CHAPTER 90 Sampson
Sampson
I’M DRIVING AIDEN PHILLIPS’S Dodge Charger down a dark road. He’s in the passenger seat, his pistol resting in his lap. Both of my guns are in the trunk, loaded but way out of reach. I’m behind the wheel, but Phillips is in control.
At least for now.
I swerve around a dead possum in the center of the lane. The car handles like a tank.
“What’s wrong with this thing?” I ask. “It feels heavy.”
“Armor plating underneath,” says Phillips. “Adds a quarter ton or so. I welded it on myself.”
That answer matches up with all the weapons and tactical gear I saw in the trunk.
“What are you, Aiden? Some kind of doomsday prepper?”
“No. I’m a survivalist. I believe the government could come after us at any time. When they do, I’ll be ready.”
We’re approaching Reedville, Virginia, a couple hours south of DC, not far from the Chesapeake Bay. It’s an isolated area dotted with farmhouses and trailers. Not another car on the road.
We’re looking for a man named J. T. Polermo.
Phillips showed me his picture before we left my house. The two of them were together in DC on a two-week leave from Afghanistan, just one block from the Capitol, both in military camo gear, getting ready to join the march that day in January.
According to Phillips, he and Polermo had split a liberated supply of C-4 and smuggled it into the States.
Phillips says that Polermo is behind the bombings. “But I’m the one being framed for it.”
For some reason, I believe him.
We’ve spent most of the ride not speaking, listening to right-wing radio. Phillips’s choice. To me, it all sounds like batshit conspiracy theories and white-guy grievances. But I can tell that Phillips is soaking it up, nodding to every word. “Damn straight,” he mutters now and then.
I stand the screeds for as long as I can, then reach over and switch off the radio. I expect Phillips to react, but he just stares out the window. I want to get him talking again. Find out what I might be walking into.
“So that’s the last time you saw Polermo?” I ask. “At the insurrection?”
“You mean the march for electoral integrity?”
“If you say so.” I never argue politics with a man holding a gun.
“Yeah,” says Phillips. “I lost track of him after that. We had different ideas about how to get back at the system.”
“You mean you wanted to just limit yourself to trashing the People’s House?”
I feel Phillips tense up. “I never went inside the building,” he claims. “Got pepper-sprayed just the same.” He gestures with his pistol barrel. “Take this turn.”
I ease off onto a dirt road. I feel the undercarriage scrape. Now we’re passing crop rows and farm equipment. In the distance I can make out the glow from a small ranch house. Nothing around it.
“Cut your lights,” says Phillips.
I turn them off and follow the road by feel. The high grass brushes the outside mirror, and the tires roll along deep grooves in the dirt. The chassis creaks and rumbles.
I wish we had some backup. But Phillips has my phone. Wouldn’t let me make a call. He says he won’t trust anybody but me. Not sure why I have that honor, but so far, it seems to be keeping me alive.
“You think Polermo will talk to you?” I ask.
“No, John. I think he’ll kill me. Or try to. We need to get the drop on him. And it won’t be easy. He was an escape and evasion trainer. He trained me.”
“How do you know he’s even here?”
“Give me some credit,” says Phillips. “Do you think you’re the only one I’ve been tracking?”
My left tire hits a dip in the road. Then …
Bam!
I get slammed against the door as the car flips over, my side down. I see a flash of flames from outside. My ears are ringing.
“IED!” Phillips shouts. “Get out!”
He releases his seat belt and falls on top of me. I unclip my belt and climb out behind him through the broken window, then fall on the ground, scraping my leg on a piece of twisted metal.
“Get the guns!” Phillips shouts. “He’s ready for us!”
I crawl around to the back of the car. The trunk is blown open.
My Ruger and my Glock are lying against the sidewall, ammo clips scattered all over.
There’s also two armored vests, cartons of water, and packets of survival food.
I grab the guns and a few extra clips, trying to clear my head.
Phillips reaches past me and unstraps a rifle case from deep in the trunk.
He unzips it and pulls out an M4 carbine.
He hands me a ballistic vest and slides the other one over his head.
Thick smoke is billowing from under the car, obscuring my vision. Phillips pulls me away from the vehicle and into the high grass beside the road.
He sticks his pistol in his belt and grips the automatic rifle, tightens the telescopic sight. I jam a clip into my Glock and slide my Ruger under my belt.
Phillips points across the expanse of tall grass. “We need to move fast. He’ll be setting up a field of fire.”
And just like that, I’m in combat again.
I grab Phillips’s sleeve. “Aiden! If this is really the guy, I want him alive.”
“Copy that,” he says. “But he doesn’t feel the same about us.”