Whoo, boy, he used to think, if the public only knew what I know about Cousin Kane, who at that time was only a wealthy lawyer and venture capitalist with aspirations to become the mayor of New York City. But Stewart was a man who knew who buttered his bread and kept his mouth shut.
Cousin Kane had saved him again after he'd played a little too rough with a black crack dealer, who refused to pay Kane a "business tax," and left him in a permanent vegetative state. Kane had seen to it that the dealer's family was paid off and that any potential charges against him had been stuck in a file folder and stamped "No Prosecution." The file had been sent on to the District Attorney's Office, where the deal was it would never again see the light of day. That is until that Jew bastard, Butch Karp, arrested Kane, and his pal, V. T. Newbury, started digging into the files.
Stewart had been fortunate that the statute of limitations on his crime was up and he couldn't be prosecuted. However, Newbury had taken his file and many others in the same situation to the chief of police, Bill Denton. Next thing Stewart knew, he'd been drummed off the force. Left with only a partial pension, he'd started drinking heavier and it wasn't long before his wife left him and took the kids.
Abandoned and feeling sorry for himself, he was contemplating sucking on the end of the barrel of his handgun when he got a call from someone working for Kane, who had recently escaped custody. He was to go to a camp in Idaho where he was introduced to his family's history and happily swore allegiance to the Sons of Man. There he'd been trained for his mission until he thought of himself as a perfect killing machine.
Returning to New York, he'd waited to hear if the mission was a go, afraid that his chance at glory and redemption might get canceled. But then he got the call to meet with Jamys Kellagh and heard the words he had been waiting for: It was time for a Son of Man to march with the sons of Ireland and silence the critic. Myr shegin dy ve, bee eh!
It didn't even matter to him that he probably wouldn't survive the mission. He was striking a blow for Aryan America and the only leaders who saw the danger of allowing every subhuman from Africa, Latin America, and Asia to invade the country. And the only leaders who were prepared to do whatever it took to wipe out the sand niggers in the Middle East, including using nuclear weapons. Then they'll see whose oil it is.
He daydreamed that his name would live on forever. Two hundred years hence, when little Aryan American schoolchildren read about great patriots who'd sacrificed their lives, his would be right up there with Nathan Hale and Davy Crockett. They would hear how he saved the country from rampant appeasing left-wingers and the threat of being overrun by mud people. And the Jews, don't forget the fucking Jews, Paulie boy, he reminded himself, so ready to die that he hardly noticed the pain of the Valknut he'd branded into the inside of his bicep the last night in Idaho.
Stewart was getting antsy for martyrdom and tired of reviewing the plan. It was pure genius and made use of a talent he already possessed. In the marines, he'd been assigned to a precision drill team; in fact, it was one of the black members of the team whose head he cracked with the butt of his gun. He claimed it was an accident during close order drills, but it was obvious he'd hated the man and had purposely swung the rifle so that it would connect.
Somehow, the Sons of Man had got him an invitation to join the County Heath drill team. He'd heard a rumor that the society had ties to the Irish Republican Army, but the tough part had been getting him a weapon.
The drill team used old M1 carbines rendered harmless by the removal of the firing pin and a metal wedge in the barrel. Otherwise, the M1 was a fine weapon that had served well in World War Two and the Korean conflict. While it didn't have the firepower or fully automatic feature of its descendant the M16, the M1 was deadly in the right hands.
Before they were allowed to bring their useless rifles into the staging area, Stewart and the rest of the team had been required to hand them over at an NYPD checkpoint for inspection. When the rifles passed, they were handed back with the warning to the team not to let them out of their sight.
Taking his time, Stewart had gradually made his way to Tully's, where he ordered a Guinness. As the bartender poured it, he nodded toward the back and quietly mumbled, "Second door on the right. Lock it when you leave."
Stewart casually got up, wandered to the back with his rifle, opened the indicated door, and slipped into a small storage room. Behind a filing cabinet, he found a perfect replica of his drill M1-only this one was in working order.
He switched guns, walked back into the bar, where he downed the Guinness in a single drain, and went back outside to await his moment of glory. As he stepped off the curb, a drunk grabbed at his rifle.
"Let me show you how to twirl that thing," the drunk slurred.
"Not today, pal," he snarled, and caught the man in the solar plexus with the butt of the rifle. It happened so fast that most of the other bystanders laughed when they saw the drunk on his hands and knees vomiting from "too much, too soon."
Stewart glanced back at the cute Irish girl to see if she'd noticed his martial skills. But she was on her cell phone. Didn't matter, today she'd see what a real man was made of; then she'd really have something to call home about.
He happily pictured her crying over his dying body when she realized that a great patriot had given his all. But the reverie came to a close when the tail end of the parade passed by Forty-ninth Street and those in the staging area marched out onto Fifth Avenue with a great cacophony of bagpipes, drums, and cheers.
If not for the circumstances, Lucy might have enjoyed the walk. At least it brought them back out into the sun, plus there was something about bagpipes and the rat-a-tat-tat of the snare drums that made it almost impossible to march out of step. She waved to the crowd even as she kept an eye on the drill team marching and performing at the head of the County Heath pipes and drums.
As they passed St. Patrick's Cathedral between Fiftieth and Fifty-first, Lucy saw John Jojola moving parallel along the sidewalk. She caught his eye and pointed to the drill team, but added a shrug just in case Ned was right and the rifles were useless. She saw him signal to someone on the other side of the avenue and a few steps farther along spotted Tran on the stairs of the cathedral. He waved to her and she waved back.
Thirty blocks later, Lucy was tired of the parade and growing nervous as they approached the viewing platform set up where the marchers would turn east on Eighty-sixth and head toward Third Avenue. The procession had become stop-and-go as each group put on their best show for the dignitaries.
At last, they were in sight of the platform. Lucy scanned the dais and spotted Ellis standing to one side of a large, red-haired man in a suit who was seated comfortably, obviously enjoying the spectacle, feet tapping to the whir of the pipes. She nearly stumbled into a bagpiper, however, when further inspection revealed that Jaxon was also on the platform, standing next to the archbishop.
Lucy was about to call Jojola and warn him that she thought the archbishop was the target when she was distracted by the bagpiper she'd almost run over. He nudged the fellow next to him and said, "There, Sean, you see the big fellow with the fiery hair…that's the grand marshal, Tom McCullum. He's a U.S. senator, wouldn't you know, and a Mick if you can believe it!"
"Aye, Bryan," Sean replied. "I hear he's a regular firebrand and recently spoke at the annual meeting of the Ancient Order of Hibernians. He's calling for an investigation into that little to-do at the cathedral with the Pope and all. Also, gave a speech to the Hibernians about the Patriot Act-was none too fond of it, I hear, in fact was real critical about invasions of privacy and government spying on citizens."