Myrmidon Read Free

Front, and as far as anyone knows, they’ve never committed a crime.”
    â€œReally?” Hollingshead asked.
    Chapel shrugged. “Ninety per cent of their members have some kind of criminal record, but every rap sheet I checked showed that the crimes stopped the second they joined the group. There are plenty of lawsuits against the SAF, but they’re all for libel or hate speech, and it looks like very few of them will hold up in court. There’s not so much as a single firearms violation associated with the SAF.”
    â€œAnd yet they were clearly one of Favorov’s best clients. Don’t most groups like this sell drugs or guns to fund themselves?”
    Chapel nodded. “Yes, but the SAF doesn’t seem to have taken that route. They produce hate literature and sell survivalist supplies—­you know, six months’ worth of freeze-­dried food, plans for how to build a bunker in your backyard. Some of the books they sell are pretty disgusting, but the First Amendment protects their right to print what they like. They have their hands in a number of other perfectly legitimate businesses as well. Most prominently, they have a factory that makes machine parts for motorcycles and small aircraft.” The view on the screen changed, this time to show a satellite image of the SAF compound in Colorado. Against a tan background of low, desert hills, a sprawling cluster of buildings stood out—­houses and a ­couple churches, but also the dark rectangles of factory buildings. “They have warehouses here, here, and here, any one of which would be perfect for storing the guns in the middle of crates of machine parts. But nobody from law enforcement has ever been in one of those buildings.”
    â€œThe ATF must have their suspicions,” Hollingshead suggested.
    Chapel nodded. “They keep tabs on every white-­power group in the country, just on principle. Three times in the last ten years, they’ve tried to place an undercover agent in the SAF compound, but it’s never worked. That’s mostly because of this man.”
    On the screen, a picture of a middle-­aged man appeared. He had a rugged face, not too handsome, but his sharp features gave him a striking look. His eyes were a piercing gray that seemed to look out of the screen in silent judgment.
    â€œTerry Belcher. The head of the SAF and, from all accounts, the charismatic leader of the group. SAF members worship the man. He vets every new recruit personally, and so far he’s caught every ATF plant before they could even get through the front gate.”
    â€œWhat have you found out about him?” Hollingshead asked.
    â€œHe’s white-­power royalty, basically. His father was Kendred Belcher, who was a ranking member in the KKK until he split with them in the eighties because he felt they were more interested in media attention than direct action. Kendred wrote one of the seminal books that influences white-­power movements to this day. Originally, Terry Belcher here rejected his father’s teachings. He split with his father’s group and joined the armed forces, intending to put white-­power politics behind him.”
    â€œDare I ask which branch of ser­vice?” Hollingshead asked.
    â€œThe army,” Chapel said, though he hated to admit it. “He fought in the First Gulf War. Afterward, he was dishonorably discharged for beating his CO nearly to death. He did a short prison term for assault and was released in 1998. I don’t know what changed his mind, but after he got out of prison, he seems to have embraced his father’s teachings once again. He’s been putting the SAF together, piece by piece, ever since, and now he’s built quite the empire. Officially, he preaches nonviolent protest against the government. He was quoted in a magazine interview as approving of domestic terrorists, however—­he once said that Timothy McVeigh