In The Darkness (Project Artemis #1)(5)
“If they threatened her, they could get her to do anything they wanted,” Nick said, trying to be supportive as he considered the possibility that this whole case was simply some bored socialite just trying to have fun.
Then again, why would she have some people calling themselves a militia demand money from her own father? Or was it a case that daddy held the purse strings too tight?
“Does your daughter have money of her own?”
Marshall Gilmore nodded. “More than enough for most people, I would say. She draws from a trust fund each year that pays for anything she could want.”
“Then why didn’t they just take that money?” Nick asked, hoping to get Gilmore to give more details about this trust fund.
“It can’t all be taken out at once. It’s meant to give her money for years, not to be blown all at once. It’s how my grandfather did it for his children, how my father did it for my brothers and sisters and me, and it’s how I did it for my three daughters. Anyone who wants a large sum of money would have to come to me.”
“Has anyone come to you for a large sum of money recently? Anyone you turned down perhaps? Anyone who would be desperate enough to kidnap your daughter?”
“No. They say this is to fund their anti-media, anti-wealth militia. It sounds like a bunch of utter nonsense to me, but then again, I’d never heard of any of them until last week when they kidnapped my daughter.”
“Let me see anything else they sent you. A letter, perhaps, explaining why they took her and their demands?”
Frowning, Gilmore shook his head. “The FBI has it. All I know is they don’t like money or the media, and I’m both. Now, can you get her back for me, Mr. Hanson?”
Nick nodded. “I’ll get her back for you.”
He took one last look at the picture of Persephone Gilmore in his lap and silently promised her he’d do whatever it took to get her home safely to her family. Something about the kindness in her eyes made him want to protect her, and no bullshit militia group with delusions of changing the world was going to stop him.
A few calls to friends who worked cases like he did got him little more on the National Equality Militia other than the question of who the hell they were, and as he opened up his laptop to search for details on the group, Nick wondered if they were actually anything at all. A tiny voice in the back of his mind began to doubt Marshall Gilmore’s story. Or maybe it was his daughter’s story that didn’t ring true.
Whichever it was, before he could begin the case, he needed to know what he would be walking into and who the hell these militia people were.
He typed their name into the search bar, expecting to find at least a page of articles and sites about them. What he got was three listings and then a bunch of results about other groups with similar names.
As he clicked on the first article, he mumbled, “Some bunch of revolutionaries. I guess that’s what you get when your main goal is equality. Nobody gives a damn about that anymore.”
Scanning the page, he found out the group’s main beliefs. They had some problem with wealthy people making more money and media companies making money or some idiotic notion like that. Nick rolled his eyes. The foolishness of groups like these never ceased to amaze him. People made money. It wasn’t a crime. Well, not usually, and when it was, the authorities found out and made them pay. Sometimes in jail time, and sometimes in money.
Railing against people making money seemed a ridiculous thing to organize around, but as he continued to read about how they’d staged protests outside major news corporation buildings in New York and Los Angeles, he had to grudgingly admit they seemed sincere in their intentions.
But now that sincerity had taken a wrong turn into fanatical with the kidnapping of Persephone Gilmore. Marching in front of office buildings with picket signs was one thing. Taking the daughter of the most powerful media magnate in the country was an entirely different thing.
Zeroing in on the images of the people in the militia, he saw one common thread. All white guys. Angry white guys hating the world for what it had done to them.
He’d fit right in.
*
After getting a tip from an old friend who worked in counterterrorism in the D.C. Metropolitan Police that some of the militia’s supporters liked to hang out at a dive bar called Trusser’s in Manassas, Nick headed down there dressed in his oldest jeans, a faded black t-shirt, and shit kicker work boots he found in the back of his closet. He hadn’t worn them since one of the first jobs he did after leaving the FBI when he had to go undercover as a gardener to find out who was stalking his client. They still felt like fifty pound weights every time he lifted his feet to walk, just as they had years ago on that case, and they made his gait look way cockier than usual as he made his way to the end of the bar.
The bartender with a ratty beard and pot belly walked over to stand in front of him and gave Nick a look like he felt put out having to wait on him. “What do you want to drink?”
He glanced down the bar at the taps and answered, “Give me a Grant’s Tomb.”
Not a beer drinker, he nonetheless liked the name of the beer he saw on the tap. It reminded him of that old joke about who was buried in Grant’s tomb.
A few seconds later, the man set a glass of amber colored liquid down in front of him and walked away. Nick took a drink, instantly decided it was the worst thing he’d ever had in his mouth, and looked around the bar to see if any of the militia’s supporters were there.