The Wrong Man

47

Randall Manning and Bruce McCabe walked along the floor of the domed building. Everything had been restored to normal, the shell casings picked up, the farm machinery returned to its rightful place. The men were finishing up their shooting practice outside.

Manning had considered having the target practice inside to maintain cover, but decided against it. The operation would take place outside, and he wanted the men accustomed to the elements. If it was sunny, he wanted them used to shooting with the sun in their eyes. If it was raining, they had to be prepared for that. Today the sky was clear and the sunlight was strong. Three weeks ago, they’d practiced in wind and snow.

Everyone had eaten. It had been a full Thanksgiving feast that Manning had catered in. Like Manning himself, none of these men had anyplace else to be. None of them had family to speak of. That was no accident. It was why they’d been chosen. It had been a slow, methodical search for months, finding just the right candidates-disaffected, angry, violent individuals with no familial connections and either nationalistic or outright racist views. Finding them, to Manning’s surprise, had been the easy part. It was winnowing them down to the best among them that had taken more of his time.

“I need you to take me seriously,” said McCabe, a little looser after a couple glasses of wine. The soldiers hadn’t touched the alcohol, but McCabe and Manning had.

“I’m taking you very seriously, Bruce.”

“We have a chance to do this right, but this lawyer Kolarich is a threat.”

“Then we deal with the threat.”

“We deal with the threat and then we wait and let things pass,” McCabe insisted. “We can’t get rid of him and then turn around days later and carry out this thing.”

“We didn’t choose the timing, Bruce.”

“But we did, Randy. I understand the symbolism of December seventh. I do. But there are other dates that could work. We shouldn’t do this now.” McCabe stopped walking and waited for Manning to do the same. Manning turned to face him.

“I’m deadly serious, Randy.”

“What about your wife, Bruce? What about her?”

McCabe frowned. Color came to his face. “Don’t tell me about my wife. I’m not saying we shouldn’t do this. I’m saying not now.”

Behind McCabe, Manning saw movement. Patrick Cahill, one of Manning’s recruits, slipped out from behind a large tractor.

“Okay,” said Manning. “Okay, Bruce.”

“Really? You mean it?” McCabe breathed out. His posture relaxed.

Then Patrick Cahill moved in. He used a rope, snapping it over McCabe’s head and around his throat in one fluid motion. Manning heard a sickening crunch and desperate, gargling pleas from McCabe. McCabe struggled, his hands first going for the rope and then vainly swinging out behind him. But he was no match for Patrick Cahill, who lifted McCabe off his feet while he squeezed the life out of him.

Manning watched the whole time, until the last twitch of McCabe’s leg, until his body went entirely limp and Cahill dragged him away. He was surprised at the numbness he felt. Bruce had been a friend, after all. A friend who had sworn an oath to the cause and then gone back on it, but a friend no less.

Manning had come a long way in eighteen months.

Then his cell phone rang, and he answered it.

“Mr. Manning,” said the head of security. “We had visitors today.”