Serve & Protect: A Mac Davis Thriller, #3

By L.J. Breedlove

A CALL TO ARMS

Seattle Police Lieutenant Nick Rodriguez is worried about a growing number of domestic violence calls where the accused is a gun hoarder. Worried enough that he gives Mac Davis a call one morning at 2 a.m. to the house where a man just shot his wife and two children.

 

Mac Davis, a local cop reporter and former Marine who might qualify as a gun hoarder himself, doesn't like 2 a.m. calls to crime scenes. He especially doesn't like it when he watches them haul out body bags that are obviously children.

 

It isn't the first case.

 

It won't be the last.

 

Someone is building a network of white-collar weekend warriors. Someone wants a bunch of angry white men with large arsenals.

He's called Sensei. And he wants Mac to join up. If not? Well, then Sensei has other plans for him. Plans Mac won't like.

 

Book 3 in the Mac Davis thrillers featuring a Marine turned cop reporter in Seattle.

• Language: English
• Publisher: L.J. Breedlove
• Release date: Jun 7, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393694199

L.J. Breedlove

L.J. Breedlove writes suspense novels of all kinds, police procedurals, historical mysteries, romantic suspense and political thrillers. And now a paranormal suspense series — Wolf Harbor. She's been a journalist, a professor, and now a fiction writer. (And a ranch hand, oceanography lab assistant, librarian assistant, cider factory line worker, and a typesetter. Oh, and worked in the laundry of an old folks home, something that inspired her to become an over-educated adult who would never be that desperate for a paycheck again.) She covered politics, among other things, taught media and politics, among other things, and writes political novels. You've been warned.

Book preview

Serve & Protect

A Mac Davis thriller, Book 3

A well-regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.

—Second Amendment to the Constitution of the United States

Chapter 1

(Seattle, Washington, Monday, April 28, 2014)

Mackensie Davis — Mac — hated early mornings, although this could be viewed as a late Sunday night. He considered that. Nope. He’d been asleep. That made it morning, although he conceded that at 2 a.m. it was a stretch, because it was as dark as Hades out here. And at 40 degrees and raining for the third day in a row, it was a miserable time to be called out on a news story.

Mac wasn’t fond of cops either. He considered them an unpleasant necessity of his job as a cop reporter at the Seattle Examiner. Something he had to put up with, like early morning deadlines. Which was about how most of the cops thought of him. He reconsidered that. Well, most of them didn’t see why they had to put up with him at all. He shrugged. He hadn’t lost any sleep over what cops thought of him when he was a teen running the streets of Seattle. He didn’t see why he should care now.

But combine a wet, early — really early — call out and cops? A dozen cops maybe more? And he was in a foul mood.

A really foul mood.

And that was before he saw them carry out the victim, victims actually, and from the size of the body bags, he knew it was a woman and two children.

Shit, Mac said.

Lt. Nick Rodriguez looked at him and grunted. Rodriguez was a big man, mid-40s, carrying a few more pounds than he should. Hate these, he said.

Mac, scowled. He matched Rodriguez in height, 6-foot-1, but at 29, he was leaner and went to great lengths to stay that way. Who are they?

Elena Martin, 29, a daughter, age 10, and son, age 6. Neighbor heard shots, called it in. They were dead when cops arrived. We’ve got a BOLO out for her husband, George Martin, 34, blond hair/blue eyes, 5-foot-9.

So why was I called out here? Why are you out here? Mac asked. Those are details I could have gotten at 6 a.m. when I make my blotter calls. This was the seventh set of gunshot deaths this month. Mac didn’t like it, but gunshot deaths weren’t page 1 news.

Rodriguez was silent. Grim. Mac wondered what was going on with him. Of all the cops Mac interacted with, he found Rodriguez tolerable. He thought it was probably mutual — a combination of begrudging respect and shared battles.

Last fall’s battle had been ugly: Army of God had attempted to blow up seven Planned Parenthood clinics in the city. Rodriguez had been instrumental in limiting the damage. Half of his supervisors were praising him for his fine work. The other half? Split between those who blamed him for not stopping the catastrophe completely and those who thought he’d gone outside his job description and resented his interference. And a few detractors may have been helping out the Army of God. Maybe.

The attack also revealed a growing problem of white militants within the police department. Cops lost their jobs over it — those who hadn’t shown up to back up other cops. Those who abandoned their surveillance posts. And in one case, a cop who had violated procedures to release a suspect from the holding pen — a suspect who later attempted to take several civilians hostage.

Mac had been afraid Rodriquez would just quit. But the man was a good cop. He’d been a cop since he was 18, and he really couldn’t envision being anything else. It appeared he was toughing it out.

Stubborn bastard.

And his supervisors couldn’t fire him. Seattle residents saw him as a hero, in large part due to Mac’s reporting. That made Rodriguez uncomfortable.

It wasn’t something Mac was comfortable with either.

Come out back, Rodriguez said finally.

The house was a nice, two-story Seattle-style bungalow: Big front porch with river rock pillars, wood siding painted a sage gray, with trim painted in two or three colors. It wasn’t that different than the house Mac shared with his aunt on Queen Anne. Mac’s home was on a slope, and the garage was under it facing out to the street. This house was on Capitol Hill and on flat ground. The two-car garage was separate from the house, and set back along the left side. The two men walked silently back to the garage, and Rodriguez opened a side door, and flipped on a light switch.

They were killed out here? Mac asked puzzled.

No, they died inside the house, Rodriguez answered. Go ahead, take a look here. Then I’ll show you the house.

Mac stepped inside the garage. Shit! he said looking around. Every inch of space on the walls held weapons. Rifles from AK-47s to an old shotgun as well as countless handguns. He tried to estimate the number of weapons, 40? Maybe 50? More?

Was he a dealer? Mac asked thinking about the guns he had. His aunt rolled her eyes and teased him about the number of guns he kept hidden about the house. His 4-Runner had a special hide for some of them. When he had to rescue his kidnapped boss last fall from an isolationist community, he outfitted his team without having to borrow any.

And even he didn’t have this many guns. He had better quality, though. This was almost like a hoarder. He considered that and filed it away.

Rodriguez shook his head. Doesn’t seem to be, he answered. He’s an accountant. Works downtown for one of the big accounting firms. His wife was a school teacher. He just liked — likes — guns, I guess.

Are there more in the house? Mac asked, as Rodriguez closed the garage door. Was the door even locked? Mac wondered.

Rodriguez nodded, and led the way from the garage to the back door. A bicycle was locked up next to it. Mac took a deep breath and exhaled. He hated it when his stories involved kids. Except for the occasional Officer Friendly story — which he also hated doing — when kids were involved in his stories, they were victims. All too frequently, they were dead victims.

Rodriguez handed him gloves and booties. He put them on, and followed him into a mud room, then into the kitchen. Again, very much like the Mac’s own home — it was an iconic craftsman bungalow style. Mac liked them.

Rodriguez nodded at the kitchen table. Someone had been in a rage. The table was turned over, chairs thrown.

Best we can reconstruct, he was gone for the weekend. Came home late, found divorce papers on the table. He lost it, killed the kids and then her. Made her watch, Rodriguez’s voice was a flat monotone. Mac wasn’t fooled. Rodriguez was tamping down the rage he felt that a man could do that to his wife and kids.

A bit cold to serve papers that way, Mac observed. But damn. Take the papers like a man.

The papers were in a folder next to her purse. Looks like she came home with them Friday, set them aside, because he was gone, Rodriguez said. We’ll know more about that when we call her attorney.

So, you wait to call her attorney until business hours, but me you drag out at O-dark-30? he groused.

Rodriguez smiled briefly. Anything I can do for the press, he said.

Mac followed him through the house. There was a display case of weapons in the living room. A crime scene team were going over the room. There was a pile of weapons on the coffee table. A woman was carefully tagging each and putting them in a box.

Down the hall. The photos on the walls were of men posed together, holding rifles. AR-15s. Figures, Mac thought sourly. He pulled out his camera and took some photographs of the framed photos. He turned back and took a few of the people working in the living room. Rodriguez just waited.

There was something about the photos on the wall though that nagged at him.

Was he in to re-enactments? Mac asked. No, those are AR-15s. So not hunters either. Some kind of gun club?

Come see the rest, Rodriguez said. Mac followed back into bedrooms. More crime scene team members. Mac reconstructed the events in his head: He comes home, grabbed his wife, beat her up, he’d guess, and then dragged her into their daughter’s room. Shot the girl. Dragged the wife into the boy’s room, shot him. Then shot the wife. And fled.

Jesus.

Rodriguez was just watching silently as the crime scene team did their job. The boy at age 6, had his own rifle in a wall rack. A nice .22. Starting him young. Not the daughter, oh no, Mac thought bitterly. Let’s not give weapons to the women. Too bad the wife hadn’t grabbed one of his own weapons and shot him. There were several in their bedroom. Handguns in the nightstand drawers.

OK, Lieutenant, Mac said. Why am I here?

Rodriguez gestured with his head toward the way they’d come. They walked silently back out the door to the back yard. Mac made a mental note to snap some photos of the arsenal in the garage.

This is the third gun stash like this we’ve found in the last month, Rodriguez said.

Mac frowned. Third shooting death?

Rodriguez shook his head. No, one was an ‘accidental’ death. Neither Rodriguez or Mac considered those kinds of deaths accidental. Negligent. Someone had been negligent and a kid died. Mac hoped the police charged that fucker. A kid with daddy’s loaded gun, Rodriguez continued. The other was a burglary. Someone broke into a man’s stash and stole a bunch of them. He had a nice detailed list of all his weapons, with the stolen ones flagged for us. For insurance purposes, he said.

OK, Mac said slowly. Three different gun stockpiles. But that’s not illegal. You can own as many guns as you want in this state.

No, it’s not illegal, Rodriguez agreed. But there was something weird about them. This guy’s an accountant, right? No military service, no connection to law enforcement. The kid who killed himself? His father was a banker. No military, no law enforcement. Same with the guy who got burglarized. A desk jockey for the Port Authority.

So middle class, middle-aged, white-collar men, Mac said, his eyes narrowed in thought. OK, that’s a bit unusual. But what’s bugging you?

Bugged you too, Rodriguez observed. Those photos on the wall. Why did you study them?

Mac thought about it. His instincts made him take notice, he acknowledged. He had good instincts for danger — trained by the best Uncle Sam could provide.

I don’t know, Mac admitted. But alarms went off when I saw those photos on the wall. Something’s not right.

Rodriguez nodded. He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked around the yard. Dawn was approaching and you could actually see something. Tulips blooming, a swing set.

Something’s building, he said at last. And God help me, I trust your instincts. As you say, nothing illegal about gun stockpiling. But, Mac, these aren’t preppers. No food stash, no extra vehicles. They’re not veterans who just feel safer if they have a few weapons in convenient locations. Not gun dealers. Or drug dealers for that matter. So, what are they?

Mac thought about that. Does it matter? he asked.

I don’t know, Rodriguez admitted. These people died because an angry man had a ready weapon at hand. But hell, if it hadn’t been a gun, it could have been the butcher knife. The 4-year-old kid died because an asshole didn’t practice good gun safety procedures. And yeah, I found something to charge him with because I was pissed. That 4-year-old should still be alive.

Mac gestured toward the garage, and Rodriguez nodded. Mac took some photos for the newspaper. He glanced at his watch. He needed to get into the office.

So, you have a twitch, Mac said. And you want to make my instincts twitch too? Thanks a lot.

Rodriguez didn’t even smile.

Yeah, he said. Where are they getting all these weapons, Mac? And why? And what’s with the photos on the wall? And yes. The dead kid scene? Photos there too, although I didn’t think much about it at the time. I wasn’t at the scene of the burglary, I just heard about the stockpile and thought, ‘that’s odd’.

A gun club for weapon collectors?

Would you consider that a collection? Rodriguez asked. I wouldn’t. There’s nothing special about them. There are duplicates. No, I wouldn’t call them collectors. They’re stockpiling. And I want to know exactly what they’re stockpiling weapons for?

Mac nodded slowly. He shot his photos of the garage. Checked his time again. Let me know if you catch the guy, he said. I don’t suppose you have the name of the guy who got burglarized?

Rodriguez smiled. At the office, he said. I’ll get it to you.

Chapter 2

Mac parked in his usual spot in the parking structure at the Seattle Examiner . It was right in front of the parking attendant’s booth, and only steps from the stairs to the third-floor entrance of the Examiner’s newsroom. A bit of courtesy to the attendant kept the spot free for him and he kept an eye on his rig as well.

The 4-Runner wasn’t a high-demand target; Mac wasn’t worried about it being stolen. But he did not want anyone to go through his vehicle. He thought briefly about the weapons stashed beneath the spare tire in a locked box. Was he any different than the gun-stockpile guys Rodriguez was concerned about?

Well, for all he knew, Rodriguez was concerned about his weapon stash too. Or would be, if he knew about all of it.

Mac nodded to the attendant who smiled and waved back. And then he went up the stairs, into the building, past the breakroom and bathrooms, through the sports department — his dream job when he graduated from college, but they didn’t have an opening — and into the newsroom. News had a job when he graduated, however, covering police and courts. He took it. Temporarily. Until sports had an opening.

His friends laughed themselves silly over that.

The police officers who’d been on the force a while had been incredulous. You’re what? one said. I always expected to see you here again. But I figured it would be in cuffs, and someone would be reading you your rights.

Mac had grinned. I would have said that was the only way anyone would ever get me in here again, too.

But it had been three years now, and he was still a cop reporter. He hadn’t even applied for the sports reporter opening last year.

He understood cops. Didn’t like them. But what they did — and didn’t do — mattered. And his stories mattered.

His friends had shrugged, even bragged that they knew him when he broke a big story about a corrupt politician who wanted to be on the president’s cabinet. Or when he had written about the attempt to firebomb abortion clinics in Seattle.

But truly, he believed the stories he wrote day-to-day were equally important as the big splashy ones. He liked his job.

He’d like it better if it didn’t mean being in the office at 6 a.m.

Mac stopped off in the photo department. Nestled between sports and news, it used to be some desks in front of a dark room. It had been remodeled about five years ago to open up the no-longer needed darkroom and expand the area for the large monitors and high-powered towers that went along with computers used for photo editing.

He was in luck. His favorite photographer was on desk duty. Angie Wilson didn’t appear to be any happier about the early morning than he was, and she glared at him when he approached.

Took some photos at a shooting this morning, he said, and held out his camera. She took it. Not sure how good they’ll be.

She grunted, plugged in the camera, downloaded the photos and opened them up on her computer. I’d give you the lecture about calling a real photog if you want useable photos, but none of us want you calling us at 3 a.m. to take pictures, she said sourly. So, I’ll make something useable out of them. She looked closely.

Jesus, Mac, she said. How many guns did the man have?

No sure yet, Mac told her, leaning on the desk to watch her as she scrolled through his photos. They were still pulling them out of every nook and cranny when I left. But I’d guess more than 100.

She shook her head, and that made the fuchsia streak across her bangs fall forward. She brushed the hair out of her eyes impatiently.

Mac wanted to brush it out for her. He kept his hands to himself. He liked Angie. She was barely 5-feet tall, but sturdily built so that she didn’t seem small. Not fat, but muscled and curved. And the snug black jeans and the T-shirt she wore — today’s featured Mary J. Blige — emphasized the curves. He liked how she looked. Liked it a lot.

But he was in a committed relationship that didn’t allow for touching other women’s hair, or asking out a feisty photographer — and wouldn’t she take him to task for the word feisty. A committed relationship where he wasn’t getting any either.

And his body noticed the woman in front of him and reacted. Mac sighed.

He wanted to make a relationship with Kate Fairchild work. So, he cleaned up his language, and he took her to church on Sundays. Well, some Sundays. They went out on dates. He had Sunday dinner at the Fairchild boarding house with Kate and her mother, Naomi, and assorted other boarders. All devout, evangelical Christians.

And while Kate insisted he shouldn’t change for her, he couldn’t see how a relationship would work if he didn’t. Would he want her to change to be with him? To don a skin-tight dress and go dancing at the Bohemian? Or to spend the night in his bed? Well OK, he wanted the last at least, but he wasn’t going to seduce a good Christian girl — even a 26-year-old one — into losing her virginity.

Even if he’d gone without sex for six months now.

Even if that was five-and-a-half months longer than he’d ever gone without sex since he discovered girls at 13. Even when he’d been fighting in Afghanistan.

He believed a man should control his body, not the reverse, and so he stayed celibate to see if he had a chance to build a lasting relationship with one of the smartest women he’d ever known. A kind, happy woman with no shadowed corners. He wanted that. He wanted the sense of home he found at the Fairchilds.

His best friend Shorty had asked, You in love with the girl, Mac? Or do you want to be adopted by her mother?

Mac had to admit there might be some truth to that.

He’d grown up poor with a single mother who moved across the country at a whim, who left him alone for days when he wasn’t even school-aged yet to hook up with different men. A mother who had a borderline personality disorder and should never have been allowed to raise a child, according to his aunt. His aunt had taken over his rearing when he was 15, but by then he was already headstrong and roaming the streets. He went into the Marines at 18 to avoid a felony auto theft charge.

So yeah, damn right he wanted a home. A real one.

So why hadn’t he proposed? As Shorty said, time to shit or get off the pot. For a math teacher in well-to-do Bellevue, Shorty could be crass. But he was right. And Mac didn’t know why he hadn’t proposed.

At least he’d get regular sex then.

He shook his head, refocused on what Angie was doing to his photos, and ignored the pull of that damn fuchsia hair.

OK, she said. Tell Janet, I sent three to her queue. A broad shot of the walls of weapons, a closeup of someone tagging one, and the one of what looks like the murder scene with the detective. She probably won’t use it, but it’s there.

Thanks, Mac said. Could you also do your magic on the ones that are photos on the wall? And send them to me? I want to take a closer look at them.

Will do, she said, and handed back his camera. Now quit hovering and get out of here.

Yes, ma’am, he said, teasing, and she laughed.

Mac put the camera in his backpack. Looking at his watch, he swore under his breath, and headed for his desk. He was behind schedule. He needed to get this story written and make his morning calls to all the law enforcement and fire departments to collect information on anything else that had happened over night — blotter items. And the clock was ticking. Janet needed them all by 8 a.m. Not 8:02 a.m. but 8 fucking a.m.

He glanced at the large clock on the wall above Janet’s workstation. There wasn’t any art on the walls. Bulletin boards. And the damn clock. The newsroom was primarily a bunch of desks with computers on them. Linoleum floors in some non-descript beige pattern. High ceilings with overhead lights that most companies would have replaced years ago. Beige walls.

Besides that damn clock, the only decoration to be seen were the bulletin boards with agendas and minutes thumbtacked on them, and the piles of newspapers and reports that accrued on every desk, intermingled with coffee cups and half-filled pop cans.

A few reporters might have a personal token on their desk. Or a smart-ass sticker on their computer. Mac didn’t. He didn’t do personal stuff at work. And Seth Conte, the other cop reporter, had given up on personalizing their work space. He also accepted Mac would not allow dirty coffee cups.

But Mac had finally conceded the battle over the stacks of paper. He came to realize that most reporters — including Seth — didn’t even see them. It seemed to comfort them to have the paper there, like rats making a nest out of paper they shredded. So, Mac had grimly come to tolerate the paper. He’d learned to tolerate the rats as a child after all.

He tidied it up on occasion, but he didn’t throw it away anymore. He didn’t even shove it in a desk drawer. And Seth, who was actually a good guy in Mac’s book, took it graciously as the win that it was.

Mac sat down and turned on his computer. He pulled his notebook out of his backpack, and flipped to the page with phone numbers of all the law enforcement and emergency services departments, and began the calls.

While on hold at the Bellevue police department, he looked over at Janet Andrews, the news editor and his boss. I’ve got a story about a weapon stockpiler who killed his wife and children, pictures are in your queue. Rodriguez called me at 2 a.m. Inside page — barely.

He turned back to the dispatcher who was now talking in his ear, and tucking the phone between his shoulder and head, he started typing up the information.

As he hung up, Janet said, So why did Rodriguez call you out for it?

Mac nodded. Yeah, that’s what I said. With a few additional comments, he said.

That made Janet smile. His foul language was newsroom legend. He turned back to the phone as the Tacoma police department finally answered the phone. He typed a few things, then hung up.

They’re done, he said. Nothing particularly interesting. But Rodriguez? I want to talk about that when we’re off deadline for the day.

Janet nodded, more focused on his copy on her screen than on him. Blotter items were easy to screw up. And they were the last thing written for the newspaper, and the least scrutinized — bait for a libel suit. Mac made a point of not screwing them up.

While she edited his copy, Mac studied his boss. He worried about her. Last fall had been rough. She’d been kidnapped and held hostage. She’d had to face her past growing up in an isolationist Christian community. Her house had been blown to bits. She met her 20-year-old son for the first time and learned he was part of the group stalking her. That was a lot. Maybe even an overwhelming amount to deal with.

Life had stayed difficult. He had watched her struggle to regain her balance personally and professionally. There was little he could do about the personal life. The professional part pissed him off. The harassment, kidnapping and all-too-public revelations of her personal life had set her up as a target for a lot of right-wing Christians in the city, and even some media people who ought to know better. He personally thought they did know better, but were willing to use this as an opportunity to throw shit at Janet Andrews because she was one of the most respected journalists in the state. Fuckers.

She was carefully building a relationship with her son, Timothy Brandt, who Mac privately thought was a little shit. And since Timothy was living at the Fairchilds, he had more exposure to the kid than he wanted. Brilliant, Mac conceded. But he was a real prick.

Janet was also rebuilding her house while living in an apartment not far from the office. Everything she owned was gone. The house, the garden, her thousands of books. Mac suspected it was the loss of the books that really hurt.

And she was in a long-distance relationship with FBI agent Stan Warren who was trying — unsuccessfully so far — to get a transfer out to Seattle.

That was a lot, so it was understandable that she was stressed and closed off. But Mac thought it wasn’t all that shit, but something else. Something she couldn’t, wouldn’t, talk about. And that worried him.

So, when she was done with the paper for the day, he sent his usual message suggesting coffee at the coffeehouse across the street. Not that he’d drink coffee. But they kept some cans of Mountain Dew on hand for him.

Janet nodded and headed for the door. Mac followed her. She was a tall woman, approaching 40, and she worked out, so she had a long stride and determined walk. Coffee. She is on a mission, Mac thought amused, do not get in her way. Her brown hair was still in a braid, so he figured it hadn’t been a particularly stressful morning. He had learned to judge how the morning went by how messy her hair got. She never raised her voice, never got angry at a reporter. Her tell? Running her hand through her hair. On a bad morning, the braid was practically gone, and she had hair in her eyes, which she impatiently brushed out of the way. Those were the mornings everyone walked lightly and got things done on time.

The coffee house was a dark place, with a counter to order drinks at and a case of pastries. Janet didn’t even bother to order, she headed for a corner table in the back, and the barista brought her coffee and set a can of Mountain Dew in front of Mac. He thanked her and got a short nod back. It amused him. The coffeehouse really hated that Mountain Dew. But they liked Janet.

Janet sipped her coffee while Mac told her about Rodriguez’s concerns. His twitch. When he was done, she said, Have you heard of the Bundys?

He shook his head.

Sovereign citizens? Constitutionalist sheriffs?

No.

Sandy Hook?

The school shooting? Of course, Mac said.

OK, that was when people really started paying attention to people stockpiling weapons, Janet said. But out here? There’s always been anti-government groups operating going back to the posse comitatus groups and John Birch Society in the ‘50s. Right wing, anti-federal government. They believe that local control supersedes all other agencies. The Bundy family in Nevada are locked in a battle against BLM —Bureau of Land Management — for instance. And they’re all gun hoarders. The 2nd Amendment is their Bible.

Janet looked at Mac thoughtfully. I’ve wanted to do a story about them forever, she said. But never had the right reporter to do it. I think you could.

Why?

Because you’re a vet, you like and understand guns. And you’re skeptical of all government and paranoid to boot, she said promptly. You’ll fit right in.

Fit in with the lunatics? he said amused.

She just grinned at him.

Get yourself informed, she said. And then see if you can find that club they belong to — or clubs. That’s new. And I have just the person for you to do a feature on. Sheriff in Skagit County is a constitutionalist. And he’s refusing to enforce any newly passed laws regarding guns, not even background checks and registration requirements.

She paused. And stay on top of what’s going on here. That’s an odd group of men to be stockpiling.

Got it, he said, then hesitated before asking, You doing OK?

She bit her lip. Tough times, she said. But I’ll get through it.

Of course, you will, Mac said. But sometimes a bit of help from your friends makes it easier.

She slid out of the booth and patted his shoulder. Thank you. And if I need something blown up, you’ll be the first person I call, she promised with a laugh and went to pay the bill. Her turn. Mac followed her, taking his Mountain Dew with him.

Chapter 3

Mac decided some things were done best in person and talking to gun shop owners was probably one of them. He made printouts of the photos from the morning and went to visit a gun shop where he bought some of his weapons.

Hank Owens was in his 60s, wiry, thin, energetic. He was mostly bald with a fringe of white hair that he kept trimmed close. The owner of Shoreline West Guns, north of Seattle, Hank had been a Green Beret back in the day. A lot of vets like Mac found him comfortable to deal with.

Mac showed him the photographs. Hank squinted at them and scowled. He turned to his desk and found a loupe; something Mac hadn’t used since his college photojournalism class. Hank looked at the photos again.

Like a team photo, but with AR-15s? Hank mused out loud. Vets? They don’t look like vets.

The one I know isn’t, Mac said. How’s business been? The guy’s house I saw this morning probably had 100 guns stashed away in it.

It’s been good, Hank agreed. "But not unusually so. And nothing that felt like a run on something or anything weird. But then really? Those pictures feel weird, and stockpilers