“So? Does this get me a transfer?”
Art knew there would be at least local interest in this. The linking of Barrish to Saint Anthony’s would be of interest to the LAPD, and to the DA. The state had never brought charges against Barrish because of a lack of evidence. With Hart’s cooperation they would now have the evidence. Beyond that, it was still just a theory…not the proof Art Jefferson needed to tie Barrish to what was going on back east. But, for him, it was explanation enough.
“Well, Agent Jefferson? How about it?”
“You’ll cooperate and testify?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll need a stenographer to take an affidavit from you.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Hart said. His mouth formed into something close to a smile. “Protection?”
“If you’re not lying,” Art warned.
“I’m not.”
Art looked down upon the blackened form of Chester Hart, the man who’d just given him more than one piece of the puzzle. Freddy had dreamed it up. Monte supplied the nightmare. And John Barrish would make it all come true. That was only his take on it but he felt he had a good grasp on the why now. Only the when, where, and what remained.
TWENTY SIX
Indications
Darian and Moises returned to their apartment from meeting the head white boy. Mustafa and Roger were waiting for them as planned.
“Is that it?” Roger asked, eyeing the long, towel-wrapped object under Moises’ arm.
“Yep.” Moises went to the bed, laid the package down, and unwrapped it.
“It don’t look real,” Roger commented.
“It’s not supposed to,” Darian said. He went to the small refrigerator and took a Pepsi.
Roger picked the leg up, testing its weight. “Not too heavy.” He held it out to Mustafa, who shook his head at the offer.
“Leave it on the bed,” Darian instructed. “The timer’s already going.”
“Shiiiit,” Roger swore softly, laying the limb back on the bed.
Darian pulled one of the cheap kitchen chairs into the living room/bedroom and sat. “Forget that for a minute and listen up. We’ve gotta talk about the schedule.” He looked to Mustafa. “Did you get a new place for Wednesday?”
“We can move in that morning,” Mustafa answered.
“Where?”
“Arlington. Just a few miles from Vorhees’s house. You checked it out?”
Darian nodded. “You’ll have no trouble.”
“We’re gonna do it tomorrow, right?” Mustafa asked.
“Right,” Darian confirmed. “He’ll be at a state dinner until at least midnight.”
“Is that from the cracker?” Mustafa inquired.
“Cracker ain’t been wrong so far,” Darian reminded his comrade. It prevented any further question as to the information’s validity. “You’ll be in the clear. Cheap alarm, no dog. In, out, no fuss, no muss. Brother Moises and I will do the rest Thursday.”
“What about Friday?” Roger asked.
“Friday is the big night,” Darian said, showing teeth without truly smiling. “We do it together that night.”
“Where?” Mustafa inquired.
“Get this — about a half-mile from Vorhees’s place,” Darian answered. It could have been in Tucson, for all he cared. Location was not his concern. But the lay of the land was. “We’re going to need maps to figure the approach.”
“There’s gonna be feds there,” Roger said with wide eyes.
Darian stared down at his comrade, who sat cross-legged on the floor. “Brother Mustafa has something to deal with them.” The NALF leader saw his number two give a slight nod. “And if there’s a fight, we fight. But we will take out the target.”
The target was the secretary of state. The man who would take the reins of power when everyone in the House chamber bit the dust. After that…pure anarchy. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to imagine what would happen next, Darian knew. Just like in the tribal conflicts that plagued African and certain European nations, factions would develop. With no legally recognized head of state, and with the black man taking the opportunity to rise up, there’d be governors, and mayors, and all kinds of folks trying to seize power. Lines would be drawn. Us against them, them against us. Him against her. State against state. City against city. The military would have no commander in chief. What would they do? Try and seize power, too? It didn’t matter. Darian had to give credit to the white boys who had put this scheme into play. It was near perfect. Take away the people who wielded the power, and the people would grab what of it they could. Beautiful. It was absolutely beautiful.
“You want us to get the maps?” Mustafa asked.
“No. Brother Moises and I will take care of it. You two have a job to do.”
Mustafa nodded, then looked to the quiet young fighter seated on the bed. “You ain’t said much, Brother Moises.”
“I’ll do my talking Friday,” Moises said. After that he didn’t give a damn what happened. If he was alive he’d fight for the sake of fighting. Tanya wasn’t even the reason anymore. Moises had thought his family was as good as dead because of her murder, but now he realized that he was the one who’d stopped living. Reason didn’t matter now at all. He was on autopilot, and the only instruction his psyche recognized was kill. Kill every white face you see.
After Friday, that would be enough.
The sixth floor rooms, connected by a door, were comfortable, but far from lavish. Darren entered first, with suitcases in each hand. He laid these on the queen-size bed and walked to the window as Felicia and Anne followed him in. He was stiff, but not tired. His body was still convinced it was seven, not ten.
“This is nice,” Anne commented. She checked the connecting door. It was unlocked, and for a moment she disappeared through it to her room to unload the two pieces of luggage she had brought.
Felicia walked up behind her husband and slid her arms around his waist. She felt the rumble of his stomach on her palms. “You should have eaten something on the plane.”
“I wasn’t hungry.”
She knew it wasn’t a case of appetite. Her chin rested on Darren’s shoulder as she looked out the window with him. Across the street the D.C. Courthouse was lit against the wintry night. Snow flurries had dusted the city all day, but nothing had stuck.
Darren was looking beyond the courthouse, though. Far beyond. “He’s out there, sweetheart.”
Felicia hugged her husband tighter. “I know.”
“Maybe he’s old enough to think for himself, but…” Darren’s breath clouded the window as he spoke. It cleared as he was momentarily silent. “I hate being this close and not being able to do anything.”
“What would you do if you could?”
“Find him,” Darren said, his hands coming up to caress Felicia’s on his stomach. “Just find him.”
Felicia would do the same…if she could. But she couldn’t. Their son had taken a road neither of them was familiar with. They could only hope that, at some point, it would lead him home.
Darren looked away from the nighttime D.C. skyline and kissed the side of his wife’s face. “I need to walk or something, sweetheart.” He felt Felicia’s chin move on his shoulder as she nodded. “Five hours on the plane…”
“I understand. There’s a restaurant downstairs. Why don’t you get a piece of pie.” She pinched his waist and giggled. “You’ve got a half-inch to spare.”