Silent Night

FORTY THREE

Bobby Rourke wasn’t a racist.

Growing up with no prospects in a small southern town, his future had been bleak. Life in Roller was just about as boring and uneventful as you could get without being six feet under. There was a saying in the area that a lot of residents hated, but most of them agreed with. The only good thing about Roller is the road leading out of it. His father had left when Bobby was a kid. He met some other woman and just took off. Bobby couldn’t remember much about him, save that he had hard fists and had a hatred of anyone not white Caucasian. Watching him as a boy Bobby had adopted those beliefs, wanting to please and impress him. But once he was gone and as Bobby grew up, he realised just how wrong his father had been. Society had changed. Equality and human rights now meant people of all colours, races and religions were able to live together, work together, have families together. And despite being the leader of a neo-Nazi hate group, Bobby had a secret.

He didn’t have an issue with any of that.

Before his grandfather had died, he’d asked Bobby to come out to see him on his farm on the outskirts of town. He told him that he was going to leave the farm and the house to him in his will. Rourke wasn’t under any illusions. He knew the only reason it was being passed to him was that he was the only Rourke still around. He’d asked the old man if the will had already been signed. It had. So Bobby had grabbed a cushion from the couch and suffocated him on the spot. A minute later, the old man was dead and the farm belonged to him.

However, he’d completely underestimated the amount of work it took to maintain a place like that. He quickly discovered the sheer weight of tasks he needed to perform in order to keep the place going was far greater than anything he’d ever encountered before. Lazy by nature, Rourke had hated it. True to form, he’d quickly started neglecting the place when he realised money wasn’t just going to fall into his lap and the crops had begun to fail. The house was in good condition thanks to the old man, but to Bobby it was a stop on the journey and not a destination. Every day he woke up trying to think of a way out of that place.

Then one summer night, three years ago, he’d been out on the porch smoking some weed when he’d heard motorbikes in the distance. The noise had become louder and louder until three bikers appeared from the dirt road, pulling up outside the house. Bobby had stayed where he was but his hand had slid down around the pistol grip of a shotgun by his side.

The bikers had dismounted, taking off their helmets. They had shaved heads and Bobby could see prison ink on the necks of two of the men. Bobby had flicked away the joint, then risen, the shotgun in his hands.

‘You lost, gentlemen?’ he’d said, walking to the front of the porch.

‘No need for the weapon,’ the lead biker said, pointing at the shotgun.

‘I’ll decide that.’

‘You got time to talk?’

‘I can fit you in. Long as those two stay where they are and keep their hands in sight.’

The two men nodded, standing with their arms folded, the sun setting over the neglected crops behind them. The lead biker had joined Bobby on the veranda, taking a seat. Bobby had stayed standing, the shotgun gripped tight in his hands. Then the biker began to explain who they were and why they were here.

Apparently the three of them had done time upstate, during which they had become part of an Aryan brotherhood. Called The Stuttgart Soldiers, the club had chapters spread across America. The biker emphasised that he’d been a young man going nowhere, with no direction in his life, but the club had saved him and put money in his pocket.

And they were always looking for new recruits.

He explained that given members of the club were viewed as outlaws and public enemies, they were forced to carry out certain practices to support the club financially, for the greater good as the man had said. They ran dope across the border, selling it at a bargain price on the streets and giving the junkies what they needed. They even cooked their own, providing methamphetamines for those who wanted it and were prepared to pay. And another of their recent business ventures had been gun-running. Caches of sub-machine guns, pistols, grenades, ammunition. However, they could feel the ATF breathing down their necks. They’d received a tip that a raid of their stores was imminent. That meant they needed to find another place to hide their weapons for the time being.

The biker had proposed that they do so at Rourke’s farm. No one would know that he was a friend of the brotherhood and the ATF would find nothing when they hit the stash-houses. They would be willing to pay five grand, cash, and in addition offer Rourke a blood-free induction into the club. The biker emphasised how rare that was. Normally, initiation meant spilling blood and not your own. Rourke agreed to the proposition, saying he’d take the money, they could store their weapons and he’d think about the offer.

The two men had shaken hands and his group returned later that night with two truckloads of boxed weapons and ammunition. It had all been buried out in the field, hidden by a sea of overgrown crops. True to his word, the biker had paid Rourke cash in hand, five G’s. He’d counted out the money in hundreds in front of Rourke, peeling the notes from a stack. Rourke got the message loud and clear.

There was plenty more where that came from if he wanted it.

Four weeks later he was a member of the club. Suddenly he had a purpose. Responsibility. He was invited to club meetings, asked for his opinion and for the first time in his life was listened to. He was paid handsomely and had young female prospects desperate to sleep with him. But as time went on, things changed. The three guys who had come out to his farm that night were now all dead, two of them killed in prison, the guy who had talked with him on the veranda shot dead in a drive-by. Rourke had already taken over the gun-running operation and after a two year interlude at Dallas State for rape, found himself one of the prominent members of the Chapter when he was released.

During that time, he’d got to know Finn Sway. Finn had gone to the same high school, a year above Bobby, but the two of them hadn’t become friends until they met through the club. Finn was head of the militia arm of the Chapter. He and five others would drive out into the desert on roaming patrols with rifles and ammo, searching for immigrants or any non-whites they could find near the borders. They had a high hit-rate. Bobby had gone with the group a few times and seen the process. They stalked and shot them without mercy. Ten minutes later, the man, woman or child would be buried in the sand in an unmarked grave. These were anonymous people who were desperate to slide their way into the country, so most of them had left all forms of identity behind them. No one would ever report them missing, find their bodies or know what had happened to them. Roller PD consisted of only six men and they were so useless they couldn’t find a whore in a brothel.

But almost a decade after he’d become a member, Rourke was done with the club’s dealings. Most of the guys he’d become friends and brothers with were either dead, in jail or on their way there. Running guns and dope was a business but it wasn’t a sustainable future. The ATF and FBI were always circling. Rourke had had enough. He still put on a front when he was with the other members, agreeing with all the racist shit they spewed but deep down he didn’t believe a word of it. Besides he liked other colours, green in particular. Especially when it was a bill and had a President’s face printed on it.

He’d been looking for salvation for a while.

And it had appeared a fortnight ago.



The entire Chapter had been at an annual rally in South Carolina. All the Chapters from across the country got together for a weekend-long party and hate festival.

During the celebrations, drinking a beer and walking past one of the bonfires, Rourke ran into a brother from another Chapter, Paul Bleeker. They knew each other from a separate rally last year. After they’d spent a night drinking and partying, Bleeker now appeared to assume that the two of them were friends. He was a joke. Rourke knew he was desperate to impress and get noticed, and for some reason he’d latched onto him.

Standing there beside the huge fire and scores of skinheads, Bleeker had told Rourke he’d been looking for him. He wanted Bobby to meet someone. Bored, and with nothing else to do, Rourke had agreed. Bleeker introduced him to another member who Rourke didn’t recognise. Bored and uninterested, Rourke had been about to walk away when the stranger said that if Bobby and Bleeker wanted it, there was a way the three of them could make an absolute fortune.

That got his attention.

Rourke had asked him to explain. Bleeker’s companion told him about a modified virus which was a fast-acting biological killer. Apparently there were a few samples of it at a lab in New York and the contact knew there would be a lot of people out there who’d be very keen to acquire it and would pay big money. Mid-conversation, Rourke had whistled Finn over and he’d joined the conversation. The four men had talked for almost an hour, learning about this virus and how they could use it to their advantage. At the end, a deal was struck. It was pretty straightforward. The four of them would steal the virus, adapt it for easy use, sell it on and share the massive payout.

The operation was planned for Friday 17 December in New York City, two weeks after the rally. Bobby had planned to go alone to oversee and organise getting the virus out of New York but Finn had wanted to join him. He had nothing else going and he could see his brother who was in New Jersey. Finn had also suggested that having back-up wouldn’t be a bad idea. Rourke was reluctant, wanting to keep knowledge of the virus a secret, but Finn said they could just lie to them instead. That would get the whole Chapter on the road and none of them would know the real reason they were going to New York. Bobby had called a Chapter meeting and informed the members of the upcoming road trip. The cover story was a huge meth deal with a Brooklyn drug cartel. The Texan Chapter were renowned for the quality of their product and apparently the New Yorkers wanted in. The club had been enthusiastic; none of them had suspected they were being manipulated.

They’d ridden up to New York and arrived yesterday, Friday 17, setting up base on an old retail estate in New Jersey. Three of the guys who ran the meth arm of the business set up three caravans to start cooking, using the isolation of the estate to create some fresh product ready for the so-called deal. Rourke had left the estate with Finn as soon as they’d arrived and headed into the city to go and meet with Paul Bleeker and his contact.

However, things hadn’t gone to plan.

Bleeker had gone dark, not answering his phone. His contact they’d met at the rally was unreachable. Finn had broken into Flood Microbiology but couldn’t locate any sign of the virus. Bleeker and his contact had screwed them. Bob and Finn agreed they should have guessed Bleeker would do this. He was an unreliable a*shole.

But they sure as hell hadn’t come all this way for nothing.

Rourke had called Wicks and Drexler and told them to meet him in the city. He’d shared with them the real reason they were here and that Bleeker had fallen off the radar. That had been just after 10:30pm. He ordered them to find Bleeker or one of his known gang before sunrise. They’d done just that. Wicks had called a friend in the New York Chapter and he’d given addresses for Bleeker and the four guys he always hung out with. Bleeker wasn’t at home but they’d captured one of his friends. They’d just broken into the man’s house when the guy had pulled up in a car and walked straight in.

He’d told them pretty much everything they wanted to know. Apparently Bleeker had decided to steal the vials himself, cutting his three partners from the rally out of the deal. He was planning to use some of them in Manhattan as a demonstration that coming morning then leave town with three of his friends. The tortured man had given the locations and the times. The original plan cooked up at the rally had been to mix the virus with a liquid broth which could then be transported in canisters. Increasing the quantity without losing the quality would drastically increase their margin of profit. Rourke had located a lab in New Jersey which would be an ideal place to do it. They’d never intended to kill the doctors at Flood Microbiology and Kearny Medical, but Bleeker’s double-cross had enraged the two men. Wicks had called and told them what the tortured man had said. He and Drexler had orders to gain a sample of the virus and take out all the doctors who worked at Flood Microbiology as well as Bleeker’s crew. Rourke wanted everyone who knew about this virus exterminated. No more chances of getting screwed.

He and Finn had waited outside Kearny Medical until the guard arrived, then killed him and let themselves in. Finn had taken a spare uniform from the man’s locker out back whilst Bobby went upstairs. They then murdered each member of the team as they arrived for work, one by one. Wicks and Drexler had done well. Before noon, they brought a doctor from Flood Microbiology to mix the virus and had also got hold of a vial.

Bleeker was an idiot. He and his three friends had got themselves killed and also attracted the attention of the entire NYPD. Reese’s death and Finn’s sudden departure were also setbacks. Bobby didn’t have any siblings but he knew if some pig killed his brother that he’d want revenge too. He wouldn’t want to be the cop who’d killed Reese for all the guns in Texas right now. But not everything was bad. Rourke had received an interesting phone call earlier from Bleeker’s contact. The information that had been passed was interesting and invaluable. The contact had warned Rourke of a situation at the campsite where the Chapter were holed up.

Bobby had taken the appropriate measures to counter it.

So behind the wheel of a white van, moving fast through rural New Jersey, Rourke glanced at Drexler. She was sitting beside him, watching the road. They were the only two in the vehicle.

‘How we doing?’

She checked her rear view mirror.

‘We’re good. Nothing but night.’

He grinned, and put his foot down.

He liked happy endings.