A Mighty Fortress Page 9

  “Yeewwww,” said Cody in disgust. “Actually, I always say San Francisco because that’s where Sapirstein had his law practice and that was kind of the center of things for the family, but we actually lived in Silicon Valley, in San José. The buggery was there, but it was all very hi-tech and discreet. All the really screaming queens lived across the Bay in the Castro. I never went up there.”

  “Well, they used to be all over this neighborhood like fleas on a dog,” said Brown. “No more, though. I guess us domestic terrorists must be doing our jobs. Squad car at two o’clock, Bob.”

  “I see him,” said Bells, quietly signaling and then changing lanes, the Jeep behind them following, as they smoothly slid away from the police car. If the cops noticed the two vehicles, they did nothing. The Seattle PD, like all Northwest departments, had learned that curiosity could kill the cat. Although there was no informal live and let live arrangement as there was between the NVA and local law enforcement in some parts of the Homeland, Seattle police were known to avoid getting entangled in NVA-related events as much as they could, leaving the task of fighting against the revolution to FATPO and assorted Federal agencies, whose job it was and who were presumably well paid for it. By this time, after five years of urban guerrilla warfare, any hostile run-ins between the Volunteers and the SPD were usually the result of unfortunate accident rather than deliberate on either side’s part.

  Cody went on. “I mean, yeah, sure, I know what homosexuality is. God, who can not know, with sex education classes starting in kindergarten and getting homo and lesbian stuff shoved at us from every angle on TV and everywhere else? But I can’t imagine two men or two women actually doing that crap. Especially in public. Why would anybody want to? I mean, what the hell for?” Cody’s knowledge of sexual perversion was in fact more extensive than he let on, thanks to his older stepsisters Karen and Leah Sapirstein, but that was locked away, and there it would stay.

  “Cody, I long ago stopped trying to figure out why this society does the things it does,” said Farmer Brown. “I used to figure America had just gone crazy, that we’d all eaten bad bread with ergotine fungus in it, like sometimes happens in your rye house if you let the grain get damp. But things have reached the point where even that doesn’t explain it any more. Whole books have been written about what has happened to this country, and when, and why, but I don’t think we’ll ever fully know or understand. There’s a definite sickness out there, a kind of poisonous mushroom that’s been growing in all the dark places of people’s souls. Yeah, the Jews are largely responsible, but the Jews never got away with anything we didn’t let ‘em get away with. Why didn’t we fight up until now? God knows.”

  “Little Rock,” said Bells. “Little Rock, 1958. When Eisenhower sent in the army to integrate the schools and force niglets in with the white kids. That’s when the trouble really started. They should have never let them get away with that, the NAACP and their smart Jew lawyers. They was just askin’ for trouble, lettin’ them get away with that. What kind of man lets his own child be forced in with niggers? I never understood what the hell those white parents were thinking. The people of the South should have risen up again and re-formed the Confederate States of America and seceded again, and the rest of the country should have supported the South. And I think back then they would have won, too, if the white man had just shown a little balls. They should have started shooting back then, in 1958. Maybe if they’d shot those NAACP niggers and some of those smart Jewish lawyers, the government would have understood the word no. Nothing says no like a bullet in the head. But they didn’t.”

  “If they’d done the shooting back then, we wouldn’t have to be doing it now,” agreed Farmer Brown glumly. “We could have kept all of America, and we could all have had some kind of decent life if our grandfathers had done their duty. Instead they sloughed it off onto us.”

  “That’s why you shouldn’t worry about tonight or anything like this you do from now on, Cody,” Bells told him. “You got nothing to feel bad about. What we’re doing is something that’s long overdue. This is like a historical process here. Too much peace and prosperity ain’t natural, anyway. People never had so much peace and prosperity before like we’ve had in America, and they don’t know what to do with it, so they abuse it. It’s like a guy who sits around in front of the TV all the time and never gets no exercise. He gets all flabby, like me. And if you don’t exercise your mind or your heart, if you’re not forced to show strength and courage, then all those qualities get fat and flabby and useless as well, and you get stupid in the head. Nations are like that, too. They get fat and lazy and full of dumb-asses, because there ain’t no war nor natural selection to weed out the bad blood. There ain’t no penalty attached to being stupid and lazy. In easy times, the dumb-asses don’t get forced to wise up or die like it should happen. They gotta get a bat upside the head to wake up their ideas. There ain’t nothing wrong with the American people that a good working over with a baseball bat won’t fix.”

  “You always were a cockeyed optimist, Bob,” chuckled Brown.

  “But then there’s people like this rat bastard Krajewski we’re gonna grease tonight, and his Jew buddy the dope dealer. Some people do all the drugs and race-mixing and liberalism and preversions deliberately, because they’re not just dumb-asses, they’re really sick fucks and bad people who like to roll around in their own vomit. Bad things don’t just happen like some kind of natural disaster. Bad things are caused by bad people. Something’s broken inside them, and they ain’t never gonna act right, so fuck ‘em. Somewhere along the line we got this ridiculous idea that bad people have some kind of right to keep on doing their preversions and fucking things up for everybody else and making kids turn out bad and fucked-up like they are. Like hell they do. Bad people don’t need to be persuaded not to be bad, they need to be hit in the head. That’s what we’re finally doing. I just hope to God we didn’t begin too late.”

  “Sometimes I hear these yuppie Barbie dolls and talking heads on TV whining and crying about how the ones we take out are human beings,” added Farmer Brown with a growl. “Yeah, they are. So? All that means is that they deserve it. Human beings are the only creatures on the face of the earth who are capable of deliberate, malicious evil. Even a shark that tears off a swimmer’s leg or a rattlesnake that bites does it because it’s his instinct, because it’s the way that God made him. Only a human being can deliberately choose to harm another living thing without cause, or lie, or incite others to do harm, or come up with ideas that poison the mind and destroy what others have built, speak words that cause ruin and pain and murder hope. Where the hell did we get this idea that we have no right to make moral judgments? Somebody has to judge. Somebody has to stand up say flat out that these bastards who have been ruling the world for the past hundred years are evil, the things they do and say and think and bring into the world are evil. Somebody has got to make these dogs hear the word no. Somebody has to stop them. This character Krajewski wants to help a foul tyranny do harm to his own people, his own blood. There is only one answer to that, and Country Joe is going to get that answer tonight. You won’t just be shooting tonight, Cody. You will be speaking, speaking for that part of humanity that is of worth and deserves to be saved. Make sure you make your point.”

  “No worries,” said Cody. “Mr. Kaplan will get the message.”

  There was a soft beep. Bobby Bells took his cell phone out of his overall pocket, illuminated it briefly and glanced at the screen, then put it back in his pocket. “That’s us,” he said laconically. He waved his arm casually out the window to the Cherokee and then hung the next left, heading back toward Broadway Market. Less than two minutes later they pulled up onto the street right at the entrance to the small concrete parking lot at the rear of the vegetarian café. Although the parking lot was barely twenty yards deep, DiBella took out a small pair of field glasses and scoped the parked cars in the lot.

  “Okay, see that battered looking blue VW bus with all
that graffiti-looking crap all over it? That’s Krajewski’s ride.” He beckoned to the Cherokee. Thumper, who was a former boxer and looked distinctly thumped-upon, and Jack Flash got out and came up to the Cadillac. The English youth got into the back seat with Cody. “Looks like we got some room to maneuver,” Bells told the other driver in a low voice. “You stay on the street and get ready to book. Only thing I don’t like is that kill zone is a little confined. Farmer will take the Fed if he’s with ‘em. You tell Eddie not to fire unless necessary, and unless he has an absolutely clear shot. I don’t want no mistakes.” Thumper went back to the SUV while Bells slid the Caddy into the parking lot and went down the right-hand row next to the hoarding which fronted on the street. At the end of the row he deftly back-in parked and killed the engine and the lights. Farmer Brown opened his door and stuck the barrel of the AKS-74 assault rifle out of it while he extended the folding stock and quickly chambered a round. Bells turned around and spoke to the two young gunmen in the back.

  “Right, pay attention to what I’m doing here, because you’re going to have to set up your own hits someday soon. I came down here so we can come in from behind them, between them and the alleyways there and over there. When they start running it will be away from you, towards the street and the other guys. Jack, I brought you into this car because I don’t want two shooters coming at the targets from different angles and maybe ending up firing into one another. You guys got your weapons set like I told you?”

  “Affirmative, leftenant!” said Jack crisply.

  “Round up the spout, safety on,” confirmed Cody, hefting his Makarov.

  “So all you got to do is just cock and fire. Just to make sure you don’t forget to take the safeties off, I’ll order you to do that just before we roll out,” continued Bells, his voice firm and calm. “When the targets come outside, we let them get about halfway to the van, then I slide in behind them. I’ll hit the lights and tell you guys to move. You get out of the car and step forward to point blank range, but just out of arm’s length. You don’t want ‘em grabbing your gun or jumping on you and turning this into a wrestling match. They’ll turn around when I hit the lights and be blinded for a quick second or so, and they’ll be all lit up for you. This isn’t a drive-by, and you need to get close.”

  “Yes, sir, I remember training,” Cody assured him. “Powder burn close.”

  Bells nodded. “You got it. Maybe you’re scared your hands will shake and you’ll miss or something. Don’t worry about it, you’ll both do fine. Adrenalin will kick in and it will be over before you know it, and we’ll be rolling back to Bellevue and three-four large pizzas from Tony G’s. First shot dead center, when they’re down another one dead center and a third in the head. Don’t worry about the Fed if there is one, Volunteer Brown has got him, and if there’s two suits Eddie’s got the other one. Just concentrate on your own target and put him down. And no conversation, no White Powers or Sieg Heils or tally-hos and pip pips from you, Jack. Remember, we’re the silent killers. That really freaks the media out, the way we keep silent while we shoot. Good propaganda. Jack, once Krajewski is down, you don’t look back, you run for the Jeep. Since Krajewski is the main target, I’ll be sure to run his ass over on the way out, just for good measure. Cody, once you cack the kike, you get back in the car and don’t dawdle. There ain’t no reason for this to take more than ten seconds. I will also repeat for about the fiftieth time, do not shoot any females among the target party. One of them is a Volunteer, and one hell of a cool and brave chick. Any questions?”

  “Uh, shouldn’t you keep the car engine running?” asked Cody.

  “Nah,” said Bells. “If they’re even halfway alert, the first thing they’re gonna spot when they come out the door is a parked car with the engine running. This is another reason why you make sure your vehicles are in tip top shape before you go out on a tickle, so you can be sure they’ll start when…” The lighted doorway over the rear entrance to the restaurant began to open. People came out. “Showtime,” said Bells.

  Cody immediately recognized the tall figure of Joe Krajewski: long-haired, slightly stoop-shouldered, big belly flowing over his belt, wearing a black cowboy hat, a dark T-shirt and brown leather vest above faded jeans. Beside him waddled the dumpy, proboscidian figure of Jacob Kaplan, wearing a loose outfit of runner’s sweats and a baseball cap.

  Two women were accompanying them. One was a brassy-looking blond with a generous rack encased in what appeared in the pale light to be a purple half-sweater top, a white faux leather skirt, and patent leather heeled boots, a baseball cap on her head as well. The second was a thin girl with long dark hair, a very white face, very red lips and eyes shaded with dark makeup, wearing a dark wool pea coat, black leotards, and black running shoes. She carried a canvas handbag over one shoulder. There was no sign of a man in a suit or anyone who might be an officer of the Department of Homeland Security. “No Fed, just four of ‘em,” said Bells with satisfaction. “He must have gone out the front or left early. Oh, well. This will be a piece of cake. Safeties off.” There were two small clicks in the darkness. Bells started the Cadillac’s engine, then smoothly and slowly slid out of the parking space and turned left down the center row, inching forward, closing the gap behind the four people walking to the van. They were talking, Krajewski on the left was gesticulating, and they didn’t appear to notice anything until the Cadillac was about ten feet behind them. I ought to be gibbering right now, but I’m not, reflected Cody. I’m just waiting to do what I have to do. I’m either a good soldier, or else I’m insane. Then he stopped thinking about it and fastened his eyes on the heavy figure of Kaplan.

  Bells hit the Cadillac’s headlights and the four people were illuminated. They all started to turn. “Now!” he commanded.

  Cody opened the right rear passenger door and heard the left door open as Jack got out. He was around the door and running forward. Jacob Kaplan had turned and was now facing him. He seemed to understand what was happening, and his mouth opened and closed in the headlights like a fish. His hand fumbling in the waistband of his sweat pants and came up with a black .38 snub-nosed revolver. Krajewski shouted wordlessly. The expanse of Kaplan’s chest was so broad Cody didn’t even have to aim. He simply leveled the Makarov in a two handed stance, cocked the hammer back, and pulled the trigger in one smooth motion. He saw the flash from his muzzle and heard the shot, and almost simultaneously he saw another muzzle flash and heard another echoing bang from the other side of the car.

  But Kaplan didn’t go down. He staggered and jerked and stepped backwards, his gun weaving in the air, squeezing off a wild shot into a parked car’s rear windshield. Cody fired again. That one knocked the Jew down and sent his .38 flying. Cody extended the weapon in his right hand, downward at a forty-five degree angle, fired a third shot into Kaplan’s body and then, leaning forward, a fourth into his head, and then a fifth shot into the quivering gut just for the hell of it. He could hear Jack Flash firing again and again, and then he saw the Englishman running out of the lot for his getaway vehicle. A woman was screaming hysterically.

  “Good job! Now back in the car!” rapped out Farmer Brown, leaning out of the window with his AK at the ready. Cody jumped for the open right rear door. He was halfway in when he looked over and saw Bobby Bells leaning back and pulling the left rear door shut; Jack Flash had left it open. Bells got the door closed, but his foot slipped on the accelerator and the car jerked forward about a foot, just enough to cause Cody to lose his footing. He fell out of the door and hit the asphalt, rolling, not hurt, but he lost hold of the Makarov. He saw the pistol skitter over beside one of the parked cars. He leaped for it, stooped, and grabbed the gun with his right hand. He looked up and not four feet in front of him he saw the girl in black crouching between two parked cars. The light from the poles was dim, but bright enough. He looked right into her face.

  And knew her. Just as he saw that she knew him and she flinched in recognition. Emily. Emily what’s-her-name, from M
r. Boland’s chemistry class at Hillside High School.

  Cody didn’t stop, he didn’t think, he just acted. He clubbed the pistol and swung it at her head, but she jerked aside and it crashed into her collarbone. “Ow!” she screamed in outrage. “Shit!” With his left hand he grabbed her beneath her pea coat by the neck of her shirt or blouse she had on underneath, along with a handful of hair, and before the surprised girl could react he dragged her out from between the parked cars and hurled her headlong into the back of the Cadillac, and jumped in after her.

  “What the fuck?” yelled Bobby Bells. “What are you doing, moron?”

  “I know her!” shouted Cody in reply. “She knows me! Go!” Bells didn’t stop to argue at a crime scene, but floored the accelerator and they peeled out into the street, then down Broadway.

  The girl was not going gentle into that good night. Cody heard a dry click and ducked just in time to avoid getting a long and wicked-looking switchblade poked through his eye. He threw himself on the girl, pinned her stabbing arm against the seat with his knee, grabbed her hair and jerked back her head, and jammed the muzzle of the Makarov under her chin. “What’s your name?” he demanded. “And you’d better not say Emily, because it’s the last word you’ll ever say! If you know what I want to hear, you’d better say it now! What’s your name?”

  She stared up at him in murderous rage, but she had sense enough not to argue with a gun barrel beneath her chin. “Nightshade!” she spat. “I’m Nightshade!”

  “Beautiful!” sighed Farmer Brown in disgust.

  Cody pulled away the pistol, the implications of what he had done suddenly dawning on him. “Well…all right, then,” he said lamely. But the girl wasn’t having any. At least she didn’t try to stab him again, but as soon as Cody got off her and sat up, she punched him full force in the jaw with her fist, then leaned back against the door and lashed out at him with a kick like a mule. “You stupid fuck!” she screamed at him as she attacked him.