Jackery followed the progress of the militias through reports from the sheriff and his men, but he quickly became dissatisfied with getting his information secondhand. It was time for him to go on scene and stop relying on the hick cops to be his eyes and ears. That had always been a part of his plan—but not until he had the Sanchez property as his base of operations. With that option currently on hold, he’d need to arrange alternate lodging. Surely there was a motel in the town. He’d rent a couple of rooms—one for sleeping and one for work. Plus one for Marcy. Having her at hand would be invaluable. He felt a twinge of regret at the thought of leaving Roberto and his other personal staff behind. He couldn’t very well show up with them in train—not least because they were Hispanic. But the simple truth was that white people made shitty servants—yet another fact you couldn’t say out loud in the PC hell of California.
The other person he couldn’t bring was Mae Lin. The militia types had recently added anti-Chinese prejudice to their smorgasbord of bigotry. This wasn’t as irrational as some of their other hatreds. China was the only world power capable of challenging the United States, and any sane foreign policy would focus on crushing them. Instead, we’d made them rich by buying their cheap crap and letting them steal our intellectual property. But, man, you couldn’t deny the appeal of their women. There was something about that thick black hair and cultural submissiveness that made a man feel like a king. So he couldn’t bring Mae Lin to Dixon. No problem. That’s what his jet was for. In less than an hour, he could be back on his own estate and ready for a night of fun.
He got out his phone and called Marcy and told her his plans.
“I want to be in the air by later this afternoon,” he said. “That should give you time to make arrangements.”
“Should I arrange personal protection for you?” she said.
“Bodyguards?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That wouldn’t be the worst idea. Just make sure they’re white.”
“Yes, sir.”
He ended the call and walked from his office to his bedroom. He opened his closet door, stepping inside to select his wardrobe. He considered the impression he wanted to convey when he was on the ground in Dixon. It wasn’t a matter of vanity. He needed to command the authority of a collection of people who constitutionally resisted authority. They could build you up if they believed in what you were offering them, but they could just as easily turn on you. He needed to project authority without coming across as elitist. No power suits or designer slacks.
He settled for tailored jeans and dress shirts with the cuffs rolled up. He also threw in some flannel shirts. They were hand-sewn, but he doubted anyone in Dixon would recognize that. They’d respond unconsciously to the quality fabric and perfect fit—little touches that conveyed his superiority without rubbing their faces in it.
#
“Fuck!” The sheriff slammed down the phone.
“What’s up, boss?” said Susan.
“Jackery’s on his way here. It’s not bad enough he’s flooded the county with those militia nuts. Now I’ve got to babysit his ass.”
Not for the first time, the sheriff felt regret he’d ever gotten into bed with the smooth-talking Jackery. The man had come across as so smart and rational. He’d seemed like a godsend at the time. The sheriff was licking his wounds after a bruising reelection campaign. His trademark law-and-order message had become an overnight liability when the county paid out two high-profile settlements for abuse of force. He’d wanted to fight, but the supervisors were a bunch of pussies afraid of the new liberal judge appointed to the district.
What the fuck was happening to this country?
Jackery had appeared out of nowhere, riding in like a savior on a white horse. Not only had he agreed to bankroll the sheriff’s future campaigns, he’d also set up and fully funded a foundation to pay for the latest in high-tech gear. And he’d suggested the sheriff take a commission on all purchases made through the foundation. What had sealed the deal was the way he’d talked like a spiritual brother, sharing the same values—and having the power to put them into action.
It had seemed like a dream—at first.
No one would cry over the Mexicans losing their farm, but the other farmers were the sheriff’s friends and neighbors. Taking their properties went against the grain. That’s when Jackery brought out the stick. He produced a recording of their entire conversation. The sheriff’s balls had shrunk up inside his body at the sound of his own voice gleefully accepting the bribe.
“I have a team of pit-bull lawyers,” Jackery had said. “Not to mention a private jet to take me to an island with no U.S. extradition treaty. I can put this tape in the hands of federal prosecutors and never see the inside of a prison cell. Can you say the same?”
That was only the beginning of the nightmare. Every day seemed to bring another indignity, another horror. Jackery was like one of those giant snakes who swallowed a live deer—with the animal’s pitiful death throes visible through the snake’s skin. The sheriff’s world had grown as dark and constricted as that deer’s. His only shred of hope was to somehow survive his passage through the snake—to be shat out the other end, battered and weakened but still breathing.
Until that day, he was utterly at the man’s mercy.
#
The trip was uneventful. Jackery’s Bombardier Global 7000 was custom fitted with hand-tooled leather upholstery, teak paneling, and Persian carpets. It could hold nineteen which meant that, even with Marcy along, Jackery had plenty of room to himself. In flying, as in many areas, the ultimate luxuries were privacy and space, and Jackery was happy to splurge on both. That didn’t mean doing without help, of course. There were two attendants whose job was to cater to him and stay out of sight otherwise. Finally, there was a chef whose job was to be on standby to cook any of Jackery’s favorite dishes.
This trip also included two fresh faces: the bodyguards Marcy had arranged for him. These men were not the muscle-bound bruisers he’d been expecting. They were hard and lean, with eyes that never stopped moving. But the most surprising thing was that they looked exactly alike. In fact, he decided they must be identical twin brothers.
Neither Dixon nor the county that shared its name held an airport capable of accommodating Jackery’s jet, so they landed at the nearest airport that could. Marcy had arranged the rental of a helicopter large enough to ferry them the rest of the way. As they moved from jet to helicopter, the bodyguards moved in silent coordination, surrounding Jackery in a virtual web of protection. Their presence gave him an unexpected sense of comfort. Once again, Marcy had proved her worth. If she kept this up, he’d have to give her a raise. For now, he’d continue to take advantage of her youth and inexperience, and consider it a bargain.
When they reached the edge of town, Jackery looked down on the site of his future fiefdom. It didn’t look like much. He’d probably want to raze it to the ground and start over, rebuilding the infrastructure to meet the whims and desires of men like himself.
The pilot located the one large parking lot in town. It happened to be between the town’s lone grocery store and the sheriff’s department, which suited Jackery just fine. As they set down, the sheriff himself came out the side door of the station to meet them, accompanied by two deputies. Jackery waited for the blades to stop turning completely. That left the sheriff to cool his heels in front of his deputies, waiting on Jackery like the lackey he was.
When Jackery finally did get out, the sheriff stepped forward, extending his hand. The bodyguards quickly moved to intercept him before he could reach Jackery.
“It’s okay,” said Jackery. “I know him.”
The bodyguards stepped aside, their eyes constantly in motion, scanning the surroundings for any sign of a threat.
“Peter,” said the sheriff. “Welcome to Dixon.”
“David,” he said. “How goes the grand plan?”
“We’ve been holding down the fort. But I have to say these outsiders you’ve brought in are really complicating things.”
“Consider them a part of your force—a volunteer auxiliary if you will. They’re here to conduct the manhunt. And to assist you in keeping the populace under control—in case any of the locals were feeling emboldened by your recent failure to carry out the auction as planned.”
Jackery watched the man’s jaw tighten as if he were biting back a response. Good. That meant the man understood the precarious nature of his own position. The sheriff’s eyes went to the bodyguards flanking Jackery. Again, his face gave away his feelings. He was definitely unhappy to see them. But what could he do?
“You can give me and my security detail a ride to the motel,” he said. “And one of your deputies can help my assistant load my luggage and bring it to the room.”
For a second he wondered if he’d pushed the man too far. But in the end, the sheriff grimaced, covered it with a transparently phony smile, and gave a brief nod.
“Of course,” he said. “We’ll be glad to.”
#
Connie Hedberg looked over the room nervously. Things were beyond desperate at the lodge, and she and Rick were one step ahead of bankruptcy.
It hadn’t helped things when a tattoo-covered asshole had parked his pickup camper in front of the office and told them he was assigned to oversee their business. He’d insisted on being shown each room and even their private living quarters. And he’d grilled them about a man called “Barb,” of all things! He’d practically accused them of hiding the man. What guest would want to stay at their lodge with such an unpleasant person to walk past?
Just when Connie was ready to throw in the towel, a call had come in that just might give the lodge a new lease on life. When the woman on the line had introduced herself as an executive assistant, dollar signs flashed in Connie’s eyes, and she’d quoted her their absolute highest, hunting season, full house rate. She held her breath, waiting to be talked down, but the girl hadn’t seemed fazed at all. Five rooms at that rate for weeks on end would go a long way toward righting their financial situation.
Smoothing the bedspread, she couldn’t help fretting about the rustic condition of the room. This was primarily a hunting lodge, and hunters expected rustic. But their new guest was some kind of millionaire. Would he be satisfied with the wood paneling and the braided rag rug? Or would he take one look and turn right around? It was too late to do anything about it, but still she fretted.
She’d driven personally to the grocery store and had a fruit basket made up for the room—along with some fancy chocolates and a bow on top. She’d thought about buying a bottle of Champagne but decided against it. The man wasn’t on his honeymoon or anything. Now, she was second-guessing herself. If he had something to drink, maybe he wouldn’t notice the threadbare seat on the side chair or the hunting prints bolted to the wall to keep drunken hunters from pulling them down.
There was nothing she could do about any of it now but pray.
#
When the sheriff pulled up in front of the motel, Jackery thought he must have the wrong address. Rather than the Best Western clone he’d been expecting, he saw half a dozen sad-looking cabins in a horseshoe around a potholed parking lot. The roofs sagged, and the whitewashed walls had weathered to a dingy gray. It looked like a collection of rest-stop outhouses.
“Here we are,” said the sheriff. “The Dixon Lodge.”
The bodyguard brothers stepped out first. They immediately went to the bright red pickup with the Confederate flag decals. Standing in front of it was a bearded man with a substantial gut hanging over the gun belt encircling his hips. He stiffened at their approach, like a dog in the company of wolves. His hand went to the pistol at his side as if he were preparing to draw down.
Jackery made a quick judgment call and stepped forward before things could get out of hand.
“Hello, friend,” he said to the bearded man.
The bodyguards, not happy to see him anywhere near this potential threat, stepped to his side, glaring daggers at the man who did his best to return their hard stares.
“Hello,” said the man, turning his attention to Jackery.
“Thank you for your service. My men and I can take it from here.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m Peter Jackery. You and your compatriots are here at my invitation.”
“That may be,” said the man. “But I answer to my commander, and any orders to stand down will have to come from him.”
“That’s no problem. Get him on the phone.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
Not taking his eyes off Jackery and the guards at his side, the man reached into his saggy jeans and pulled out a cell phone. He dialed a quick number and muttered into the phone. After a moment, he extended it. Jackery reached to take it from him, but before he could, one guard stepped forward and intercepted it. He took the phone, gave it a quick once-over and handed it wordlessly to Jackery.
“Hello,” said Jackery into the cell. “With whom am I speaking?”
“This is Commander Bob Drucker of the First Continental Militia.”
“Hello, Commander. This is Peter Jackery.”
“Ah, Mr. Jackery. Thank you again for your invitation and also for your generous contribution to our operating fund.”
“It’s my honor to support patriots such as yourself and your men.”
“Speaking of that, my man on the scene tells me you’ve requested that he abandon his post.”
“Not at all,” said Jackery, making sure to speak loudly enough for the bearded man to hear. “I’m just ready to relieve him. I’m sure you can put such a good man to use somewhere else.”
“Are you sure? We wouldn’t want to leave you unprotected.”
“Not to worry. I brought a couple of my best and most loyal men. They’re completely prepared to lay down their lives for me.”
Jackery glanced out of the corner of his eye at the guard on his right. The man hadn’t flinched at his words. It was a pleasure to work with true professionals.
“If you’re sure.”
“I am.”
“Okay. Hand the phone back to my man, and I’ll have him return to headquarters for further assignment.”
“Very much appreciated, Commander.”
Jackery handed back over the phone. It wasn’t long before the bearded man climbed into his pickup and drove out of the lot, blaring some obnoxious hillbilly music to salve his bruised ego. Jackery rolled his eyes.
By this time, the second sheriff’s cruiser had pulled into the lot. Marcy got out, lugging Jackery’s suitcase. Accompanied by the bodyguards, she and Jackery walked into the cabin labeled “Office.” A mousy, middle-aged woman was waiting behind the counter for them. Jackery stood, not meeting her eyes as Marcy dealt with her, handing over the corporate credit card, arranging for the guards to have the two rooms flanking his, and for her own room to be beside the room serving as their office.
Bored with all these arrangements, Jackery listened with half an ear. He gamed out the rest of his night. Should he demand some time with the sheriff to grill him on what he’d been doing to track down that bastard Barb? Or was that just beating a dead horse? Should he instead call the leaders of the various militia groups and get an update from them? That seemed a more productive use of his time.
He turned to the sheriff, who had come into the office behind him.
“You can go now, David,” he said. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
Again the man’s jaw visibly tightened, and again he said nothing. He merely turned on his heel and walked out, beckoning for his deputy to follow him. Jackery sighed. Humiliating the man was growing tiresome. It was too easy. Riding herd on the militia leaders—now there was a challenge. He put his mind to that and let the rest of the world fade away.
To his surprise, despite the setbacks dealt him by Barb, he found that he was actually enjoying himself. And when he laid his hands on the man…
That would be enjoyable indeed.