The Snow Angel by Michael Graham Page A

right, he jammed the muzzle of his Beretta against Karanga’s temple. “You motherfucking piece of shit!”
    The security door flew open and three BLF toughs appeared, leveling assault rifles. Karanga thrashed around in the detective’s grip, choking. Bell spun him around to use him as a shield. Then, squeezing Karanga’s windpipe in the crook of his elbow, he leveled his own gun at the trio.
    â€œGo ahead, shoot!” Bell yelled. “Let’s see how many homies gonna die—right here, right now!”
    The thugs froze in place. Slowly Bell backed down the stairs to the street, dragging Karanga with him. Karanga thrashed about in the chokehold, fighting to breathe. With his peripheral vision, Bell saw three federal agents leap from the surveillance van and crouch low, brandishingautomatic weapons of their own.
    For a very long moment, there was a standoff. The BLF men remained frozen. Moving backward, Bell eased down the slippery sidewalk toward the agents, dragging the gasping Karanga along with him. He hissed in the revolutionary’s ear.
    â€œYou are a piece of shit, you know that, Tyrone? I’m sorry I saved your black ass. If those feds weren’t behind me, I’d blow your fucking brains out right now.”
    When he reached the crouching agents, Bell wrestled Karanga down to the snow. The agents quickly disarmed and handcuffed him. “So what do we do with this guy?” one asked.
    Bell didn’t answer. Out of nowhere, a crowd was gathering, all black. Bell looked at them, then holstered his weapon. In disgust, he started to walk away. One of the feds shouted after him: “Hey, man, you gave us a prisoner! What the hell do we do with him?”
    â€œAs far as I’m concerned, you can dump the motherfucker in the river!” Bell answered, loud enough for the onlookers to hear. He just kept walking, not looking back, shaking with rage. He didn’t even notice that heavy snow was falling again.

    Kane sat on a wooden chair in the dank farmhouse basement, trying to place the familiar smell. Eric Klemmer leaned against a huge, cluttered workbench, staring at Kane’s face.
    â€œSomething bothering you?” Kane demanded.
    Klemmer smiled. “You bear an uncanny resemblance to Billy.”
    â€œWhy does that surprise you? I was his brother.”
    â€œYou still
are
his brother.” He shook his head. “It’s like looking at a ghost.”
    Kane fought a smile as he considered the irony of that statement. His own imminent death had become a private joke.
    â€œI was fond of Billy,” Klemmer continued. “Most men I’ve encountered in various prisons have been Neanderthals—even the Caucasians. But Billy—Billy was always reading, improving his mind. I wanted him to be my Minister of Information.”
    Kane held his tongue. He looked away from Klemmer to examine the room. Across from the furnace, Nazi and neo-Nazi paraphernaliacovered an entire wall. The intersecting wall was covered with exotic firearms, notably assault weapons.
    â€œI assure you that everything you see there is perfectly legal,” Klemmer laughed. “If it weren’t, would I let a cop in here?”
    â€œI’m not your typical cop,” Kane said.
    â€œI know. Billy told me about you.” He got up and began pacing about. “You know, sometimes it’s just luck of the draw, the way we turn out. Billy said more than once that he always expected that you would wind up in prison.” He smiled again. “Did you know your brother said things like that about you?”
    Kane shrugged. “Billy was always running his mouth off. That’s why he kept getting caught.”
    â€œYou can learn a lot about a man in a prison, if you pay attention. You also can learn a lot about his family.”
    â€œWhat are you driving at, Klemmer?”
    â€œWe’ll get to that after you tell me why you’re here.”
    Kane