Masked Prey (Lucas Davenport #30)(25)

Gibson, it seemed, was more than a paper-pushing assistant and researcher. He held a Maryland private investigator’s license and concealed carry permit, had taken a three-month “executive protection” bodyguard course, including tactical driving, was an ongoing student at a martial arts studio that specialized in Krav Maga, and had completed a Maryland state police–approved handgun training course. Concealed carry permits were tough to get in Maryland, which suggested that either Gibson or Lang had a connection, or had demonstrated a clear threat to one of them.

The Greene Mountain Boys—a wordplay on the “Green Mountain Boys,” a fractious group of Vermont militia during the American Revolutionary era—were the creation of Richard Greene, a right-wing podcaster and shoe store operator in Annapolis, Maryland. Greene had served as a Navy officer, reaching the rank of lieutenant, before leaving to run the shoe store, which he’d taken over from his parents. His podcasts had a couple of thousand followers and when he called out the troops to participate in a political action, twenty or thirty would turn up to march.

He had finished the Greene file, and had started thumbing through the file on the American National Militia, when Greene called back. “Charlie Lang got in touch and said you’d be calling me,” Greene said. “I get a lot of junk calls so I didn’t pick up when you called earlier—I looked up your message after I talked to Charlie. He told me what you’re doing.”

Lucas said he’d like to talk face-to-face and Greene agreed to meet him halfway between Washington and Annapolis that afternoon, at a Panera Bread restaurant. “How will I know you?”

“I’ll know you, if your podcast picture is recent,” Lucas said, looking at his computer screen.

“Yeah, it is,” Greene said. “See you there, Marshal.”

Lucas set the ANM file aside to listen to a couple of Greene podcasts, not quite broadcast-quality rants about America going into the toilet because of the Usual Suspects. When Lucas finished listening, he wasn’t sure whether Greene was a true believer, or a con artist jumping on the bandwagon most likely to get him attention.

Lucas went back to reading the file on the ANM, which apparently had the goal of eliminating most government above the county level, although they would make provisions for a small military, and for some infrastructure coordination on things like highways.

The feds had little information on the group and had been unable to pinpoint its actual leader, who operated mostly through the more obscure reaches of the internet. He wasn’t entirely faceless, though: he apparently had shown up, from time to time, at meetings of ANM cells. The cell leaders knew his face, but not his real name. Cameras were forbidden at all cell meetings, and members were required to leave cell phones in their cars; personal sidearms were permitted.

There were no connections between cells. Even if a cell was penetrated by a government operator, he or she could discover only the names of the local cell members, usually less than a dozen people. All connections were through internet “dead drops,” which were used only once. After a dead drop was used, “Old John” or somebody else in the leadership group would issue a cell leader the location of the next dead drop. Since Old John picked the cell leaders, apparently on the basis of personal connections, getting an undercover agent chosen as a cell leader was virtually impossible.

It was all fairly sophisticated and Lucas was fascinated. He had a growing feeling, as he read, that the group might actually be dangerous—not that it might someday overthrow the government, but in the sense that it might kill somebody or even some large number of people. There was an intelligence working there. The overall goals might be absurd, but the organizational work and tactics were intriguing.



* * *



—

ON HIS WAY out of the Watergate to meet Greene, Lucas ran into a plainclothes security man for the hotel, an ex-cop named Jeff Toomes, who he’d met during his last stay at the Watergate, during which there’d been a firefight outside Lucas’s hotel room.

“That was a hell of a thing,” Toomes said as they shook hands. “Man, the shit got thick after the shooting upstairs. We had the FBI, the Secret Service, the DC cops up our ass for freakin’ weeks. Then I read about marshals involved in those shootings over in Virginia, and I figured that was you.”

“Yeah, I was there,” Lucas said. He lied a little: “We never did get the shooter, though.”

The shooter was dead, though not at the hands of the cops.

“Can’t win them all, brother,” Toomes said. “Listen, if you need anything . . .”



* * *



—

THEY TALKED FOR ANOTHER MINUTE OR SO, then Lucas left, heading for Maryland and his meeting with Greene. Ten minutes later, he got a call from an unknown number, but with a 202 Washington area code.

“Davenport.”

“Lucas? This is Jeff Toomes, again, from the Watergate. I got your number through the reservation system.”

“Yeah, what’s up?”

“Maybe nothing, maybe something,” Toomes said. “I’d been walking around the garage for ten minutes or so when I ran into you. A couple cars came and went, but nothing unusual. I was in the stairwell when you drove out and I heard a car engine crank right as you were leaving, but I hadn’t seen anybody going to their car. I stuck my head back out and there was a car leaving, moving fast. A dark blue Toyota RAV4. I got a feeling about it. Like he’d been waiting in his car for you to leave and he was hurrying to catch up.”