The autumnal equinox crept closer—a signal that changes drew near: colder weather, earlier sunsets, a slowdown in outdoor activities and opportunities to make big moves.
Yet also a time of balance: between night and day, light and dark, the heat and the cold. A shifting equilibrium on a planetary scale, bringing communities together to huddle for warmth around an evening or morning fire.
On this Friday morning, hours before the dawn, Stafford Allen Ray found no balance, no equilibrium. No warming bodies holding him close, consoling him, calming him against the impending storm. Only the shifting winds blowing in changing weather from the north.
He did not sleep. He worked, all alone, his companions having lost confidence in his vision.
They, his companions, slept. Along with their enemies. Eyes closed to the imminent changes—to the need for immediate change. And to the bold actions required to facilitate those changes.
He saw the need. He took the necessary steps, did the work, took extra care to ensure perfect execution.
Long before sunrise, he slipped out, unseen, unnoticed—a life lived unseen and unnoticed prepared him for this moment—and drove his personal vehicle to the riverfront. Parked, and strolled to the fenced, guarded depot where company vehicles rested overnight. Waved to the night sentry when he entered the lot.
“Early shift again today?” the guard asked.
“Why else would I come in at oh-dark-thirty?” He signed out his vehicle and exited along with a handful of other drivers, long-haulers who lived in 18-wheelers on interstate highways and ate indigestible lunches at truck stops in the middle of nowhere. All to fulfill the insatiable needs of American consumers. Consumers who dined on Brazilian oranges and avocados in winter and expensive beef year-round from Japan and never wondered how it all reached their corner grocery.
Stafford would not be joining those drivers on their early-morning interstate hauls.
Instead, he drove less than a mile before turning down an unlit alley. Then he backed his near-empty cargo van into the unstaffed loading dock of an abandoned warehouse, where he kept the tools of his particular trade. Not the daily shipping of consumer goods, but the work of righting America’s wrongs, of saving this country from itself. From its own mindless, immoral self.
First, he had to prepare.
He started with latex gloves, to eliminate fingerprints and keep gunshot residue away from his skin. A jumpsuit to cover his uniform. The fake facial hair he would apply later, when he donned the dark sunglasses and cheap hat. All made of combustible material for easy disposal.
No oversized shoes this time. With the quick turnaround after yesterday’s event, he hadn’t the time to secure a new pair. Instead, cheap rubber boots from a thrift store, with a plastic bag inside to prevent them from absorbing any of his skin, hair, or sweat.
Then he checked and packed his precious cargo. Nothing for the consumers of America this time. Instead, only what he needed for the mission: his weapon, cleaned and ready to assemble in its case. Spare magazines loaded with fresh ammo. All wiped clean of prints.
Then he tended to the vehicle itself.
He covered the lettering for “HMZ Shipping” with a new overlay. One he’d prepared special for today. “RS Transport,” it read, and it made him chuckle.
Cap would not find it funny. Not one bit.
That only increased his mirth.
Next, a new set of stolen license plates to cover the originals. Attached with double-stick tape for easy removal later.
Then, a new truck ID number—something he’d forgotten to remove after the first event. He’d gone the whole week with the old fake number and only removed it after the sentry at the parking lot complained it didn’t match anything in his inventory. A close call, that. Luckily the guard hated paperwork. Stafford had learned from experience that the guard preferred a choice pint of bourbon over paperwork any day.
The guard smiled in appreciation at the bottle’s fancy label and waved Stafford through.
Stafford’s final step: checking it all over. Not only the basics—fuel, fluids, lights, brakes—but also circling around the truck, making sure his handiwork would fool all but the most discerning of observers.
It all looked good. He turned back toward the driver’s side—
He could’ve sworn he’d spotted movement out of the corner of his eye, near the end of the alley.
Stafford reached inside the truck and removed his flashlight. A long, sturdy one, packed with four “D” batteries. A weapon as much as a torch. He kept it off for now and walked to the mouth of the alley. Looked left, right, back again.
Nothing. No movement, no vehicles that he hadn’t noticed earlier…wait. Something moved. There, to his right. By those trash cans.
He crept closer, his flashlight raised to clobber anything that moved—
Something small and dark scrambled around his feet, followed by a loud, angry “Meow!”
God damned cats!
He returned to his truck, with hints of daylight streaking the navy-blue sky, and started the engine.
Val woke to a buzzing sound—her phone, set to vibrate for messages or calls from her Favorites list. A small list—her boss, her partner, her father, and Gil, in increasing order of preference.
This time, it was her number one man, with a text message:
Target is on the move. I’ll let you know more when I can.
She checked the time: 5:30 a.m. The sun wouldn’t rise for at least another hour. She replied:
Did you sleep?
No answer. Which meant no.
She wouldn’t get back to sleep, so she showered and ate a quick breakfast. She waited until 6:15 a.m. to text Jan, confirming their plan, and got an instant reply: Yes, early start. Plainclothes.
To Val’s chagrin, she discovered she’d forgotten to hang up her laundry to dry, leaving slim pickings for underwear. Oh, well. As long as she didn’t get into any car wrecks today. Right, Mom?
As if her mother would care one whit.
Val met Jan outside VeroniCare as the sun peaked over the east side skyline, a dark silhouette of old warehouses, refurbished low-rent housing, and mixed commercial-industrial sites. Somewhere in that dark, gritty maze, Gil sipped cold coffee to stay awake, keeping his eye on his incel contact. She wished she and Jan were doing the same for Tank, or Stevie, or whoever pulled the trigger at those clinics. Instead, they huddled inside Jan’s Toyota Camry, staving off the morning chill with lukewarm lattes, surveilling VeroniCare’s front entrance.
“This is our hot lead,” Jan insisted when Val suggested they spend their time elsewhere. “We follow where the evidence takes us.”
They didn’t wait long. Tasha Koval arrived at 6:55 a.m., using her ID badge to unlock the door. Val jumped out and ran the twenty yards to the door, catching it inches before it clicked shut.
“Ms. Koval,” she called out.
Koval came to an abrupt halt in the lobby and turned to face Val. “Officer,” she said, surprise evident in her voice. “Did we have an appointment this morning?”
Val shook her head and held the door open for Jan. “May we have a word?”
Koval stood still, clutching her purse with both hands, mouth working in wordless worry. Then her shoulders sagged, and she pointed down the hall. “You know the way to our meeting room.”
Val led the way, and Jan followed Koval into the room. Tasha sat at the head of the table and the two cops took seats on either side of her. “Sorry I can’t offer you coffee,” Tasha said. “I’m afraid it wouldn’t be ready yet.”
“That’s okay,” Jan said. “This isn’t a social call.”
“We’re following up on the security analysis you contracted for with RS Security,” Val said. “Or should I say, Richard Steiger?”
Tasha kept her expression blank, but her pale face reddened and she kept her gaze low. “What about it?”
“We’d like to read it,” Val said. “It could be an important clue in our investigation. But you’re blocking us from seeing it. Why?”
Koval cleared her throat. “It contains sensitive information.”
“Your corporate secrets are safe with us,” Jan said. “We would never disclose—”
“I’m sorry. I cannot release it to you.”
“We can get a warrant,” Jan said. “That will only delay the inevitable.”
“Do what you must.”
Val and Jan exchanged weary glances. Jan started to get up. Val stopped her with a shake of her head.
“Ms. Koval,” Val said, “we’ve learned a bit more about LifeAdvocates.hr. The group you claimed to have no connection to.”
“I stand by that claim,” Koval said. “I have no further information about them.”
“Is that so?” Val tapped her pen on the table. “Their reach is much broader than we first suspected.” She leaned in and added a menacing tone to her voice. “In fact, it extends all the way to Clayton.”
Jan’s eyebrows shot up, a question dancing in her eyes. Val narrowed hers, trying to convey without speaking: Trust me.
“You claimed that Mr. Roko Koval, one of the leaders of Life Advocates, was no relation—that your shared surname was nothing but a coincidence,” Val said. “That’s not true, is it?”
“We are not related,” Koval said in a low voice.
“However, your husband and he are family,” Val said. “Am I right?”
“No. You are not correct.” Koval lifted her gaze, hard as steel, boring into Val’s skull. “They do not share blood.”
“Not blood. But the parents of your husband, Stefan, adopted a young orphaned Croatian boy after the war, did they not? A boy named Roko?”
Koval’s face fell, and she averted her gaze.
“About ten years ago, Roko came to the US,” Val said. “He lived with you until his visa expired, at which time he should have returned to Croatia. He didn’t, though, did he?”
Koval stared at her hands, her lips pursed.
“He stayed in the U.S. In Clayton, in fact. Changed his name, even his appearance. And besides continuing his work with Life Advocates, he helped form another organization—a political action group of sorts, advocating for so-called Men’s Rights.” Val paused. “Stop me when I get any of this wrong.”
Koval shook her head.
“You and your husband hid him from Immigration Control. A violation of federal law—”
“He threatened us.” Koval’s voice choked with tears. “He said he would turn us in to ICE. That we would go to prison, maybe get deported. I would lose everything—this job, my home, my family.”
“All he wanted,” Val said, “was access to your technology. Systems that would provide his group with names, with phones they could use to hide the source of calls and emails. And a web server, configured to appear to be hosted in another country. A country out of reach of the American legal system.”
Koval stared hard at Val, hatred burning in her eyes.
“Well?” Val said. “Am I right, or am I wrong, Ms. Koval?”
Koval’s eyes drooped, her face drawn. After a long, uneasy silence, her lips moved.
“You are so smug.” Koval’s voice dropped to a near-whisper. “You have never lived through a war. Been exiled—forced to uproot your entire life, leave it all behind—friends, family, belongings. Have another country force their culture, their laws, their language on you. You think you would live so pure? That you would never make choices you might later regret?”
Jan cleared her throat. “I’m sorry for what you suffered there. I’ve read about the atrocities committed by the Serbs—”
“I am not talking about the Serbs.” Splittle flew from Koval’s lips. “I am talking about America. Your laws! Your culture! Your way of life. Yes, we ‘chose’ to come here, so to speak. Yet what ten-year-old girl chooses what her family does? What her parents decide is the law. She can only follow, nothing else. However, they cannot force her to love what they choose.” Her face grew twisted with anger. “My husband’s step-brother did what you said. And yes, I helped him. Up to a point. But when he asked for more, I said no. No more.”
“And when you refused, he wouldn’t take no for an answer,” Val said. “He broke into your facility, hacked your systems—”
“I cannot say for sure that it was he.” Koval cast them an imploring look. “What does it matter? We are a large company. Two hundred employees, annual profits in the millions. This little bit of damage and loss? We can afford it, even if insurance doesn’t cover it. Why can’t we drop it?”
“Drop it? Seriously?” Val sat back in her chair. Something didn’t make sense. Veronica Carlton had threatened fire and brimstone if they didn’t solve the case, and here, one of her key lieutenants, wanted to ignore the whole thing?
Unless…
A connection fired in Val’s brain. Of course.
She leaned forward again. Time to roll the dice and ride her hunch to the hilt. “No, Ms. Koval, we will not drop it. Because this case is not about some broken glass and missing dietary supplements. Is it?”
Jan shot her a quizzical glance. “Dawes? Care to catch me up here?”
Val pointed at Tasha. “Tell her, Ms. Koval, the name that Roko goes by here in Clayton. A man who will never forget the images of war. Of death. Of armored trucks rolling down the streets of his city, destroying his home, his heritage…his family.”
Koval, head bowed, glared up at Val, then shook her head.
“When Roko changed his identity, he went all out,” Val said. “Changed his name, his appearance, his occupation. Left his old life behind.”
No response from Tasha Koval.
“Roko didn’t just shave his beard and adopt a new Croatian name for his life in America. He chose a surname with roots in a country friendly to your home nation—allies for a century or more. A German name, am I right? One meaning, colloquially, leader or supervisor?”
No answer.
“Even he didn’t forget his past entirely,” Val continued. “He wouldn’t leave behind the scars. Wears them proudly, in fact—with his nickname, that he wears like a badge of honor.”
She locked eyes with Jan. “Roko’s new name appears on that security contract you signed. The one that gave him open access to your facility and all of your servers. The name,” she said with finality, “of Richard ‘Tank’ Steiger.”
After a long, silent pause, Koval nodded.
Stafford first noticed the blue Ford Explorer following him about ten miles after he pulled onto Highway 44 heading northwest to Fairview. He couldn’t make out the driver’s face in his side mirror—the sun rising behind him put the Explorer’s entire windshield in shadow. He could tell it was one man, a big guy, driving alone. Nothing more.
The Explorer remained a fair distance behind him, even when most other passenger vehicles grew impatient with the slow pace of his delivery truck and passed him. It changed lanes every so often, but never took the left lane within a half-mile of an exit. Even when he slowed to well under the speed limit, the Explorer remained a few cars back.
Why would anyone follow a delivery truck early on a Friday morning?
He shook it off. He was being delusional and paranoid.
Then again, maybe not. One way to find out…
He took the left exit to Route 202 at the last moment, lucky to hit it at a time with no oncoming vehicles.
Stafford watched in his rearview. The Explorer whizzed past the turn. He breathed a sigh of relief.
A minute later, though, the Explorer appeared again in his rearview, again a few cars back.
Sweat formed around his collar, heat rising to his face. The fake beard and mustache grew loose on his clammy skin. He needed to lose this tail, and fast.
He enjoyed two considerable advantages at that moment and exploited them both. One, he knew he was being followed. Second, he knew the route, one often used by delivery vehicles because of the high number of retail establishments along the way. He’d made deliveries there before. He knew the territory.
Stafford slowed as he neared the shopping center on the left, sporting a pair of big-box retailers, each with busy loading docks. At this early hour, a few minutes after 7:00 a.m., few cars dotted the parking lot. He navigated around to the loading areas in back, all with empty bays at the moment. Excellent.
The Explorer would have no business reason to follow him back there…unless his business was to follow him.
It didn’t. When he pulled up near the first loading bay, he found himself alone. Not even a store employee to greet him.
Perfect!
He got out of the truck, bringing with him a short length of rebar he always kept under the seat for self-protection, tucked away inside his shirt. He circled farther around to the front of the store, pausing at corners to scout out the large, vacant spaces ahead of him. Nobody on the side of the building. A few guys walked from their cars toward the employee entrances, but nobody came from the far end where the now-empty Explorer had parked.
Which meant the Explorer’s driver had also gotten out and walked to the back of the building. Probably to look for Stafford.
He hustled along the adjacent buildings, making eye contact with nobody, and stopped again to peek around the corner. Nobody. He slithered along the brick wall until he reached the back corner, almost 360 degrees from where he’d started. Peeked again.
There he was. The big guy. He loitered around the delivery truck and peered in the windows, glanced around to make sure no one spotted him.
Except Stafford had spotted him.
What’s more, he recognized him. The big cop. The new recruit. Dawes’s boyfriend, Kryzinski. He’d pretended to be interested in joining and helping the cause, when all along he was snooping into their business. The way cops do. Trying to play Stafford for a fool.
Stafford would show Gil Kryzinski who the fool was.
He waited for Kryzinski to disappear around the rear of the truck. Then he crept up to the side, crouching, listening, and watching the man’s feet as he snooped.
Kryzinski seemed preoccupied with something at the back of the truck. Peeking underneath the truck’s high carriage, he spied the cop kneeling, facing away from Stafford.
He wouldn’t stay there long. Time to act.
Stafford moved with as much stealth as he could to the rear passenger side, peeked around. Kryzinski pointed his phone toward the truck ID number, as if framing a picture.
Stafford took one long, quiet stride, raised the bar high and arced it downward toward Kryzinski’s skull.
At the last moment, the cop glanced up and jerked his head away. Not quite enough, though: the bar struck a glancing blow along the man’s temple and cheek, knocking him onto his back on the ground. Kryzinski’s head hit the pavement hard, his phone clattering to the pavement. After a single grunt that sounded like someone had pushed all the air out of him, his eyes closed, and he lay still on the asphalt.
Stafford lay his finger a centimeter from the unconscious man’s nose, felt warm air flowing in the expected direction. He opened the rear door of the truck, grabbed a spare set of latex gloves, pulled them on. He lowered the forklift to the ground, left it running, got out. Then he lifted the big cop by his underarms and, with a great deal of exertion, dragged him to the twin tines of the loader. Pushed another button and the apparatus lifted the limp body to the level of the truck’s cargo platform. He yanked the big man’s body inside, pushed the button needed to re-secure the forklift loader, then closed the doors and snagged Kryzinski’s phone off the ground.
Now what?