By the time it got to Scott, though, the blood had somehow chunked into dim-sum lumps of plasma and - oh, hell no, he’s not drinking that mess. The men passed the chalice around the fire, each taking sips from the cup. Someone slit the animal’s throat and filled a chalice with the blood that came glomping out. But the goat didn’t die after a single head shot its legs kept flailing, as if to taunt Eisen for being such a weasel. One of them could have died if he misfired.Īnd so Scott, who in real life is a sniper-grade marksman and who teaches his fellow agents how to shoot, stepped in to school the young neo-Nazi on the rudiments of gun safety. Eisen looked away as he pointed the pistol - and the members, after all, were in a circle. But this, too, quickly became a clusterfuck. After further attempts at holy butchery, someone had the bright idea to just shoot the thing already. Goats aren’t built for ritual kills, as it happens: The scruffs of their necks are double-reinforced with back straps of gristle and fur. He hesitated a moment, then brought the blade down it bounced off the animal with a whomp. The man leading the ritual - code name: Eisen - swung the machete overhead. The goat, all 80-something pounds of him soaking wet, was shitting and bleating in prostrate fear of these men in death masks and camo. And then - because this was a sacrament not to the gods but to the massacre of Jews, Blacks, and gays - it was time to sacrifice the trembling animal they’d kidnapped from a neighbor’s farm. Incantations were spoken by one of the men, citing the Wild Hunt and other gross misreadings of pre-Christian and Norse mythology. When they came to the clearing, the members lit torches and formed a circle around the fire. The day had broken mild but turned bone-cold later, and was now, after many hours of slanting rain, a misery of mud and wind. The internet will teach you anything these days, including how to start a race war in three steps. Others are self-taught tactical freaks who shoot and move as nimbly as paratroopers. Several are ex-military with munitions training and the wherewithal to take out power stations. None of them call one another by their given names, only their noms de guerre: Pestilence, PunishSnake, BigSiege, etc. Another, a young psycho who calls himself ZoomGnat, has been up for two days straight on Adderall and Red Bull and has driven from Texas without stopping. Five of them traveled from Northeast states with assault rifles and armor in their car trunks. He doesn’t know most of the men he’s with they’ve come from far distances to this encampment on a farm for a four-day training block on guerrilla warfare. Scott and 11 Base members are walking an unmarked path to a clearing above a creek bed. He has infiltrated a domestic-terror group called the Base, posing as a former skinhead who calls himself PaleHorse and is expert in hand-to-hand combat. It is Halloween evening 2019, and Scott - undercover coordinator for the FBI and special agent dispatched to its Joint Terrorism Task Force - is shivering in three layers, including tactical gear, in the pitch-black woods of northern Georgia. Because that ram - actually, a terrified goat with diarrhea - died for all our sins of the past four centuries. He knows better than anyone that it’s later than we think, and that each day brings us closer to the next 9/11 - this one launched by our own children.īut first, we need to talk about the ram. Months out of the game, though, he can’t stop brooding over the threat he left behind. For two-plus decades, he cracked landmark cases and won every laurel they give to undercovers. (Scott requested that his surname not be used for the sake of his family’s safety.) Last summer, when he retired at 50 from the FBI, Scott left the bureau as one of the most storied agents since Joe Pistone, the real-life Donnie Brasco. There’s time enough to valorize the work of Scott B., an undercover fed who breached far-right death squads and squashed their national web of terror cells. To the gun-rights march on the steps of a state capitol, where they planned to pick off cops and rallygoers. To the journalists he saved from assassination and the synagogue marked for carnage in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. We’ll come to the homegrown terrorists he foiled and the race war they tried to foment.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. ArchivesCategories |