‘Alabama, Mississippi, Florida, the Piney Woods of East Texas. Sittin’ quiet and ugly at the jump-points,’ his companion replied.
‘Security situation?’ Bell asked.
‘The Jim Crows won’t know ’til we’ve rolled over ’em. One stockpile found by a nigger whore in the Delta, but we emigrated her, encouraged her to leave.’
Bell removed his sunglasses. ‘Next time you do it with a pick-up and tow-hook.’
‘Who says you can’t mix business with pleasure, chief?’
‘Pleasure’s all mine. But we’ve gotta stay tight. Feds will be swarming like flies on hogshit once we light up the area.’
‘They’ll be too busy protecting themselves in their Federal buildings to come out and find us.’
‘Maybe, maybe not.’ Bell smoothed his hair. ‘I guarantee we’ll take the fight to them, I guarantee that once the Reverend Al Azania has whipped up his under-race, we’ll be viewed as patriots and saviours by the American people.’
‘Amen to that, boss. We’re looking forward to flying the first tranche of weapons into the strip at Compton once LA ignites.’
Bell clamped a hand on the Forrester’s shoulder. ‘Projects, projects. You’re a true defender of the faith, a credit to our mission. What about you, Rod? Prepared for the job in DC?’
The man, not talkative, chewing on the tobacco, shrugged. ‘S’pose.’
‘You’re the best goddamn sniper on the squad. So s’ppose it into reality.’
‘Sure.’ The quid made the side of his cheek bulge. He had experienced combat, trained for every theatre of war, carried scars and memories of fire-fights, wore the tattooed Airborne shoulder-flash with pride. Rifles were his tool of choice, African- Americans his preferred target. He needed no exhortation, no lecture from an Angelino realtor, to go for a tricky head shot.
‘Fantasy’s for the Chaz Mansons of this world. We’re combatives, we don’t need to audition for the Monkeys. We do need, however, to get our opening moves right on the mark.’ He splayed his hands over the map, leant over to examine it and tapped a forefinger on the Alabama town of Selma. ‘Yessir, the power puppets of Bohemian Grove and Pennsylvania Avenue are in for the shock of their lives.’
‘A privilege to be involved,’ the Forrester commander said.
‘And since the leading white supremacist pussies were rubbed in California, we’re involved from a position of strength.’ The real estate tycoon was tracing a fingernail along Highway 80. ‘Let’s use it.’
‘Nice to see black–white interplay going beyond the trading of drugs, Mr Bell.’
His lieutenants nodded. ‘Nice to see Federal agents typin’ up reports …’
‘Puttin’ bodies into bags.’
There would be many reports, many bodies. Campaigns had come before, raggedy bands of extremists mounting raids, grinding axes, taking out grievances – taking out ethnics. Small fry, inconsequential affairs, the puff and propaganda of marginalized woodsmen with marginal intellect. A new game was in motion, comprehensive, far deadlier.
‘Bloody Sunday,’ Bell murmured. ‘It all begins with Bloody Sunday.’
* * *
He was in reflective mood, thinking mode, as he approached the entrance to the tower block. Someone had stolen his thunder. Where he killed a select few, the unknown emulators, pretenders, had lured seven from the security of a refugee centre and gunned them down. He had to admire their professionalism, their dedication. The press coverage was awesome, irritating. Even the United Nations and its refugee bodies had made comment, passed judgement, condemning the British government and people for racism and culpability by default. Yet he was the original, the leader, the silverback; the newcomers were merely imitators of his craft. They were no real competition, they provided little contest. He was in it for the long term, for the headlines and the personal satisfaction of a job well done. A lifestyle choice, a different league. Few could match his commitment, attain his level of creativity and competence. Shame about the young white family and their friends, the sordid manner of their deaths. There were people out there, irksome, minor-division players with agendas and missions separate to his own. Good ideas would always be sullied or stolen, perverted by inadequates with a grudge. He had no choice but to claw back the initiative, stamp his authority and identity on the blood-letting. It was why he was here, in the heart of black country, the badlands. He would hand something special, remarkable, to the police and press, increase his donation to organ banks, add to the source material of serial-profilers and forensic psychologists. It would be high on the black preacher-politician’s topic list when he came to London, prefix all discussion of race relations. Consciousness. He would appear at every level. The stairwell was dark, permeated with the rank acid-stench of urine, the refuse-tip odour of inner-city rat-dwelling. He knew his way, he would gain entry to the nest. Filling a need, filling a hundred laboratory preservative bottles with things of interest. The fools would never guess. A door stood in front of him, plain and unwelcoming. It was unwise to judge a crack den by its cover. There would be a party underway inside, skinny coloureds with poor complexions, low expectations, high expenses and no future, shooting, snorting and chasing. That way lay terror and paranoia. He would give them reason to fear. His finger pressed the doorbell. An internal security gate was pushed back; his brain opened to receive. An eye went to the spyhole, viewed him for a moment. Recognition confirmed. He was expected. There was a sound of bolts sliding, lock barrels rotating, of greed getting the better of trust. A pleasure to be accepted, to be back. But there were changes, new management, to introduce, certain … rearrangements to make.
* * *
The UK
She had once been a young woman. She had once had a husband, a small son, a life. They were gone, cut from her in one prolonged evening of consuming brutality, through tortured hours which had misshaped her world and stretched the credulity of the nation. It did not show in Sophie’s face. That too was almost gone. What was left of it remained hidden by a pressure bandage mummy-wrapped about her head, her single surviving eye sunken and glass-blue dull against the virgin surgical cotton. Kemp had seen the photographs, read the notes. The two parallel-taped blades of a customized, ghettoized Stanley knife had guaranteed comprehensive shredding, ensured wounds immune to remedial suture. The plastic surgeons had done their best, would attempt to rebuild, to graft on a new identity; the psychiatrists would do the same. Reconstruction was a team effort. For four days she had loitered in a coma, sustained on a ventilator, by intravenous saline and glucose drips, central lines fed with TPN, by propofol anti-gagging agents, by drug cocktails and antibiotics to reduce the cerebral oedema and the risks of infection or clotting. She had survived – after a fashion. Three weeks on, and the transit from intensive care through high dependency to a private room filled with flowers was complete. The uniformed constables outside the door, the armed and plain-clothes officers patrolling the hospital corridors, were there to ensure her rehabilitation continued. She was a high-value patient, an information source.
Her head stayed motionless, the mouth a lipless slit behind the mask. ‘You’re going to comment on how beautiful the flowers are.’
‘Crossed my mind.’
‘Don’t bother. It’s everyone’s opening gambit.’
‘I’ll try and be less obvious.’
‘Next, they say how sorry they are, how terribly sorry.’
‘I believe them.’
‘You think I need their sorrow – can handle that too?’
‘I think they’re being human.’
‘And what am I? What have I become? You going to tell me how well I look?’ Monotone bitterness.
‘The consensus is you’re making progress.’
‘Must be. I’ve moved from heparin jabs to warfarin tablets, been weaned from morphine onto Zydol, graduating to other sedatives.’
‘Give it time.’
‘Oh, I have a lot of that. It’s not as if there’s the nursery run to do, a family to look after, a husband and child to enjoy.’ Her self-control was fraying; anguish seeping to the outside.
He placed his hand gently on the foot of the bed cover. ‘I can only guess. I lost a daughter …’
