Matt Hilton - Blood and Ashes

‘The way I see it, Hicks still has his hands on two flasks of plutonium. Only thing that matters now is that he’s stopped from using them.’

‘I’m relying on you boys,’ Walter added.

‘So point us at him,’ Rink said.

‘I would if we had any idea where he was at.’

I said, ‘Don Griffiths.’

Walter squinted, and I went on, ‘Hicks was determined to stop Don from ruining his plans. Don must know something that can help lead us to him.’

Walter stood up quickly. ‘We can go back to my office and make a call from there.’

With the space suddenly vacated between us, Rink and I were left blinking at each other. Finally, I asked, ‘You with me, Rink?’

‘I’m with you, brother. Sure as hell ain’t with Arrowsake no more.’

I looked at Walter, my eyes gritty like they contained chips of dirty ice. ‘Those are my terms, too. We don’t do this for Arrowsake; we do it for those two small children and their mother.’

Walter had no idea who I was talking about, but he could only nod in agreement. Then, his eyebrows knitting, he said, ‘Just be wary, boys. You’re either with Arrowsake or you’re against them.’

‘Fine by me.’ I touched the faint red ring round my throat.

Day had turned to evening.

The Staten Island ferry still shuttled back and forth, but the ubiquitous sightseers who normally hitched a free ride past the Statue of Liberty were absent. A feeling of unease hung in the atmosphere as the people of Manhattan internalised their bewilderment at what had occurred earlier in the day. Initial fears were that al-Qaeda had struck another blow, but it was now common knowledge that the bomb that exploded during the Purim celebrations in Lincoln Square had claimed neither lives nor buildings of religious significance. Some believed this wasn’t all they had to fear, and their fears would be borne out, but most had gone back to their normal routines with little more than a shake of their heads. News had spread that a group of men had been killed during a stand-off with the FBI and NYPD — what was there to worry about now that those responsible for the failed attack were dead?

There was a hush over the city that never sleeps. The Big Apple was just resting in silent contemplation.

Out on the Hudson the sound of a motorboat reverberated between the wooden pilings along the riverside, sounding like the wheeze of an asthmatic forging uphill. The outboard motor died, went quiet and the boat drifted the last few yards to the much larger moored yacht. Deep blue in colour, its running lights extinguished, the yacht was like a solid wedge of night. Two figures clambered from the motorboat, up the ladder and on to the deck. One was taller than the other, the smaller man holding something in his hands.

They went unchallenged on the deck and approached the galley. This was no leisure craft, no glass doors or plush living quarters awaited them inside. The upper deck was utilitarian at best, an open space beyond double doors painted the same dark blue as everything else.

Samuel Gant slammed the doors with both palms, pushing into the room regardless of whether he was invited. The doors flew all the way open, crashing loudly against the walls, startling the two big men who were standing with their backs to him.

‘Get outa my goddamn way, you freaks,’ he snapped as the men turned to block his way. Gant was in such a rage that his features were as dark as his tattoo.

One of Carswell Hicks’ bodyguards stepped in front of Gant, and Gant didn’t pause to consider the consequences. He kicked the man in the groin, the full swing of his leg behind the blow. Back when he’d earned the red laces in his boots, Gant had kicked a man similarly, guaranteeing that at least one black man wouldn’t spread his seed to further dilute the population.

As the bodyguard clutched at his mashed testicles, Gant snatched out his handgun and aimed it at the face of the second bodyguard. ‘Back up, asshole, or you’ll get worse than a set of crushed nuts.’

Sitting behind his desk, Carswell Hicks appeared nonplussed by the drama at the far end of the room. He was dressed in a grey suit, grey shirt, blood-red tie, a matching handkerchief tucked in his breast pocket.

‘Let Samuel in,’ he called, sounding almost jovial. ‘We’re all brothers here, aren’t we?’ He stood up, beckoning Gant deeper into the room.

The second bodyguard rolled his shoulders, like he was unfazed by the gun a couple inches from his face. He raised his eyebrows, jerked his head, giving Gant the all-clear. The tattooed man sneered at him as he pushed him out of the way with the flat of his hand. Behind Gant, Darley entered the room. He was wielding a shotgun, which he aimed at the bodyguards. ‘Get him over against the wall,’ he told the uninjured man. He covered them while the guard with the damaged testicles was helped over to the corner of the room. Darley bobbed his head. ‘I know you’re both armed. Lose the guns. Kick them over to me.’

While Darley collected the weapons, Gant continued to walk towards Carswell Hicks. His air-wear soles sucked at the planking.

‘You seem awfully upset about something,’ Hicks said, a smile half formed on his lips.

‘I kind of get that way when someone I trust craps on me.’

‘I’ve crapped on you?’ The feigned expression of bewilderment belied the coldness in Hicks’ voice. ‘How so, Samuel?’

Gant threw his arms out expansively. ‘That bullshit in the Jew-boy quarter! I thought we were supposed to kill thousands of them. I thought we were gonna bring down their temples and poison the rest of them that the explosion didn’t get!’

‘I had a change of heart.’

Hicks sat down, steepling his hands on his chest. With his close-cropped silver hair and beard he looked like a college professor preparing to lecture a dim-witted student. Gant slapped the handgun down on the desktop and leaned on his knuckles so he could look his leader directly in the eye. ‘A change of heart? You pitied our enemies?’

‘Not at all. I despise the Jews as much as I ever did.’

‘So what was it all about?’

Hicks stood up sharply, taking Gant by surprise. The tattooed man snatched up his handgun, but when he saw Hicks walk away from him, he merely watched, befuddled. Hicks went to open a door that Gant knew led into an antechamber of sorts. Inside the small room the box that he’d purchased from the Koreans reflected the dull overhead light. ‘That,’ said Hicks, pointing at the box, ‘cost me millions of dollars. If I’d blown it up, then I’d have been seriously out of pocket.’

‘We’re fighting the Rahowa!’ Gant screwed his mouth around the shout, causing a hallucinatory twist to his tattoo. ‘Money? You’re more concerned about money than our racial holy war?’

‘Of course. We cannot fight a war with empty coffers.’

The handgun was a dull matt grey: the same colour that threatened the white race. Gant swung it towards the man whom he’d once happily have given his life for. ‘You have lost your way, Carswell.’

Unperturbed by the gun pointing at him, Hicks leaned down to unlatch the lid of the box. He swung it open and indicated the large vials inside. ‘No, Samuel, I have seen our future.’ He became animated. Light shone behind his eyes as though his inner being was lit by an epiphany. ‘Don’t you see? With the threat of using this weapon whenever, wherever, we choose to, we can hold the government to ransom. We can demand billions in compensation for the injustices served upon the white race; we can take it from the Jews and the niggers and hand it back to all the God-fearing white folk who have lost their homes, their jobs and their dignity. With this,’ he shook a hand at the box, ‘we can do anything we want. We can force the President to step down from office, if we desire. We can take back our country.’