Driving his beloved vintage truck, Hess followed the grassy track for several miles which led into a deep canyon. From there, he climbed a side ravine onto the rocky plateau known as Hurricane Deck. It was desolate. Which was why he put the Camp, his destination, in the midst of the San Rafael Wilderness. No roads. Only this jeep track, created back in the 1950s by uranium prospectors.
The Forest Service, undermanned and underfunded, never patrolled the country beyond Figueroa. And no one ventured into the wilderness north of Hurricane Deck. Knowing that, Hess had found the ideal location for the training camp. A deep canyon—with all-year water supply—at the base of the Sierra Madre Mountains.
Now, following the jeep trail, Hess was feeling good—really good. Only two days to the Sunday Summit. And tonight, His Eminence would visit the completed Camp for the first time. But what to do with the two shitheads in the truck bed? Two would be put on display. Tortured in front of the other Watchmen. No one betrays the Society. But what about the other guy? What was the best way to deal with him? So many choices. And had he put a bullet in the asshole who escaped? Too bad there was no time to hunt the bastard down.
He was sure he hadn’t been followed but paused a couple of times anyway to look back. No one. Nothing. So he continued his slow progress over rocks and ruts, knowing his huge tires let him move much faster than the Lincoln Navigator that would bring His Eminence out later that evening.