LOUIS VARTANN CALLED some people he knew at the Las Vegas ATF office, and arranged to pay a casual visit to the local headquarters of the Free Citizens of the Republic. Of course, most casual visits didn’t involve four vehicles screaming into the front parking area and a dozen flak-jacketed men and women leaping out with warrants and weapons. But Vartann wanted to get the Free Citizens’ attention, and he figured a big show would do that more efficiently than a quiet conversation.
Headquarters was a freestanding, one-story, stucco-sided building on the west side of Interstate 15. At night, a person would be able to see the lights of the Strip from there, but not much else. The neighborhood was largely blighted: an abandoned used car dealership sat next door, and on the other side was an empty building that had once been a chain restaurant. The liquor store beyond that remained in business, its windows barred, its walls painted a garish yellow that almost glowed in the afternoon sun. Vartann had been inside it once, investigating a hold-up. A third of the store was walled off by bulletproof glass—the owners held court on that side, pulling booze from the shelves for customers who shouted their orders through metal slots and paid through cutaways in the window.
The Free Citizens had a small wooden sign with their insignia—an eagle, though not a bald one, wings spread, rifles clutched in one talon and a scroll in the other—mounted beside the door. Except for that, the place could have been any small business that didn’t rely on customers seeking it out in person. With LVPD SWAT cops and ATF agents fanning out around the building, Vartann tried the door. It was unlocked, so he announced himself and went in.
Inside was chaos.
There was a reception area in front, with thick carpeting and comfortable chairs and a chest-high counter behind which, presumably, a receptionist usually sat. No one sat there at the moment; instead, Vartann heard running footsteps and shouts from down the hallway beyond. He started down the hall, only to be met by a man in a brown suit, white shirt, and red-and-black striped tie, striding briskly toward him with a fierce scowl on a round, pudgy face. Behind that man were some others, less respectable in appearance. They were bull-necked guys with shaved heads, built like linebackers, wearing dark suits and glaring at Vartann through small eyes. One had a thin, dark mustache riding his upper lip, the other tattoos climbing up from under his dress shirt. The muscle, Vartann figured, to back up the boss.
“What’s the meaning of this?” the man demanded.
Vartann held out the warrant. “This is a warrant to search the premises,” he said. “If you’d like to call an attorney, feel free, but we’re going to be looking around in the meantime.”
“Search for what?” the man asked. “We’ve nothing to hide here.”
“Then it’ll be easy.”
“This is an egregious violation of our rights,” the man said. Vartann liked how he did that—went from nothing to hide to being violated in an instant.
“We’ve been informed that you might be in possession of some illegal firearms, sir. If you can show us proof of legal purchase for any weapons on the premises, we’ll be out of your hair in no time.” He chose, for the moment, not to mention that they were also looking for ammonium nitrate or other bomb-making materials. If the man read the warrant carefully enough, he could reach that conclusion on his own.
“Let me see that!” the man said, grasping for the warrant. He scanned the pages for a minute, then threw it back at Vartann. “We don’t even recognize your authority! Leave these grounds immediately.”
“You don’t recognize the Clark County courts?”
“Their authority is not grounded in anything. It’s vapor, nothing more.”
“Sir, I have a dozen armed men and women here with the full force of the law behind us. If you don’t recognize that authority, I recommend taking another look.”
“It’s people like you who are the problem,” the man said. His thugs hadn’t said a word, just stood behind him glowering like extras in a music video.
“Sir, you’re going to have to ask these men to step aside and let us in, or I’ll have to put all of you under arrest.”
“Try it.”
The more the man pulled the defiant act, the more tempted Vartann was. But he hadn’t come looking to make any arrests—he just hoped to ask some questions about the attack on Dennis Daniels, and to warn the group against harassing Catherine. “What’s your name, sir?”
“My name is Caleb of Leland, Tulsa.”
“Oh, right, that whole parentheses bit. Clever.”
“Once again, I’m going to have to insist that you leave these grounds.”
“Does that mean you don’t intend to comply with the warrant?”
“I’ve seen nothing that makes me believe you have the authority to enforce it.”
“Okay, Mr. Parenthesis, on the floor, hands over your head.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’ll be easier on you if you do it yourself.”
The man’s face was turning so red he was starting to look like a kickball. “Now see here . . .”
“All right,” Vartann said. He was out of patience. He reached for the man’s wrist, caught it and gave a yank. Leland, if that was really his name, spun around and Vartann slapped a cuff over the wrist. Leland began to struggle then, so Vartann twisted the arm a little harder and snapped the man toward him, then reached for his other hand. He caught it and brought it behind the man, cuffed that hand, and pushed him against a wall—not hard enough to hurt, just enough to immobilize him. The muscle men stood and watched. “You guys supposed to do something, or are you just decor?” Vartann asked.
“Okay, okay,” Leland said. “You can look around, just take those things off me.”
“Not yet, Mr. P.,” Vartann said. “You and I will have a little chat while my friends search the premises. Is there someplace private we can go?”
“My office,” Leland said.
“Where?”
“It’s back here,” one of the muscle guys said. “I’ll show you.”
Vartann broke into a smile. “Cooperation. That’s what I like to see.”
The men broke their blockade, and ATF agents filed past them into a warren of offices and warehouse facilities at the rear of the building. Enough time had been wasted to allow the Free Citizens to have hidden a truckload of elephants, but with agents surrounding the building, at least none were leaving the premises.
The muscle man, dark-haired and fair-skinned, with a neck as big around as a telephone pole, led the way to Caleb of Leland (Tulsa)’s office. It had a window with a view of the empty car lot, a big steel desk, a filing cabinet, and a pair of mismatched visitor chairs. The walls were graced with antigovernment posters, some of which appeared to be patriotic and pro-government unless the coded message was understood. Others were less subtle, like the one depicting the president of the United States with a tall black hat and a villainous mustache, tying a bound woman labeled “Freedom” to a railroad track. A train labeled “Socialism” bore down on them. Even a quotation from Thomas Jefferson printed on a poster took on a chilling tone, in this context. On top of the desk were an open laptop computer and a legal pad with some scrawls on it.
“Thanks,” Vartann said. “We’ll just have a little chat in here.”
“Should I leave?” the muscle asked.
“Doesn’t matter to me.”
“Go,” Leland told him. “Get the lawyers.”
“Okay.” The man left the office, shutting the door.
“That’s better,” Vartann said. He unlocked the cuffs. Leland sat behind his desk, rubbing his wrists.
“You storm troopers are all the same.”
“Storm troopers?”
“You know what I mean.”
“I think you could use a history lesson, sir. To compare us to storm troopers is—”
“You barge in here with no legal authority, and—”
“I don’t know what you consider legal authority, but Clark County, the state of Nevada, and the United States of America have signed off on what we’re doing here. You don’t accept any of those?”
“An occupation government? Hardly.”
“Are we going to find any illegal weapons here?”
“I can’t imagine that you would.”
“The problem is you storm troopers think you can stomp all over our rights!”
“So we’re back to that?”
“I call it like I see it.”
Vartann moved toward the desk. Leland tried to wheel his chair away but he got snagged on the edge of the knee well. “We’re not the bad guys here,” Vartann said. “I don’t know if you are, either. But whatever you think we’re up to, we’re not. We’re trying to keep the peace. We want to make sure you didn’t have anything to do with an attack on Dennis Daniels, or the harassment of a law enforcement officer. Did you?”
“Of course not.”
“Is there any ammonium nitrate on the property?”
“I don’t even know what that is.”
Leland was spreading the fertilizer on pretty thick, Vartann thought, but he moved straight to the next question. “Do you know someone who calls himself John of Tipton, Bakersfield?”
“Should I?”
“Think about it. How many other groups do you know with that kind of naming system?”
“Well, I’m sorry. That name doesn’t sound familiar.”
“Right. Tell you what, if you happen to run across him, tell him that I strongly suggest he rethink what he’s doing.”
“Sure, if I happen to run across him.”
“I’m not convinced you’re taking this whole thing seriously,” Vartann said. The man was infuriating. “I could still arrest you.”
“I’d like to see you make it stick.”
“Trust me, twenty-four hours in captivity is no picnic, even if we end up not filing charges. Like I said, that’s really not why we’re here. I’m trying to make this easy on you, and you seem intent on making it difficult.”
“Because I’m not letting you and your fascist thugs bully me into admitting anything?”
“Just pass on the message,” Vartann said. He had to get away from the man before he lost his temper. “We’ll be out of your way as soon as we finish our search. For your sake, you’d better hope we don’t find anything.”
Although the swing shift had just started, everyone on Catherine’s team had been on the job for at least an hour. She appreciated their dedication, but some part of her would have preferred that they were either resting up for the night, or out enjoying themselves, having lives away from work. She wanted her people well rounded, not obsessed with the job.
But she couldn’t call them on it, having been at work since mid-morning herself. She knew she’d regret it later, when three or four o’clock rolled around and her body’s natural cycle wanted her to be asleep. Working night shift, she had retrained herself to an extent, but ultimately, humans were made to function best in daylight, and the hours got to everybody once in a while.
On the other hand, it wasn’t every day they had to deal with what might have been an attempted assassination.
She was at her desk reading over the various reports that the case had already generated when her phone rang. She raised it to her ear. “Willows.”
“Catherine,” Jim Brass’s gravely voice said. “Remember Alec Watson?”
“From earlier today? Sure. Why?”
“Because that’s all that’s left of him,” Brass said. “Memories.”
“Jim . . . ?”
“He’s been murdered,” Brass clarified.
“Where?”
“His office.” Brass read off an address, which Catherine jotted down.
“I’m on my way,” she said.
“I’ll be here.”