“I want to see some identification,” he said.
“And I want to see peace in the Middle East, but neither one is going to happen today.”
“Get down, sir, and get into my vehicle.”
“As tempting as that sounds, I’m gonna pass,” I said.
The guard ably removed his sidearm and trained it on me.
“God, Jason,” Tori said to me under her breath. “Let’s get down.”
That made sense. The guy with the gun aimed at us wanted us to get down, so we got down. We climbed down to the hood, then I jumped off and helped Tori do the same.
“Get behind the wheel,” I whispered to her.
“Now get into my vehicle, both of you.” With the hand that wasn’t holding a gun, the guard snapped a photograph of us with his cell phone.
I walked toward him, showing the palm of my right hand (the camera was in the left) to indicate I was no threat. I put myself approximately between the sight line of his gun and Tori. I heard the SUV’s door open and close. Good. Tori had gotten in. The car was still running, so all she had to do was put the car in drive and take off if she were so inclined. If I were her, I might be tempted to do just that.
“She’s not going anywhere,” the guard said. “Neither of you are.”
“Take it easy, Deputy Fife,” I said. “Before you hurt somebody with that gun.”
“Hand over that camera and get in my vehicle.” The guard was beginning to understand that I wasn’t in a compliant mood.
“I’m a lawyer,” I said. “I’m an officer of the court trying to serve a subpoena. It’s against the law for you to interfere with me.”
“That’s a helluva way to serve a subpoena, on the roof of a car.”
“I’m creative.” I turned so that my back was to the man. “I’m getting into my car,” I said. “You’re going to have to shoot me in the back to stop me.”
I moved slowly but without pause. They were ten of the longest steps I’d ever taken. But what could this guy do? How could he explain putting a bullet in my back?
“You’re not driving away!” he called out. “You’re not leaving with that camera.”
If only he knew what I knew. I’d screwed up. I hadn’t snapped any photos. I’d handed the camera over to Tori, and then Deputy Dawg here showed up. That was a miss on my part. A big miss. Lack of sleep = mistakes.
But at least I got into my car.
“Drive,” I told Tori.
And she did. She’d had time to adjust the seat so that she could reach the pedals. The gas pedal definitely worked. We took off over the hill in a burst. Smart move by Tori. She didn’t retrace our steps and risk passing the guy. She drove up over the hill and out of sight.
“He seemed like a nice guy,” I said to Tori as we headed back to the interstate.
Tori looked behind us through the rearview mirror. I shifted in my seat and turned around. Nobody followed us. Once we were on the interstate, Tori stopped looking behind us.
“You picked today because you thought you’d have some freedom to look around the place,” she gathered. “And because you thought if something illegal was going on here, today might be one of the days those illegal things would be happening.”
“Plus, it seemed like a nice day for a drive,” I said. “No, you’re right. Maybe now we know why Randall Manning is so sensitive about his sales records with Summerset Farms. Maybe fertilizer isn’t the only thing being transferred from Global Harvest International to Summerset. Maybe they’re running guns.”
“Is that all they were doing?” she asked. “Then why were they shooting them, too?”
“Maybe checking the merchandise. Making sure the weapons work okay.”
She looked at me. “Is that what you really think?”
I was trying to downplay what I’d just seen. But it wasn’t going to work. Tori saw it for what it was.
“No,” I admitted. “It looks like they’re training for something.”
47
Randall Manning and Bruce McCabe walked along the floor of the domed building. Everything had been restored to normal, the shell casings picked up, the farm machinery returned to its rightful place. The men were finishing up their shooting practice outside.
Manning had considered having the target practice inside to maintain cover, but decided against it. The operation would take place outside, and he wanted the men accustomed to the elements. If it was sunny, he wanted them used to shooting with the sun in their eyes. If it was raining, they had to be prepared for that. Today the sky was clear and the sunlight was strong. Three weeks ago, they’d practiced in wind and snow.
Everyone had eaten. It had been a full Thanksgiving feast that Manning had catered in. Like Manning himself, none of these men had anyplace else to be. None of them had family to speak of. That was no accident. It was why they’d been chosen. It had been a slow, methodical search for months, finding just the right candidates-disaffected, angry, violent individuals with no familial connections and either nationalistic or outright racist views. Finding them, to Manning’s surprise, had been the easy part. It was winnowing them down to the best among them that had taken more of his time.
“I need you to take me seriously,” said McCabe, a little looser after a couple glasses of wine. The soldiers hadn’t touched the alcohol, but McCabe and Manning had.
“I’m taking you very seriously, Bruce.”
“We have a chance to do this right, but this lawyer Kolarich is a threat.”
“Then we deal with the threat.”
“We deal with the threat and then we wait and let things pass,” McCabe insisted. “We can’t get rid of him and then turn around days later and carry out this thing.”
“We didn’t choose the timing, Bruce.”
“But we did, Randy. I understand the symbolism of December seventh. I do. But there are other dates that could work. We shouldn’t do this now.” McCabe stopped walking and waited for Manning to do the same. Manning turned to face him.
“I’m deadly serious, Randy.”
“What about your wife, Bruce? What about her?”
McCabe frowned. Color came to his face. “Don’t tell me about my wife. I’m not saying we shouldn’t do this. I’m saying not now.”
Behind McCabe, Manning saw movement. Patrick Cahill, one of Manning’s recruits, slipped out from behind a large tractor.
“Okay,” said Manning. “Okay, Bruce.”
“Really? You mean it?” McCabe breathed out. His posture relaxed.
Then Patrick Cahill moved in. He used a rope, snapping it over McCabe’s head and around his throat in one fluid motion. Manning heard a sickening crunch and desperate, gargling pleas from McCabe. McCabe struggled, his hands first going for the rope and then vainly swinging out behind him. But he was no match for Patrick Cahill, who lifted McCabe off his feet while he squeezed the life out of him.
Manning watched the whole time, until the last twitch of McCabe’s leg, until his body went entirely limp and Cahill dragged him away. He was surprised at the numbness he felt. Bruce had been a friend, after all. A friend who had sworn an oath to the cause and then gone back on it, but a friend no less.
Manning had come a long way in eighteen months.
Then his cell phone rang, and he answered it.
“Mr. Manning,” said the head of security. “We had visitors today.”
