Sandstorm Ch. 03

"All right, Doctor." said Bedford. "Whatever you need... blood, organ, machinery, whatever it takes to keep him alive. We've got a full operating room right here if you need it."

"I'll see what I can do." said the doctor. "I know you don't want him transferred to Boston Medical, but that may be his last hope."

"No." said Bedford. "There is nothing they can do that I can't have brought here. Okay, I've got to go check on some business things... I'll talk to you soon."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"What is going on with Buddy?" asked Callie. The cocker spaniel was pacing around, sniffing at everything. They'd let him out three times, but he had just sat on the deck, looking outward as if expecting to see something. Even Bowser was watching his canine friend with seeming surprise.

"I don't know." Cindy said. She concentrated mentally on the dog. As if he knew he was being watched, Buddy looked back at Cindy.

"I'm getting a weird vibe." said Cindy. She called Buddy over, and he came over, jumped on the sofa, and sat between her and Callie. They petted him lovingly.

"Wow, I can sense the agitation... no, the anticipation..." Cindy said quietly...

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Wallace Bedford came into his office room, the room where the paintings of his ancestors hung on the walls. Sitting down at his desk, he made a phone call on his secure line.

"It's worse than anything we could have imagined." said the voice of Franklin Gray, through some static. "Mr. C. is dead. Paulsen is dead. They're arresting our people in Washington. Kendrick committed suicide. Our operation in Los Angeles has been destroyed, utterly destroyed. Our 'White Roots' people in Tennessee have been arrested by the dozens."

"Is there nothing left?" asked Bedford, his voice shaking. "Is there nothing we can do to oppose the niggers wen they begin their riots?"

"No, Wallace." said Gray. "It's over. The niggers have won. We are beaten."

The gloom that overwhelmed Bedford was enormous. "Okay, Franklin. I don't know if I'll see you again. I'm going to hold out here. Thanks for everything you have done."

"I'm on the run now." said Gray. "I won't go down without a fight, either. Good luck, Wallace. And God bless the white man!" The line then went dead.

Bedford slumped, his head almost touching his desk as he bowed it in pain. Then he turned and looked out the window, only seeing blackness. He put his mind into deep thought, trying to figure out how to salvage his life's work.

Something told him to come back. He looked over his shoulder, and both shock and a sense of resignation hit him at once.

Standing there was the Iron Crowbar, in front of the paintings and the urns of ashes, the katana slung over his back, the handle over his right shoulder. He was holding his red crowbar in front of him, slowly tapping it in his hand.

"You." uttered Bedford. "You've got some nerve, coming here."

"Nerve is what I do." I said. "It's over, Bedford."

"I told you the last time you came here," said Bedford, "that if you came here again you would not leave alive." He opened his desk drawer, then reeled in shock. The revolver he kept there was no longer there.

"Looking for something?" I asked. It was then that Bedford looked around. As if appearing out of nowhere, black-clad, black-masked ninja surrounded him. One of the men had Bedford's revolver in his hand.

Bedford looked back at me. "I see." he said. "So... arrest me. I want my lawyer. I'll see you in a Courtroom in New York."

"Ohhhh, I don't think this one is going to see the inside of a Courtroom." I said. "Except that Court where a Judge of a much higher level waits for you." With that, two of the masked men came up to Bedford. He attempted to struggle, but was quickly slammed face-down onto his desk, and his hands manacled behind him with wire.

The ninja brought Bedford to the middle of the room and forced him to his knees on the expensive Oriental rug. They then made him watch as I stepped up to one of the urns and 'tapped' it with my crowbar.

*TAP!* *CRASH!*

"You son of a bitch!" roared Bedford as I stepped up to the next urn and shattered it. Never have I enjoyed using my crowbar more than at this moment, and for this purpose.

*TAP!* *CRASH!*

The last of the urns was shattered, ashes falling to the floor. I put a latex glove on my already gloved hand and pushed the remaining ashes onto the floor in a pile. Dust drifted downward.

"And this is what I think of you and your ancestors, Bedford." I said as I unzipped my pants. I took out my penis and aimed at the pile, and I began to urinate on the ashes.

Bedford tried to get up and attack me. "You fucking bastard! I'll kill you!" he roared, even as he was pushed back onto the floor.

I continued to urinate, having held my full bladder for longer than I wanted. A long stream of piss streamed over the ashes, soaking them. Taking a piss and emptying one's bladder is always a good thing, but I enjoyed taking this piss more than normal as I desecrated Wallace Bedford's ancestors remains, greatly dishonoring them, and him, with an unforgivable insult.

Finally, when I was finished, I put my penis back in my pants, then went over to one of the masked men. "How's your bladder, my friend?" I asked.

"Tired, Sire." the tall, broad-shouldered man said. He went over and pulled out his penis, which was huge, and began to urinate on the ashes. Nearly all of the black-clad men followed suit. But one did not, and it was clear from the way the black fabric clung to the curves of her body that she was a woman.

I said nothing as I returned to the circle surrounding Bedford. I looked over at the woman and extended my left arm, which held the scabbarded sword, and said "Would you like a shot... at the title?"

"Don't mind if I do." Teresa Croyle said, taking off her mask, so that her Enemy would know who was going to exterminate him. She grasped the handle of the Crowbar Katana and pulled. The katana sang as it slid out of the scabbard. The metal flashed as it reflected the lights in the room.

"Oh, this bitch." snarled Bedford. "Still whining about that worthless piece of shit she adopted."

Teresa said nothing more; the time for talk was over. She walked around until she was to Bedford's left, slightly behind him. As one of the other black-clad persons, who was also a woman, began coating the blade with a light oil, Bedford starting screaming at me.

"I'm not sorry for trying to save my son!" Bedford almost screamed out. "Wouldn't you do anything to save your child, Troy?"

"I wouldn't do what you did... steal an organ meant for a young girl fighting to live, then discard it, unused." I said. I could hear as well as feel the gasps of the people in the room as the full import of Bedford's crime was understood, and why I'd so badly dishonored him and the ashes of his ancestors.

"Do you really expect me to feel remorse over any action I took to save my son?" screamed Bedford.

"Why no, Mr. Bedford." I said. "I expect you to die."

Teresa readied herself to strike, the Crowbar Katana held high over her right shoulder. I took a long, telescoped stick I'd brought, that was in my belt with the short sword, and extended it. From well behind Teresa, I prepared to prod Bedford in the back with it.

"God damn all niggers!" shouted Bedford in his supreme moment. "A man born black is cursed by God! The white man will again reign supreme! White Power! White Power! White--"

*WHOOSH!*

As I prodded Bedford's back, making him raise his head, Teresa swung the katana with all her righteous might. So sharp was the blade, and so powerful was the blow, that she nearly lost control as the katana sliced easily through Bedford's neck. She pirouetted around to regain control of the sword as a fountain of blood sprayed upwards from Bedford's neck as his head toppled to the floor. Because he had been screaming as his head was removed from his neck, the teeth chattered in the head.

Teresa was cleaning the katana with the special cloth as two of the men began pouring gasoline and other flammables all over the room. I handed Teresa the scabbard and she sheathed the sword. She said "Arigato gozaimasu." as she offered it back to me, formally.

"Dou itashimashite." I replied, taking the proffered katana formally.

With that, we began filing out of the room of death. As we descended the stairs, the strong smell of aromatics, including gasoline, reached my nose. Not all of our team had been in the room. Others had been moving the old butler and the nurse and Bedford's son to the ambulance, telling them to drive straight to Boston Medical, which they did. Others were soaking down the whole house with flammables.

I was last to leave the house. I turned, lit a match, and put it to the gunpowder that had been laid in a trail to the door. It caught, and flames began forming and spreading.

We made our way down the mountainside to a grassy valley below. Several small planes were parked there. As we approached, their engines fired up, ready to take us out of there.

"Well done, everyone." said Takaki Misaki, appearing out of one of the planes. "Everyone load up. Crowbar-san, this plane will take you to your next destination."

"Sire," said Todd, "he cannot go alone."

"I'll go with him, Misaki-sama." said Teresa.

"Very well." said Misaki. "Good luck in your next mission, Crowbar-san, and Teresa-san."

I formally thanked all of Masaki's people on behalf of Teresa and myself, and we all bowed to each other. Then Misaki had his people board their planes.

As Teresa and I were about to board our plane, we looked back at the Bedford Mansion on the hilltop. It was engulfed in flames, a massive conflagration that would be seen for miles. A swirling column of fire reached to the sky. And I knew that as we got on the plane, Teresa and I were thinking the same one thought:

Amy was avenged.

Part 17 - The Final Seppuku

The other planes headed west; Teresa and I were flying south. For the most part, I slept on the way. It had been a long couple of days, and now we were on the final leg of my journey to fulfill a promise made.

It was Saturday, June 10th. I woke up just as dawn was breaking on the east coast. Looking out my window, I saw the Atlantic Ocean and the Florida coastline.

"We'll be landing in a few minutes, sir." said Teresa. "West Palm Beach? PBI?"

"LNA." I said. "Palm Beach County Park. Did you get any sleep?"

"A little bit, sir." Teresa said. "So where are we going now?"

I filled her in on the details. "We should have transportation at the airport."

"What about tonight, sir?" asked Teresa. "It might get ugly in the City, and in Town. Jasmine Nix is going to trigger riots all over the place during her album debut tonight."

"Hopefully we'll be back by then." I said. "But I get the feeling... that things are going to work out. Everything's in balance..." And no more would I say.

We landed at the airport. Getting to the terminal, I saw the blue and red shirts and black pants of the acolytes of The Vision. By coincidence (or perhaps not), a seminar was being held in West Palm Beach, Florida. As usual, the young acolytes were friendly and cheerful, gushing about how great it was to meet us...

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Conrad King sat in his wheelchair, looking over the Atlantic Ocean from the balcony of his home. It was his favorite view, and he had watched the sun rise over the horizon at dawn, seeing and hearing the gulls cawing. Ah, what a wonderful world, he thought. This view was the last thing he wanted to see before he died.

There was a tray next to his wheelchair. On it was a mint julep and another bottle full of liquid, with a cork in the top.

Conrad had just spoken to his son Jack, who was somewhere in Europe, and had made his final goodbyes with his son. His will had been finished and signed the day before; the trusts of his considerable charitable entities would be run by his grandson Seth, who was a decent young man any grandfather could be proud of. His granddaughter Karen would inherit much of his foreign assets, which she'd have to run from a country that did not have an extradition treaty with the United States.

He had also gotten word that Wallace Bedford's home had been destroyed by fire the night before. Inside the ruins had been found the body of a man, decapitated. Conrad knew what, and who, that meant. He also knew that his life's work, Superior Bloodlines, was being totally destroyed. The FBI had raided WorldBankTrust earlier this morning.

He came back into the living room of his home, which was all white with white furniture and white carpet... and saw the contrast of the redheaded man in black standing there. The red crowbar in the man's hands lent a splash of color to the room.

"Ah, so you came for me personally, Commander." said Conrad. "That was... respectful of you. Where are your fellow FBI Agents?"

"I'm not with them." I said. "I have arrived before them." Conrad understood.

"Come." he said. "To the balcony." I followed him back onto the balcony. It was indeed a marvelous view; I understood why he wanted to be here for this moment.

"So, it's all over." said Conrad. "You've done well. And you have won. I should have known you would after you destroyed Wargrave. And even better, Westboro. It was fascinating to watch you take down that man... no one thought you nor anyone else could possibly defeat him. So... do I get the same treatment as Bedford?"

"No." I said. "He got what was coming to him. By way of contrast, you've been more 'honorable', though our viewpoints are in opposition. But there is Dr. Heinz... and my father... to account for."

Conrad nodded. "Yes. Unfortunate deaths. And I appreciate you sparing my son's life, and my granddaughter's. And for the commutation of my daughter's sentence, allowing her to be honorably buried."

"Your daughter gave her life for my Officer." I said. "It was only meet and right that I do that much for her."

Conrad nodded. A tremor went through his aged body as he looked at the two containers of liquid on the tray. "Unfortunately, I just cannot bring myself to do this."

I knew what he was asking, and I chose to take the high road. Conrad King could have laid waste to a lot of people, but had chosen a more civilized route to his goals. He had also created great charitable works, and while that did not erase the perfidy of his racism and actions in support of that racism, I chose to let the good acts count for something. And his daughter Karla had saved my Officer's life.

I remembered an old quote I'd read: 'A little bit of bad in the best of us; a little bit of good in the worst of us.' And I did my duty.

"I am Donald Troy, Iron Crowbar, of the Clan Troy." I said, standing tall and bowing formally. "I would be honored to act as your second."

"I am Conrad King, founder of Superior Bloodlines, member of the Bilderberg Group and the Order of White Templars. I would be honored to accept you as my second."

With that, I took the corked bottle in my latex-gloved hand, removed the cork, and poured the hemlock into the mint julep. I picked up the glass and Conrad took it in his hand, and together we raised it to his lips. He drank the potion down, needing several swallows, but he finally finished it.

He then turned to face the view. "Well met, Iron Crowbar. Tell my grandson and his wife to do good things and have many children..."

I retreated into the living room and watched and waited as Conrad watched the beach and the ocean. Some moments later I checked on him. His eyes were open but they were not seeing. Conrad King was dead.

There was nothing more to do; I had achieved what I had promised the FBI Deputy Director that I would do. With the death of Conrad King, Superior Bloodlines was destroyed.

It was time for me to go, and I quietly did so. When the FBI arrived an hour later, they would find that the founder and leader of Superior Bloodlines, and one of the world's Globalist Elites, had committed seppuku by drinking hemlock.

Part 18 - Hearth, Home, and Canine Love

Teresa and I arrived at County Airport on the afternoon of Saturday, June 10th. Todd was there, and drove us to the Cabin.

There were hugs all around, but to everyone's surprise, the normally laid-back Buddy was beside himself. When Teresa came in, he jumped up, landing his front paws on her thigh, whimpering for her attention. She picked him up and he excitedly tried to lick her face and press his body to hers.

Everyone sat down, me in a hardback rocking chair, the rest on the sofas and other chairs. Buddy was in Teresa's lap, again pressing himself into her and whimpering as if he had not seen her in years. Cindy was peering at them, as was my mother and myself.

"What do you think, oh mighty dog whisperer?" I asked Cindy.

She shrugged and said "I've been getting a strange vibe from Buddy. Yesterday he was agitated, now he's acting like..."

"Like?" I said when Cindy stopped.

"Like he's grateful." Cindy replied. I nodded.

"Like he's channeling someone's gratitude?" I asked.

"Yeah... yeah..." Cindy said. Teresa heard that and looked up at us, then back down at Buddy as she petted him and rubbed his chest.

"Yes, Buddy." Teresa said, her voice barely above a whisper. "We've done what we could. It won't bring Amy back... but it's the next best thing."

No doubt about that, I thought to myself. No doubt about that.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

No rest for the weary. I'd just showered and was going to take a nap when Jack Muscone called and asked me and Laura to come to the Federal Building. Of course I brought Cindy, as well.

When we got there, we were led to the conference room that was not in a plexiglass cube. 'Team Lazarus' was there: Jack Muscone, Martin Nash, Sandra Speer, and Lindy Linares. I shook hands with the guys and hugged the women. Sandra looked a little spaced out, but when I gave her an extra warm hug and asked how she was doing, she said she was okay. Meanwhile, Laura gave everyone hugs.

We were all chatting about the success of of the past few days when the Deputy Director came in. He made a point to shake my hand, then Cindy's and Laura's before taking his seat at the end of the table, to my left, the door behind him.

"The name 'Team Lazarus' is sticking to you, Jack." he said. "This is the second time you've come back from the dead." (Author's note: 'Seriously Inconvenienced', Ch. 03-04.)

"This one worked a heck of a lot better than the last time." Laura said with some asperity. It had been her plan to crash a plane and make it look like the FBI team had died, but Pastor Raymond Westboro had not been fooled.

"Honey, it worked out better last time." I said. "Because Westboro saw through it, he unwittingly revealed himself to me, and it was all over for him from that moment on."

"This time worked well, too." said the DepDirector. "They fell for it, went ahead with their plans, and they're pretty well wiped out. The FBI has raided twelve banks across the nation and made over sixty arrests of white supremacist group personnel and so-called 'militias'. And I'm not talking weekend wannabees that play paintball, either." He was failing to hide his happiness at the fulfillment of his life's work.

"We caught up with Franklin Gray last night." the DepDirector continued. "He was in that compound on his own property. We'd gotten some of our own people inside his group, and we learned from the Iron Crowbar's discussion of how to defeat a prepper shelter by cutting off the air vents and introducing some rather foul-smelling gases into the place." Everyone broke out laughing at that.