Spectre Black by J. Carson Black

Author:J. Carson Black [Black, J. Carson]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery
ISBN: 9781503947436
Amazon: B00VOLHKLQ
Barnesnoble: B00VOLHKLQ
Goodreads: 25335762
Publisher: Thomas & Mercer
Published: 2015-01-01T06:00:00+00:00

Chapter 17

The headquarters of The Right Hand of God Freemen’s Militia was located in an RV park in the low hills just outside Branch city limits. The RV park and a few other businesses were cheek by jowl up against forestland. A former ranch, the campground was set back from the winding dirt road that hosted a cluster of small businesses: a filling station and minimart, a shooting range-slash-petting zoo (fortunately these two attractions were on different ends of the property) and the RV park itself—the last outpost before US National Forest land.

While Landry waited for Eric the Red, he set up surveillance on one of the hills, having followed a track above the scattering of houses and cabins. He was high up, concealed in a copse of scrub oak.

The blacktop wound through the canyon. A quarter mile before the general store, the road forked. The left fork led an eighth of a mile to the Pine Cone RV Park, and the right fork went through forestland, all the way to the main highway. The few homes scattered along the road ranged from ramshackle miner shacks to newer ranchettes. Anyone wanting to drive through the canyon had to pass through a militia checkpoint. Landry parked at a trailhead four miles distant and hiked in cross-country rather than risk being seen by the militia members. He did not want to make his presence known until he and Eric showed up on their doorstep, looking to join.

It had taken a full day for Landry to figure out where the militia stayed. He’d been looking for RV parks and trailer parks and campgrounds, mainly because places like that offered a constantly changing population. People camped for a day or two and moved on. Some stayed longer—for the winter. But the transient nature of a campground made it easier for the militia to remain hidden in plain sight.

That was, if you didn’t notice the bikers, rough characters, paramilitary weapons, and swagger. If you didn’t notice the posted signs—KEEP OUT, like something from a kid’s tree fort. If you didn’t see the big trucks, or notice the counterculture appearance of some and the paramilitary looks of others. Or the armed sentry.

Landry watched their comings and goings. At first, they were as indiscriminate as ants in his binocs. But after a while, he saw the pattern. Cars and trucks going out at specific times. Eight o’clock was one. Ten thirty, another. He wrote it down. Punctual, like the military. Cars and trucks going in and out in an orderly manner. The sentry saluting. Landry guessed they were either going for supplies, or to a checkpoint—their day job.

He set up the parabolic mic.

There was no one out and about, so Landry fixed the GPS position, saved it to his phone, and sketched a map of the compound. Jotted a few notes in a memo pad. Sometimes the most obvious and outdated method worked better than fancy equipment. He’d learned long ago that if he had a chance to write his thoughts out, he assimilated them better and deeper than any other way.

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