He felt a wave of relief wash over him when they emerged into the dark alley. He looked over his shoulder through a space between the buildings and could see the top of the Palomino Lounge in the distance. That’s where Geronimo had seen and photographed Axel Soledad’s SUV.
“This is it,” Geronimo said. “I scoped it out after Soledad left, to find out what they were doing here.”
Geronimo drew out his cell phone and punched up the flashlight app.
“Check this out,” he said.
Against the wall of one of the buildings was a large pile of something covered by a blue tarpaulin. The corners of the tarp were held down by rocks.
Nate watched as Geronimo kicked the two nearest rocks aside. He leaned down and grasped the corner of the plastic and whipped it back to reveal a big pile of primitive ordnance: loose bricks, three-foot lengths of one-inch steel rebar, dented aluminum baseball bats, sledgehammers, crowbars, cases of commercial fireworks, and a few single-blade axes.
“So that’s what they unloaded,” Nate said. “Is it to fight the police?”
Geronimo nodded while he used his phone to call up another app.
“The exact location of the cache was posted on a secret geocache site tonight at eighteen hundred hours. Everybody out here on the street can find it if they need it.”
“How?”
“We have our ways,” he said. Then: “Encrypted software and message boards. It just looks like chaos out there, and sometimes it is. Other times, it’s very, very organized. These weapons were left here tonight to mess up the police in case things get out of hand.”
Nate nodded. “So Soledad is equipping them.”
“He’s equipping someone, for sure,” Geronimo said cryptically.
Nate knew there was much more to the story, but he was distracted by the figure of a man darting across the mouth of the alleyway. He’d been silhouetted by the ambient streetlight beyond.
“What?” Geronimo asked.
Nate gestured to the opening as another figure ran across it. Then two more. The group of protesters they’d seen earlier had turned around and come back.
Geronimo doused his flashlight and whispered, “Looks like we’ve got us some antifa assholes.”
* * *
—
Nate and Geronimo stood their ground shoulder to shoulder. It was too dark to see clearly, but they could make out that the four visitors were approaching them as quietly as they could along the left wall. One of their boots crunched on a piece of glass as they got close.
Then a bright light came on and bathed Nate and Geronimo. Nate lifted his left arm to shield his eyes. He kept his right hand free and ready to reach up for his weapon. The light swept across him and settled on Geronimo.
“Hey, man, what are you doing?” the man with the flashlight asked. His voice was muffled behind an opaque face shield and a bandana mask.
“Checkin’ out this treasure here,” Geronimo said.
“That’s cool. What’s with the mountain man? Is he with you?”
“He’s with me,” Geronimo said.
Nate noted that Geronimo’s vernacular had suddenly become “street.” He found that telling.
“Are you in touch with your brothers?” the first antifa asked. “Are they on their way?”
The first antifa, apparently the spokesman of the four, also lapsed into a faux “street” cadence.
“They’re on their way,” Geronimo said.
Nate’s eyes adjusted slightly and he could see better with the throwback light from the flashlight. Four of them, all right. They wore black bloc: shielded helmets, face coverings, heavy boots. One of them held a length of rebar alongside his thigh. Two held oversized skateboards much like the one the rioter had used to hit Nate’s van. The last man wore a rucksack that bulged with commercial fireworks. He could see the snouts of aerial explosive devices sticking out from beneath the top flap of the pack.
They inched closer along the wall.
Nate said, “Not another step.”
As he said it, he envisioned a scenario where, in one controlled motion, he drew his revolver and cocked it at the same time, moved into a shooting stance, and took them out one by one with four rapid center-mass shots. That would leave him one live round to spare.
But, he conceded, he was getting ahead of himself.
“Who is this guy?” the first antifa asked Geronimo. The tone of his question betrayed his sudden alarm.
“Friend of mine,” Geronimo said. “If I was you, I’d back the fuck up.”
The four of them froze, unsure of what to do. Their spokesman wasn’t giving them any direction.