Free Ghosts of the Past by Mark H. Downer

losers in the game of life. Inseparable, they had dropped out of high school together at the age of 17, convinced that the money they were making moving drugs was enough to make them big shots in the small bedroom community on the south end of town.
    They hadn’t counted on being nabbed in a Federal cocaine sting a year and a half later. Both copped a plea on lesser charges, but managed to do some hard time in Eddyville Penitentiary. Between the young Oriental public defender, the Jewish judge who sentenced them, and the black inmates who had their way with them inside, they were ripe for the recruiting when they were paroled two years later.
    The leader of the local Aryan Nation cell met them at a rally in western Kentucky one week after they set foot outside the prison, and with very little effort convinced them of the cause. Their devotion to the organization and their beliefs led to connections with other white supremacy and anti-Semitic groups across the country. They matured from drug pushers to thieves and hit men.
    “I’ll give him a few minutes to get comfortable, and then I’ll go in. I’ll make it look like he walked into a robbery and got whacked in the process.” Jimmy said proudly.
     
    Without even a thought of getting comfortable, Ferguson had entered through the garage door and made a beeline to the bedroom, where he was busy changing out of the suit and tie into a pair of khakis and golf shirt. A little freshening up over the vanity and he was ready to head back out for a cocktail and some dinner.
    He had decided on the ride home from work that he would need something to help take the edge off of the turmoil his mind had been in all day. That something was going to be a couple of manhattans and a nice meal on the patio of Azalea’s restaurant. That would also allow him the opportunity to look over the map and notes some more, attempt to identify the approximate location in Switzerland he would need to start with, and do a complete translation of every word scrawled on the paper. He was in and out of the house in less than ten minutes as he switched off the lights inside and flipped on the outside porch light.
     
    Syron had waited uneasily for eight minutes, but the anticipation of the kill was too much. He looked at Nieron, produced a long stiletto switchblade from the back pocket of his pants, and opened and closed it to make sure the action was correct. He placed it back in his pants, and with a sinister grin, gave a wink as he exited the car.
    Casually, as if out for an early evening stroll he started down the street and meandered up the adjacent driveway to Ferguson’s house and ducked into the bushes that would conceal him while he climbed the fence into the backyard. As he was rounding the deck, he nearly jumped out of his skin as the garage door started up and the engine of Ferguson’s Explorer turned over. Crouched under a large honeysuckle, he watched as Ferguson pulled out and drove away.
    That stupid asshole, where the hell is he going?
    His cell phone went off almost the instant the engine noise had disappeared.
    “John, are you alright?” Jay’s voice asked over the line.
    “Yeah! The son-of-a-bitch just bugged out on me. Fuck it. I’m goin’ in anyway. I’ll wait for the fucker to come home and do him then.”
    “Don’t forget the paper, they told us that’s the most important thing.” Nieron reminded him.
    “Yeah, Yeah, I’ll look for that right now. Buzz me again, when he’s coming back.”
    Syron broke through the backdoor window, and entered easily through the door. He spent the next fifteen minutes ransacking the house, pocketing whatever valuables he could find. On the dresser in the bedroom, he found what he was looking for. It was a photocopy, but it had the personalized Nazi letterhead of Hermann Goering, and the list in the body of the paper, just as they told him it would. He folded it once and stuck it in the back pocket of his pants removing the stiletto as