Chapter Thirty-Five

Val helped Travis unsnarl the gridlock that clogged the streets around the Armory after the abrupt end to the morning’s ceremony. They’d just gotten traffic flowing again when Sergeant Petroni called.

“As soon as you can get here, we need you at HQ for a debriefing,” Petroni said. “I don’t trust the reports I’m getting from Forrestal’s people.”

“Go on, I’ve got it from here.” Travis paused traffic in all directions to let her car escape the parking lot, and she made it to the WAVE Squad office in fifteen.

Sitting across from Val, Petroni’s haggard face looked like she hadn’t slept in weeks. A few times during her quick summary of the events at the Armory, Val wondered if her boss had nodded off.

“I trust your instincts as much as Travis does,” the sergeant said when Val finished. “The chief reversed his double-shift-for-everyone order, but he’s letting individual commands make their own call. I say, let’s stay vigilant and keep our eyes and ears open.” She yawned, then grinned. “If we can, that is.”

Val stood to leave her boss’s office, then cleared her throat. “Are you all right, Sergeant? Have you even been home in the past 24 hours?”

Petroni blinked up at her through bleary eyes. “I caught a quick catnap here and there,” she said, gesturing toward a worn sofa and fuzzy blanket off to the side of her office. “I’ll catch up once this thing is all over. On that note: if the light’s off in here, don’t knock, okay? Close the door on your way out.” She gave Val a weary smile and stretched her arms over her head.

Val, seated back at her desk, glanced over at Petroni’s office minutes later. Sure enough, the room had gone dark.

A message popped up in her email from Shelby, containing a list of right-wing websites she should explore. Energized by the help, Val dove back into her dark web research, finding her way around with more ease as her familiarity with the sites grew. In Parler and Gab, she discovered photos of the skirmishes at the Armory already posted, many with captions blaming Antifa for starting the riot. A few other posts reported fistfights and vandalism spreading elsewhere in the city—again, blaming Antifa.

But she also found some contradictory clues to what happened, including this back-and-forth chatter in one of the chat rooms:

SgtFreedom: When is go time?

ForceP: No set time. Wait for the signal.

Raven: Who starts, then? Black or green?

ForceP: Black 100%.

SgtFreedom: What about the tours? Are we getting in?

Raven: Canceled!

ForceP: Remember, no weapons this AM. None!

Val’s spine tingled. While the contributors to the chat never said outright what “go time” meant, in context it appeared clear: disrupt the Armory event. Create chaos. Digging further into the histories of the contributors’ previous posts and chats, she found racist comments, complaints about the “criminal radical left,” and images of swastikas, Confederate flags, and Aryan crosses. One praised Patriots Pride by name in a comment posted a few days before the raid.

She glanced at Petroni’s door. Still dark through the semi-opaque frosted glass panel.

Moments later, her partner arrived, dressed in his usual black suit, but without the tie, his white dress shirt unbuttoned partway. “I heard you had quite the morning over at the Armory,” he said.

“Bobby, look at this.” She showed him the chat.

He stood behind her, reading over her shoulder. “So, what’s this from? The anarchists’ chat room?”

Val shook her head. “The other end of the spectrum. Authoritarian militants. Followers of Patriots Pride and that ilk. Bobby, I think they staged this morning’s riot as a false flag operation, and a diversion from what they’re really up to.”

“Namely, what?” Grimes sat next to her and took over the keyboard, scrolling through the various posts. “I don’t see anything specific.”

“It’s all in the subtext—code, of sorts,” Val said. “They use words that mean something specific to those in the know. Like ‘MGTOW.’ That means, ‘Men Going Their Own Way.’ ‘Clay-Town’ is their derogatory term for Clayton, and taking the ‘black pill’ means, basically, tearing the whole system down.”

“So when they say they’re targeting ’TPTB’, what does that mean?”

Val checked the file Shelby sent her. “That’s ‘The Powers That Be.’ The establishment. Us!”

“We’d better tell the feds,” Grimes said. “As much as I hate them, they’re in charge of this right now, and they’re gonna have to own whatever happens.” He picked up Val’s desk phone and dialed. “Yeah, Forrestal, this is Detective Grimes, Clayton PD. We found some—what? Yeah, sure.” He mouthed to Val: “On hold.”

“They’re planning something tonight, too,” Val said. “Destiny—”

Grimes held up his hand to shush her. “Yeah, Forrestal. Dawes found some stuff online—what? Hell, I dunno. Hold on.” He put Val’s phone on Speaker. “Tell our good friends at the FBI what you found, and where.”

“I was looking at posts on Parler, Gab, and—”

“Whoa,” Forrestal said. “Freaking Internet sites? That’s your source?”

“Right-wing chat rooms,” Val said. “There’s clear evidence they orchestrated—”

“Who orchestrated what?” Forrestal’s impatient exhalation filled the speaker. “Come on, name names. Be specific.”

“We don’t know names,” Val said. “Just ‘handles’—online identities. We’d have to subpoena the sites’ records to get their real names and so on. Anyway, these groups clearly staged this morning’s riot, and—”

“Antifa? Yeah, we know that.”

“No, not Antifa,” Val said. “Alt-right groups. Paramilitaries, authoritarians, and white supremacists. I’ll send you a screen shot.”

“No need,” Forrestal said. “We have them under wraps, and we’ll get identities and confessions from the perps. We don’t need their Facebook posts of puppies and kitties.”

Val hung her head in exasperation. “These aren’t cute puppy pictures. It’s actual plans, for—”

“Quit wasting my time,” Forrestal said. “Go home, like your mayor and police chief ordered.” The line went dead.

Grimes stood, his jacket slung over his shoulder. “What a moron. All right, let’s bring Petroni up to speed.”

Val glanced at the sergeant’s office. “She’s taking a quick catnap. Let’s learn a little more and brief her all at once, okay?”

“Agreed.” Grimes strolled to his desk and slipped his jacket onto the back of his chair. “I’ve got parade duty in an hour. Sure you don’t want to join me?”

Val pointed to her empty holster. “Not yet. I’ll keep researching, okay?”

She resumed her search.

***

Following Shelby’s advice, Val traced through several other accounts, linking one to the next and alternating between chat groups and the profiles of individuals who participated in them. One account, identified as “BigPete,” made a candid admission:

GirlyQ: Why the girls gotta work 2nite?

BigPete: It’s just the plan. Do your job.

GirlyQ: Nobody’s buying. Everybody’s watching fireworks.

BigPete: Zactly. We need attention on you from boyz in blue, not on the show.

GirlyQ: Don’t expect any green. Dudes gonna be with wives and kids. Ain’t nobody looking our way.

BigPete: You all dress right, they look.

GirlyQ: Stop saying YOU. I aint turning anymore, Im too old.

BigPete: No, you mine, now.

Excited, Val scanned the room. Grimes had left already—she vaguely remembered him announcing his departure some time before. Meanwhile, Petroni’s office remained dark. Frustrated, she drummed her fingers on her desk. She needed to share this, get perspective. Val knew one trusted soul who’d just come on duty who always had the clearest mind on things.

She grabbed her cell phone and called her favorite number.

“Good morning, beautiful,” Gil said moments later. “Breaking for lunch?”

“Not today.” She filled him in on her discovery. “Gil, I think they’re planning mini-riots all day, trying to tie us up in knots while they carry out their big hit, whatever it is, unnoticed,” she said. “The Armory was the beginning. The parade is next, then the fireworks. Then, who knows?”

“The parade started a few minutes ago,” Gil said. “I’ll tell the officer-in-charge, and see if we can scare up a few more bodies. It’ll be tough, since the chief let everyone skip their second shift after this morning’s big arrest.”

“Petroni’s keeping us active, and Grimes is down there now. O’Reilly and Price are there, too,” Val said. “I’ll see if Travis is willing. I wish I could head down there. Damned Cyrus!”

“I can go,” Gil said.

“No way. You’re not cleared—what the hell was that?” Val said, interrupted by a clatter in the background on Gil’s end.

“My stupid crutches. I knocked them over.”

“I thought you don’t need them anymore.”

“I kind of overdid it yesterday,” Gil said in a sheepish tone. “Things hurt a little this morning. So, for insurance, I brought them in today. I’ve barely needed them, Val. Really, I’m fine.” He grunted.

Val recognized that sound: Gil, trying and failing to hide his pain. “Please don’t go down there. It’s bad enough for guys who aren’t on crutches.”

“They need help. I’m not doing much good here.”

She drew a deep breath, held it. He could be so thick sometimes. “Tell you what. My lunch break is in an hour. If you stay, I’ll bring you something?”

He chuckled. “Dirty pool, young lady, bribing me with a visit from your smiling face. Okay, dammit, I’ll stay. But let’s both work on recruiting some additional help. Deal?”

“You got it.” They exchanged sweet goodbyes and she hung up, with a warm feeling tingling up inside her. In the time she’d known him, Gil never, ever pulled back from danger.

Until now. Until his relationship with Val entered the picture.

She knew that wouldn’t—couldn’t—last. They were cops, after all. Danger came with the territory. She didn’t shy away from risk, either.

But this one time, having him choose her over a stupid parade felt amazing.

She returned to her work, sleuthing around further on dark web sites, looking for clues to what might happen later in the day. She found some photos of black-clad, masked individuals carrying anti-fascism signs. Some demanded “special rights,” in the words of the contributors, for gays and women and Blacks, with captions deriding their “femoid, snowflake agendas.” Other photos showed angry faces and more fights, again blaming “Antifa.” A series of posts claimed that “leftists” and “transtrenders” threw rocks and bottles at the police. However, no such incidents had come across her desk, either from the scanner or via email.

As her lunch hour drew near, an image caught her eye. A short, wiry man, dressed in camouflage, “defended” a woman from an “attack” from “Antifa.” From Val’s perspective, it appeared the woman was pushing against her “defender” from behind, shouting and pointing at her “attacker.” As if she, not the other man, was spoiling for the fight.

What caught her eye, though, wasn’t the woman, nor her attacker. It was the “defender.” In particular, his long, flowing hair and scraggly beard, both dyed a bright purple color.

Like the “Antifa” rioter from that morning who ran away. Only now he was dressed in camouflage. And he’d been fighting someone who looked an awful lot like the guy in Antifa black in the current photo.

As if the whole fight, in both cases, was staged.

She glanced at the caption again. The person who posted the photo used the handle “SuperPowers.” Underneath, in the comments, came a thumbs-up from another user: “Tricky Mikey.”

She checked their profiles. SuperPowers described himself as A Man of Law, Agent of Freedom, With a Vision of Liberty. His posts often defended the use of force by police, yet derided local cops as “idiots.” Others blamed everything from child porn to the rising price of gas on Antifa.

For his part, Tricky Mikey spoke of “Glory Days” when “crooks didn’t run America” and “women knew their place.” He wore his views, he said, like a “badge of honor.” His profile picture was the national flag of Ireland. No, wait. Not the Republic of Ireland— the province of Ulster. Northern Ireland. But not the true flag. It contained, in its center, a phrase: “14 Words.” She looked it up: shorthand for a 14-word white supremacist slogan.

Her mind spun, making connections. Tricky. Mikey. Women in their place. Ireland/Ulster. Glory Days. 14 Words. Badge. What did all that signify?

Wait. She scribbled the words on scraps of paper, reorganized the scraps in various ways. Mikey. Badge. Ulster. Glory Days.

She shook her head. Nothing.

She set it aside and tried it with the other user’s keywords: Super Powers. Idiots. Man of Law. Antifa. Agent of Freedom. Something clicked, and she rearranged the words.

Agent. Powers.

Could it be? Agent Powers? As in Special Agent Forrestal’s partner?

She rearranged the pile of word scraps again, and another one fell into place.

Mikey, from Ireland, with a Badge of Honor.

Among those contributing to the plans and attacks from the alt-right that day were none other than Clayton Detective Mickey Mulroney, and FBI Agent Powers.