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Chapter Nineteen

At four-thirty in the morning, Axel Soledad nodded a greeting to each member of his team as they entered the lobby of the old hotel. Most of them were disheveled, bleary-eyed, and grumbling about the very early hour. They shuffled across the wooden floor to where an urn of coffee had been set up. Some made tea.

His attack team was made up of two distinct contingents: civilian activists and military veterans. After filling their cups, the individuals sat down in chairs at old tables or leaned against the far wall. As usual, the vets separated themselves from the activists, and they stood in a knot in the far corner of the room.

“Someone forgot the almond milk,” one of the activists complained.

“Fuck your almond milk,” one of the vets responded.

In all, the vets in the room numbered four. Two others were elsewhere. There were nine activists in the room, and they were soon joined by a tenth, who’d been in the kitchen because he also served as the camp cook. When he came into the room he brought a carton of almond milk.

“Hey,” one of the activists asked Soledad, “we’re missing Caleb, Tosh, and Andy. Are they still sleeping?”

“They’re not available,” Soledad said. “They’re on a side mission in Laramie.”

“Will they be joining us?” another asked.

“Negative,” Soledad said. “They’ve got another purpose.”

What he didn’t tell them, and what he wouldn’t tell them, was that Caleb, Tosh, and Andy had all been killed by Nate Romanowski the previous day. That they’d set up a flawed ambush outside of Tie Siding that had failed miserably.

Soledad cleared his throat and addressed the entire room. “The mission is about to begin,” he said. “Let’s go over our plan and strategy one more time.”

One of the activists moaned, and said, “We’ve been over this a thousand times already.”

“This will be a thousand and one,” Soledad said.

“What about the land acknowledgment before we begin?” asked a purple-haired activist.

“Fuck your acknowledgment,” one of the vets grumbled.

“Maybe later,” Soledad said to placate her. He had no intention of revisiting the topic. For weeks, when speaking to the activists, he had led them in a kind of invocation they’d insisted upon:

The land on which we sit is the traditional unceded territory of the Cheyenne Nation. We acknowledge the painful history of genocide and forced occupation of their territory, and we honor and respect the many diverse Indigenous people connected from time immemorial to this land on which we now gather.

—

As he projected an aerial drone photograph on the wall behind him, Soledad tried not to reveal how rattled he’d been two hours before. That’s when he’d received a call from a burner phone carried by Marshall Bissett, one of the vets, who was doing a security stint at the front entrance of the B-Lazy-U Ranch. Bissett was one of his best men, and a true believer. He’d infiltrated the security team by simply showing up at the property and announcing that he’d been ordered by his superior officer at the “Dam Neck Annex of Naval Air Station Oceana near Virginia Beach” to help provide security for the secretary of defense. Since the security team had been assigned by different authorities and they’d never worked together as a unit before, they hadn’t been briefed on the entire makeup of the contingent. But they all knew about the location of SEAL Team Six, and no more questions were asked of Marshall Bissett.

“Nate Romanowski showed up at the front gate a half hour ago,” Bissett had reported. “He was with a big Black guy who said his name was Steve Richards, but he matched the description of Geronimo Jones.”

“Where are they now?” Soledad asked.

“We sent them on their way. But I have no doubt that they plan to come back.”

“This answers several questions I had,” Soledad said.

“What questions?”

“I was tipped off that Romanowski and Jones were at the Anthony house near Tie Siding yesterday. I’d sent three activists into Laramie for supplies, so I diverted them and told them to set up an ambush. Of course, they fucked it up. Now we know what happened.”

“Romanowski got the jump on them,” Bissett said. “Just like those other three up at that safe house near Pinedale.”

“Exactly right. And now, after a long absence, he’s on our doorstep the night before we launch.”

“That’s a problem,” Bissett said.

“I’ll handle it,” Soledad said. “I need to make a call.”

Which he did, two minutes later, to Twelve Sleep County sheriff Jackson Bishop. As he’d promised months before, Bishop answered his burner phone right away.

“What?” Bishop said. “I’m kind of busy at the moment. I met this new barmaid at the Stockman’s Bar and she came home with me…”

“Everything is on track for Battle Mountain,” Soledad said bluntly. “But we’ve got a Romanowski problem. I need you to do what we talked about.”

“Now?” Jackson asked, obviously distressed about it. “Tonight?”

“No. You can’t break into their house. Do it tomorrow, when she’s the most vulnerable.”

“What am I going to do with a two-year-old girl?” Jackson said.

“Just hold her and wait to hear from me.”

“Jesus, Axel. This is bad.”

“It’s necessary.”

“I’m going to lose my job over this.”

“We all make sacrifices,” Soledad said, and punched off.

—

The anarchists consisted of six men and four women, and they’d come from all over the country. All had been students at various elite universities, and they’d participated in demonstrations, walkouts, protests, marches, campus encampments, and acts of disobedience or violence that led to their expulsion (or, in a couple of cases in Ivy League schools, their graduation with honors).

Axel had recruited them by arriving at their campus encampments and providing funds for tents and food. He also gave fiery speeches, telling them that he was one of them and he was just as against the oppressors as they were. He railed against the patriarchy and the military-industrial complex, and he led them in mantras where they chanted scripts sent to them on their iPhones. He told them he’d been radicalized and now believed in their commitment to resistance and their wish to overthrow capitalism and the American government. And that he was there to help them do it.

Basically, Soledad told them whatever they wanted to hear. He kept a list of most-fervent true believers, and he kept in touch with them via secure texts and messages. He promised he would lead them on an act of resistance that would strike a blow to the oppressors that they would never forget.

When he’d built his list up to sixteen hardcore believers, he summoned them to the old mining ghost town and started their training in weapons and tactics. Although none of them were natural warriors and a few recoiled at the sight of guns, they eventually came around. They believed in their cause enough to take up arms and use them. He never told them about the three people he’d sent to occupy his safe house near Pinedale, where they’d run up against Nate Romanowski. No great loss there, except for Bethany. Bethany he’d liked.

But in his heart, Soledad despised them all. They were entitled, bitter, dirty, and profoundly ignorant of history. He didn’t even like looking at them sitting there with their nose rings, multicolored hair, bored expressions, COVID masks, and Palestinian kaffiyehs.

Easily replaceable cannon fodder, as far as he was concerned. But they could still be useful if they did what they were told.

And there was the added benefit that he wouldn’t feel any remorse later when he either cut them loose, set them up, or abandoned them.

It was a trait he shared with the Centurions gathered at the ranch in the nearby valley.

—

The vets on his team were different. He admired them. Like him, they’d all fought overseas in different conflicts: Iraq, Afghanistan, Syria, Sudan, the Congo, or Somalia. These vets had signed up to protect their country and had instead been sent to places to fight that they’d barely heard of, all so the Centurions could fly their private jets to Wyoming and play cowboy for a weekend.

Allison, code-named Double-A, who had infiltrated the ranch staff and was fully on the inside, had been at Abbey Gate. She was the de facto commander of the group of veterans, all of whom were male, and they respected and obeyed her.

Bissett, the second-in-command, had received extensive injuries and a prominent facial scar when the MRAP he was riding in was blown up by an IED in Iraq. Two of his buddies had died on the scene, and two others were severely injured. After returning to the States, Bissett had spent years fighting with the Veterans Administration over medical treatment and facial reconstruction surgery, and the fight had turned him from a patriotic ex-soldier into a man passionately antiwar.

Both had been forbidden to talk about their experiences in the military. Both would be getting their revenge very soon in a very personal way on the people who had ruined their lives.

Although he admired the vets on his team, Soledad was wary of them. Unlike the others, who knew nothing, the vets were competent, skilled, and independent thinkers. He was careful around them. He never spoke of his own history except the betrayal by his superiors, which they could understand. Not once did he talk about the things he’d done or the people he’d killed in the intervening years.

Soledad could conceive of a scenario where the vets turned on him.

But if he could hold them together for one more day, he had no doubt they’d complete their assignments.

—

Using the tip of his crutch on the projected image to illustrate their strategy, Soledad said, “This is a Google Map image of Battle Mountain and the ranch. We’re on this side of the mountain, and the ranch is over the top in the valley. You can see it here.”

He moved the crutch slowly from the tiny scattered buildings of Soledad City over the summit of the mountain to a ragged white line that ran vertically on the mountainside to the west.

“Here’s the granite ridge that overlooks the ranch. It has enough cover that no one from below can see you. To get there, it’s seven miles of rough country. It’ll take most of the day on foot, and we’ll send along the support ATVs with water, food, and ammo. But you’ve got to move slowly and quietly and stay in the trees. We don’t know about any overhead surveillance, but we don’t want to risk your movement if there is. As you know, the government likes nothing better than spying on its citizens.”

That resulted in a low rumble of support from the activists, Soledad noted. Two of the vets nodded their heads.

“Stay behind the ridge and don’t look over it at the ranch. Keep out of sight. We can’t afford to have some dude ranch cowboy look up and see your head skylined against the sky. Stay hunkered down there until you get the word from me over the radio. Got that? Next image.”

A closer aerial view of the B-Lazy-U appeared.

“Here is the ranch yard layout. Here is the lodge, the cabins, and the lawn. Right here, even though it’s not in this image, is where they put up a stage to welcome the new Centurions into the order. The guests will all be sitting on the lawn watching them and sipping cocktails. There will be loud music, and from what I understand, some fireworks. Do not react to either.

“We’ll know when the ceremony is over from our people inside,” he said. “That’s when all of the guests will leave the lawn and regroup in the lodge for cocktails and such. Security will be very light—all of their security guards will still be at the checkpoints out on the road. No one will be looking for an attack from the mountain.”

Soledad gestured to the vets. “You’ll lead the attack, as we discussed. Everybody else will follow them down through the trees. Don’t break up or get ahead of them.”

He moved his crutch around the exterior of the lodge building. “There are five doors into and out of the building. Here are the main doors above the front porch. There are also two exits on each side of the lodge and two in back. This is the loading dock, and there’s a door next to that.

“You all know which entrance you’ve been assigned. Make sure you’re with your team and find cover and get a clear view of your door. Once you hear shooting inside, you know to aim at the door and spray anyone coming out. Keep an eye on the windows on the ground floor, second floor, and third floor. It’s possible they might try to open the windows and escape. Don’t let them.”

He turned to the vets. “You’ll be the first in. Two through the front, one through each side door. Our people inside will come from the kitchen in back, so the Centurions will be surrounded on all sides. Go for high-value targets first. I’ve provided you with their photos so you know who they are. Be careful not to get caught in a cross fire, and keep an eye out for guests who might be armed.

“There will be collateral damage, like we discussed,” Soledad said. “Staff, wives, and caterers will be in that crowd. Try to spare them if you can, but don’t worry if a few of them go down. It might not be possible to avoid that.”

“They knew what they were getting into when they took the job,” one of the anarchists added bitterly.

“That’s right,” Soledad said.

To the vets, he said, “Walk the room when it’s over. Make sure you got all the right ones. Double-tap the high-value targets, just to be sure.”

To the activists, Soledad said, “When the shooting stops, you’ll know all is clear. I’ll let you know over the radio as well. That’s when our inside shooters will need to exit the lodge. Don’t get too excited and make a mistake and shoot them when they come out. Our guys will be wearing full body armor, helmets, and balaclavas. Do not take a shot at one of them.”

“Or we’ll kill you all,” one of the vets grumbled.

“Go back to your dorms and get ready,” Soledad said. “Be ready to move at dawn.”

The vets left immediately, anxious to gear up.

Then, as the full room gathered themselves up to leave the old hotel, Soledad said to the anarchists, “All your lives you listened to your professors telling you about the good old days when they marched in the streets and fought against the pigs. But they never did something as important as this. You’re about to be heroes of the resistance, true children of the revolution, and people will know your names.”

When they were gone, he smiled to himself and took smug pride in choosing the people he’d gathered together in Soledad City. They’d swallow anything.

—

In the next room, Mark Eisele struggled against his constraints. He had heard it all, and until Soledad’s briefing, he would never have believed what they were about to do.

He recalled seeing the B-Lazy-U Ranch from the top of the ridge when he and Rankin had been shot up by Double-A and her team. Now he knew why they were up there: to scout out the target.

He had to alert his father-in-law, the governor. He had to alert anyone who would listen.

Tears came to his eyes as he strained against the nylon straps that held him down, but he managed to stretch them enough that at least the top one had an inch of slack in it.

He reached up and slipped his right hand under the strap with his palm against his chest. The shoulder wound screamed at him and his buttocks wound throbbed.

Eisele soon felt his fingertips under his chin, but he couldn’t advance his hand any farther. His arm was stuck at the elbow by the strap.

Then, with a grunt, he was able to get his arm free. The skin of his forearm burned from chafing it against the underside of the strap.

When the door opened and Soledad looked inside to check on him, Eisele quickly lowered his free arm down along his body and lay still. Would Soledad notice that his arm was on top of the constraint?

Eisele went cold with fear.

Should he continue to feign sleep or try to talk his way out of the situation? His heart whumped in his chest.

He listened over the sound of whooshing blood in his ears for the zzzzzt sound of Soledad unsheathing his long blade from his crutch.

Then, outside the room, there was a disturbance in the hotel lobby. Someone came back in and slammed the door.

“Axel?” a male voice called out.

“In here, Sergeant.”

A figure approached Soledad from behind and said, “We’ve got a problem.”

“What now?”

“Two of the anarchists say they won’t budge until you lead them in the land acknowledgment. That purple-haired girl is one of ’em, and her boyfriend, the pencil-neck geek.”

“You’re kidding me,” Axel spat.

“I wish I was. Those people you brought in here are children, and children throw tantrums, because nobody ever told them to knock it off. I think you should pistol-whip those two and show ’em we’re not screwing around here.”

There was a pause as Soledad considered his options. Eisele remained still.

“That might make a few more of them revolt,” Soledad said. “We need them all, at least for now.”

“So what are you going to do?” the sergeant asked.

“I’ll go lead them in the fucking land acknowledgment,” Soledad said. Then his voice got icy. “We can deal with those idiots after all of this is over.”

“If that’s what you think.”

Eisele listened as Soledad left the room. His gait was unmistakable on the hardwood floor of the lobby: a footstep followed by the thunk of his crutch pad. But he continued to fake sleep, and he’d managed to slip his free arm under the sheet to conceal it. The sergeant hadn’t noticed.

—

When the sergeant was gone, Eisele slipped his free arm out from beneath the sheet and reached down on the side of his bed until he felt the cold metal of the ratchet tie-down mechanism. He could reach it, but he couldn’t turn his head to view it. He used his fingers to trace the ratchet, trying to locate the release, aware that he had trouble with the procedure even with two hands. Rankin had chided him about it.

Could he trip the release and loosen the strap?

He decided to give it an hour or two before trying. Eisele wanted to make sure that Soledad’s people had left the area.