Jackery stood in the doorway to the bathroom. He’d been expecting to do without luxury this trip, but he hadn’t imagined he’d face anything so primitive. The tiles were old and cracked. The grout between them was darkened by only God knew what. Just looking at it, he could feel germs crawling up his skin. He would definitely be razing this place to the ground. And then soaking the Earth with barrels of industrial bleach.
He forced himself to walk to the sink and brush his teeth. But he absolutely would not be showering here in the morning. He could go without a shower for a day or two. Then he could get the helicopter back to take him to his own home for a decent shower. Would that be too elitist of him? Fuck it. A man had to have standards.
With that resolved, he finished brushing, rinsing his mouth with bottled water. He walked back to the bed, pulling down the covers. The sheets were clean but scratchy. He was sorely tempted to get Marcy to have some Egyptian cotton ones delivered by helicopter, but he decided that might not be the best look. He could suffer through one night and then figure something out in the morning.
He’d grown up sleeping on sheets like this—when he’d even had a bed. Some months his mother couldn’t get it together to pay the rent, and they would sleep in the bushes or under an overpass. He’d promised himself that someday he’d have money, and he’d kept that promise. The first thing he’d done was buy himself a sprawling estate. And the second was to buy his mother a condo. It was far nicer than any place they’d lived growing up, but was she grateful? Of course not. The bitch had tried to guilt him into moving her onto his estate. Or failing that, to buy her one of her own. But she was wasting her breath. He was immune to guilt. The years of poverty and chaos had scrubbed it right out of him.
Enough of those memories. He needed to put his mind to the conversation he’d soon be having with the half dozen “commanders” of the men he’d invited here. He could hear them through the closed window, arriving one by one, each in a vehicle louder than the one before. The engine roars and over-amped death metal combined to make a cacophony of clashing egos he found truly pathetic.
He checked himself in the mirror, took a deep breath, and stepped out into the parking lot. He took a couple of steps and stopped, holding himself absolutely still. His two bodyguards materialized from nowhere, silently flanking him.
At first, no one noticed Jackery’s presence. They were too busy putting on a show for each other. Finally, however, one spotted him, and then another and another, until they were all looking his way. As each one turned their attention to him, he was careful to meet none of their eyes. Instead, he stood erect and self-possessed, as if waiting patiently for someone or something.
The men stared at him, confused at first—until one of them reached into the cab of his monster truck and silenced it. The others quickly followed suit. In short order, the former cacophony was replaced by an eerie silence.
Jackery gave a small smile and let his eyes sweep across the semicircle of men arrayed before him. They were a scruffy bunch and cocky at the same time, each preening as his eyes fell on theirs. He gave each in turn a small nod of respect and watched as their chests swelled in response. It rubbed him wrong to treat these men as equals, but the truth was he needed what they could provide.
“Good morning,” he said. “In case you don’t recognize me, I’m Peter Jackery. You’re all here in response to the call I put out. A call for patriots and men of honor, ready to fight for freedom against the tyranny of the woke mob.”
With each word, he could see their chests puff just a little more. Once he had them at maximum inflation, he shifted to the matter at hand.
“Have you made any progress toward finding the man called Barb?”
At the question, the men looked back and forth between each other.
“What is it?” said Jackery.
“We’ve been on standby,” said one.
“Ready to begin the search on your order,” added another.
Jesus.
He’d specifically told each of these tinpot tyrants that their purpose in coming here was to smoke out Barb. Yes, he hadn’t given them specific orders to begin a search, but he’d assumed they were capable of putting two and two together.
Apparently not.
“How sure are you this fucker is even here?” said one of the men.
“He’s here. And he’s a threat to everything we hold dear. He must be found at all costs. That is the order of the day.”
“Exactly how hard are we allowed to go at this?” said another, glancing in the direction of the sheriff.
“Whatever it takes. Don’t worry about the legal niceties. This is our town. We make the law here.”
The sheriff squirmed at these words, looking physically ill. Too Goddamn bad. He was the one who’d let Barb sneak in under his nose and then proven himself too feckless to do anything about it. He had no one to blame for the fact that stronger measures were now required.
“Have you thought about offering a reward?” suggested one of the men who’d been silent before. “For any citizen who provides information on his whereabouts. Supply a carrot while we supply the stick.”
“Good idea,” said Jackery. “$10,000 might just loosen some lips. And to keep things fair, I’ll offer the same to whichever one of you captures him and brings him to me.”
He waited for this announcement to be greeted with enthusiasm, but the men merely stared at him through half-lidded eyes.
“What’s the matter?” he said.
They looked back and forth between themselves before one of them summoned the courage to answer.
“Ten grand ain’t shit these days. With inflation and all.”
Jesus. Here they were, looking like ragged street bums and turning up their noses at $10,000.
‘Would $20,000 be more in line?” he said.
Again, they looked between themselves before answering.
“Can you go fifty? That’s barely half a Hummer.”
Jackery swallowed his disgust at having to haggle with these low-lifes.
“$50,000 it is,” he said, forcing a smile to his face. “Now, go find me that bastard.”
#
Jackery was lying in bed, just about to turn off the light, when his phone rang. He picked it up off the nightstand. He was surprised to see it was the sheriff.
“David?” he said. “Is everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine, Peter,” said the sheriff. “But I have something you’ll want to hear.”
“What’s that?”
“There was a call placed earlier today. The deputy on duty flagged it for me.”
“Summarize it for me.”
“You’ll want to hear this for yourself,” said the sheriff.
Jackery rolled his eyes. Jesus, but the man could be tedious. The next sound he heard was a ring tone, followed by a click and a woman’s voice.
“FBI. How may I direct your call?”
“Uh, sorry. Wrong number,” said a man’s voice.
As Jackery was trying to digest what he’d heard, the sheriff came back on the line.
“So, what do you think about that?” he said.
“That call came from here in Dixon?” said Jackery.
“At roughly 5:00.”
“Could it be what it sounded like? A wrong number?”
“No one calls the FBI by mistake.”
“Then what do you make of it?”
“It’s obviously a coded message. From an undercover agent reporting in.”
“That’s something of a leap.”
“Not really, Peter.” The man’s use of his first name was beginning to really grate on Jackery. “It’s widely known that these militia outfits are riddled with undercovers and informants. The Feds are all over them.”
“Still, David.” Jackery made sure to emphasize his use of the man’s name. “This is just the kind of thing that could inflame an already volatile situation. These guys are plenty paranoid as it is. All it would take is the rumor of an informant to set them at each other. In fact, now I think of it, the timing of this is awfully suspicious. It has all the hallmarks of disinformation.”
“This ‘Barb’ fellow you keep talking about? The one no one’s seen but who keeps popping up to screw with you?”
Jackery did not like the sheriff’s tone at all.
“He’s real, David. And he’s here. Stop speculating about imaginary informants and get with the program. We need to find him before he does any more damage. Consider that your top—no, your only—priority.”
Jackery ended the call before the man could say another disrespectful word. He was used to being the smartest person in the room, but this was ridiculous. He felt like the only one in the entire county who wasn’t a total fucking idiot. Except of course for Barb. The man was smart enough to be fighting a classic insurgent campaign, negating the advantages of Jackery’s superior resources by remaining out of sight and striking surgically.
Barb was clever, but he’d also been lucky, and the thing about luck was that, eventually, it ran out. Let’s see how Barb’s luck held up against a well-motivated force of some of the cruelest and most ruthless men in America.
If Jackery had been capable of pity, he might almost have felt it for Barb.
#
Barb lay awake in the bed of the RV. The slant from the two shot-out tires meant gravity pressed Julian’s sleeping body against her. On the other, downslope side, Marmalade lay snug against her ribs. She felt half cozy and half trapped. She was still awake even though it was long past midnight. Her mind was occupied visualizing Jackery’s possible next moves and devising countermoves. She tried to tell herself it was a pointless endeavor. There were too many unknowns, but her brain refused to stand down and let her sleep.
Figuring it was no use, she pulled back the covers and slipped out of bed, climbing over Marmalade, who glared at her. She slipped on a robe and walked to the front area of the RV. She had to use her hand against the walls to walk upright on the slanting floor. She briefly considered provoking Snake to shoot out the remaining tires to level out the RV, but decided it would be pushing her luck.
Sitting on the sofa, she used her phone to text one of the members of the Shit Club, a noted night owl guaranteed to still be up. She didn’t know if the sheriff’s surveillance technology included the ability to read texts, so she worded her message carefully to draw on a mutually understood reference.
Remember that game app we used to play?
It was an in-joke among the Shit Club members. When they spoke to each other through the encrypted VoIP app, they ironically called it “gaming” because the effect on their careers if the content of their conversations got out would be so serious.
Barb opened the app in her phone. Almost as soon as she did, it rang. She answered it to find her fellow Shit Club member on the line.
“How are you doing?” said the other woman. “The word is you’re taking on the Jackass.”
“Just giving him some pushback on his latest scheme for world domination.”
“I’d tell you to be careful, but when have you ever done that?”
“What I need is information on him. The more personal, the better. I understand his latest assistant is too loyal to be a resource, but I’m hoping there’s someone else in the know who’d be willing to talk to me.”
“He keeps his inner circle tight,” said the other woman. “He goes so far as to buy his companionship from a series of paid escorts. They don’t last long—except for this latest one, a pretty little Chinese American girl. She was on his arm at a benefit last week, and he actually seemed to be smitten with her.”
“Is there any chance the feeling’s mutual?”
The other woman laughed. “She’s a paid escort. It’s her job to make the john feel special, so he’ll keep paying for her services.”
“Any idea how I can get ahold of her?”
“Let me ask around. If I can find her, I’ll get her to load the game app and send you a message.”
“Thank you,” said Barb. “That’s going above and beyond.”
“I’ve had some dealings with the Jackass. If I can help you bring him down, I’ll feel like I’ve done my part to make the world a better place.”
#
Barb went back to bed. She had to shift Marmalade and elbow Julian to make room for her, but soon she was snugly nestled between them. With man snores on one side of her and cat snores on the other, she felt herself finally ready for sleep.
She felt confident she’d be able to flesh out her embryonic plan, but she wouldn’t lie to herself. For the innocent people of Dixon, things were likely to get worse before she could make them better.