head on. “To tell you your yellow belly won’t have to take the blame for the shit. We can get some action in and whoever is behind the other shit will get blamed.”

Slayer turned purple and Bean groaned.

Dugar gave Sugar, which was cradled in his arm, a pat. Just a little reminder to Slayer that Dugar was armed with full-automatic action. Slayer wasn’t armed. The three men behind Slayer were but two had single-action rifles, and one had a semi-automatic. Slayer wasn’t dumb. He could clearly see Dugar would kill him before the other men nailed Dugar.

“A little snipering just might be something to think about,” Slayer said. “Right, Tom?”

The idiot on Slayer’s left blinked with confusion. “Uh, right, Slayer.”

The man didn’t get Slayer’s real meaning, but Dugar got the message loud and clear. Slayer wasn’t talking about ridding Fayetteville of some trash. He just said outright that he’d marked Dugar as a target.

“Now you’re talking.” Dugar smiled back at the man. He had one hell of a surprise for the impotent bastard. That had to be the root of Slayer’s all-talk-but-no-action problem. Dugar had to decide if he was going to get the towelhead bitch first or take care of Slayer.

It was about time things got interesting around here.

Chapter Nine

Fort Bragg, North Carolina

Roger sat on the couch in his apartment, stunned, staring at the closed door to his bedroom.

Mari had been learning how to shoot.

He wasn’t sure how long it had been since Holly had dropped that bombshell into his lap before she left for duty. At the time he’d been trying to figure out why Mari hadn’t told him about her panic attacks or how severe they’d become. The revelations had him reeling.

Not because she had an anxiety problem or that she wanted to learn self-defense, but that she’d hidden them from him.

Connecting the dots between Mari, a gun range and shooting lessons was a stretch. Even though he believed every woman should know how to defend herself, it all seemed so at odds with her quiet, overly subservient manner whenever she was in his company.

It was as if she didn’t trust him enough to be herself around him and that gnawed at his gut, had him questioning what he really did know about her.

He was an open book to her, right?

His thrillers and political favorites were on the shelves across the great room. Movies he’d bought, mainly action thrillers and war documentaries, were stacked by the DVD player. He didn’t have a clue as to what she liked to read or watch, but did trivia really matter? He knew other things, more important things about her.

She loved and grieved for Neil. She desperately loved the baby growing inside her and had great hopes for her child. She’d shared that with him in a moment he’d never forget.

Closing his eyes, he recalled the details. He’d stopped at her home to gather some of her things and see the destruction Dugar’s drive-by shooting had caused. The dozens of shot-up butterfly- and flower-themed wind chimes surrounding the porch hung in tatters, but were still a reflection of beauty from the hands who’d hung them. A few minutes later, it was those broken chimes that had saved his life. Their sudden tinkling on a windless afternoon had brought him to a standstill in the hallway of Mari’s home, a hair’s breadth away from completely triggering an IED that Dugar had planted.

Come to think of it, there’d been butterflies all over her house, ceramic ones amid the framed snapshots of her and Neil on the shelves. Dugar’s bullets had cut a window-high path of destruction through the room, but the underlying beauty and hominess was still there. Butterfly motifs were in the handmade lace doilies covering brightly colored pillows. Softly muted butterflies emerging from cocoons themed the watercolors hanging on the walls. And Mari’s scent had lingered in the air. Jasmine and spice. Distractingly sweet and alluring, just like her voice.