“Go head.”
“You don’t smile much. What do you love to do most, besides work?”
Hess raised his eyebrows then stared straight ahead. “I want to travel. Really travel. Once all aspects of the Raven Society are in place.”
“To see different people. Different places?”
Hess scoffed. “Not people. They ruin shit.”
“I see,” said the assistant. “Know what you mean. When the mines closed in West Virginia, my father hit the bottle, then he had the car accident, leaving mom, me, my four brothers and no income. As oldest, I took off for California at 10. Could have been a real adventure, but I had to beg cross country. Took five years, met all types. You’re absolutely right, people ruin shit.”
“Unless,” said Hess with a small smile threatening the corner of his mouth, “they’re Raven Society or our friends.”
“Of course.”
“Now enough,” said Hess. “No more talk. I want to listen to my show.”
The rest of the drive up to Santa Barbara took about two hours. Not bad for a Tuesday afternoon. As they approached the big house, Hess told his assistant to gather the others for a 7 p.m. meeting. “All hands, on deck.”
“For sure.”
“You bet your ass.”
At 6:30 p.m. Hess sat with a scotch, neat. He needed a break to assess where they were and where they were going. Although Hess posed as groundskeeper at the estate, his most critical jobs were security and teaching six young men—now ranging from 18 to 21 years old—to do the will of the Raven Society.
All six were fine physical specimens, each stood close to six-feet tall and boasted muscled bodies from daily workouts in the weight room, but they remained inexperienced. With their hair shorn to the nub and piercing brown or blue eyes, they looked like soldiers, but they lacked maturity. Not Hess’ fault. He taught through strict discipline and dogma. Did a terrific job. And they now exhibited strength, dedication, and allegiance—like the best attributes of a great ant colony. An Army of Ants. But it wasn’t easy. They were young men, not ants, and Hess had to deal with their libidos—their damn sexual drives and desires. He had considered lacing their food with saltpeter—potassium nitrate—supposedly used in prisons and some military theaters to suppress libidos. But Hess always did his homework, and discovered it was a myth. No science evidenced that potassium nitrate—fine for fertilizers, fireworks or rocket propellant—had any effect on libido. Hess, left on his own, had to dig deep. But never one to give up, he learned that a certain combination of antidepressants, statin drugs and blood-pressure medication—all easily available on the dark web—could do the trick. Mixing the resulting powder into their food and drink created needed focus by wiping out the sexual urges, any runaway teenage passions, and the risk of mixed allegiances. All for the greater good. And for giving the Raven Society, after additional training, their first squad of “Watchmen”—21st-century enforcers with strength, loyalty, endurance, and dexterity—perfect soldiers. Perfect security.
Hess glanced down at the blue face of his steel Rolex. 7 p.m. He finished his scotch, lowered his glass, stretched up and walked into the next room. All six young men were standing at attention. “At ease,” he said.
The oldest Watchman dressed like the others in a tan shirt, matching slacks and polished boots was first to speak. “Herr Hess, as always, we are here to learn.” Hess liked what he heard, and doing what he rarely did in their presence, he briefly smiled. His Eminence had given them the names One, Two, Three, Four, Five and Six. And One, the oldest, had always been Hess’ favorite. Even during their early training, as young teenagers, One had been strongest and most determined.
Hess turned to One. “Of course, of course. Next, I’m going to teach you how to carry out missions alone. Solo. That way, we multiply our assets. As you know, I’ve been training you with the Navy SEAL syllabus. The same program I used as Western Training Officer for special operatives of the National Socialist Group, our nation’s greatest neo-Nazi organization. And just Sunday, I myself used those techniques—in a solo mission.”
One’s blue eyes gleamed and he seemed to straighten his spine even more. “Herr Hess tell us how, please.”
“As always, start with planning. Do your homework. I soak up my subjects. That way, I twist them the way I want. Before my Sunday night attack, I became intimate with the background of the target—a lawyer—as well as his movements, location, and methods of escape. That gave me needed flexibility.”
“How did you study his background?” One, again.
“The internet is great. Lawyers have websites. Love to talk about themselves. Then there’s photographs, news articles, reviews, and things they’ve written.”
Two spoke up this time. “Why was that all necessary?”
Hess gave Two a sharp glance. “I said, for flexibility. His Eminence insisted that I not kill the target, this time. The mission was only to put fear of God in him. And this lawyer loves control. So, the best way to hurt him—take it away. My approach was under water, but the physical attack demanded stealth. It would have been simple, if only I could have used my knife. At night, a knife is fine for killing, but error-prone otherwise. Too easy to sever an artery or impale a critical organ. Remember: We never tolerate mistakes.” Hess stared at each Watchman in turn, to make sure everyone had focused on those words. Then he continued, “To just stun him, I took a body board near the boat. Slammed it in his face. But the shit was so weak, he started bleeding. I made sure he was conscious, ordered him to fuck off the case, and threw him in the water.”
“And next?” said One. “What happened next?”
“Not unexpectedly, he hid like a coward, and I had to teach him a lesson. He kept a gas container on board for his Zodiac, sitting up, attached to the swim step. Not much gas, but enough. I sprinkled what was left on the Zodiac. Lit it with a candle the idiot had on the deck table.”
“To burn the boat?” asked Two, his brown eyes wide as walnuts.
“No—I said a warning—like a burning cross. I simply picked up my tank on the dock and escaped under water. Before leaving the parking lot, while Harbor Patrol responded to the fire, I got in my truck and left the scene. Warning delivered. Mission accomplished.” As Hess finished, the young men, starting with One, clapped. Cracking his face, ever so quickly, to smile again, Hess said, “And I commend One who completed his first solo mission earlier today—shadowing and stalking that same SOB lawyer with his Supra.”
Two, looking surprised, said, “Sir, what about me—on Monday? Checking on the SOB at the hospital and slipping that note into his apartment?”
Hess’ face turned to stone. “Relying on what some nurse said is not checking on someone. But at least you did get that note under his door—without being caught. Fucking amazing.”
Two lowered his head. “Thank you, Herr Hess.”
Hess continued, “The lawyer’s been warned now. He does what we want, or I’ll finish him. And soon, all of you will be ready to carry out solo missions. I swear, within three weeks, you will all be ready, or else.” Hess resumed his stone-cold expression. He looked at each Watchman in turn and said, “Now, you have work to do. Dismissed. Except One. You standby.”
CHAPTER 11
Hess had told One it was critical they discuss certain things later Tuesday night. Before that meeting, in his bedroom at the big house, Hess stood alone and bare-chested. staring at the mirror. He raised both arms, posing like Atlas holding the world. The muscles in his shoulders, upper chest and arms rippled and bulged. And then, there they were. On each side of his chest, beneath his armpits, at heart level—his Totenkoph tattoos, or what Americans called Death’s Heads. Each—a human skull with multiple fractures at top, missing eyes, blank nose and a full set of grinding teeth. Crossed thigh bones behind. They still looked awesome, and he was glad he had put them where he did. They were his, and his alone. With shirt on or arms down—they were stealth. Hidden.
Only after he had added them did he learn that, besides today’s neo-Nazis, the SS-Totenkophverbande had used the same symbols on their uniforms. They were the ones who ran the concentration camps. Hess disapproved of the camps. They broke up families and that was impermissible. That SS revelation began Hess’ migration toward the political left, leading to today, His Eminence, and the Raven Society. Make no mistake about it, neo-Nazis were still friends. But not family. Hess shook his head and slipped on his black t-shirt. Then he sat down at his desk.
His room was spacious but spartan. Good example for the Watchmen, especially because the rest of His Eminence’s house was so god-awful grandiose. Hess kept a single bed with white sheets, a taunt green blanket, and square corners. His beige walls were blank, except for the framed 8x10 photo of his dead wife and child—centered three feet above the head of his bed. There, to remind him each night, so he could maintain proper perspective every day. In addition, Hess’ 35-gallon ant farm sat against the wall opposite the foot of his bed. Family was everything to Hess and had to be kept close. To the left of the farm, Hess had a five-drawer wooden dresser. To the right, a five-foot-by-five-foot metal bookcase filled with medical, legal, and history books. On the dresser top, he stored food and supplements for his ants and the large magnifying glass he used to study them. Hess didn’t want or need anything else, with one exception. He kept a grand old wooden desk at the center of his room. It used to belong to His Eminence, and the black leather executive chair had come with it. Hess had also put two wooden chairs in front—for visitors.
One knocked at 9 p.m. as planned. Hess gestured for One to take the chair on the right. Between them, on the desk, sat a big black coffee cup full of green-laser pointers. Another reminder. Next to the cup sat stacks of papers related to the human traffic business. He hated paperwork. He was no goddamn accountant. So, for fun, he used expended 50-cal bullets, shrapnel, and collectible pistols as paperweights.
Hess eyed One. “Any questions?”
“Just a few. What if the lawyer doesn’t back off?”
“Like with Flynn, we raise the heat. If that doesn’t work, we lower the boom. Lawyers have accidents too, you know.”
