Radclyffe: Price of Honor

“Sounds like you’ve been pretty busy up there,” Hooker said.

The ruddy-faced middle-aged man, his salt-and-pepper hair cut close, his heavy straining belly showing his fondness for brew, grunted again. “Fucking waste of time.”

“Puts you boys in a tight spot. I don’t imagine anybody’s too eager to start arresting their neighbors.”

“No point to it,” the deputy said. “No way to prove who was up there that night, no way to prove they were even doing anything illegal, unless you can tie those illegal guns directly to them. Which we can’t.”

“I heard the bikers were the gun connection.”

“Looks like it, and that’s their style.”

“What about the Renegades? Are you picking up any of them?” Hooker sipped the beer the bartender put in front of him. It was a little too early in the day, but he made a show of it.

“The ones who could ride away, did. That left us with the dead and a dozen wounded. The ones in the hospital swear they don’t know anything about any guns and were innocent bystanders.”

“What happened to the guns?”

“They’re locked up in evidence. The ATF will try to track them, but they won’t get anywhere.”

“So the whole thing is pretty much going to die down.”

“The feds are pretty interested in finding out who was backing the buy, but since there’s no money to trace and no one’s talking, things will probably end up dead-ended.”

“Huh,” Hooker said. Someone had the money, someone who’d been in the compound that night. His boss wasn’t happy about losing their donors’ money, although they’d known the risks when they’d manipulated the bikers and the militia into believing each was double-crossing the other. All the same, losing a quarter of a million dollars wasn’t something to write off easily. “Maybe the militia was fronting the buy and one of them made off with it.”

“Most likely.” The deputy drained his beer and Hooker signaled for the bartender to fill him up. “Wherever it went, it’s gone, and I don’t think anyone’s gonna be looking too hard.”

“How’d the feds get pulled into it so quick?”

“Some big shot from back east poking around is what I heard.” The deputy scoffed. “Like they don’t have real enemies to be going after, they have to come looking at Americans.”

“They sure managed to find the place quick.”

“Probably the firefight between the bikers and the militia brought down the heat.”

Hooker wasn’t so sure. He’d never been to the compound, but he knew how well hidden it was. Graves always arranged a meet somewhere on neutral ground, and he couldn’t see Graves letting the bikers anywhere near the place. But the Renegades had shown up in force, and the feds had found the location in record time too. To him, that spelled inside information. But then, maybe someone in the militia got cold feet and tipped off the feds. Every group had its traitors. At least nothing was coming back on the senator, and that meant his job was secure for the time being.

“Yeah, you’re probably right—bunch of hotheads on both sides. Waste of time.” He left a ten on the bar, slapped the deputy on the back, and waved to the bartender on his way out. He was halfway across the street to his truck when his cell phone rang. He waited until he was inside the cab to grab it.

“Yeah?” he said, turning on the engine to get some heat going.

“I still have the money,” a woman said. “Unfortunately, I don’t have any guns.”

Hooker straightened, trying to place the voice. Youngish, maybe the slightest bit of a Midwest accent. “I understand things didn’t go well at the exchange.”

“Is that what you call murder?”

“Sorry. I know you took some losses.”

“That’s done now,” she said with a chilling absence of emotion. “I still have business to finish.”

“What, you still want to try for guns?”

“There’s no point to that, not without the soldiers to use them.”

“What exactly are you talking about then?”

“You didn’t give us the money because you support our cause. People like you want something. I want to know what General Graves promised in exchange for the money.”

“I’m just a middleman.”

“Then I suggest you find out from the man on top. If you can’t, I’ll take the money somewhere else to someone who can help me.”

“Wait a minute—”

He swore as the line went dead. The senator was not going to be happy.

*

Blair nodded to the uniformed officer at the south gate of the White House, crossed to the mansion, and called Lucinda Washburn, her father’s chief of staff. Lucinda guarded her father’s time with an iron fist, and even Blair had to check with her before getting in to see him. She understood. Besides, Luce never kept her waiting unless he was really, truly busy.

“Hi, Luce. Is he free?”

“For about two hours. Have you had lunch?”

“Uh—no.”

“Neither has he. I’ll have something sent over. He’s in the library.”

“Thanks.”

“Make sure you eat.”

Blair laughed. “Roger that.”

Lucinda disconnected and Blair walked to the library, nodding to the agent and military aide outside the closed door. She knocked and entered. Her father sat in a red-cushioned, wing-backed chair in front of the fireplace, reading a thick file. His shoes were parked beside the chair, his sock-clad feet up on a hassock.

“Hi, Dad.”

“Hi, honey.” He smiled when she settled in the matching chair across from him.

“Playing hooky?” she asked.

“Hiding,” he said, removing his reading glasses and setting them and the file on an antique table next to him. “How’s Cam?”

“Healing. Stubborn. On her way to the countdown.”

Andrew Powell, in his early fifties and looking a decade younger, his hair still golden brown, his blue eyes sharp and clear, laughed. “Back to her old self, then.”

“Almost. I tried to get her to stay home.”

Andrew nodded. “I suppose you had about as much success as she did in getting you to stay behind.”

Blair smiled wryly. “That would be a good bet.”

“The trip should be relatively straightforward and not too strenuous.”

Blair laughed. “Dad. Have you forgotten what the campaign trail is like? If we even manage to stay on schedule it’ll be a miracle, and you know Adam is going to end up adding extra venues all along the way.”

“Still, Cam shouldn’t have to do too much.”

“You’re probably right.” Blair set her concerns aside. Her father did not need to worry about Cam. That was her job. “Some of the opposition has been making noise ahead of your arrival that you’re making the trip due to slipping approval ratings. Do you want to address that out in Chicago?”

“Familiar song.” Andrew snorted. “I think we should stick to our original plan to press our platform and not engage. Responding only gives credibility to their arguments. They’re going to be fighting like dogs over a bone for the next few months until a clear contender emerges. Until then, addressing their issues and arguments is fruitless.”

“I’m surprised Russo hasn’t made a statement yet,” Blair said. “He’s clearly the man the press is pointing toward as the next candidate.”

“He’s still pretty far right, but he’s got momentum, no doubt,” Andrew said. “We’ve got people watching. I hope he does come out on top. He’ll have a hard time winning over the center.”

“You know we’re going to take some heat over the wedding in a few places out there,” Blair said.

Andrew shrugged. “Gay rights is always an issue. We’ve dealt with that before.”

“But not like this. Come on, Dad. Don’t pretend I haven’t put you on the spot.”