Page 5 of In The Darkness

Railing against people making money seemed a ridiculous thing to organize around, but as he continued to read about how they’d staged protests outside major news corporation buildings in New York and Los Angeles, he had to grudgingly admit they seemed sincere in their intentions.

But now that sincerity had taken a wrong turn into fanatical with the kidnapping of Persephone Gilmore. Marching in front of office buildings with picket signs was one thing. Taking the daughter of the most powerful media magnate in the country was an entirely different thing.

Zeroing in on the images of the people in the militia, he saw one common thread. All white guys. Angry white guys hating the world for what it had done to them.

He’d fit right in.

***

After getting atip from an old friend who worked in counterterrorism in the D.C. Metropolitan Police that some of the militia’s supporters liked to hang out at a dive bar called Trusser’s in Manassas, Nick headed down there dressed in his oldest jeans, a faded black t-shirt, and shit kicker work boots he found in the back of his closet. He hadn’t worn them since one of the first jobs he did after leaving the FBI when he had to go undercover as a gardener to find out who was stalking his client. They still felt like fifty pound weights every time he lifted his feet to walk, just as they had years ago on that case, and they made his gait look way cockier than usual as he made his way to the end of the bar.

The bartender with a ratty beard and pot belly walked over to stand in front of him and gave Nick a look like he felt put out having to wait on him. “What do you want to drink?”

He glanced down the bar at the taps and answered, “Give me a Grant’s Tomb.”

Not a beer drinker, he nonetheless liked the name of the beer he saw on the tap. It reminded him of that old joke about who was buried in Grant’s tomb.

A few seconds later, the man set a glass of amber colored liquid down in front of him and walked away. Nick took a drink, instantly decided it was the worst thing he’d ever had in his mouth, and looked around the bar to see if any of the militia’s supporters were there.

It didn’t take him long to find them. In the area behind him, two men stood shooting a game of pool and talking about the group’s goals and how they hoped they’d finally show the world how bad it had become because of the people in power and their love of money.

Nick turned around on the barstool and saw the two of them as they finished their game. Both looked like they’d come straight from a neo-Nazi meeting. Hair buzzed close to their heads, dressed in all black with black boots, they had a paramilitary look to them that he’d seen in pictures of the National Equality Militia online.

Sliding off the barstool, he took a breath and put himself into his role. Angry white guy ready to rage at the world. As he walked toward them, he said to himself, “Now to find out where these motherfuckers are and find Persephone.”

Before he reached them, one of them tossed his pool cue onto the table in disgust and said, “We need to find more people like us, man. The movement can’t die. We just can’t let those fucks win.”

That’s all he needed to hear. A few well-chosen words would be all it would take with these two. Not exactly great thinkers, they wouldn’t even stop to wonder who he was or why he wanted to join their group.

“You guys want to shoot a game?” Nick asked as he picked up the pool stick.

The two men looked at one another and then back at him. “Yeah, sure. You look like someone we can hang with.”

As the shorter one racked the balls, he looked across the pool table and said, “What’s your name? You from around here?”

“Nick and I’m from Warrenton.”

“Oh yeah?” the other one said, suddenly far more interested in him than he was before.

With a smile, Nick said, “Yeah. I guess you can say we’re best known for being the birthplace of no less than ten Confederate generals. Rebels through and through.”

The man at the other end of the table took his first shot and made a shitty break with only four balls trickling out of the triangle. If he’d been there to hustle pool, these two would be perfect marks. As it was, Nick didn’t give a damn about the game. He had bigger goals than taking a few bucks off these two assholes, so he kept their focus on the idea of rebellion instead of how bad the guy’s break had been.

“I heard what you guys were talking about while I was walking over. You’re damn right about not letting those motherfuckers win. They’re turning this world into shit for guys like us. Someone needs to stop them before it gets to the point that we can’t anymore.”

“Damn fucking straight!” the man who wasn’t playing said as he lifted his fist in the air. “Guys like us have to fight back or they’re going to make slaves out of us.”

Nick took his shot, intentionally only making one ball into a pocket instead of the two he could have, and nodded. “Fucking right. It’s time to rise the fuck up, man.”

He knew exactly what to say and how to say it. The eager way both of them agreed with him told Nick it wouldn’t take more than a single game of pool before he was in their club of angry white guys who wanted to change the world so only they benefited.

“Talk is cheap, man,” his pool partner said as he took another shitty shot and sent a ball careening off the side of the table into a group of his balls but getting nothing in any pocket. “What guys like us need to do is act. You ready to act or are you all talk and no action, man?”

Eyeing up his next shot, Nick smiled. “The time for talking is over.”

As the cue ball raced across the table into one of his balls, sending it into the corner pocket, the guy watching moved over to pat him on the back. “Then let’s get going. We have some people you should meet.”

Nick tossed the pool stick on the table and nodded. “Hell yeah. Let’s start changing this fucking world.”

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