The man who shot Dr. Manuel was received joyfully at the entrance and quickly allowed inside. He had no baggage, the semi-automatic rifle long ago taken down on site and thrown piecemeal, along with the black gloves, into several sewer drains. He nodded vaguely to the group chatting in the large sunroom, ignoring their friendly greetings. Striding swiftly to the administration wing, he slipped through a door.
Once inside his office, he punched his fist in the air and smiled. It was the kind of smile, that heady blush you’d expect to see on a serial killer when he first spies his next victim. But White Fox wasn’t a serial killer, at least not in the traditional sense of stalking and murdering for personal gratification. He was less selfish, a serial killer acting for others.
With a contented sigh, White Fox clicked his computer mouse and dialed into a series of Internet domains, providing each with a different alias and fake E-mail address. The resulting trail, bounced among servers around the world, was so convoluted, no hacker could follow it. White Fox had clandestine support from a variety of like-minded groups. Money had never been the problem. Finding the perfect front was.
Finally, blackness filled his screen, followed by the slow revealing of the blood-red words, “The Brothers Righteous: Death-Wish List”.
He scrolled past the individuals targeted for their association with abortion throughout North America. Using his editing package, he copied a graphic of a dripping line of blood through Dr. Manuel’s name. He leaned back, pleased with the symmetry created by the now five lines of blood spilling onto the page. That’ll up the ante. He saved the file and uploaded it to a server, savoring the protracted wait created by his complex electronic route. It was now available for all the world to see and to admire.
He accessed a bulletin board, rapidly bypassing a myriad of security measures using a variety of passwords and code phrases. With exquisite care, he addressed the following message to Black Hollyhock: Take us the foxes, the little white foxes. With a smile, he disconnected.
“Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord,” he whispered.
