‘The man you were meeting works for a company called Quicksilver. Who are they?’
‘I don’t know. They said…’ and Bridger stopped as though searching for words.
Henry reached over to him, found a finger. And broke it, with a clean snap. Drummond had taught him the technique, years ago, for self-defense.
Bridger howled, kicked a muddy trench in the grass, knocked his shoulders and head hard against the bumper. When he could speak coherent words again he begged, ‘Don’t, don’t, no!’
‘You have nine more. One minute to change your mind, and I crack another.’ He let the pain sink in, let the horror rise in Bridger.
Bridger clenched his teeth.
‘I mean, do you think Quicksilver’s going to charge through the woods and rescue you? I think not. I’m your only hope for mercy and kindness, Bridger. We can forgive you. We can hide you. But not if you don’t help us.’
The minute passed, the only sound Bridger’s clenched moans. He was nothing more than a loser, a guy who’d drifted from one racist extremist group to another across the South, usually doing no more than building their websites and waving a placard during poorly attended demonstrations. He’d met Snow five months ago and they’d moved in together; he had an interest in learning how to build bombs, but no skill, and he’d been demoted to solely being the guy in charge of fetching her supplies.
Gently, Henry reached for the next finger, caressed it from nail to joint, and before he could break it, a desperate spill of words came from Bridger’s throat:
‘I got a call on my cell phone. From this man.’
‘What was his name?’
‘He didn’t give it. He said, real blunt, that he knew I had acquired bomb gear for Snow. That if I didn’t want to go to prison for the rest of my life, I needed to cooperate.’ Bridger swallowed.
But how had Allen Clifford known about Snow in the first place? Henry wondered. And the answer was clear: we have a spy inside the Night Road.
‘The guy said they’d pay me, they’d hide me, make sure I didn’t go to prison. If I just gave everything I knew to him, he’d come meet me in Houston.’
‘How did you know about what Snow was working on?’
‘I heard Snow talking to you.’ He shook his head in shame.
‘You were spying on her.’
‘I knew she made a few simple bombs, for people to pick up and use. A guy from Minnesota, a guy from Missouri, a bunch of hippies from Seattle. But then she was working on a huge number of bombs, for days and days.’ Bridger bit his lip. ‘So I thought, I’ll go meet this dude, then I was gonna capture him and bring him back to you. So we could know who the enemy was, you know. I’m on your side.’
‘We? You’re not part of us. You’re not smart enough to be one of us.’ Henry broke another finger and Bridger vomited onto his own lap. ‘That’s for lying and not even being good at it.’
Bridger howled and cried and spat a green rope of spit onto the floor. ‘I thought I’d… prove I was useful to you.’ His voice sank into a quicksand of pathetic whining. ‘I ain’t a traitor.’
‘Then prove it. Tell me everything and I’ll let you call Snow and you can apologize to her.’
‘So I agreed. The guy said he’d meet me in downtown Houston. I wanted it on the streets in case it was a trap. So I could run.’ As though a trap couldn’t be sprung on Bridger in the streets of Houston, as it clearly had been, and one of Jane’s own design. ‘Told him he had to dress like a homeless man, throw me a hand signal that all was clear.’
‘And the point of this meeting?’
‘I’d tell him everything I knew about Snow and the bombs. I knew about the website she goes on, to talk to folks around the world, you know, people like us. How to access the website, what Snow was planning. Give ’em any names. I only knew yours and Snow’s.’
‘And Clifford – that’s the man’s name, by the way – would give you what?’
‘Protection. A fresh start overseas. I thought I’d go to Sweden or Iceland or one of those countries that’s nearly all white folks. That’s just what I told him. Of course my plan was to capture him, bring him back to Snow so y’all could question him.’
‘Of course. Did he know about Hellfire? About the members of the Night Road?’
For a second it looked like Bridger was giving the matter serious thought, as much as his lax brain could summon. Then he shook his head. ‘He knew something big might be coming. He didn’t know what specifically, I don’t think.’
‘Thank you, Bridger. I’d like to know if Clifford mentioned my name.’
‘No.’
‘Did he mention Luke Dantry?’
‘No.’
‘Did he ever suggest that he was part of a police or government agency?’
‘No.’
‘Did he use the word Quicksilver?’
‘No.’
‘How did Clifford assure you he could protect you?’
‘He said they could hide me better than the feds or the police could because there would be no record, no paperwork, no trail for me to be found.’
No paperwork? Then Quicksilver didn’t play by government rules. Henry rubbed his temples, a throbbing headache blossomed in his brain. Bridger’s claims only deepened the mystery.
But he had to act before either Jane or Quicksilver could derail Hellfire. Apparently Quicksilver didn’t know about the first wave of attacks; nothing had interfered with the execution of those operations. But they suspected the first wave were just a prelude to something bigger.
He patted Bridger’s cheek. ‘Okay. Let me get your fingers fixed up and we’ll get you on your way.’
‘Really? Really?’
Henry nodded at the pathetic desire to believe. ‘Really.’
He went to his own car, pulled out a video recorder and a tripod, mounted a night-vision lens to capture the images, and turned it on.
‘What’s that for?’
‘Discouragement.’
His back was to the camera, but he still lowered a black balaclava, drawn from his jacket, over his face to hide it. Bridger started to whimper. ‘But you promised… you promised.’
Henry could edit the words out later. He broke the remaining eight fingers. By the fourth one Bridger was unconscious from the pain. He kicked Bridger in the testicles, to waken him. Bridger’s eyes jerked open with numbed fear, long enough to be open while Henry cut his throat with a straight razor, one swift move.
He put his hand on Bridger’s shoulder, felt the life and the pain seeping out of him, and said, ‘This is what happens when you attempt to betray the Night Road.’ The video clip would be put up on the group’s website in short order, and that should take care of any loyalty issues.
Ten minutes later the boy from Alabama returned from his stroll. He stared down at Bridger’s body and Henry heard the click of his swallow. ‘Well.’
‘Get rid of him for me, please. Make sure he’s not found. Dig deep. Then go home. You’ll receive extra money or extra training at our expense, your choice.’
The Alabamian nodded, his face pale. ‘I want to learn how to make bombs.’
‘I’ll see that you do.’
Henry drove home to Alexandria. He sat down at his computer.
Quicksilver – he needed to know who they were. And they would have to be eliminated. If they were a new incarnation of the Book Club, a group working outside government constraints, then their activities could be mapped, followed, discovered.
Among the clients of The Shawcross Group think-tank were leading telecommunications companies, concerned about infrastructure attacks; transportation companies, worried that they themselves could be terrorist targets; and financial services companies, always knowing that a wave of terrorism could slash their profits in the event of a massive financial collapse.
