Glenn Beck - The Eye of Moloch

“I understand,” Virginia said. “And what’s the other thing?”

“Do you play chess?”

“I do. I’m pretty good.”

“Then you know how this works. While you’re thinking about your next move, the other guy’s thinking, too. Against a superior opponent your moves are always enfolded in his.”

“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

“If you’re in this now, whether you believe it or not, you’re already being manipulated. So am I. And if I’m right, then whatever move you’re about to make they’ve already anticipated it and are three moves ahead of you. If you get into this game then you’d better win, and that means you’ve got to be ready to do something completely unexpected.”

• • •

When she returned to her room the message light on her phone was flashing. She had thirteen new voice mails, all on the same subject and left in the order of ascending power and rank.

It seemed that Warren Landers hadn’t been confident that he’d made the needed impression on her, so he’d kicked the matter upstairs as soon as he departed.

The undercurrent of these messages was all the same. The choice was still hers, naturally, but if she knew what was good for her, this Molly Ross business was a mission she should take on without delay.

Well, how about that.

These thirteen very important people had all taken the time to call Virginia Ward at 2 a.m. on a weeknight to express their strong support for what they put forth as a matter of unmatched importance. With oddly similar language they were calling for the immediate capture and incarceration of a blind girl who seemed to be nothing more than the last fading light in a patriot movement that had come too small and too late to make a difference.

Now you’ve got me interested, Virginia thought. So let’s see where this dark road leads.

Chapter 26

Most killers get caught because they neglect the most important part of their job. You don’t have to be a genius; the key to a clean getaway is long preparation before the fact. You plan to get out of there with all your bases covered, and then you do the deed, stow your weapon, grab your kit, and go.

It sure seemed like more, but until very recently Olin Simmons had committed murder only four other times. Two he’d gotten away with clean, but he’d been clipped for the third, and then one had been done from necessity in the ugly tile showers at Lewisburg.

Those acts were different than these current ones; they’d all been up close and personal. The first was hard only because it had been the first. The second was a robbery gone bad and that guy got what he deserved for trying to fight back. The next had been an ex-girlfriend; she’d made it so much easier just by being the malignant little bitch that she was, right up to the end. And the last had been a rite of passage in the joint, just some unlucky fish who got picked from the general population so a better man could earn his yard credentials. Everybody serves their role; that blood initiation had brought Olin Simmons into the brotherhood with George Pierce, and he couldn’t remember feeling much of anything but pride when it was done.

Now he was killing with a purpose—two purposes, really. Warren Landers had said his first job was to “generate conflict,” and that concept had taken some explaining before Simmons finally understood. The second job was pinning these soulless acts on someone else, and that was actually the only part of all this that was beginning to feel like a chore.

These weren’t to be random killings, though they’d look that way until the cops pulled their heads out of their asses.

He’d started in D.C. with a young white mother who’d been filling up her hybrid SUV at the corner Gas ’n’ Go. He waited from long-distance cover until she’d come out of the minimart with some chips and sodas for the kids in the back, and then he’d shot her through the heart as she opened up the side door.

She’d been chosen because of her many bumper stickers, all of which identified her as a proud supporter of the incumbent President and his many clever slogans. Her good looks and her gender would be a media bonus; she represented what they call a sympathetic demographic. This young blond mother of two, cut down in her prime by a deranged political extremist, would tug at America’s heartstrings and be sure to make a splash on the nightly news.

He followed up as he’d been directed with a typewritten note to the newspapers. The text included threats of further violence, a blistering manifesto giving full credit to Molly Ross and the Founders’ Keepers, and several ridiculous demands. One of these was a call for the President to withdraw his name from the upcoming ballot to clear the way to the Oval Office for an obscure candidate from the Libertarian Party.

The paper and the envelope carried another hidden message: partial fingerprints and a fleck of harvested DNA from the fall guy, Thom Hollis. For good measure Simmons had also tucked in an ounce of benign white powder to spread a little panic and ensure the ready involvement of even more government agencies.

There’d been a few other shootings that first day, meant to be linked only later to this same cold-blooded minuteman and his patriot accomplices. Near each location Simmons had hired a hooker of about the right size and shape to walk around with him for the benefit of the surveillance cameras on the street. Upon review of their footage the authorities would see a large bearded man in fatigues and a pretty young woman in dark glasses, apparently scoping out the area before their crimes.

Now on his path west he’d arrived in the windy city of Chicago.

This day’s activity was more elaborate and had required a good deal of advance work and participation from other friendly local factions. Despite all the details, getting away with murder here should be a cakewalk compared to the previous day’s work. A full-scale riot would make it so much easier to get lost and disappear toward the next assignment.

A protest march was scheduled for that morning. This was no small mob; it was part of a well-funded, centrally coordinated “grassroots” citizen uprising that was coincidentally popping up in many places nationwide. As times got worse their crowds had gotten bigger and bigger and the liberal press was continually showering these mobs with completely unbiased, universally positive coverage.

A lot of these people came out just because they were angry or scared. Many were hired or otherwise lured into involvement by promises of future favors in return. Those few marchers who actually understood why they were there were waving signs and calling for “direct democracy.” What a pack of pinko dumb-asses. As Mr. Pierce might put it, a direct democracy was like asking a group of ten Nazis and two Jews to vote on their plans for Passover.

Well, if that’s what they wanted, by God that’s what they’d get.

The best thing that he’d learned from Warren Landers so far is that you don’t have to aim at your foes to do them harm. Instead, if you shoot at the people you support while loudly endorsing your enemies, you can kill two birds with one stone. To make the heroes and villains real in the eyes of the public, sometimes you have to hurt the ones you love.

The protest organizers had published their route so that interested followers and new recruits could more easily join them. The police had also announced their crowd-control plans with lines of blue barricades put in place at vulnerable sites the night before. These sites included a financial landmark where a major confrontation was supposedly anticipated. And so Olin Simmons had known exactly where he needed to be.