Enemy Agents

“Matt Cooper, meet the boys you helped to rescue from humiliation. Bryan Doolan, Steve Webb, Larry Mosier, Tommy Gruber.”

Bolan matched the names to faces and shook their hands, refraining from displays of camaraderie that might ring false. While Halsey poured the single malt, he asked, “So, did you know those clowns back there? Some kind of feud?”

“If only life made that much sense,” Halsey replied. “You may have noticed that we’re in a world of shit these days. With crime and the economy, the War on Terror bogged down in a sandpit on the wrong side of the world, resources drying up. These are trying times.”

“Not just a bunch of drunks?”

“A symptom of society’s decline.”

Bolan sipped his whiskey, found it smooth and strong.

“You need some first aid on that cheek,” Halsey observed.

“I’ll deal with it when I get back to the motel,” Bolan replied.

“Where are you staying?” Mosier asked.

“Place outside Apple Valley with a neon palm tree on the sign.”

“The Desert Palms,” Doolan said. “Cheap, but clean.”

“Cheap suits me well enough these days,” Bolan informed him.

“Out on a limb here,” Halsey interjected, “but I count myself a decent judge of people. And I’d say you have a solid military background.”

“Emphasis on back,” Bolan said.

“Army?”

“Special Forces. Fifteen years.”

“You don’t move like a soldier who’s been pensioned off for disability,” Halsey said.

“Let’s just say the brass and I agreed to disagree.”

“On what?”

“Whatever. It’s all ancient history.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Halsey suggested, cutting glances toward the other men around the table. All of them were watching Bolan closely, though Gruber had to do it through one eye, the other being swollen nearly shut.

“Can’t say I follow you,” Bolan replied.

“We,” Halsey said, spreading his hands to indicate the other four, “are patriots with serious concerns about the nation’s health. Make that survival. Every day, we see America diminished, basic values slipping through our fingers. Precepts of the Constitution used for toilet paper by a clique of radical extremists who’ve decided that America should be a melting pot for every cult and culture on the planet.”

“Seems to me I’ve heard that phrase before,” Bolan said, playing hard to get. “From my history teacher in junior-high school.”

“Right!” Halsey snapped, leaning forward on his elbows. “But the melting pot we read about in school absorbed the other creeds and cultures, turning all of them into Americans. You can’t believe that’s happening today, with street signs in a dozen languages and ballots that look like foreign VCR owners’ manuals. Not when criminals who botch looting the country get their money back with interest from the taxpayers. Not when our border’s leaking like a sieve and terrorist alerts from Washington are stuck on orange forever.”

“Well…”

“Look, here’s the deal,” Halsey said. “We’re a group of men who care about America. The real America. The way it used to be before too many tails started wagging the dog. We have some friends who feel the same, with numbers growing every day. I’m thinking we could use a man like you.”

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