“Karen has a theory,” Clark said. “She thinks they might try and sell the caesium to another white power group, or maybe neo-Nazis.”
It was Eric’s turn to sigh. “How good is that theory?”
“She’s given it a very low fidelity score, but it remains a possibility.”
“Just great.” Eric turned to John. “You ready?”
He nodded, trying to quiet the butterflies in his stomach.
“Good. Martin, stay here. Kelly, Johnson, I need one of you, your choice.”
“I’ll go,” Kelly volunteered. “Nothing like overt racism mixed with a side of jingoism to get the blood pumping.”
The butterflies had been replaced with belly-flops. “Eric,” he interrupted, “can I talk to you for a minute?”
Eric eyed him. “Guys, hold here.” He motioned for John to get out of the van. They exited and stepped behind the vehicle. “What’s up?”
John stood, silent, then took out his ear-piece and deactivated it with the edge of his thumbnail.
Eric looked puzzled but did the same.
“I’m sorry about earlier,” he managed.
Eric smiled. “I told you, it wasn’t your fault.”
“I screwed up. If I’d left one of them alive, we wouldn’t be blindly walking in there.”
Eric gazed at him thoughtfully. “It’s the killing.”
He could not meet Eric’s gaze. “I’ve had this dream for the past several weeks. I’m angry, very angry. There’s a crowd of people and I want to hurt them. Then I wake up and I’m covered in sweat and my heart is beating a million miles an hour. Now I’m feeling the same way, my heart is beating like crazy and I’m scared that if we go in to that bar, I might have to hurt someone.”
“You’re a good soldier,” Eric reassured. “The dreams might be from the PTSD. I don’t know, I’m not a shrink. Did you tell Doc Barnwell about any of this?”
“I know what happens if I speak to Barnwell. I could be deemed unfit for duty. I don’t want people thinking I’m a basket case.”
Eric spoke softly. “I’m sorry, but you have to come to terms with it. You will have to kill. I’ve seen men who enjoy killing, enjoy making people hurt and suffer. What we do in the OTM, we do for the good of the country. You have to accept that. The people we kill, they’re not good people, John. Of all the human beings on this earth, they are the ones who dirty up the gene pool.”
“We don’t know that,” John said. “We don’t know what these guys have done.”
“They’ve stolen enough cesium to make a city uninhabitable. Think of the children and the elderly. There’s no way to evacuate them all. The elderly could die immediately, the kids lost to leukemia or lung cancer — they’re the bad guys, John. That makes us the good guys.”
The feeling in his gut still gnawed at him. “I don’t feel like the good guy. I feel like a killer.”
Eric clasped him by the shoulders. “Sometimes we gotta do what we gotta do. Tell me right now. Can you do this?”
John thought about the men he killed, about weaponized caesium, about the dead who would weigh on his conscience. “I can do it.”
Eric smiled. “Good. Get Kelly and let’s make this happen.”
Eric entered first and squinted, his eyes adjusting to the dim lighting, his boots squeaking against the dirty wood floor, John and Kelly close behind.
He tried to put John’s words out of his mind, but kept going back to the nightmares. If John was starting to remember his past, it could be a real problem for the project. Not to mention that he counted on John to have his back.
In part, he agreed with him. He did not enjoy killing, either, but to save a life he might have to take a life. God have mercy on his soul, but he wouldn’t hesitate to kill one to save a thousand.
He knew it was unfair to resent John’s new-found sense of morality. John no longer remembered the Red Cross bombing. In fact, John was eager to please, constantly trying to impress with hard work and determination. What galled him was that John was now his responsibility. He was to befriend him, instill him with confidence, all the while knowing that he might have to put a bullet in the back of his head.
He gritted his teeth. John had to perform. The project depended on it.
He pushed the concerns out of his mind. He couldn’t let the distraction get them all killed. He stepped forward again, eyes finally adjusted to the dark.
The few overhead lights cast dim spots on the floor, but he made out the long bar-top that took up the length of one wall. A dozen square wooden tables filled the rest. The floor was stained and stale beer and urine made the bar smell like a toilet.
The bartender glanced at them, a big man with a red spider tattoo plastered around his bald head, a crooked nose from too many breaks, and beady black eyes.
Two heavyset men wearing leather jackets with the APR patches sat at one of the tables. He knew their type, shaggy hair and beards, the start of pot-bellies from too much on motorcycles and too little exercise. Two younger men in blue jeans and denim work shirts were in quiet conversation at another table, nursing their beers.
The bikers glanced their way, then pretended to ignore them. The younger men tracked his movement as he approached the bar.
He took a seat, resting his arms against the sticky bar top. John and Kelly joined him. The bartender approached. There was an awkward pause until Kelly spoke up softly. “Coors draft?”
The bartender squinted at them and nodded.
“Make it three,” Eric said.
The bartender poured the drafts and slid them across the bar-top. He tossed a filthy bar-towel over his shoulder and walked to the other end of the bar, leaned heavily against it, and lit a cigarette.
“Not exactly stellar customer service,” John said quietly.
“What did you expect, it’s not even noon,” Eric replied. “I recognize the two bikers by their rap sheets. No sign of Dyer.” He caught the bartender’s eye and motioned. The surly man nodded and approached. Eric noticed the lightness to his step.
A boxer, maybe.
“Need something else?”
Eric nodded. “Yeah, I’m looking for a man named Dyer.”
“Don’t know him.” The man started to turn.
“I think you do,” Eric said.
The bartender stopped, his glare still hostile. “Lots of men come in here.”
Eric smiled. “This man preaches.”
The bartender laughed. “I don’t ask no questions and they don’t tell no lies. If they want a drink, that’s their god given right, preacher or not.”
“This man preaches a certain type of message. We like that message.”
“I said, I don’t know any Dyer.” The big man leaned forward. “Whatever you’re looking for, you won’t find it here.”
Eric decided to push the issue. “I’ve heard the American Patriot Revolution gathers here. You sure you don’t know anything about that? We like what they stand for.”
The bartender’s eyes narrowed. “You’d like to join the APR? Do you believe in racial purity?” He eyes darted between Eric, John and Kelly. “You say you like the APR. What’s the first rule of the APR?”
Luckily, Eric had glanced over their website. “Do not mix with the races. We don’t. I’m of German descent, myself, and my friends can trace their families back to England. Like I said, we want to meet Mr. Dyer.”
The bartender nodded. “What’s the second rule of the APR?”
“To take all means necessary to keep the races separate but equal.”
“And the third?”
“To use whatever means necessary to restore this country to its former greatness and to adhere to the Constitution as originally written,” Eric responded quickly.