Shadows Reel (Joe Pickett #22)(42)

Turned out, Tristan Richardson had grown up wealthy in the Highlands Ranch suburb of Denver. His father was an insurance company executive and his mother was a buyer for an outdoor sports clothing chain. He’d graduated from the University of Colorado in Boulder and . . . he lived at home.

Tristan hated his parents. He hated the government. He hated all politicians, whether local, state, or federal. They were all corrupt fascists, and their party didn’t matter. He hated the police. He hated capitalism most of all, and he was determined to “fight the fascists who benefitted from it at the expense of the downtrodden, the oppressed, and those without a voice or rights.”

He said he was “anti-fascist,” just like the Allied troops that invaded Hitler’s Europe on D-Day.

While he went on, Geronimo scrolled through Tristan’s iPhone 12 Pro. He’d gotten Tristan’s password earlier by pointing the triple-barrel shotgun at his knees.

Tristan seemed befuddled by the fact that Geronimo was distracted and wasn’t more sympathetic to his views.

Nate didn’t care about any of that.

“How do you know Axel Soledad?” he asked Tristan.

Tristan said his associates referred to the man by his first name primarily. Axel.

Axel was kind of a patron saint of antifa cells across the country, Tristan said. Axel had set up legal defense funds with sympathetic attorneys in most of the major western cities to bail out those that got arrested, and he funded the defense for antifa who actually appeared in court. Axel was influential with many local district attorneys and he encouraged them to release people who’d been arrested without charging them.

Axel had become more important in the past few years, Tristan said. He’d become more active. He was like a ghost who knew where to show up and when at just the right time to provide weapons, food, tents, clothing, and spiritual backup. He was unbelievably well-connected.

Even though no one was certain where he lived, Axel knew where to be. Whenever there was serious street action, Axel was there. Portland, Seattle, Denver, Minneapolis, Los Angeles, San Francisco, New York, Kenosha, Omaha, Louisville, Washington, D.C. His support kept the movement simmering at all times.

He was a legend.

Geronimo was more focused on the nuts and bolts of what had happened the night before.

“Who knew about the cache of weapons he dropped off?”

“Everybody. The geocache site went out over social media,” Tristan said.

“When you say everybody, do you just mean antifa assholes like you?”

“No—everybody.”

“They use Signal, Telegram, and Gab and other software to communicate,” Geronimo explained to Nate. “Encrypted shit no one can trace. Everybody knows where the weapons are located except for the cops.”

Tristan nodded his head in agreement.

Geronimo said to Tristan, “Looking through your contacts here, I can’t find his name.”

“He’s not listed by his name,” Tristan said, blushing with apparent embarrassment.

“What’s he listed under?”

“Shaman.”

Nate rolled his eyes while Geronimo located the contact details.

“Found him,” he said. “Does he know you well enough that if we sent him a text, he’d respond?”

“Probably not,” Tristan said. “Plus, he doesn’t communicate by text because someone might intercept it.”

“Sticks to threads on encrypted sites, then?”

“Yes.”

Gernonimo suddenly looked up. “Who selects the items in the weapons caches he leaves?” he asked.

“Axel, I guess,” Tristan said. “It’s not like we place an order or anything.”

Nate was confused by the question.

“I’m keeping your phone,” Geronimo declared.

Tristan’s reaction was visceral. He thrashed and tried to kick out of his bindings. “No—you can’t take it. You have no right to take my phone,” he shouted.

“You don’t have any rights on my property,” Geronimo said. He patted his shotgun and arched his eyebrows when he said it.

“Please, don’t do that,” Tristan begged. There were tears in his eyes.

“Why is he going to Seattle?” Nate asked.

Tristan said, “There’s a lot going on up there, man. A lot brewing right now. We’ve got the fascist Nazis on the run up there. It’s the place to be.” Then: “Can you give me back my phone?”



* * *



—

They’d left Tristan Richardson on the side of US 287 near Tie Siding, Wyoming. There wasn’t a single building in sight and the only man-made objects were electrical transmission lines in the distance and wind turbines in various stages of construction. The wind howled and rocked the van.

Nate watched Tristan fade to a tiny black dot in his rearview mirror.

He said to Geronimo, “I’m kind of surprised how few antifas there were in Denver. I thought there was more.”

“Not really,” Geronimo said. “People out there think there are thousands of them in every city. But from what I can tell, there’s just a loud few. Like I said, they could be rounded up in one night, but it doesn’t happen.”

“You have a really nice house and I like your falcon setup.”