Thy Kingdom Come: Book One in the Sam Thorpe series Read online

Sam turned away. Everyone knew what Oliver was talking about, the murdering bastard. Why didn’t these guys rise up against Oliver? He’d killed their friends. But Sam knew the answer. They were scared to death. None of them wanted to be next.

  Oliver motioned with his hand. Popeye walked to the front of the room and saluted. “The time is close. No more mistakes, or I’ll have to replace you. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.” Popeye’s hand trembled during his salute.

  Popeye waited until Oliver left the room; then he turned to the men, his face flushed. He looked ready to explode. “You disappointed General Oliver. That means you disappointed me. We were to demonstrate our skill the other night. You looked like a bunch of rookies. We’ll redouble our efforts so we’re ready. Anyone wants out, tell me now.”

  Albert Grimes, his orange hunting cap pulled down over his ears, stood in the back and raised his hand.

  Popeye pointed to Specialist Rose, who remained in the back of the room. “Take him outside.” Rose grabbed his arm, opened the door, and pushed Grimes through it.

  A rifle shot sounded; then Rose reappeared with the ever-present smirk on his face.

  “Anyone else?”

  The men looked down at the floor.

  “We’ll meet tomorrow night at 1800 hours. Be here, or I’ll come looking for you.” Popeye stalked toward his office. When he reached the door, he called back, “Rose, take care of the traitor! And don’t forget his family.”

  That comment chilled Sam.

  The rest of the men waited until Popeye left the room; then they filed out into the dark night, eyes looking down at the floor.

  Sam walked into his office and shut the door, pulled out the cell phone, and punched in the number Alex had given him. The phone rang three times, and a recording came on: “Your party is not available; leave a message.”

  Sam whispered into the phone, “Nine thirty tomorrow morning.”

  He disconnected the phone and decided to take a walk outside to cool down. When he pulled the door open, Popeye stood about ten feet away, looking down at a book in his hand and tapping his boot.

  “What do you want?” Sam asked.

  “I’m stretching my legs before bed. Something wrong with that? Why, are you trying to hide something?”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Alex Prescott smiled at Sam over the rim of her coffee cup as steam rose from the hot liquid. They were sitting at a round iron table in the bookstore, which was quiet now at ten o’clock on a Sunday morning.

  Sam had spent an extra hour circling Harrisburg before he’d arrived in the parking lot. He’d driven down to the state capitol, then back and forth across the Market Street Bridge. If he had been followed, he hadn’t spotted the pursuer.

  He glanced around to make sure no one was watching, then lowered his voice. “Popeye had the guy taken outside. His name was Albert Grimes. The poor bastard panicked and raised his hand to get out. It cost him his life. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-five years old. Rose, one of Oliver’s Black Shirts shot the poor bastard.” Sam lifted his coffee cup and placed it back down on the table without taking a drink. “I couldn’t believe it.”

  Alex tapped her spoon. “They’ll probably charge it off to a hunting accident. No one will be the wiser.”

  Sam shook his head. “At point-blank range? Poor kid must have a family. It seems to me this should raise a red flag with the local police or someone.”

  She pulled a notebook out of her folder and scribbled a message. “I’ll see what I can find out about Albert Grimes, as well as the other two they shot. Do you think this weird kid, Specialist Rose, shot all three of them?”

  “Don’t know, but I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  Do you have a first name for Rose?”

  Sam shook his head. “He must have worked with Oliver at some point in the past. We need to figure a way to bring him in.” Sam paused for a moment. “I’ll talk to Rose when I see him. See what I can find out. The guy stays pretty aloof.”

  She shook her head. “Even if you testified, it’d be your word against theirs.” She paused to stir her coffee. “They’d come after you.”

  Sam clenched his jaw. She was right, dammit.

  “What’s next?” She opened her notebook again. “I’m wearing the wire, so go over everything in detail.”

  “Most of the men have worked hard this week. But they are beaten down, scared to death of Oliver and his Black Shirts.”

  Alex nodded. “I would be.”

  She looked down, then up at Sam. Their eyes locked for a moment.

  “Ah, let me tell you about Popeye,” Sam stammered. “He’s number two, after Oliver.”

  Alex listened to Sam’s summary. “I’ve heard of ODESSA,” she said when he’d finished, “but don’t know much about the organization. I’ll see what I can find out.” She paused, then placed her hand on Sam’s arm. “How are you doing?” she asked. Her hand felt soft and warm.

  “I’ve been better. Oliver has to show he means business.”

  She slipped her hand over his. “Hang in there.”

  Sam nodded and took a sip of coffee, then pulled his hand back. “Tell me all you can about Waco.”

  “I’ll give you the condensed version.”

  “Before you start, I need another cup of coffee.” Sam rose and started toward the counter. “Get you one?”

  “Please.”

  “Black?”

  She smiled. “Put a little sugar in it.”

  “You mean you’re not sweet enough?” Sam wandered over to the counter, wondering where that stupid comment had come from.

  He stood at the corner of a shelf housing computer books, watching Sam and Alex drink their coffee.

  What was Colonel Thorpe doing at the bookstore? Who was the young woman? She looked like a freak case, hair sticking out all over and rings dangling from her left ear. The tight black T-shirt did show off her breasts. That didn’t interest him at all. Maybe Colonel Thorpe liked to look at them.

  Moving around the display shelves, he took up a position at the end of the row behind Colonel Thorpe. He jumped back as Thorpe walked over to get more coffee. Grabbing a book, he started paging through it, keeping it in front of his face. What if Thorpe saw him? What would he say?

  Risking exposure, he lowered the book. Colonel Thorpe stood at the counter talking to the clerk. The blonde glanced over and caught his eye. Had he been too obvious?

  He hurried toward the other end of the store and pretended to browse through CDs.

  Sam set the coffees on the table, trying not to spill the one in his left hand. “Go ahead.”

  Alex leaned forward with her hand cupped to the side of her mouth. “There’s a young man, little under six feet tall, with shaggy, dishwater blond hair watching you. Kid’s paper thin.”

  Sam’s heart picked up a notch. Had Oliver tracked him here? He’d been so careful. “Where?”

  “The kid disappeared round the corner. We’ll keep an eye on him.”

  Sam moved his head a notch, risking a peek.

  “You just look at me. I’ll watch for the kid.” She laughed. “He’s probably some starstruck youngster looking at all your big muscles.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  Alex leaned back and reached up to fluff her hair. “Okay, here we go. After the fiasco at Ruby Ridge, the radical fringe got more and more blatant in their organizing efforts. Pastor Peters convened a conference in Estes Park, Colorado, which was attended by representatives of more than 160 groups.”

  “Pastor Peters?”

  “He’s one of the leaders in The Christian Identity Movement.”

  Sam raised his eyes. “Oliver has mentioned the Christian Identity. He says that’s part of his destiny. Talks about a kingdom on earth where whites rule supreme. What can you tell me about the group?”

  “They’re an offshoot of a nineteenth-century movement from England. These clowns believe that whites descended from Adam and Eve, but Jews descended from Eve a
nd the Devil.”

  Sam noticed that Alex kept looking over his shoulder, and he almost turned but caught himself.

  “Get this,” Alex said. “Anyone who isn’t white is considered subhuman or, as they say, ‘mud people.’ Harming a mud person isn’t a sin, since they’re animals and don’t have a soul.” She smiled. “That’s almost as bad as being a woman in today’s hotshot FBI. Oops, better scratch that.”

  Sam laughed. “It’s tough being on candid camera.”

  “Anyway,” she continued, “all the shining stars attended the conference. They included Louis Beam, Grand Dragon for the Texas KKK, Richard Butler from Aryan Nations, and Tom Stetson with the skinheads, as well as various religious groups and a bunch of the tax protesters, just to name a few.”

  Sam nodded. “Popeye’s a big deal in the Keystone Skinheads.”

  Alex’s eyes got wide. “Do you know his full name?”

  “No, but I’ll get his picture. Guy’s tricky.” Sam glanced up again.

  “Goddamn it, keep looking at me. Do I have to take my shirt off to get you to glue your eyes on me?” She smiled. “Guess that makes more I have to scratch from the tape.”

  Sam flushed. “Sorry, running a little tight.” He tried to imagine her without her shirt on. He liked the picture.

  “All right. Now onward. They planned to develop a unified strategy for battling an unjust government. Then they’d take it on the road to various gun shows, emphasizing the need to battle a leadership that could kill Randy Weaver’s wife and son.”

  Sam nodded again, focused hard on what she told him. He didn’t want to take notes.

  “The various state militias were considered to be the principal defense. Initially, they played down the racism bit to broaden their appeal.”

  Sam processed all this information. He needed another file drawer in his mental computer. A woman came in and sat down at the next table. Her gray hair was up in a bun, and she wore a long plaid skirt and thick black shoes. She looked familiar.

  “Then came Waco. That fanned the flames even more.”

  Sam turned his attention back to Alex. “Need details. Oliver’s giving me the other side. I might be able to use the information you’re giving me to turn some of the guys.”

  Alex opened her folder and spread papers on the table.

  The woman at the next table continued to sip her tea. Was she leaning toward him, or was that just his imagination?

  “Dammit, keep looking at me. You’ll raise the kid’s suspicions. Don’t worry. Bob’s over at the door. If he’s important, Bob will let me know over the mic.”

  “Go ahead. Fire for effect.”

  “You military pukes.” She smiled. “Now to Waco. It started with more than one hundred agents from the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms storming the compound of the Branch Davidians to arrest their leader, David Koresh.”

  Sam risked another peek at the woman. She looked like the woman in the farmhouse, but better dressed.

  Alex shuffled a couple of papers. “During the attack, four ATF agents were killed and sixteen wounded.”

  Sam reached over. “Put these back in the file.”

  Alex nodded. “Koresh’s two-year-old daughter and five other Davidians were killed.”

  Sam winced. “Two years old?”

  “The agents laid siege to the compound for fifty-one days, negotiated with Koresh. But most thinking people don’t believe there was much of a negotiation.”

  “Why?”

  “The government claimed they had evidence that Koresh was abusing children and holding people against their will.”

  “Proven?” Sam asked.

  “Not to most people’s satisfaction.”

  “What the hell was the government thinking?”

  “Now you know why the radical right got so pissed,” Alex said. “Maybe they weren’t so radical after all.”

  Sam looked over at the next table. The woman had a copy of Redbook magazine and seemed to be reading it.

  “On April 19, 1993, the ATF attacked the compound a second time. That led to the death of seventy-five Davidians, more than a score of them children.”

  Sam sat for a moment in stunned silence. “Kids.”

  “Not our finest hour. Of course, the NRA condemned the attack and the loss of life.” Alex paused for a moment. “Bob says the kid’s still over at the CDs.”

  Sam glanced toward the table. The woman was still reading.

  Alex took another sip of coffee. “The Militia of Montana, formed in February 1994, became one of the most influential of the militias. They equated gun control to nothing more than people control.”

  “What about here in Pennsylvania?” Sam asked.

  “Not much action until later, at least as far as we know. Now it’s a real hotbed of skinhead activity.”

  “I’ve heard that militia members hate the UN.”

  Alex nodded. “The radical right believes that they have to work half a year to pay the taxes to bail out the banking elite. One of the slogans became ‘Government by Affirmative Action.’ And then along came NAFTA and some of our best jobs got sent overseas.”

  “Oliver uses loss of jobs as a marketing tool. It’s effective.”

  “After that, militias formed in Idaho, Ohio, Texas, Florida, and Michigan. The Michigan Militia was destined to become the largest. Formed in 1994, it grew in a flash to almost seven thousand members.”

  A shadow next to the table caught Sam’s attention.

  “Hi, C-colonel Th-thorpe.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Sam’s head pivoted as if it were on a swivel. When he looked up, Marshall Pearson stared down at him. A stack of computer books was tucked under his left arm.

  “Hello, Marshall.” So … this is the shaggy-haired kid Alex kept talking about watching them.

  Alex leaned back and smiled.

  “Hi-i.”

  “This is my friend Alex Prescott. Alex, Marshall Pearson.”

  Marshall’s face turned a bright red. He stared at Alex.

  Alex laughed. “Now this is the first time I ever shocked a man speechless.”

  “I-I’m sorry. I don’t spend much time around p-pretty women.”

  Alex’s face flushed a shade of pink. “Why, thank you.”

  Sam’s mind spun on high speed, trying to compute all of this. Could Marshall’s arrival be a trick of Popeye’s? He looked over at the woman sitting at the next table, but she kept paging through Redbook.

  Bob O’Brien walked by the table, grimacing.

  Sam nodded, and Bob moved on. Marshall would not have caused O’Brien any concern. Had Oliver found him out?

  “What brings you here, Marshall?” Sam asked.

  “I l-love reading about c-current trends in c-computers. T-try to get down h-here as often as I can. M-my uncle doesn’t like it.” He smiled, and his eyes seemed to light up. “On S-sunday mornings, he thinks I go to ch-church.”

  “Alex and I used to know each other years ago.” Goddamn, did that come out as lame as Sam thought it did?

  “Yep,” she laughed, “pals from Minnesota.”

  “Th-that’s nice.” Marshall looked at each of them. “I’d better go. P-pleasure meeting y-you, Alex. S-see you to-ni-ght, C-colonel T-thorpe.” He turned and hurried toward the back of the store.

  Sam’s right hand did a drumroll on the table with his pencil. “Goddamn it, stupid to let that happen. Popeye was standing outside my door last night. I can’t believe he sent Marshall to check me out.”

  Alex reached over and touched his clenched fist. “Just stay cool. It’s probably a coincidence.”

  “Did I ever tell you I don’t believe in coincidences?”

  Alex’s lips formed a tight line. “Wish you hadn’t said that. I don’t either.”

  Sam glanced at his watch. “Better get moving. I’ve got stuff to organize before tonight. Anything else for me?”

  She leaned closer to Sam. “Skinheads.”

  All Sam could think of
was Marshall and what his sudden appearance might mean. “Better make it quick.”

  “Okay.” The skinhead movement started in England in the ‘60s. It got exported to the United States through San Francisco and the punk rock scene.”

  Sam nodded.

  “George Lincoln Rockwell founded the postwar American Nazi Party in 1958. Many leaders of the skinheads came from the John Birch Society meetings in the mid-’60s.”

  “You should see Popeye’s office. Damn place is a monument to the Nazis.”

  Alex grimaced. “I’ll bet. In the late 1970s and early ‘80s, the country saw a resurgence of Klan and neo-Nazi activities. We think that was due to the worsening of economic conditions.”

  Sam felt movement. The woman at the next table gathered her purse and hat. She stood and walked toward the door.

  Alex shifted in her chair. “Richard Snell, called the ‘Grand Old Man of the Radical Right,’ was executed for two murders on April 19, 1995.”

  “Wait a minute,” Sam replied. “Wasn’t that the same day as Oklahoma City?”

  “Bingo.” Alex pointed at Sam with her index finger. “Who says this stuff isn’t related? The big open question is where does your boss fit into all this? And, more importantly, why is that corporation supporting the militia?”

  “We’re gonna have to do more of this later. I gotta go,” Sam said and pushed his chair back.

  “You know where to find me.”

  Sam sat in the parking lot of the Barnes & Noble, his Explorer idling, and pushed in a number on his cell phone. It rang twice.

  “Mr. Kassim’s office. Vivian speaking.”

  Sam was surprised Vivian was there on a Sunday morning. He could visualize her Stepford wife-like body: perky breasts and an obvious wiggle under her standard pink dress. “Vivian, this is Colonel Thorpe.”

  “Oh, Colonel Thorpe,” Vivian gushed, “how nice to hear from you.” Vivian gushed to everyone.

  “I’m returning Aly Kassim’s call.”

  “Oh, yes,” Vivian replied, “I should have known that. Let me see if Mr. Kassim is available. He was here a minute ago.”