“Meaning what?” Gideon said. “What did you hear?”
“Some very specific operational details.”
“Go on.”
“See, we’re fast approaching the juncture where I need more than just good wishes.”
“Back up a minute,” Gideon said. “Because there’s something I don’t understand. You have a long-standing and profitable relationship with this guy Verhoven. So why are you ratting him out?”
Mixon’s mouth twisted bitterly. “I have some very pressing and assertive financial needs. Whatever I’m making from my business with Verhoven isn’t enough to cover that.”
“A hundred grand is a deep hole,” Gideon said.
“Look at me. I know what I am. I’ve been a stone-cold crystal meth addict for ten years. Only reason I’ve made it this long is because I use top-grade pharmaceutical-quality crystal. You think they give that shit away? So yeah, I’m always fishing for some extra income. I knew Verhoven was up to something that wasn’t just queer bashing. So I came prepared. And guess what? I caught Moby goddamn Dick.”
“What’s Verhoven planning to do? Set off a nuke in Dupont Circle?” Gideon was testing him, seeing if he’d overreach and make a ridiculous claim.
“Do I look like a fool? Where would a bunch of redneck militia guys get a nuke? But this is not some lone gunman trying to sneak a Glock into a campaign rally in Pittsburgh because his wife doesn’t love him anymore. This is an organized conspiracy of very serious operators. And if you don’t get on them double-quick, they’re going to execute their mission.”
“And you expect me to call some people and tell them to trust the story of a desperate tweaker?”
“No. That’s why I’ve got proof.”
“Proof?”
“A recording of Verhoven’s side of the conversation. Part of it anyway.”
“Let’s hear it.”
Mixon let out a wheezy rattling sound that was meant to be a laugh. “Not until I see some cash.”
Now Gideon was going to be late. But there was something about Mixon and his story that had the ring of truth.
“How did you record it?”
“Zoom H4.”
“What kind of mic?”
“Ergil 37D. Wireless.”
Gideon was trying to trip him up, to get him to reveal some sign of improvisation—looking up in the air while he was thinking, changing his story in midstream, odd facial expressions, inappropriate smiling or anything of that nature. But if Ervin had a tell, Gideon hadn’t spotted it yet. In fact, the informant didn’t miss a beat as he went on to describe in great detail how he’d recorded Verhoven’s conversation.
“And what did he say?”
Gideon's War and Hard Target
Mixon looked around furtively, then pulled a digital...
“Yeah.” The man’s voice was presumably Verhoven’s. “We have the target isolated and surveillance established . . . We’ll wait for your instructions.” The recording stopped, and Mixon looked up at Gideon expectantly.
Although he didn’t realize it at first, Gideon had felt that old excitement rising up inside him as he listened to the recording. But thiset ဆ was not his fight, and not his job anymore. His new career was waiting for him about four hundred yards away, and it wouldn’t wait forever. And Gideon knew he’d gotten from Mixon all that he was willing to share.
“I can make a call,” said Gideon. “Someone in the FBI I can trust.”
“One person. Any more, and I’m gone.”
Mixon handed Gideon a scrap of paper. “This is where I’m staying. There’s a shopping mall about a mile down the road. Meet me there at six.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Good,” said the tweaker. “Your country is counting on you.”
2
McLEAN, VIRGINIA
Ervin Mixon was terrified. As he steered his Impala out of the parking lot he couldn’t get his right foot to stop jiggling.
Ten years ago he had been a pretty normal guy. Married, three kids, decent job as partner in a gun store down in Tennessee. Then he’d met crystal meth and it all went into the shitter.
There had been several points where he could have turned it around. Say, for instance, the day he decided to steal $41,000 from Ronnie Revis Jr., his partner at AAA Gun ’n’ Pawn back in Tullahoma. If he’d just bit the bullet and cleaned up instead, everything would have been different. Or maybe the first time he sold a bootleg full-auto SKS to David Allen Kring, the grand dragon of the Idaho KKK. Or maybe the time he sold six cases of MP5s to the Baltimore chapter of the Pagans Motorcycle Club, one case of which was real, and five cases of which were Taiwanese airsoft guns with the Day-Glo orange caps cut off the end of the barrels. That, in particular, had been a major mistake, one that had in turn forced him make certain promises to Jim Verhoven that he was not going to be able to keep.
Mixon swung onto the Jeff Davis Parkway and headed south, paralleling the Potomac, checking constantly in his rearview. Every time he saw a Harley, he about had a fucking heart attack, thinking he was about to get iced by the Outlaws or some other biker gang.
Driving through McLean, he noticed that there was nothing but colored people on the streets. Never been so glad in his life to see spooks. At least if a guy was black, you knew he wasn’t some biker or some inbred militia asshole from West Virginia, ready to terminate your shit.
A 360-degree battlefield. That’s what he was living in. The threats could come from anywhere.
He checked his rearview for the millionth time. What about that van? Hadn’t he seen that before? A white van with a bunch of ladders on top. Christ, America was so jam-packed with vans full of Mexicans, you couldn’t tell one from the next. At least he’d never fucked over the Mexican mafia. Those sumbitches played for keeps.
If he could just do this thing with Gideon Davis, get paid, he would clean up and start living right again. He’d said that after he scammed the Outlaws for fifty K, too. But then the money had all disappeared into a pipe, and before he could do anything to stop himself he was jonesingiv> d‡ again.
This time things would be different, though. This time he’d get clean. Definitely, this time.
He looked at his watch. Davis had said he would meet him tonight. The bastard had better come through, Mixon thought as he steered into the parking lot of his motel, the transmission bottoming out as he bumped over a pothole and settled into a parking space between two Dumpsters.
As cautious as Mixon was, though, he failed to see the Dodge Ram pickup with heavily tinted windows parked on the shoulder of Dolley Madison Road.
Behind the wheel sat Colonel James C. Verhoven, self-appointed commanding officer of the Seventh West Virginia (True) Militia. Nestled in his lap, concealed beneath a camo-colored Snuggie given to him by his beloved wife, Lorene, was a Rock River Arms AR-15 with a collapsible stock, quad Pickatinny rail fore grip mounting a green laser, a 230 lumen flashlight, and an Aimpoint red-dot scope. On his hip he carried his pride and joy, a Les Baer 1911 with a hard chrome finish, Novak ramp sights, and mother of pearl grips, running 230 grain Hornady jacketed hollow-points. He also wore a backup gun on his ankle—the old standby, a compact titanium J-Frame Smith .38 with Crimson Trace laser grips, loaded with 129 grain + P Federal Hydra-Shoks. Plus, of course, a little CRKT neck knife hanging by a piece of paracord under his shirt.
Verhoven’s eyes narrowed as Mixon’s Impala turned into the motel. He waited until Mixon had parked before easing into the far end of the Word Up Lodge parking lot. Unit two—Lorene and the Upshaw brothers—pulled up beside him in a white Ford Econoline van with CRUZ PAINTING & DRYWALL painted on the side and a bunch of ladders piled on top.