Myrmidon (4 page)

 

CHAPTER EIGHT

“I
f it's all the same, Mr. Belcher, I'd just as soon stay out here in the open,” Chapel said. He looked up at the sky and the drone that circled overhead.

“You don't trust me,” Belcher said with a laugh.

“I'm afraid that feeling is mutual. And I doubt there's much either of us can do to change it though I hope we can come to some kind of understanding.”

Belcher laughed again. “Andre, go get Charlie out of that truck. Looks like Agent Chapel here isn't going to be sampling our hospitality today.”

Andre ran back to the pickup, which was parked in front of a house across the way. Its previously unseen occupant jumped down even before Andre could summon him. Charlie, who had been driving the pickup since they left the gate, was older than Andre but not much. He was, however, nearly twice the size of the boy with the mustache tattoo. He was as broad through the shoulders as a wrestler and as tall as a basketball player. His head was shaved, all the better to show the ink inscribed on every square inch of his scalp. Charlie had an image of his own skull tattooed on his face and head and neck, the ink disappearing down into the collar of the polo shirt he wore, then reappearing to cover both his arms down to the tips of his fingers. The sleeves didn't show his skeleton, though—­instead they were crowded with dozens of swastikas, eagles, daggers, and roses with bloody thorns. Both of his elbows were covered in elaborate spiderwebs, and his hands were inscribed with words Chapel couldn't quite read from that distance. Only his eyes, his teeth, and the wedding ring he wore broke the pattern of ink.

Charlie didn't seem to be armed. Maybe his appearance was supposed to be intimidating enough.

“In Illinois, about twelve years ago, Charlie there broke a man's pelvis with his bare hands. You know how hard it is to break a healthy man's pelvis?” Belcher asked, leaning close to almost whisper in Chapel's ear.

Chapel did know, actually. He'd been trained in hand-­to-­hand combat techniques and knew all about such things. He did not answer Belcher's question, though.

“Did his bit in a federal prison. No time off for good behavior, either. Look at him. An ex-­con with that amount of ink. Anywhere else in the country, Charlie would have been on a very short road. He would have been despised every place he went, spat on, probably gotten into one fight too many and killed somebody if he weren't killed himself.”

Chapel turned to look at Belcher's face.

“Here, though,” Belcher went on, “here you should see him, with his family. He's got a pretty little wife he could probably pick up with one hand. She'd giggle if he did that, not scream. They have two of the cutest babies. You see him with them, and he's the gentlest, most loving thing in God's creation. You've seen Andre's tattoo. He's still got some kind of anger in him, that boy. A fire that's never going to go out. Here, he has a chance to do meaningful work. Maybe make something of himself.”

“You took them in,” Chapel said. “Gave them another chance.”

“That's right,” Belcher said, nodding.

“You'll forgive me if I don't write to the Pope and nominate you for canonization,” Chapel said because he couldn't stop himself. “But—­oh—­you wouldn't want that anyway. The Pope's Catholic, after all. One of the many kinds of ­people in the world you hate.”

Belcher grinned, but it was a very strange kind of grin. It didn't reach his eyes, for one thing. Chapel had been trained to read body language and facial gestures, and he knew the grin was strictly for his benefit—­a performance, an act. He expected to read anger in Belcher's eyes, but it wasn't there. The man was hiding something, not just from Chapel, not just from anyone else who might be watching, but from himself. Chapel couldn't get a good read on the man. Maybe that was intentional.

“I didn't come here to convert to your cause,” Chapel said. “I hope you'll forgive me if I speak plainly.”

“Out here in the West, we consider that a virtue,” Belcher replied.

Chapel nodded. “Okay, then. I need to speak to you, out of earshot of your soldiers there. I need to talk to you about Ygor Favorov. And the—­give or take—­three thousand assault rifles he sold you over the last ten years.”

“I assure you I have no idea what you're talking about,” Belcher said. Chapel opened his mouth to speak again, but Belcher held up his free hand for silence. “But I'm happy to talk about anything you like. No harm in jawing, as my father used to say.”

 

CHAPTER NINE

B
elcher stepped down into the dirt road in front of the clinic and out into the open. He looked up at the drone, then took off his hat and waved at the unmanned plane. “I hate to be uncharitable, but I question your style, Agent,” he said.

Chapel wasn't technically an agent of any governmental organization, bureau, or department, but he didn't bother correcting the man.

“You started out with something like manners,” Belcher went on. “You come here alone, you don't threaten anyone. Not what I would expect from the federals. But then you bring along one of
those.
You come acting like a man, like a real man, but backed up by a robot—­the very symbol of the government we despise. You understand that, right? I just bet you do. When I was a soldier, back in the last century, we understood that men fought men face-­to-­face. You put your arms up against the other fellow's, you put yourself in jeopardy, to prove you had the right on your side. The government today, they'd just as soon use drones. Sit in a room half a world away sipping coffee and blow away the bad guys on a computer screen. Like a damned video game. Because that's what war is to your government, isn't it? Just a game.”

“I took it pretty seriously myself, in Afghanistan,” Chapel said.

“Oh, you're a veteran, are you? From the look of you, I'd say air force, am I right?”

Chapel wasn't sure if Belcher was trying to insult him. “Army. Just like you. Except I was in the Rangers.” He wanted to point out that he hadn't been dishonorably discharged, either, but he didn't want to go down that path.

Belcher nodded in appreciation. “First boots on the ground. There's a proud tradition there. But now we have these things.” He pointed one finger up at the drone. “All right, point taken—­it's no game. No, warfare by robot is business. The business of control. Every day, your government works to take a little more control of how Americans live their lives. These robots let them do so with impunity.”

“Mr. Belcher, I'm sorry, but I didn't come here to talk philosophy or politics,” Chapel tried, trying to steer the conversation back to the guns.

But, apparently, Belcher felt the need to deliver a sermon, first. “Do you know they're pushing to get every child in this country fingerprinted before the fifth grade? Oh, they say it's so they can help find them if they get abducted. You and I know the real reason, though. The same reason they fingerprinted us when we signed on.”

Chapel frowned. “So they could identify our bodies if we were killed in action?”

“So that if we—­or those children—­ever commit a crime in the future, they can scoop them up right away. They've got databases on everything we do, every time we use a telephone, every e-­mail we send—­”

“If we could just talk about Favorov,” Chapel tried.

But Belcher was on a roll. “This town was my father's dream. That's why it bears his name. He wanted to create a world where men—­yes, white men—­could be truly free. Where no one had to watch them all the time like disapproving parents. All the parents here love their children. They believe in them.”

“Please, Mr. Belcher, I—­”

“There are over three hundred kids here,” Belcher said, “many of them just babies. If you send in your jackbooted thugs to take these alleged guns back by force, can you really guarantee their safety?”

Ah. Interesting. Chapel saw, suddenly, exactly why Belcher had felt the need to rhapsodize on freedom and control. He'd put Chapel in a corner where if he insisted that Belcher turn over the guns, he was going to have to take responsibility for any children who were hurt in the process. Which was also a way of saying, if a little obliquely, that the town of Kendred would fight to the last man to keep the guns. Without admitting to anything criminal or making any threats.

Impressive,
Chapel thought. The man was a born negotiator. But, luckily, Chapel had his own cards to play. “I can guarantee nobody is hurt here, babies or children or adults, if you're willing to cooperate. If you and I hash this thing out, just two men talking face-­to-­face. I can also guarantee you that I'm your last chance to avoid an armed confrontation with a government that can blow this town off the map without putting a single soldier at risk. We don't need to take the guns back, Mr. Belcher. We need to destroy them. I'm here to hold out an olive branch in the name of limiting collateral damage. But if I fail—­if I can't reach an agreement with you—­then we come back with the sword.”

“Good,” Belcher said.

“Good?”

“I like to know what game I'm playing, you see.” He reached over and slapped Chapel on the arm in a playful manner. “I like to know what's at stake. Come and walk with me—­we'll head over to the warehouses, and maybe we can finish this up before suppertime.”

 

CHAPTER TEN

“S
o, this Favorov guy you keep mentioning,” Belcher said.

Chapel cut him off. “There's no need to play coy. I have an eyewitness who puts you at his house on numerous occasions over the last decade. I know you know who I'm talking about.”

Belcher nodded. He was walking briskly, and Chapel could tell he was in good physical shape. He was taking his time, though. As they passed by the little white houses, he paused to wave at the ­people inside and give them a smile. To reassure them, perhaps, that everything was fine—­that even though they'd been told for years that federal agents were bloodthirsty killers who would destroy their families, that this man here was under control, and Belcher was still in charge. “How did he die?” he asked.

Chapel frowned. “In prison. He was murdered by another inmate. We're still not sure if it was the Russian mafia or one of yours.”

“One of mine?” Belcher asked over his shoulder. He glanced up at Charlie and Andre, who were following at a discreet distance, just out of earshot.

“Aryan Nation,” Chapel said.

“I have nothing to do with those thugs,” Belcher insisted.

“You recruit from their ranks,” Chapel said. “At least a third of the male population of the SAF were Aryan Nation members while they were in prison.”

“That doesn't mean I have any connection with that group. And believe it or not, Agent, I don't. They come sniffing around every once in a while, looking for a handout, looking for a place to hide a fugitive, looking to buy or sell guns and bombs.” Belcher shook his head. “We drive them off without being very ambiguous about it.”

Chapel wanted to growl in frustration. “So you just help former members of the AN pick up the pieces of their lives and get a fresh start. Great. Why do you need three thousand AK-­47s to do that?”

“Assuming we even have such guns, and I'm not admitting to anything,” Belcher told him, “we have a right to defend ourselves.”

“Against what? Coyotes and grizzly bears?”

“Against government interference, maybe,” Belcher said. “My organization breaks no laws. We've never harmed a human being. But your government still spies on us. It treats us like domestic terrorists. They've been trying to infiltrate our ranks with undercover agents. All because they don't agree with our beliefs. Wouldn't that make you a little paranoid?”

“I'm not here to justify the actions of the federal government,” Chapel said. “I'm here to get those guns.”

Belcher laughed. “You do know that for free white men like us, that's pretty much our biggest nightmare? That the government would roll in and take away our weapons?”

“I don't want all of your guns. Nobody's trying to take away that shotgun you're holding, or Andre's collection back there. I just want the AK-­47s. The guns you bought—­illegally—­from Ygor Favorov.”

Belcher nodded agreeably. He stepped forward around the side of a house, and a huge smile crossed his face. He raised his free arm and gestured for Chapel to come see what he was looking at.

Around the corner, in the front yard of yet another white house, a bunch of children had gathered. They were sitting on the ground with big sheets of brightly colored posterboard and jars of paint. They seemed to be making signs. The children, boys and girls between maybe five and twelve, were incredibly intent on what they were doing, bent over with looks of utter concentration on their faces. Chapel took a step or two closer until he could read what they were painting on the signs.

MISCEGENATION IS A CRIME AGAINST GOD

NO MONGREL BABIES

RACE MIXING HURTS EVERYONE

Chapel's eyes went wide in horror.

“You might be wondering what this is about,” Belcher said. “You see, there's a man up in Pueblo, a judge in fact, who is getting married to a Latina woman next week. We're going to send some of our children up there to stand outside the church and let them know how we feel about that.”

Chapel thought he might throw up. He turned to look at Belcher—­

—­and found the man already watching his face. Looking to see how he would react.

Chapel couldn't help himself. “That might be the most disgusting thing I've ever seen,” he said.

Belcher nodded, as if confirming something he'd already thought. “Even I have to admit it's a little tasteless. But necessary.”

“Necessary? You think it's necessary to send children—­little children—­to destroy the happiness of a ­couple just because their ancestors came from different parts of the world?”

Belcher said nothing. He just stood there with that giant smile, looking like the patriarch of some proud family.

“I don't even want to look at this,” Chapel said. He turned away and started walking—­at his own pace this time—­toward the warehouses.

“Agent Chapel—­” Belcher said, racing after him.

Chapel spun around and stared at him. Now it was his turn to stay silent while he read Belcher's face.

“The First Amendment to the Constitution,” Belcher said, like a teacher laying out a lesson for a slow student, “guarantees our right to assemble and protest. But right now—­you're not thinking about rights or about freedoms, are you?”

“No,” Chapel admitted.

“No, you're thinking how much you'd like to call in a fleet of bombers and level this place. Am I right?”

“Pretty much.”

Belcher nodded. “We get that a lot. Now do you see why we might feel the need to defend ourselves?”

Chapel shook his head. “Belcher, you can talk about freedom and rights all you want. It doesn't matter.” The warehouses were just ahead, across a ­couple more streets. Chapel headed for them as fast as he could walk. “That's not what this is about. I have a job to do here, and it's to get those guns. We know you bought them. We know you have them here. We even have a pretty good idea where you're hiding them. I am your absolutely last chance to save your repulsive organization, and if you don't start dealing with me seriously, you're going to blow this chance, too.”