Fortress

57

Confederate Firearms was in the Northside district of Houston: a windowless, metal, single-storey structure in a street of anonymous warehouses. He parked Kyle’s van and went inside.

Even to someone with his experience of weaponry, the sheer scale of the place was breathtaking. Rack after rack of rifles, pistols and assault weapons and even a ‘ladies’ section in one corner with small, pink-finished handguns for girls. Welcome to Texas.

Colburn was behind the counter: late fifties or thereabouts, thin, with a florid John Wayne kind of face and small, squinting eyes that stared at Tom suspiciously. He was flanked by two larger men, one of whom looked younger, their checked shirts bulging over their belts.

‘Good morning!’ Tom figured a friendly demeanour, plus the accent, might help break the ice, along with a few knowledgeable but generic questions about the merchandise. He glanced up at a wooden plaque with the motto ‘sic semper tyrannis’. ‘Thus always to tyrants’.

Colburn nodded. ‘That there’s the state motto of Virginia, my home state.’

‘And the words shouted by John Wilkes Booth after he shot Lincoln, I believe.’

Colburn nodded again, slowly. ‘God rest his soul.’

‘Lincoln’s or Booth’s?’

Colburn’s mouth came close to what might have been described as a smile. ‘Ain’t it obvious?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘You figuring on making any purchase today?’

‘Absolutely.’ Tom took a step closer and lowered his voice. ‘Actually, I was also hoping to find out about Refugee Resettlement Watch.’

Colburn changed his tone. And the two assistants moved closer. Their earnest expressions struck Tom as faintly comical. Their name tags said ‘Don’ and ‘Phil’, one late forties, the other maybe sixty: weightlifters, but sluggish with it. ‘What’s your interest in that?’

‘Well, you’ve seen the news about Britain?’

‘We sure have. You guys having a lot of trouble with your Muslims?’

‘Not just them.’

He reeled off a random list of gypsies, Africans, Indians and other ‘undesirables’, with a bit about the ‘Jew-controlled media’ for good measure.

Phil and Don started nodding. Tom kept his gaze guileless and open.

‘I believe you’ve got the same problem we have.’

Colburn kept still, his eyes on Tom.

‘And what problem exactly might that be?’

Whatever brand of fascist Colburn was, he was no fool. Tom guessed he’d been under the spotlight of the security services at some point, so wouldn’t be about to share his deepest-held views with just anybody who walked in. He would have to make the running.

‘But Muslims are the worst problem. They’re the ones who bombed our capital on Seven/Seven. They’re the ones trying to destroy Christian values and bring down Western society. And it’s reached the point that back home some of us want to do something about it.’

‘Like what?’

‘Well, you know what it’s like there.’ Tom gestured at the merchandise. ‘We don’t have the… resources you guys do.’

‘You said it, boy.’ Don grinned widely, revealing intermittent brown teeth. ‘Judgin’ by what I seen on the news, it’s gettin’ a little outta hand over there, wouldn’t you say?’

‘We do say. And that’s why I’m here.’

Colburn seemed to be buying it. Tom breathed out a little. ‘This is it. And I gather you’ve got a particularly big Muslim problem right here in Houston.’

‘Sure have. And it ain’t going away.’

‘What do the authorities say? Are they concerned?’

The ice broke. Colburn thought this was hilarious. He looked at Don and Phil. Don joined in the laughter. Phil was examining something on his phone.

‘Concerned? Rollin’ out the red fuckin’ carpet’s more like it.’ Tom put on a slightly puzzled face: keen to learn.

‘See, they’re real good at making the right friends. Money talks loudest here, and some of these guys got serious megabucks. One of ’em, he’s got billions coming in from somewhere.’

‘Who’s that?’

‘You seen the mosque going up? The imam there, Zuabi, he’s loaded, enough to wage global jihad right from his pulpit. But he’s wised up. He’s got PR men and lawyers and all, got the mayor and Chamber of Commerce kissin’ his dirty fuckin’ brown ass.’

Don chipped in: ‘He’s a fuckin’ Syrian, for Pete’s sake. Very pious and God-fearin’. Only it ain’t God he’ll be fearing, right about—’

Tom saw Colburn throw a warning glance at Don, who stopped in mid-sentence.

‘That right?’ said Tom, casting an admiring eye over the racks of guns surrounding them.

‘Hey, Lester, over here a second.’

Phil had wandered towards the front of the shop and was looking out of the door at Kyle’s van.

‘I’m shootin’ the breeze with our English friend here.’

But Phil clearly wanted his boss’s attention urgently. It had to be the van. As if they were telepathically connected, all three now had their weapons in their hands, each of them close enough to get a clean shot but not so close that Tom could do anything about it. Welcome to Texas.