Uzi pulled his SUV up to the gate, then rolled down his window. He held open his credentials wallet, the ID and shield facing the paramilitary man. “We need to talk with Nelson Flint.”
“Got yourself a warrant?” The man’s voice was cigarette raspy, thick with a Southern accent.
Uzi frowned. “Do we need one?”
A click followed by a muted voice blurted from the man’s radio transceiver. He pulled the device from a leather harness on his belt and brought it to his face. He listened a few seconds before lowering it and slipping it back onto his belt. “Someone’ll be by to get you.”
Uzi and DeSantos got out of the Tahoe and leaned against the fender, the guard fingering his weapon and staring at them with contempt. DeSantos nudged Uzi’s forearm, then nodded at a small, round, black-and-gray device mounted above the guardhouse. “Surveillance camera,” he said by Uzi’s ear.
Uzi had already taken notice. “I count fourteen. And anticlimb sensors on the fencing, and ground-loop vehicle sensors in the pavement where we’re parked.” The chomp of rubber on gravel snared their attention. Along the curve just beyond a stand of mature pines, an olive green Humvee appeared amid a low-lying dust cloud.
DeSantos played with the Juicy Fruit between his front teeth. “Welcome wagon arrives.”
The SUV pulled to a stop alongside the guard shack, and, on the parasoldier’s signal, the pedestrian gate opened electronically. Uzi followed DeSantos through and they climbed into the Hummer’s backseat beside a man with close-cropped black hair. DeSantos slammed the door, and the driver, also sporting a Marine-regulation hairstyle, accelerated. The escorts remained quiet during the brief drive to the compound’s apparent headquarters, a rectangular two-story Civil War-era brick house with two large Ionic columns that swallowed the entrance.
The vehicle stopped beside the front porch. Uzi and DeSantos were ushered to the side of the structure, where two small wood steps rose to a separate entrance. They entered and moved through the kitchen into the dining room. Clearly used for meetings now, the worn oval table that dominated the space sat covered with neatly stacked file folders, five smartphones, and an equal number of laptops.
Each of the window panes on the far wall had the wavy and bubbled appearance of era-specific glass. Hanging on the eggshell walls were faux Wanted posters sporting the Federal Reserve Chairman’s face, a Nazi flag, and a framed reproduction of the Declaration of Independence.
“The fuck you people want?”
The deep, southern drawl came from the hallway behind them. Uzi spun and saw two men clad in combat fatigues, one fireplug short and squat, the other tall and lanky. As they approached, Uzi extended a hand. “Special Agent Aaron Uziel.” He indicated his partner. “Hector DeSantos.”
The squat man looked Uzi in the eye but did not offer his hand. Instead, he shook his head. “A kike and a spic. The fuck this country’s coming to.”
DeSantos tilted his head, appraising the two men. “You know, Uzi, they kind of remind me of Abbott and Costello.”
The thin one crossed his arms. “Don’t much care for your humor.”
“Sorry if I offended you,” DeSantos said. “We spics aren’t very polite.” He nudged Uzi with an elbow. “Stringbean here is Rodney McCourt. Half-pint’s Nelson Flint, heir to the throne after his father passed on.”
Flint’s chest puffed. “You mean was murdered.”
“Pull a gun on a law enforcement officer, bad shit happens,” DeSantos said.
Flint rooted a cigarette from his pocket, then stuck it between his lips. “Guvament’s been spying on us again, Rodney. Using their fancy satellites to intrude on the average citizen’s right to privacy.”
“That’s right, Mr. Flint,” Uzi said. “We know all about you. And you know a lot about us, too. Like why we’re here.”
“Haven’t the slightest,” Flint said with a straight face.
DeSantos smiled wryly. “I’m sure if you think about it, it’ll come to you. You’re a semi-intelligent person.”
“Six months ago,” Uzi said, “your man, Bryce Upshaw, told a reporter for the Washington Times that Vice President Glendon Rusch would be sorry if he didn’t re-examine his views on the right to bear arms. He’d be sorry. Those were his words, Mr. Flint, not mine.”
“And now the Veep’s helicopter is blown out of the sky,” DeSantos added. “We don’t think it was a coincidence.”
“Mr. Upshaw was not speaking for our organization.”
“Of course not,” DeSantos said. “That would cause some… trouble for you, wouldn’t it?”
Flint’s face shaded red. “Upshaw was a goddamn fool. He’s no longer part of our organization.”
Uzi and DeSantos shared a look. “Was he a fool because he said stupid things, or because he said things in public that were best left behind closed doors?” DeSantos glanced behind him at the entrance to the room. “These doors, in fact?”
Flint pulled the unlit cigarette from his lips, then pointed it at DeSantos as he spoke. “You two fuckers are here because I allow you to be here. Don’t push your luck. I give the word, my guards’ll haul your asses off our property.”
DeSantos took a step forward into Flint’s space. He looked down on the diminutive man and said, “You’re a coward, Flint. A small man with a small man’s brain. The only way you or your father could ever amount to something was for you to start your own organization where you could be the boss. Anywhere else you’d be sweeping floors or sorting garbage.”
Flint’s face flushed. “You son of a bitch—”
“You have something to do with those choppers going down,” DeSantos said. “And we’re going to prove it.”
Flint grabbed DeSantos by the collar and pushed him back against the wall. “Get the fuck off my land!”
Before Flint could react, DeSantos swiped the man’s hands to the side and spun him around. Rodney moved toward them, but Uzi stepped to the right and blocked his path.
DeSantos pushed Flint’s face against one of the windows as he snapped handcuffs on his wrists. “You’ve got a hard-on for the government? Fine. That’s your right. But don’t assault a federal officer. That’s just stupid, even for you.”
Flint struggled, his nose grotesquely deformed by the glass. Mucus sucked in and out of his right nostril as a tear ran down his cheek. “You’re… on my property… asshole.”
DeSantos pulled up on Flint’s handcuffs and the man cried out in pain.
“Santa,” Uzi whispered into his ear, “turn down the volume. Let him go.”
DeSantos hesitated a second, then fished out a long black key from his pocket and unlocked the handcuffs. “If we find anything connecting you to that chopper blast, we’ll be back with an arrest warrant. Then we’ll be chatting on my property, asshole.”
Uzi eyed the tall man behind him. “We’ll be seeing you two again.”
Telling the Humvee driver to go to hell, they hoofed it back to Uzi’s SUV, taking the opportunity to survey the compound. A well-armed guard trailed at a distance, his purpose to offer assistance should his visitors encounter difficulty finding the way back to their car. Actually, he was almost assuredly tasked with ensuring they didn’t take any unwelcome detours — or photos — while traversing the ARM property.
Uzi thought of the intelligence DeSantos had shared with him: it suggested an as-yet undisclosed figure was involved with ARM, someone with the business sense and management skills that Nelson Flint didn’t possess. After this brief meeting, Uzi agreed with the assessment: Flint was a figurehead. There had to be a string puller lurking behind the scenes.