Firepower, John Cutter [best summer reads .txt] 📗

music sampled from a scratchy 1940s German record, and then the screen went dark.

Vince managed not to say Thank God that’s over.

Instead he nodded his head a few times, took a deep breath and stood up, stretching. “That was heavy,” he said.

“Yes,” said Marco. “It is.”

“But what you think?” Deek man asked. “You ready to stand up and say no to what’s happening in America?”

Yes, Vince thought. But not the way you mean.

“I’ve been ready for a long time,” he said, nodding gravely. “They’re taking away our culture. We have to stop them.”

“Hell, they’re taking away our jobs!” the big man said.

“That too. Any chance I could get a glass of water?”

Marco nodded. “Deek here will take you to the cafeteria. We will all have lunch. The General said he’d be there a few minutes late. I need to talk to him.”

Talk to him? Report to him, more like. Tell him what Vince’s reaction was.

They had lunch in the cafeteria, the women spooning the beef stew and creamed corn into aluminum mess trays. There were eighteen men present, and the three women brought pitchers of orange juice and milk to the tables, along with plates of bread and additional stew in big bowls. All three of the women were fairly attractive, and the men ogled them, but no one made a grab. Deirdre avoided Vince’s eyes but he felt her watching him as he carried the tray to a long table.

Sitting on Vince’s right, Marco told him the men had been out “on the range” and on the training field. They were boisterous as they talked and ate, with only occasional glances at Vince. No one said anything about militia plans. They’d been told not to, Vince figured.

When Gustafson came in, he said, “At ease, everyone.” But the rowdiness dropped away and the men spoke quietly to one another as he took a seat on Vince’s left. Colls, glowering at Vince, sat across from him.

“I understand the videos had some impact on you,” Gustafson said.

“Yes, they did. It’s… all stuff I suspected and didn’t really know for sure.”

“Have you given thought to becoming one of the Brethren?”

“Some. I need some time. Thought I’d go home and think it over.” If he looked too eager to join, it’d be suspicious.

“Where’s home?”

“I’m staying in a friend’s cabin.”

“You know, we are a militia, it’s true, as per the Fourth Amendment, but we’re also sort of ‘Defense Department’ for white nationalists. We are not the — what was it the Southern Poverty Law Center called us?” He looked at Mac Colls.

Colls snorted. “A ‘domestic terrorist bomb waiting to explode’, they said.”

“When did they put this opinion out?” Vince asked.

“Just a week ago,” said Gustafson. “We had the ATF in here a few months back, and they gave us a clean bill of health. But this kind of loose talk online may prompt some more federal harassment. I just want you to know that any actions we take are purely defensive. This country is being divided by the black slaves of the Jews — and it has been invaded by so-called immigrants. By communist organizers and the like…” He broke off, as if thinking better of what he was about to say. “Just know — we’re a peaceful organization. But we stand ready to defend ourselves.”

“You said something about my needing to — prove myself?”

“We’ll talk about that another time.” He ate a bite of stew, drank some juice, and added, “After we eat, I’m going to give you a short book to read about the Brethren. Something I wrote myself. Then I’m going to send you home to read it and think it over. You’ll be given a special cellphone number to call for another meeting. Pass the salt, please…”

*

Bobby Destry was pacing in a pattern. It kept him from flipping out.

He would pace from the back-right corner to the front-left of the cell. Then he’d cross to the back-left. Then he’d pace to the front right. Then the back right. Then he’d do it all over again. When he got sick of it, he’d reverse the order. Then sometimes he’d make it more complicated. If he made a mistake, he’d have to do thirty pushups.

Pace to the front-left now. Then to the back-left. Then…

“Bobby!”

It was Shaun Adler’s voice.

Two strides took Bobby to the door. “Shaun! You came!”

“Keep your voice down, man, I’m not here with permission. Take this…” He passed a pen and a notebook through the bars in the little window. “I heard you didn’t even have pen and paper so…”

“Oh — thanks. That’ll give me something to do. I’m going crazy in here.” The words, long pent up in him, started coming out in a rush. “I keep trying to read Gustafson’s books but they just don’t seem to make any sense, the whole thing seems like it’s just talking in the dark to nobody, man, like some guy on the corner—”

“Bobby, Christ, man, can it!” Shaun said, glancing nervously over his shoulder. “Keep your voice down and don’t talk like that, not even fuckin’ whispering!”

“Look, I’ll do anything he wants if he’ll let me out of here…”

“He said he was concerned you’d go to the FBI.”

“Just because I wasn’t sure I wanted to stay doesn’t mean I’m a traitor to all my friends, dude!”

“They have to be careful. They’ve got a big move coming up…”

“I heard him say, once, something about ‘Firepower’. But he never said what it was.”

“He says it’s, like, a need-to-know thing, and shit. We got a new guy he’s high on now — this guy disarmed all three of us on the trail when we were asking questions. Barehanded, man! He’s like a war hero or something. And he kicked Rendell Saggett’s ass! Disarmed him