PART ONE

1

Y MINUS ONE

TEXAS PANHANDLE

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JIMMY AND BILL STOPPED by the game warden's office, went through the usual routine, then headed for their favorite diner with the eight-point white tail gutted and wrapped in a tarp in the back of Jimmy's pickup.

At the diner, the two ravenous hunters ordered coffee and lunch.

Jimmy and Bill knew each other from high school, but hadn't been especially close friends. After 9/11 Bill joined the Marines and Jimmy became a medic in the Army. After returning home they ran into each other at the V.A. Since agonizingly long waits were standard at veteran's hospitals, they had plenty of time and nothing better to do than talk.

It turned out they had a lot in common. Both liked to hunt. Both were firearms enthusiasts. Both were disillusioned about the "war on terror." Neither of them liked the way V.A. doctors were trying to classify them as PTSD. Nor did they like nurses and doctors asking them if they owned firearms. And both were pissed off about what was happening to their country.

A strong friendship developed after that, and many of their conversations centered around speculations on what kind of country America was going to be in a few more years, how the transformation might take place and what, if anything, they could do about it.

They hunted together; went to the range together; introduced girlfriends; invited each other over for Superbowl parties. Now and then one of them met others who shared a lot of their concerns over the state of the Union. Sometimes those others made it a habit to join them at the range and at bull sessions in the diner. Sometimes they brought wives and/or sons. A few times they asked Bill to talk about what he'd done and seen in the Sandbox. He obliged by explaining small unit tactics at length. A few quizzed Jimmy on combat medicine, and techniques he'd used in Ass-Crackistan. A lot of those folks bought weapons and gear, showing it off to the two veterans, or sometimes seeking advice and approval before buying. All of them bought ammunition with every available dollar, including Jimmy and Bill.

When the two friends entered the diner, they left their cellphones in the truck—even though both phones were rooted, and they had removed the hidden backup batteries which allowed third parties to remotely turn the microphones on.

As they discussed the hunt, the buck, and what Jimmy would do with the hide, the meat, and the antlers, a Toyota Tundra swung into the parking lot and pulled up right next to the GMC. They sat facing each other in the booth, but both noticed the new arrival through the window.

Arden Thatcher exited the Toyota's cab and wandered up to lean over and look into the bed of the GMC, flipping up the tarp to snoop under it. He was a little below average height, thin and bowlegged, but compensated with cocky swagger for what he lacked in stature. With clod-kickers, a cowboy hat and a Rebel flag on his Levi jacket, he was the poster boy for Texas rednecks.

Arden had come upon Bill engaged in a conversation with some other folks at a survival expo, and jumped right in. He talked like a gun enthusiast, who hated the present administration. After that first meeting he bumped into one or the other of them by coincidence—like the way he just happened to show up at the diner just now.

Jimmy and Bill watched him turn from the GMC and saunter toward the diner's front entrance.

Arden Thatcher didn't leave his smartphone in the truck. Nor had he taken it apart and removed the hidden backup battery. He stepped inside the diner and swept his gaze over the patrons until he found Jimmy and Bill. Jimmy was dark-haired, with a big crooked nose. Bill was a redhead with Scotch-Irish features. Both still wore woodland cammies with matching baseball caps.

Arden smiled and nodded before heading their way.

Jimmy nodded back. That was a good sign. Maybe they were warming up to him. They still hadn't invited him to go shooting with them or otherwise hang out with their local gang.

He felt sure he could earn their confidence in time.

"Hey Jimmy," he said. "Howdy Bill. Mind if I pull up a chair?"

"Howdy Arden," they mumbled, neither of them scooting over to make room on their booth seat.

Arden found an unoccupied chair at a nearby table and slid it over to sit perpendicular to the two veterans. "About due for a bad winter, I hear."

Jimmy and Bill nodded, chewing their food.

"Who bagged the eight-pointer?" Arden asked.

Bill chinned toward Jimmy, who grinned. "We knew it would be winner-take-all," Bill said. "That first shot would scatter all the game for 20 grid squares."

"I hear the mating cry of the sore loser," Jimmy remarked, smirking.

"Grid squares," Arden repeated. "Does that mean you had a military topo map of the area?" He seemed to be a little proud that he knew about military grid, and had shown them he knew his stuff.

"Naw, USGS," Bill said, blowing on a spoonful of soup. "Gotta use latitude, longitude and minutes. It's just habit to think in military grid."

"Oh," Arden said.

Silence fell over the table for a moment. The waitress came over and asked Arden what he'd like. He ordered a cup of coffee and a slice of cherry pie.

"Y'all hear this latest thing about the illegal aliens?" Arden asked.

Both men grumbled in the affirmative.

"More and more people are rejecting the mass media brainwashing," Jimmy said, finishing off his enchilada. "The globalists have to bring in more illegals to cancel out their votes."

"Ain't enough that the sheeple get to vote five or six times every election," Bill added.

"Elections are a total sham anymore," Jimmy said. “And what choice do we get every time? Communist or Communist Lite.”

“Tastes great!” Bill blustered, drunkenly.

“Less filling!” Jimmy blustered back, pounding his fist on the table and adding a hiccup for effect.

Arden's coffee arrived and he took a big gulp, oblivious to the once-famous beer commercial referenced. "It ain't just about elections," he said. "It's genocide against white Europeans."

Jimmy and Bill both raised their eyebrows, shared a glance and looked back to Arden.

"Genocide?" Jimmy asked.

"Sure," Arden replied. "It don't always take gas chambers—if that even happened. They'll breed the white outa' the world if they have to. The whole country'll be one shade a brown or 'nother, it keeps goin' the way it is now."

"What 'they' are you talking about?" Jimmy asked.

"You know," Arden said. "The NWO. ZOG, or whatever you wanna call 'em."

"NWO are lily-white Europeans themselves," Bill said. "Why would they want to 'breed out' their own race?"

Arden shook his head. "Most of 'em are Jews. Don't you know that? Besides, even the ones that are truly white protect their own blood lines. They just want the rest of us to lose our racial purity."

Jimmy fidgeted, visibly uncomfortable. "What is 'ZOG,' anyway?"

"Zionist Occupational Government," Arden explained. "Our government is controlled by the Israelis. Ain't it obvious?"

Bill set his coffee cup down, leaned back in his seat, and wiped his face with a napkin, exchanging another glance with Jimmy. "Arden," he said, "We got nothin' against you. But it's fairly plain there's some matters we don't see eye-to-eye on. If you're lookin' for like-minded people to hang out with, you should go on and look somewhere else."

Arden looked crestfallen, his jaw slack. "What? What's the matter?"

"Nothing's the matter," Jimmy said. We believe what we believe. You've got different opinions, and you're welcome to them. We'd prefer not to argue with you or anybody who believes like you do. We just want to do our own thing."

"What are you?" Arden demanded, blushing. "Jew lovers?"

Maybe Jimmy was a Jew. He sure did have a big nose. The dark hair might mean he had a Mex somewhere in his family tree. Arden had determined to let that slide. But if they were going to cop an attitude just because he was fed up with the Z.O.G...

"No offense, Arden," Bill said, staring hard into Arden's eyes. "But it'd be best for everybody all around if you just left us alone."

The waitress arrived with the slice of pie. Jimmy smiled at her and said, “If you would, please, serve that to him at a different table.”

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AMARILLO, TEXAS

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MANY MILES AWAY IN a secure commo room, Jason Macmillan, along with the comm tech on monitoring duty, sat listening to the conversation via the microphone in Arden Thatcher's cellphone.

McMillan's power and fortunes had increased significantly over the last 20 years. Too bad his health hadn't prospered proportionately. He had most of the ailments common to men in their middle age now, including a degree of obesity, high blood pressure, and erectile dysfunction. What hair hadn't fallen out all turned gray. But people respected him more than ever. He had the power to step on just about anybody from 95% of the population, should he need to. And even if he retired today, he'd be set to live comfortably for the rest of his life. Not that he wanted to retire. Ever.

Macmillan tore off his headset and swore. "More candy-asses," he declared, shot to his feet, and marched to the door. He turned back to tell the comm tech, "They wouldn't even let him eat a slice of pie at their table. When he gets far enough away, tell that stupid redneck the assignment is terminated."

"Should he report to his handler for a new assignment?" the comm tech asked.

"No. Let him cool his heels for a while. Tell him we'll be in touch if another assignment comes along."

"Yes sir," the comm tech said, and Macmillan shut the door.

Macmillan cussed under his breath as he made his way to his own office-away-from-home. They had wasted months working their informant into the confidence of that DomTer cell, and Thatcher blew it over the course of a few minutes.

Every potential target city had its challenges. Around Amarillo it was infiltrating the organized groups. Not the racially motivated gangs—those were easy, and conventional departments already had informants planted. But the groups that posed a real threat were proving tough nuts to crack.

The problem this time was, Thatcher had a long enough leash to improvise. But he wasn't smart enough to improvise. He didn't know the marks as well as he should have. Plus he actually believed in all that Jewish conspiracy business; so he assumed others would, too.

Macmillan didn't care whether there was a Jewish conspiracy or not. It didn't change the parameters of his job. But it occurred to him how he might be able to turn Thatcher's belief in it from a liability into an asset. He would work on it with the handler before they attempted to give Thatcher another assignment.

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2

Y MINUS TWO

BAGHDAD, IRAQ

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JAKE MCCALLUM HADN't had many visitors since he'd been in the hospital. A few guys from Security Solutions, International, including the president of the private military company, dropped by. Ingrid—a field surgeon and his on-again, off-again girlfriend, checked in regularly. But his closest friend in SSI, Leon Campbell, was stateside. And after the first few days there was little break from the bedridden monotony in the cool, white room.

At six-foot-eight and with a massive, carefully-sculpted musculature, it was agonizing for Mac to lay here and feel himself atrophy. His arm was broken and his knee recovering from surgery. In a civilian context he would have been released to recover at home; but here he was treated like a wounded soldier because it wouldn't be safe for him in-country in his vulnerable condition.

A black man, who was not Leon, appeared in the doorway and rapped his knuckles on the jamb. He was a little shorter than Leon, and huskier. "What's up, my brotha?" the man greeted.

Mac noted his business formal attire, despite the environment. His shoes were in the latest style. The creases in his pants were razor-sharp, and his jacket was tailored to his V-shaped torso. With perfectly trimmed mustache and goatee, he looked like a model for the cover of Jet or something. Mac had rubbed elbows with plenty of Agency guys over here. Agency guys usually dressed business/casual Nobody except politicians dressed sharper than that.

From his bed, Mac chinned an acknowledgment of the visitor, who then entered with a very subtle three-legged swagger.

"DeAngelo Jeffries," the man said, extending his hand. Mac wrapped his own huge paw (the one he could still use) around the offered hand and pumped it once.

"I'm in town for a while, checking things out," Jeffries said. "Guy I'm with was assigned to debrief your girlfriend—tall Swedish blonde—so I thought I'd come by and holla at ya."

“Debriefing” meant Jeffries was working for the Agency in some capacity. McCallum had wondered if his trip to Indonesia would get their attention.

"Nurse said they had to do some work on your knee," Jeffries said, sliding the chair over to seat himself at bedside.

"Yeah," Mac said. "I can get around on crutches for now. Hopefully I'll be able to put weight on it before much longer."

"Knee injuries are no joke, man," Jeffries said. "I had to have mine scoped a few years back. It's like the most critical joint in your body. Has to withstand the most abuse."

"Hurt it playin' ball?" Mac asked, slipping into a 'hood accent without conscious thought.

"Yeah, you know it," Jeffries said. "But nothin' like yours. Speakin' of ball, I know you had to play somewhere, with your height."

Mac shrugged massive shoulders. "High school. A little college, before I went in the Army. So if somebody's debriefing Ingrid, that means you're here to debrief me."

Jeffries shrugged this time. "Naw, man—nothin' official. Wouldn't do that here, anyway. But rumors go 'round, and I'm supposed to ask you some questions. That's all."

"What you wanna know?"

"You know: routine stuff. Like were you injured here or somewhere else?"

"On vacation," Mac said, technically telling the truth.

"Where'd you go?" Jeffries asked, in a friendly, conversational, none-too-concerned tone of voice.

"Indonesia," Mac replied, wondering how much Ingrid was telling this guy's partner. She didn't know everything, but she knew enough to raise some eyebrows in certain circles where a smart person never wanted to cause eyebrows to be raised. "My first time over there."

"SOCOM never sent you over there, huh?" Jeffries asked, surprised.

So Jeffries had read Mac's dossier.

"Not me," Mac said. "They always had me focused on the Middle East. Taught me Arabic; oriented me on Islam; all that."

Jeffries nodded. "I guess it makes sense you got a Private Military Company over here. Ain't too many brothas got that kinda' juice at War, Incorporated."

"I'm only vice president," Mac said.

Jeffries chuckled. "Looks to me like you do all the work at SSI, while the president just handles the administrative end."

Mac shrugged again. "Nigga behind the trigga. You know."

Jeffries shook his head, sadly. "We come all this way. Even got a brotha into the White House. But the white man still has the white collar."

"Even in a war zone," Mac agreed, chuckling himself, relieved that Jeffries didn't seem to be hungry for details about his "vacation."

"I don't know what you've heard," Jeffries said, suddenly serious. "But there's a new development here. Al Qaeda is reorganizing; working on changing their name."

Mac knew "former" Al Qaeda cells were instrumental in a lot of regional mischief. And white people were making entirely too big a deal that American tax dollars were buying weapons which found their way into the hands of the late Osama Bin Laden's jihadists. The issue was much more complex than who was behind the 9/11 attacks and whether the new regime in Syria would be more hostile to the US than the old one was. Now, evidently, the jihadists were getting ready to topple the precarious post-Saddam regime here in Iraq, too.

"The withdrawal is a done deal," Jeffries said. "The day is coming when you won't have the Army or Marines here to back you up."

"I go to the briefings," Mac said.

"You ever consider working domestically?"

"In the States?" Mac nodded. "I tried to get on a SWAT team after I left the Army. Wound up a contractor instead."

Jeffries shook his head, frowning. "I ain't sayin' you wouldn't be good at it, but SWAT—that's local stuff. The Man wants to keep us local and small scale, but we need to get in where the power is, on the federal level."

"You mean like what you're doing?" Mac asked.

Jeffries nodded. "I'm at the federal level. I got my finger on the pulse; feel me? And if bad stuff goes down, I'm in a position to do somethin'. Look at the whole Eric Garner thing...did you follow that?"

Mac shook his head slowly. "Yeah. Man, that jury..."

"That jury was just the start, man. You know I can't talk about everything, but trust me, my brotha: it's gonna get real ugly before too long. The man sees us movin' up, now, and he don't like it. I mean, we even got one of ours into the White House. White House. White. It's their house, the way they see it. And they're frothin' at the mouth to make sure us uppity Negroes don't ever get up there again. There's gonna be a backlash sooner or later, and you can kinda' see it happening already."

Mac considered his white friends. Some of them were just consumed with hate for Obama. They could rattle off facts and statistics to justify it, but what was the real reason? Then there were loose cannons like Josh Rennenkampf, who Mac was sure must be a closet Neo-Nazi.

"You got too much talent to waste on a SWAT team," Jeffries went on, laughing derisively. "Or to waste bein' a contractor." He swept his hand in an arc—not to indicate the room they occupied or even the whole hospital, but the volatile country surrounding it, along with the chaos and military/political quagmire it represented.

"I dunno," Mac said. "Contracting has been a good fit for me."

"Well you might wanna think it over, my brotha. I might be able to hook you up, you ever decide to give it a try."

"I appreciate it, man," Mac said.

Jeffries stood from his chair. "Tell you what: I'm not gonna pry into your personal business about the vacation right now. You're in the hospital, on pain meds. I'm just gonna say you fell asleep before you told me much. You get with Ingrid, find out what she said, then you can get your stories straight. Then we can finish debriefing. Sound good to you?"

Mac nodded, dumbly. When they shook hands again, it was in the familiar street method passed down and constantly revised by young men ever since the Vietnam era.

After Jeffries left the room, Ingrid came to visit him. She was a tall, well-proportioned, attractive Scandinavian woman, with a lab coat on over a nice casual blouse and pants. She asked how he was doing, and if he'd been questioned.

"Yeah. And he's not done, either. What did you tell them?"

Ingrid shrugged. "What I know, which wasn't much. I was on the boat when all of you went ashore. But I did see the one firefight."

Mac groaned. Why did she have to mention that?

Well, he guessed the Agency probably knew about it already, anyway. "What did they seem most interested in?"

"Who all was there," she said. "They knew about Tommy Scarred Wolf and his brother. And about you. They wanted other names, but I couldn't remember them. I just gave physical descriptions."

"Alright. If they come back to ask if you remember anything else, say no."

They chatted for a bit, then she kissed him and left.

Mac pondered the whole strange encounter with Jeffries. The agent had saved Mac a whole lot of hassle, not asking questions there probably weren't any safe answers for. In fact, if somebody really wanted to be a jerk, they could classify Mac as a suspected accomplice in the murder Tommy and Vince were framed for back in Medan, Indonesia.

Something bothered Mac about how easy Jeffries had made it for him. On the other hand, he was grateful to finally find an ally who saw things how they really were in this white man's world. The negative possibilities surrounding Jeffries' behavior paled in comparison.

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3

Y MINUS 20

SHREVEPORT, LOUISIANA

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TROOPER JASON MACMILLAN, 29 and fit with a full head of brown hair under his Smokey-the-Bear hat, turned his halogens on bright, then adjusted his side spot onto the little Chevy S-10 pulled over in front of him. After the make was run on the vehicle's owner and radioed back to Macmillan, he got out of his cruiser and approached the S-10's passenger window.

He turned on his big Maglite and shined it through the rear window into the cab. He didn't see anything incriminating inside.

But that was kind of the point: he couldn't see everything inside.

The driver rolled his window down. Already squinting from the bright light of the cruiser's headlights and side spot in his mirrors, Joe Tasper was now completely blinded when Trooper Macmillan fixed the Maglite's beam directly in his eyes.

"Driver's license, registration and proof of insurance," Macmillan said. "And please turn your engine off, sir."

"I've got battery problems," Tasper said. "If I shut it down, I'll need a jump to get going again."

"Do me a favor and shut it down," Macmillan ordered. "Then please comply with my request, sir."

Tasper turned off the ignition, dug out his wallet and leaned over to open his glove box. Macmillan rested one hand on his holstered sidearm. He'd never had to pull his gun in the line of duty, but could never tell when the opportunity would arise. Tasper handed over his papers and Macmillan took them, relaxing just a bit.

"The reason I pulled you over is that your windows are illegally tinted," Macmillan said.

"I just bought the truck today," Tasper replied. "I was on my way to get a new battery for it. I can take the tinting off Monday after work. You'll give me a jump when you're done, right?"

"You sit tight here," Macmillan said, waving the license, insurance card and registration form. "I'll be back in a few minutes."

"The store is gonna be closed in a half hour," Tasper said. "I have to get there quick to get the new battery."

Macmillan ignored him and returned to the comfort of his patrol car. He called in the additional info, but Tasper's record was clean, except for normal traffic citations, and his story checked out about buying the pickup that day.

Macmillan took his time filling out the ticket. When he went back to the suspect's vehicle, he asked to see the bill of sale, then looked it over. He questioned the suspect about why someone in northwest Texas had driven so far to buy a truck in Louisiana, but failed to trip him up or get him to admit anything. Macmillan added a seatbelt violation to the citation and got the suspect to sign. The suspect asked again about getting a jump start, but Macmillan ignored him and returned to his patrol car.

Normally he waited for the suspect to drive away first, but knowing Joe Tasper wouldn't be able to start his vehicle now, MacMillan drove away without waiting. He decided to come back this way at the end of his shift and see if the S-10 was still sitting here. Who knew? Maybe it would be abandoned and he could schedule it for impound.

It turned out to be Trooper McMillan's lucky night. A county mounty called for backup on a resisting arrest code. MacMillan floored the accelerator, flipping on his light beacon, and got the Crown Victoria rolling down the fast lane at 120. The incident site was only a few miles away. He would get some stick time tonight.

MaQuon Lutrell was pulled over for a "no turn on red" violation. The sheriff's deputy asked to search his car. MaQuon had a bag of weed under the passenger seat and didn't want to go back to jail. He heard people say that cops couldn't search a vehicle without either a search warrant or the driver's consent, so he didn't give his consent. The deputy asked what he was hiding and the conversation soon turned into an argument.

When the deputy ordered him to get out of the car, MaQuon feared it might get ugly. And it did.

The scenario ended with the deputy and an increasing number of arriving cops beating on him with police batons. One of the arriving cops was a young State Trooper.

The beating took place in a well-lit area on a street connecting residential and industrial areas. Across the street, hiding behind a cluster of bushes, was a group of preadolescent boys. They were friends from school who got together to hang out one last time since Mrs. Thatcher was moving tomorrow and would be taking her son, Arden, with her to Texas.

The boys laughed and joked among themselves, watching the black grown-up getting the crap beat out of him. Arden bragged that he would be a cop one day himself, and get paid to beat up niggers.

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4

Y MINUS TWO

CAMP PENDLETON

OCEANSIDE, CALIFORNIA

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BRIGADIER GENERAL CLAYTON P. Vine, USMC, looked up from the training schedule when the intercom buzzed. One of his staffers told him the civilian V.I.P. had arrived. Vine had played power games when he was younger, forcing people to wait unnecessarily on him when they were on time for appointments; but he had grown out of that. The military—and the government in general—wasted entirely too much time with stupid little games designed to prove who had more power.

"Let him in."

The door opened and one of Vine's marines announced the visitor before shutting the door behind the State Department errand boy.

The errand boy was a mid-30s nerd with one of those fancy new Blue Tooths and a haircut that appeared downright unsanitary. He glanced around the office—which was tastefully built of stained wood—not that cheap paneling that simulated the real thing. The walls, of course, were bedecked with a few framed photos and several framed awards. There was also a US flag and the Colors of Vine's present command.

The errand boy strode forward and shook the general's hand. Vine encouraged him to have a seat, and he did.

Vine asked him all the polite garbage like how his flight had been, if he had any trouble finding Vine's headquarters, and so forth. He had entertained errand boys before, and knew these pleasantries were expected. One never wanted to piss off anyone from the State Department.

The errand boy made a few polite comments about formations of marines he'd seen marching as he passed on his way here.

Finally the errand boy got around to business...in a bureaucratic way. "Well, as I'm sure you've noticed, the domestic situation is a bit worrisome."

Vine said nothing, unsure what the errand boy was referring to. He wondered what exactly Washington was worried about. There were issues with police and demonstrators in various cities, but that was hardly a concern of the Marines. He could be referring to the influx of radical Muslims, hiding among the hordes of Latin refugees invading the country. But that was unlikely, since the administration he worked for obviously wanted to make the situation on the border worse, not better. None of it made sense to Vine, but then politics rarely did. Most of what the Marine Corps did made sense; which was one reason Vine loved being a marine.

"The President and Secretary thought it important that we touch base with our senior commanders in all the Armed Forces," the errand boy said. "And I thought it best to meet with you face-to-face."

"That's good," Vine said, resisting the urge to demand he get to the point. "I appreciate it."

"Even with all this technology nowadays, I still think it's the best way to communicate." The errand boy checked something on his beeping smartphone, then slid it back in his pocket. "First of all, I want to personally thank you for your service to the President over the years."

Vine nodded. His career had spanned the terms of a few presidents, and he considered his service as to the Corps anyway, but he went along with the assumption, hoping the errand boy would spit out what was on his mind.

"I understand you're up for promotion."

Vine nodded and smiled, which was not what he wanted to do. This civilian dweeb mentioning specifics of his career made his stomach queasy.

"Obviously my superiors and I understand how important it is to retain quality leadership," Errand Boy said. "My uncle served in the Marine Corps, so I know the deal."

You don't know your sphincter from a gopher hole, kid. You should have sent your uncle to talk to me.

"So with the situation like it is, it's imperative that the President knows he can count on you."

"You lost me, son," Vine said. "I've been in the Corps so long I can't remember life before it. I've served with honor and been faithful to my duty. Is there some reason the President—or anyone else—suddenly questions my ethics?"

"Of course not," the errand boy replied. "I took a look at your records, and your ethics are peerless...except, of course, for that brief dalliance with the young woman in Japan about 30 years ago."

The queasy feeling got worse, and Vine's blood ran cold. How did the State Department know about the affair? His wife never found out, and neither had his commanding officer. He would certainly have heard about it if they had. He'd felt guilty about the moral lapse for years afterwards, but finally chalked it up to youthful recklessness—no harm/no foul—and forgot about it.

"So it's not really about ethics," the errand boy said. "It's about loyalty."

The cold, sinking sensation intensified. Vine couldn't very well swear to his own loyalty when they knew he'd once cheated on his wife.

The errand boy chuckled and held his hands up, palms-forward. "Hey, don't worry. I'm not here because anybody's upset that you got a little side action when you were young."

"Why are you here, then?" Vine asked, losing his ability to maintain the polite tone.

"As I said, the domestic situation is getting ugly, General. Not everybody out there welcomes change. And change isn't always easy—sometimes it makes things uncomfortable, even though it ultimately works for the greater good. And sometimes bringing change requires some people to adjust their methods, and perspective."

Now it was dawning on Vine what this was about. He'd heard scuttlebutt about a purge taking place across all the branches of the armed forces. He knew about a few of the senior commanders who were sacked a while back—vocal critics of how Benghazi was handled, for instance. He assumed that was the extent of the purge. Obviously not.

“What specific change are we talking about?” Vine asked.

“Well,” Errand Boy said, “there are some old traditions and rigid ideas about what the military can and should be used for. We need to take our concept of the armed forces to a whole new level. Times like these call for flexibility. For thinking outside the box.”

“All right,” Vine said, in a tone meant to coax out more information.

Errand Boy crossed his legs the way a lady does, removed his glasses, and polished the lenses with a handkerchief “The ways of war are changing, as I'm sure you know, General. There's no more one nation against another, sending bomber formations at each other's factories; soldiers stabbing each other with bayonets; that sort of thing. At least not in the developed world. We've got modern technology; a different definition of victory; and different threats. Our men and women in uniform won't necessarily be tasked with fighting enemy soldiers...or shipping off to some faraway land to do it.”

"Let me spell out what I think you're driving at," Vine said, his face heating up. "And you tell me if I'm right: the President wants to know if I'm willing to command my marines to fire on American civilians, based on his say-so."

The errand boy's head rocked back on his neck as if he'd just received an invisible slow-motion blow to the face. "Well, I wouldn't..."

"And you all believe that what I did in Japan is an insurance policy just in case I don't want to dance to the President's tune," Vine interrupted. "Is that it?"

"I assure you, nobody in Washington thinks any less of you because of some harmless booty call in the previous century," the errand boy said, nonchalantly.

"And furthermore," Vine continued, "my promotion, and therefore my career, depends on me agreeing to this. Does that sum it up?"

The errand boy shrugged. "Perhaps that's not the most delicate way to phrase it. But yes."

Vine wanted to tell him where to stick delicate phrases. Vine had never concerned himself with politics. There were only a few times he even bothered to vote, and he'd never even watched a presidential debate. The only campaign promises that motivated him had to do with the military budget.

Vine's father, however, had been different. A marine, for sure, but he also considered history and politics to be important. In one of their last conversations before he passed away, Vine's father reminded him that Clayton had taken an oath to uphold and defend the Constitution. Vine had never read the Constitution, and only knew what other people claimed that it said. His father said that it was the law of the land—the fundamental core of American government. His father said America was unique because, here, individual rights were sacred whether laws were written acknowledging them or not. In America, government's purpose was to protect those rights.

His father would go on at length about this, and Vine couldn't remember all the details, but that was the gist of it.

Vine hadn't studied what his father had; and didn't agree with him about everything...but something just struck him as wrong about using the Marines as a weapon against Americans.

"I'm curious," Vine said. "Why are you so sure we're going to need to fight a war against our own civilians? The country's what—240 years old or so? There's never been a need for this before."

The errand boy frowned and checked his watch. His whole demeanor changed as the pleasant, respectful facade was dropped. He paused before speaking. "It's obvious from your hesitation that you're not the man for the job. I thought you were smarter than this. But not everybody can handle the adjustments necessary to make change work."

"Why won't you answer the question?" Vine asked. "Why are you so sure you'll need my marines to kill civilians? I mean, even in the Civil War, armies fought other armies. What do you anticipate?"

The errand boy stood from his seat and gave a curt nod. "Of course I don't need to tell you that the subject and details of this conversation are classified; not to be disclosed to anyone without the expressed permission of the President."

Vine rose to his own feet. "We didn't discuss anything of strategic significance, young fellah—there's no national security concerns here. I'm not legally obligated to keep any of this secret. But then I suppose that's where the implied blackmail threat comes in."

The errand boy already had his back to Vine by then, but flashed him a wry grin over the shoulder on his way out the door.

The errand boy walked back to his rental car using one thumb to compose a text message. Once behind the wheel, he finished it.

"Nix Vine. Won't play ball."

He sent the message, started the engine, and scrolled through his notes to find the next senior officer on the list.

And just like that, Clayton P. Vine's career in the United States Marine Corps was over.

Within the next few days Vine would be notified that his second star had been pinned on somebody else's uniform.

Someone who passed the litmus test.

Vine would be thanked for his service and forcibly retired. If he leaked the reason behind his sacking, his affair with the young lady in Japan would be leaked, adding disgrace to injury.

For the rest of his life, Vine would wonder if he'd done the right thing. Was his instinctive moral resistance important enough to throw away what he loved most of all?

For the first time in 40 years, he felt the urge to cry. The Marine Corps was his entire identity. Wasn't it worth keeping, at any price?

Despite the anguish of his shockingly crushed spirit, he suspected it wasn't.

––––––––

5

D MINUS 88

POTAWATTOMIE COUNTY SHERIFF'S OFFICE

OKLAHOMA

––––––––

TOMMY SCARRED WOLF finished reading the email from his niece and was organizing a reply in his mind when a knock on his office door roused him from his thoughts. He glanced up to see Deputy Janet Bailey leaning around through the doorway.

His door was usually open, but his people were polite enough to knock anyway.

"Have you got a minute, sir? Janet asked.

He had never got used to being called "sir," preferring to be called by his first name. Janet knew that, so this was her way of telling him something serious was going on.

"Yeah," Tommy said, nodding toward the vinyl sofa opposite his desk. His office was tidy and Spartan, with little in the way of decoration save for an American flag, a framed photo of all his deputies between two prowl cars, and some other cop stuff. He didn't clutter his work area with family memorabilia.

Janet entered, followed by a girl who looked to be about 15. The girl glanced at Janet tentatively as if making sure it was okay to sit down. Janet shut the door behind them.

Tommy straightened in his chair. This was serious, alright.

The sheriff had a lean, sinewy build, a little below six feet in height, but tall for a full-blooded Shawnee. Shaving had never really been necessary for him, and it was a good thing since his red-bronze face was now full of more pits and other terrain features than ever. He still kept his black hair short, but not high-and-tight for a long time, now.

The young girl was mixed, like Janet. Maybe a quarter-breed or less. Her hair was brown with streaks of different colors. She wore a cumbersome volume of jewelry as so many in her generation did; stylishly torn jeans; a tank top showing off her pierced beer belly, and some of those retro-hi-top sneakers kids wore because they thought they made them look street savvy or something. Her fingers had nicotine stains and it was obvious she chewed on her fingernails.

"This is Diana," Janet said, sitting beside her.

"Hello Diana," Tommy said, trying to smile warmly to put her at ease.

"Diana," Janet said, "I'm going to tell the sheriff what you told me, okay? Feel free to add anything new you remember."

Janet, a mother of three, wasn't great at police work, but she was a dynamite rape crisis counselor. Actually, in anything requiring the human touch, Janet was his go-to superstar. She faced Tommy as she spoke, with frequent glances at the young girl to coax nods of agreement and include her in the conversation.

"Diana found me at the gas station," Janet explained. "She had just left the house of one of her teachers and ran about six blocks before she found me."

"Is it normal for you to see your teachers on the weekend?" Tommy asked.

Diana nodded.

"She's been visiting Ms. Greeley at her house for a few weeks," Janet said. "Right?"

Diana nodded.

"What's your relationship with Ms. Greeley?" Tommy asked.

"We're friends," Diana said, staring at the floor.

"She ran from the house because she was scared," Janet went on. "There were things going on in the house that made her uncomfortable."

"What kind of things, Diana?" Tommy asked. "I'd like to hear it from you, if you don't mind."

"Well, there was me, Rose—Ms. Greeley I mean—Zack and Dave," Diana said in a squeaky voice.

"Who are Zack and Dave?" Tommy asked.

"They go to my school. Zack is a junior; Dave's a senior."

"How about you?" Tommy asked.

"I'm a freshman," the girl replied.

"So what do these boys do over at Ms. Greeley's house?" Tommy asked.

"They...they're lovers," Diana said. "The three of them."

Tommy had a poker face that came in handy at times like these.

"For the last few days," Janet said, "they've been pressuring Diana into doing some things she doesn't want to do."

Tommy nodded. "Sexual things?"

Diana nodded.

"The boys are pressuring you?"

Janet cleared her throat. "The boys, yes. But mostly Ms. Greeley. Right?"

Diana nodded.

"How old are you?" Tommy asked.

"I'm 14," Diana said.

"Did they try to force you to have sex, Diana?" Tommy asked.

"Well, not exactly," Diana said. "I mean, nobody got rough, I guess. But, Rose has been, like, pregnant...and, she's all into some kind of, like, alternate religion..."

The girl seemed on the verge of breaking down. Janet picked up the narrative. "It sounds like the school teacher gave birth in her house. They took this newborn baby and performed some sort of ritual. At the end of the ritual, they took a knife..."

The girl lost it, wailing and blubbering, face wet with tears. "...Blood everywhere...it kept screaming..."

Janet put her arm around the teen and patted the back of her neck, turning to Tommy with tears in her own eyes.

Tommy ground his teeth and asked, "Can her parents come get her?"

"She lives with her mother, who's at work today," Janet said.

"She's gonna have to leave work and come get her daughter," Tommy said. "And we need the address of Ms. Greeley's house."

"Yes sir," Janet said, wiping her eyes.

Tommy rose, opened a desk drawer and pulled out his shoulder rig, checking the magazine in his M1911 out of habit and clicking it back into place.

He threw his office door open and stalked down the hallway, pulling on his shoulder rig. He paused at the dispatcher's desk. "Who do we have not busy right now?"

Laura brought up a window on her monitor and scanned the list. "Jeff and Kevin don't have anything."

"Get 'em," Tommy said. "And if anyone else gets free in the next hour, send 'em to me, too. And get Judge Aragon on the phone. We need a warrant PDQ."

"Yes sir," Laura replied.

NORMAN, OKLAHOMA

Tommy and two deputies arrived at the Greeley house and checked all the exits before knocking. For most cops the girl's tip by itself would suffice for probable cause, and judges would accept it in cases like this, when time was of the essence. But Tommy had an arrangement with the judge to get warrants quickly, and so far he'd always had one when he intended to search somebody's property.

A skinny teenage boy answered the door, with an oversize T-shirt and sagging pants, a toboggan on his head despite being indoors. "What is it? he asked, taking in the sight of his visitors, with hollow eyes.

Jeff gave him the spiel. The kid tried to stall, then his eyes came alive with hate when the uniformed men entered anyway.

As they drew closer to the door to the basement, the kid's protests grew louder. Kevin stayed with the boy during the search, to make sure he didn't try to run.

Kevin wasn't expecting the kid to produce a knife and stab him just under his vest.

The kid screamed and came at Jeff with the knife. Jeff had his pistol out by now, and fired. The kid went down.

Jeff's eyes went wide. He'd never had to shoot before, and this was a kid.

Tommy grabbed him by the shoulder, pointing at Kevin, who was also down, crying out and bleeding everywhere. "Put your weapon away and stay with Kevin. Use one hand to put direct pressure on the wound. With your other hand, call an ambulance, and for backup. Got it?"

Jeff nodded dazedly.

The basement door burst open. Another teenage boy emerged, taller and sturdier, slamming the door behind him. He wielded some kind of curved sword and by the way he moved it, it was obvious to Tommy he was comfortable using it.

"Hold your fire!" Tommy shouted, in case Jeff decided to counteract this new threat, or if Sanford came in the back way after hearing the shot.

The boy glared at Tommy and bellowed something that was neither English, Spanish, or Shawandasse. Then in a guttural voice in English he said, "I'm going to carve you up and drink your blood!"

The kid definitely had the edge in speed and energy—Tommy could tell by the way he moved. His T-shirt said something about ROTC and leadership. He reminded Tommy a little of himself as a boy—maybe what some of Tommy's buddies might have looked and dressed like when young men.

"You need to put down the weapon, young man," Tommy said.

Light glinted off the blade as the boy twirled it in a figure-eight pattern while advancing.

Tommy didn't want to shoot him; but he also didn't want to be sliced open by that blade. Without warning he dropped into a deep crouch and used his leg to sweep the kid's feet out from under him. The kid fell and Tommy, springing up from his crouch, landed on his wrist, kicking the sword away.

Tommy squatted, pinning the boys arms against the floor. From here he paused to decide how he would wrestle the kid around onto his stomach, to get the cuffs on.

With strength no teenage boy of his size should have, the boy bent up from flat on his back, rising like Dracula from a coffin, lifting Tommy up with him. Tommy shoved his unbelief to the back of his mind and drove an open hand strike into the boy's jaw.

Tommy knew how to knock a person out. He could do much more than that with his bare hands, in fact. But the boy was barely even stunned.

Tommy hit him again, and again. He rained down blows that would send a mature man twice the kid's size to the hospital, but his lights wouldn't go out. Ideas occurred to Tommy in those few seconds: Maybe the kid was on cocaine, or PCP. But where was his disproportionate strength coming from? It wasn't like Tommy hadn't known people who were stronger than they looked. In fact, Tommy himself was one of those people.

This was something different.

In desperation, Tommy reached for a weapon on his belt he'd never used before. He drew the stun gun, poked it against the kid and pushed the button. It jolted the kid's body, but didn't stop him. Tommy sent charge after charge into the boy, who was still full of fight. But it slowed his body down enough for Tommy to roll him over and slap the cuffs on.

In amazement, he straightened and watched the kid flail around, straining with spastic desperation as if trying to break the cuffs. For some reason Tommy feared he might be able to. "Keep your eye on him," he told Jeff. "I don't know what he's on, but if you have to, taze him."

Jeff nodded, hand clamped on Kevin's wound.

Tommy opened the basement door again and stepped through. His nostrils were assaulted immediately. The air was heavy with strong incense—and something foul underneath that smell.

He descended the stairs, preferring to let his eyes adjust to the dark rather than use a flashlight. Strangely shaped objects hung from the rafters. As his eyes focused in the dim light, it became obvious why there'd been such an epidemic of pets reported missing in town. And what had happened to the pigs reported stolen by a local farmer was also explained.

The floor and walls were decorated with strange symbols and pictures. Tommy remembered Diana had mentioned some kind of alternate religion. Then he noticed something that looked like a stool, or perhaps a small end table, made of brass. Upon this platform was what appeared to be the corpse of a human baby.

Something about a collection of pillows on the floor didn't look right. Tommy studied it. A mattress lay on the floor—no bed frame, no box spring. One of the large pillows stirred, then took on the form of a naked woman. Early-to-mid forties, attractive...probably quite a hottie once upon a time. From her lower lip, trailing down her chin and neck were dark streaks. Tommy was afraid to guess what those streaks were composed of.

"You should leave," the woman said. "Forget you ever came here. You don't know what you're messing with."

––––––––

6

D MINUS 83

COCCOCINO COUNTY, ARIZONA

––––––––

DWIGHT CAVARRA MEASURED the chemicals and prepared to mix them. In the back room shop of CBC Southwest Tactical were 21 different molds, including the one in front of him. This one was for his patented polymer pistol grip stock for the Springfield M1A.

Once the initial casting cooled, the cutting, drilling, grinding and sanding would begin. Then the bipod would be fitted, the hinged, rubber-padded butt plate affixed over the cleaning kit compartment, then the whole assembly boxed for shipping.

The cheap walkie-talkie squawked in Cavarra's breast pocket. "I need to talk to you when you get a minute, Rocco."

He held the radio to his mouth and thumbed the push-to-talk button. "I'll be right out."

Cavarra—"Rocco" to his friends—was built stocky, and his once black hair was now mostly white. His swarthy Sicilian features and cauliflower ears had earned him the ethnically insensitive nickname, which stuck no matter where he went. But whereas he once resembled a mob enforcer, he now looked more like a mafia don.

He left the shop to enter the front counter area. Waiting for him was Leon Campbell. Leon was tall, lanky, with a dark brown complexion, and coarse black hair buzzed close to his scalp.

Out in the lobby the television was on, turned to Fox News. Rocco had sworn off TV in general, and the lapdog media in particular. But customers liked to watch it while waiting around, and Fox at least allowed some diversity of opinion...up to a point. A customer sat on one of the padded chairs in the lobby, staring at the screen.

"What's up?" Rocco asked Leon.

"Probably in your office would be better," Leon replied in his lazy marble-mouthed Georgia drawl.

Just then Carlos Bojado entered through the front door, with a tricked-out SKS rifle in one hand. Carlos was about Cavarra's height, but still in really good shape, like Leon. He had a few white hairs now himself, though.

Even the young guys are getting long-in-the-tooth, Cavarra thought.

"I need to talk, too," Carlos said, slipping his radio into his cargo pocket.

Cavarra gestured toward his office. "Let's all go back, then."

The three of them entered Rocco's office. He didn't take the chair behind his desk, but sat with them on the furniture in front of it.

The walls were covered with plaques, framed photographs and certificates from the Navy and Naval Special Warfare. One of the pictures, taken in a temporary encampment in the Sudan which officially never existed, captured three men in the "see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil" pose. The man covering his mouth (Cole) and the one covering his ears (Fava-Vargas) were long dead. The man covering his eyes was Tommy Scarred Wolf. Another photo captured Tommy, Rocco, Leon, Carlos and Jake McCallum posing together on the deck of a cargo ship. They had been the only survivors (save for a couple pilots) of that mission in Sudan all those years ago.

"You first, Leon," Cavarra said.

"This cat out there," Leon said, chinning toward the door, "the one in the lobby?"

Cavarra nodded. "He's the one wants to order all the night vision and ballistic armor, right?"

An order like this one would go far toward making this a profitable fiscal quarter.

"Somethin' about the dude bothers me," Leon said. "I don't wanna sell him nothin'. I wanna tell him to hit the trail and don't come back."

"This must be the day for it," Carlos said. "This guy I got..."

Cavarra's eyebrows furrowed and he raised his hand to interrupt Carlos. "One at a time. What's wrong with him, Cannonball?"

Leon fidgeted in his seat. "I don't know, exactly. I'm gettin' a bad vibe from him. Gives me the heebie-jeebies."

"Think he might be from the Alphabets?" Cavarra asked. All three of them were careful to keep everything about the business above-board and adherent to current legislation. But of course legality didn't guarantee tolerance from the federal government.

Leon shrugged. "I mean, he could be ATF or FBI or somethin'. But I think it's deeper than that. I can't prove it, man, but I'd bet money there's somethin' dirty about this cat."

Rocco puffed his cheeks. Leon was a friend and he knew him pretty well. "It's a decent pile of money, Leon. And who-knows-how-much word of mouth."

"I know," Leon said.

"Okay," Cavarra said. "Your turn, Carlos."

"I think I know what kind of vibe my guy's putting out," Carlos said. "He smells like one of those white separatists or something."

"Anything in particular?" Cavarra asked.

"Mostly the way he looks at me," Carlos said. "And he keeps asking if we have a fourth partner he hasn't seen yet. That seems to be his biggest concern."

"Like, 'do you have somebody white I can deal with'?" Leon guessed.

"Yeah," Carlos said. "That's the vibe I'm getting. Like just now, he didn't want to come inside with me. He's standing around outside, like if he comes in a building with a Spic and a Spade, he'll pick up a disease."

"Don't forget the Dago," Cavarra said, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

"Who knows," Leon quipped, "he might at least consider you part human."

"The good news is," Cavarra said, gesturing toward Leon, "we can test this theory. Hand him off to our buddy, here. See if he agrees to let Cannonball take him through the Target Course."

Leon patted his sidearm. "I got hollow points, Rocco. Make a nasty mess out there. Just sayin'."

Carlos elbowed him. "Hey, are Neo-Nazis in season?"

"Open season," Leon replied. "Got my huntin' license in the truck."

"Hey, seriously," Cavarra said. "If you decide Carlos is right, send him packing. Don't even get started."

"Want me to send this one away, too?" Leon asked, gesturing toward the lobby.

"Nah. I'll take care of it," Cavarra said, standing.

Leon and Carlos stood with him. They exited the office in a group. Cavarra marched toward the man in the lobby, but stopped when something caught his attention on the TV.

"...The Pottawatomie Sheriff's Department says they found evidence of occultic rituals in the basement of this house," the reporter was saying, as the screen filled with the image of an average-looking house on a residential street in Norman, Oklahoma, "including animal and human sacrifice. The chief suspect is a local high school teacher, also suspected of numerous sexual relationships with students..."

"Ho-lee..." Carlos intoned.

"That's Tommy's stomping ground," Cavarra said.

"I think you're right," Leon agreed.

"That's where Tommy lives?" Carlos asked, incredulous.

"Not in that house," Leon replied, with a condescending tone. "But he's Sheriff of that county."

Carlos flipped him the bird.

They continued watching, and it was reported that one deputy was injured in the arrest, but there was no mention of the sheriff himself.

CBC Southwest Tactical was located a short drive from Flagstaff. The dry, rocky surrounding terrain looked like something out of a Clint Eastwood movie. The Outlaw Jose Wales, to be specific. The office was a converted "manufactured home" on a concrete slab.

Back outside, Leon found the customer Carlos described smoking a cigarette over by the target shed. Leon marched toward him and checked his clipboard on the way. "Arden Thatcher?"

Thatcher glanced up, took a look at the tall, athletic black man, and his disapproval was obvious. "Yeah."

"You want to qualify on the Western Shootout Course today. Is that right?"

"Yeah," Thatcher said, taking a drag of his cigarette.

"Carlos already showed you the route, and briefed you on range safety?"

"Yeah," Thatcher said. "Don't nobody else work here?"

"What do you mean?" Leon asked, calm washing over him as if he was taking up trigger slack.

Arden Thatcher was a short, skinny guy with bland features and long blond hair in a pony tail. He wore jeans, cowboy boots, and a black T-shirt with some country-western musician's name on it in stylized letters. His lips now twisted into a smile that struck Leon as hopelessly phony. "It's just the two of you runnin' the show here? You and the Mexican? ...I mean, the Spanish guy?"

"Our partner," Leon said, "he's the Sicilian guy—he busy with sumpthin' else right now. Can I get you to sign the paperwork now, Mr. Thatcher?"

Thatcher's gaze dropped to the clipboard and pen Leon held. Or was it the dark hand that held them? His stare was one a person would level at an object infected with the Ebola Virus. "What's on those papers?"

"Carlos should have explained it to you," Leon replied, patiently. "It confirm we explained the safety rules; says you agree to not hold us liable for what happens if you violate those rules...all the usual stuff."

"That sounds almost like a threat," Thatcher said.

"Not at all," Leon said. "We careful to advise everybody who come here how to stay safe. If you ignore us and do sumpthin' unsafe anyway, and get hurt, that' ain't our fault, now is it?"

Thatcher pursed his lips and continued to stare at the paperwork.

"And we gonna need payment up front," Leon added.

Thatcher shook his head. "I ain't signin' that and I ain't payin' for shit up front."

Leon forced a smile. "In that case, thanks for visitin' and enjoy your drive."

"I drove all day to get here and payed for a motel already," Thatcher said, angrily.

"Afraid I'm not catchin' your point, Mr. Thatcher."

"This is false advertisin'," Thatcher declared. "Your website don't say nothin' about how you really run this rinky-dink shithole."

"What is it that has you confused?" Leon asked.

"Oh, I ain't confused. And neither will the Better Business Bureau be, when I report your ass. You wanna play? Let's play."

"Just curious," Leon said, "what is it you think we wasn't honest about?"

Thatcher was red-faced and Leon could tell he normally would have tried something stupid. But his gaze kept returning to the holstered Ruger P90 on Leon's hip.

"Well ain't you just a great salesman?" Thatcher finally said, with a sarcastic tone. "I'll have to write this company and tell 'em what a good salesman you are. You really make me want to give you my business." By the time he finished saying this he had his back turned and was halfway back to where he'd parked his Toyota Tundra.

“Since I'm one of the owners, you can hand the letter directly to me,” Leon said to his back. He took position by a tree that was thick enough for temporary cover in a pinch, in case this loose cannon had something hidden in his vehicle and decided to try something really stupid.

The Tundra started and Thatcher was heavy on the gas tearing out of there,

"Don't let the door hit you in the fourth point on the way out," Leon muttered, half aloud.

Inside, Cavarra called the other customer to the front counter. Before doing so he had checked the background of both questionable customers on Internet databases while in his office. Both of them had clean records.

Almost too clean.

But now, as Terrance Handel approached the counter and Rocco studied his face, he understood what Leon had meant.

Handel was a strapping dude—over six feet tall and muscular, with a handsome enough face. But he gave off a vibe that suggested something ugly and cold.

Cavarra gave himself this assignment automatically despite the fact that he dreaded it. He'd never had to do this to a customer and didn't want to. Not only did it mean turning down money; but also casting judgment on somebody for no defined reason.

Although CBC Southwest Tactical was a partnership between the three of them, he still usually had the final say in business decisions. One of the costs of leadership was playing the bad guy in situations like this.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Handel, but we won't be doing business with you."

Surprise registered in Handel's narrowing eyes, but not to the degree that would seem normal. "Excuse me?"

Cavarra repeated himself.

"I don't understand," Handel said. "Why? I'm willing to pay your asking price."

"I appreciate that, sir," Cavarra said. "I'm afraid we'd just rather not do business with you."

Handel reminded Cavarra of a robot trying to process data that “does not compute" in an old Science Fiction movie. Finally, he said, "That's not an answer. You at least have to tell me why."

Cavarra began to sweat. Inside he was squirming, but he kept his voice calm and neutral. "No sir. We're not required to disclose our business decisions."

Handel turned to study Carlos, then back to Cavarra with an appraising gaze. "That's ridiculous. You can't just refuse service to a customer."

"We're not a hospital," Cavarra said, "so we reserve the right to refuse service to whoever we please. Unless you're a homosexual, we're allowed to run our business as if this was still a free country."

"Is that it?" Handel asked, squinting in unbelief. "You think I'm gay?"

Rocco shook his head. "I have no idea; and I don't want to know. Even if you are, we don't bake cakes or hire out space for wedding receptions, anyway. Bottom line is, we're not gonna sell you anything."

Handel gave both Rocco and Carlos another measuring stare, and finally turned to exit.

Cavarra felt even more uneasy, now. For some reason it would have sat better with him had the guy been outraged, cussed and threatened for a while before storming off to slam the door behind him. This guy just took it in stride a little too well, for a civilian.

"We'll make up the money somewhere else, Rocco," Carlos said, once Handel was gone. "We've been doing real good, considering the economy. We could become millionaires just by selling ammo, these days."

Leon came in through the side door. "I'm pretty sure you was right, Carlos," he said.

"Let's mark this date on the calendar," Cavarra said, grimacing. "From now on this will be Turn Customers Away Day."

"Hey," Carlos said, pointing to the TV again, "they're still holding fast on the Garber Ranch."

Leon stopped to look and Rocco came around the counter to direct his attention to the flat screen. News cameras panned over a parked convoy of APCs and armored vans, with Alphabets in black uniforms, armor, masks and helmets, brandishing automatic weapons. Then there was a short montage of different armed civilians in old-school woodland camouflage. Then a shot of an ambulance making its way between the opposed forces to the ranch house.

"Somebody get shot?" Rocco asked.

"Shh!" Carlos held his hand up.

"...The elderly rancher is thought to have suffered a heart attack," the news announcer said. "Right now the rumors are that it was due to the stress over the standoff; but as yet there is no confirmation."

"Whaddya think, Rocco?" Leon asked. "They gonna throw down on each other there?"

Cavarra exhaled heavily. "You know what I believe. This is 1913 Austria-Hungary. I don't know if the whole thing touches off at Garber Ranch or somewhere else. And so far as we're concerned, it probably won't matter a whole lot where the fuse gets lit."

"Come on, man," Carlos said, waving dismissively. "This is America. That crazy stuff doesn't happen here. We always work it out, in the end."

Cavarra glanced at his friend, shook his head sadly and returned to the workshop.

––––––––

7

Y MINUS FIVE

AMARILLO, TEXAS

––––––––

JOE TASPER PULLED HIS boots on while his girlfriend continued to rant. His headache was getting worse.

He had to raise his voice to be heard over her tirade. "You don't need any more jewelry, Crystal. And I sure don't need to run my credit card up any higher."

"If it was something for your car or your stupid computer, you'd put it on your credit card!" she said, spittle flying from her mouth.

She was about five-foot-seven, had multicolored hair and piercings in various places. When he first got with her she seemed normal and was attractive. Since she'd been with him, her persona had grown more and more bizarre; she grew overweight; and she started fights all the time about nothing.

"Why does it have to go on the credit card anyway?" Crystal demanded. "What have you been doing with the money that you hide from me?"

"Paying bills," he said, tying his work boots. "Like the electric bill that's more than doubled since you moved in. And the phone bill, since you insist on exceeding your minutes every month."

"Oh, don't you dare blame me for your money troubles, Joe! It's not my fault that your job is for losers. Maybe if you'd have gotten an education, you could have found something that pays decent."

He finished tying his laces and stood. "Oh, like your fancy college degree is doing you so much good? Go buy your own trinkets if your education is so great at generating money."

Her face beet red, she stepped forward, poking her index finger toward his face, and called him a few unflattering names. "You would belittle my education, you pathetic moron! You're so threatened that I've accomplished more than you have; that I have a degree..."

He stepped around her, pushing her finger out of his personal space, and strode for the door. "You wanna give me something to feel threatened about? Get off your ass and find a job. Bring home some money to help with the bills for a change, instead of just spending it faster than I can make it."

"Oh, you think you're a 'real man' because you go screw around with your buddies all day and get a paycheck for it?" Crystal asked, shrilly. "I bet Jordan doesn't mind buying his girlfriend something nice once in a while. I'll bet..."

The rest of her words didn't register. He was blown away by the idea that she believed his grueling, dead-end blue-collar job was "screwing around with his buddies all day." She made it sound like he was at some fun party six days a week, instead of working himself half to death. Was she really that delusional?

The distraction of this thought must have slowed his stride, because she raced past him despite the weight of her flab, and barricaded herself in front of the door.

"You're not going to walk away from me this time!" she declared.

He rolled his eyes. "You're complaining about how I don't have enough money to buy stupid shit, so you're gonna keep me from going to work? How much sense does that make?"

"It's not stupid! You want to know what stupid shit is? It's spending hundreds of dollars on a stupid pickup truck you don't need!"

"Oh, I don't need it?" he retorted. "Like how we used it to move all your crap over from your mom's apartment?"

She was ready with a remark, as always, but changed gears when he picked her up and set her down over to the side so he could open the door. She screamed out as if she'd been injured, and screeched obscene insults while flailing wildly at him. One of her clawing hands caught his shirt and tore it right down the front.

Joe felt himself losing his temper, and had to get out of there. He stepped through the door and slammed it behind him, which at least muffled the volume of her tirade. Now he had to show up for work wearing only a partial shirt. He wasn't sure how serious a reprimand he'd get for that, but he knew better than to go back inside and try to get an undamaged one with Crystal on the rampage.

He got in his car and started it, itching to take off right away but not wanting to strain the engine before it warmed up. Glancing in the rear-view mirror, he saw he was bleeding from scratches under his eye inflicted by her fingernails when she clawed at him.

He heard a door slam and craned his neck around toward the source of the noise. Crystal was charging toward him. She had taken his baseball bat from inside his closet and wielded it like a weapon. He rolled down his window and shouted, "That's mine, Crystal! Put it back where you found it and calm down!"

"Calm down?" she repeated. "You want me to calm down?" While hurling more insults, she swung the bat with all her strength into his windshield.

The glass was shatterproof, but the blow cracked it into a spiderweb pattern.

Now he was pissed. He got out of the car and stalked toward Crystal.

She held the bat cocked, threatening to smash his head with it. He grabbed it and yanked it out of her hands.

"Listen, bitch," Joe said, straining to control violent impulses, "get the hell away from me; get your ass back in the house and keep your big damn mouth shut! We'll deal with this when I get back." He tossed the bat in the back seat and began to open the car door again.

He wouldn't have guessed she could act any crazier, but she went completely berserk now. All she heard was the word "bitch," and she became a windmill, trying to punch and kick him repeatedly.

He caught one wrist as she was trying to hit his face. She swung with her other arm and he caught that wrist. She kicked him in the groin and spit in his face. Reeling from the pain, he let go of one wrist and wiped the spit off. She took advantage of the opportunity to slap him.

She'd slapped him several times in these stupid altercations since they'd been together, and he'd never retaliated. All his life he'd heard it was wrong to hit females, so he put up with a lot because he had no choice. But at that moment he stopped caring what he'd been taught.

He slapped her and she went down, wailing, gasping, staring up at him in horror.

He spit on her, got in the car and drove away.

Joe had almost made it to work when the cop car pulled up behind him with flashing lights.

Great. Now he was going to be ticketed for the windshield, which was going to make it even harder to scrape up the money to replace it. And it would make him late for work. He had already missed several days at his job due to Crystal's unlimited supply of personal crises, and was probably close to getting fired.

He had to get her out of his life. He was a fool for ever letting her in.

Two cops got out of their car and walked up to stand at both Joe's doors. He rolled his window back down.

"Is your name Joe Tasper?" the cop nearest him asked.

That was weird. Usually they asked for the driver's license and registration first before they let on that they knew his identity. Joe confirmed who he was and the cop rattled off his address, asking if Joe lived there. Joe confirmed again.

"I need you to get out of the car, Mr. Tasper."

Joe complied, asking, "What's going on, officer?" as he stepped out.

"Face your vehicle and place your hands on the roof, please," the cop said, with a hard ugly look.

"Whoa, wait," Joe protested. "What's going on?"

"Just do what I said, Mr. Tasper."

The cop nearest him had handcuffs in his left hand, his right hand resting on his gun butt, thumb under the holster snap. The other cop was circling around to sandwich Joe from the other side, something black in his hand.

"Are you arresting me?"

"We are placing you under arrest, yes."

"For a busted windshield? It's my own car; and I'm not even the one who did it."

"You're under arrest for aggravated assault," the cop said.

Joe groaned. Crystal again. The gift that just kept on giving.

"Listen, officer, if there was any assault that happened today, it was against me. I was kicked in the groin; slapped in the face; my clothes torn up; windshield smashed... You can see my face is bleeding, right?"

The cop coming up behind him said something, but Joe only caught part of it: "...You get for abusing..."

"No, you listen," the other cop growled. "I said turn around and put your hands on the car!"

Again Joe swallowed his anger. There was nothing he could do right then to avoid getting arrested, so he spun in place and began leaning forward. But before his hands made contact with the car, two sharp objects pierced the skin in his side. He had time to look down at the source of the pain and form the word "tazer" in his mind, then he was on the ground, flopping like a fish.

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8

D MINUS 83

COCCOCINO COUNTY, ARIZONA

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TERRANCE HANDEL DROVE his Honda Pilot off the CBC property to the highway, tuning through the radio stations.

He might have spent more time pondering his treatment at CBC Southwest Tactical had he not seen the news segment on the TV in the lobby.

Finally he found a station broadcasting a news segment. He waited for the report from Norman, Oklahoma, and finally it came. "The primary suspect is local school teacher Cynthia Greeley, 45."

Terrance drove aimlessly while he listened. His day and this trip were a bust, anyway. He had nowhere to be, and would have to figure out what the wisest course of action would be, now.

While driving through the town of Sedona he noticed a quaint old tavern-like establishment with an owl logo on the sign. He pulled into the parking lot, listened to the rest of the news report, then went inside for a beer.

When Terrance first saw Ms. Greeley, she was teaching biology at his middle school in Oklahoma City. She was maybe in her 20s then, and the sexiest woman he'd ever seen. He hoped to get her for biology in spring semester, but was assigned to Mr. Spicer instead. Ms. Greeley's class filled to capacity early—and no wonder: every horny boy in the school wanted to ogle her for a full period.

She had a fantastic body that she routinely showed off with short skirts and tight, low-cut blouses. She had a sensuous voice and walk, and boys who took her class claimed that one time seeing her uncross and recross her legs made the whole school year worthwhile. But what really pushed her hot factor over the edge was how she looked and spoke to boys. She never said anything overtly sexual in school but boys were just certain she was sending out seductive signals. When she batted her eyelashes it seemed she knew their naughtiest fantasies and was more than capable of fulfilling them.

Terrance witnessed this once when she discussed one student's homework with him. Then, toward the end of Seventh Grade, he approached her to ask about getting in her class the next year.

She smirked at him like she understood perfectly well why he wanted her class. He didn't remember much about what was actually said. Mostly he remembered her scent; her lips as they formed words; her perfectly tanned cleavage; and her bewitching eyes.

He spent all summer fantasizing that she would turn out to be one of those teachers who had an affair with a student.

But he didn't get her for biology. The year passed and he was off to high school.

He didn't see her again for the next four years, but he thought about her constantly. He thought about her all through boot camp, too. He also convinced himself to look her up when he got back.

He returned home on leave after Parris Island and visited the school in uniform. Teachers and students alike gushed over him, but the high point was when Ms. Greeley looked at him with an appreciation he hadn't seen when he was a student trying to get in her class.

"You remember me?" he asked.

"Of course I remember you, Terrance. I was hoping to teach you some biology."

"I tried to get in your class," he said. "But they assigned me to Mr. Spicer."

"Oh, he couldn't possibly teach you about biology the way I can," she told him in a conspiratorial, sultry tone. Then she actually winked at him, shooting his imagination into overdrive.

He wanted to say, "It's not too late; I'm still willing to learn." But he chickened out.

Then, the next day, he ran into her at the bank. He decided he had nothing to lose, since he would be shipped to Afghanistan after AIT. So he flirted, and asked for her number.

She not only gave him her number, but her address.

He showed up in uniform again, which was a corny thing to do, but she apparently didn't mind. There was little preamble. When she met him at the door she immediately took his cover off his head and pulled him inside. She asked if he'd had any personal biology lessons before. He admitted he hadn't, and she proceeded to give him the biology lesson of his life.

Technically she was married; but it was an open arrangement and her husband was rarely home. By some coincidence, his job took him to the Pentagon frequently. She lived mostly alone in their house, and kept herself busy when not in school with some weird religious stuff that required Terrance to remove his shoes inside the front door.

She made all his fantasies come true, and then introduced him to some he'd never even thought of. Every time he got leave, he arranged to spend it with her. Strangely, he remembered less and less details about their love-ins as time went on. He just knew he left satisfied.

It was funny, how his memory worked. It seemed like so much was blurred into obscurity during his childhood and after becoming intimate with Ms. Greeley (she still insisted he call her that, even when they were in the most informal positions). He didn't even remember much about his deployments, or all his years in the Corps.

Come to think of it, he didn't remember how he came to the decision to visit CBC Southwest Tactical, or why he wanted to place bulk orders for gear.

So Ms. Greeley had moved to Norman. He wondered if all the stuff about sacrificed animals was true. And a human baby, too?

No. He knew her. She was only interested in bringing pleasure to others, and she excelled at that.

He thought briefly about visiting her in jail. Maybe even testifying as a character witness for her. But he'd lost touch with her in the last few years. Plus, these days he had an instinctive compunction to keep a low profile.

Ms. Greeley was no longer low profile.

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9

D MINUS 82

CHAPANEE VALLEY, WYOMING

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THE PARAMEDICS AVOIDED eye contact with Roy Jr. as they hauled Roy by stretcher into the ambulance. The last thing Roy Jr. heard his father say before the ambulance doors closed was "Don't knuckle under, son!"

The ambulance got turned around, then negotiated the bumpy dirt road off the ranch. Three men who had been watching everything at a respectful distance now moved in closer as Roy Jr. watched his father being taken away.

The rawboned one, dressed like a cowboy, was his neighbor, Mike, who owned the closest ranch. Mike's sons were not in sight, but likely patrolling the spread on horseback. The big, burly man in bib overalls was Roy Jr.'s uncle, Rusty. He had brought sons and grandsons, all armed, and dubbed "anti-government extremists" by the press. The stocky man in camouflage fatigues and a boonie hat was named Gary. Roy Jr. had never met him before three days ago. Gary had driven about 300 miles with a party of 11 other men who came armed and equipped to help Roy's family and friends defend the ranch, if necessary. Right then they were in hasty defensive positions facing the feds.

The Bar G Ranch spread over thousands of acres, but there were only three roads cut through the rough land. The feds had their military armored vehicles massed at the three entrances. Of course they could go off-road just fine, but for now evidently intended to stay on clearly defined avenues once they moved in. No doubt reconnaissance aircraft had caught heat signatures of armed parties waiting for them in the hills and brush, too. What they might not suspect was that some of Roy's allies were hiding among the cattle, as a sort of infrared camouflage. There wasn't nearly enough manpower to secure the entire perimeter of the property

When Rusty drew close enough, he squeezed his nephew's shoulder. "How you holdin' up, Junior?"

"I think I'm still a long way from a heart attack, if that's what you mean," Roy Jr. replied.

"Did he say anything before they took off?" Mike asked.

"He said 'don't knuckle under'," Roy Jr. replied.

Rusty and Mike chuckled.

"Hey, fellas," Gary said, looking down the road the Ambulance had taken. "Here comes The Man."

A black SUV drove toward them, a white flag tied to the antenna.

"What the hell do they want, now?" Mike wondered aloud.

Gary looked Roy Jr. in the eye. "They want you to knuckle under."

"He's right," Rusty said, spitting into the dirt. "With Roy out of the way, they're gonna test the waters with you. Scare you or sweet talk you into givin' up."

"Don't do it, amigo," Mike said. "Don't fall for their bullshit. They got no right to even be here. They only pull this kind of stunt because folks been lettin' 'em get away with it for so long. We need to stop lettin' 'em get away with it."

"We're with you, Roy," Gary said. "Don't let them scare you. You're not alone."

Roy Jr. thrust his hands in his pockets. "They're gettin' paid to be here," he told Gary. "You guys'll have to go back home at some point to your jobs and families. They can afford to wait until you do."

"We can stay for the rest of the week," Gary said. "If it hasn't blown over by then, some of our buddies will come to take over. We'll rotate men through here, if that's what it takes. There's a guy gonna interview me for a podcast here on site. I'm goin' on a HAM radio broadcast when I get back. The word will get out."

The SUV pulled to a stop and three doors swung open. A man in a suit and two figures in black combat gear emerged from the vehicle.

Gary locked-and-loaded his AR15. "You two Nazi ninjas, back in the vehicle!" he commanded.

Mike and Rusty also got their weapons ready.

The man in the suit raised both hands, fingers spread. "Gentlemen, we came under a flag of truce. There's no need..."

"We've all seen how 'honorable' you clowns are," Gary interrupted. "Tell your goons to get back in the truck, now."

The negotiator nodded to the two dark figures and they climbed back inside.

"That really wasn't necessary," the negotiator said, then extended his hand toward Roy Jr. "My name is Ray Hollis. Can we speak in private?"

Roy Jr. reluctantly shook his hand and gestured over toward the tack shed. The two men walked over and faced each other in the shade of the small structure.

"First of all," Hollis said, "I'm sorry about your father. We've got him on his way to the best care available and we'll do everything we can for him."

"Who's this 'we' you're talkin' about?" Roy Jr. asked. "Do you speak for the hospital and ambulance service, too? Do they work for you?"

The negotiator's public relations facade faltered, and he licked his lips. "Hey, there's no reason to make this hostile. We're all sorry about your father. None of us wants this situation we've got, here. We all just want to resolve this reasonably so nobody else has to get so stressed out."

"Reasonably," Roy Jr. echoed, mockingly. "You show up here with an army of killers because my dad built a duck pond on his own property, and you want to talk about bein' reasonable."

With a flash of irritation, Hollis said, "Look, it won't do anybody any good to have another argument about the law concerning wetlands..."

But Roy Jr. wasn't done. "You're lyin' through your teeth about not wantin' to be hostile. Look at these goose-steppin' bastards you brought here. You don't want this situation? You made this situation! This situation is exactly what you people want."

"Calm down, sir," Hollis said. "We don't want any more..."

"Kiss my ass, Mr. Hollis," Roy Jr. said. "You want me to calm down? Get the hell away from our land, and we'll calm down. Put this army of yours on the border, and protect the people who pay your salary, instead of stealin' from us. I'll calm right down, then."

"I understand you're upset..." Hollis began, only to get interrupted again.

"Mr. Hollis, I'm not in the mood for any more of your snake oil. This is my family's property and you're trespassin'. I don't care what the EPA says, what the FBI says, the ATF, the IRS, the DHA. You're breakin' the law. You thought I'd be weaker than my father and you could strong-arm me. Now you got the media callin' us a bunch of Klan members. Kiss my ass, Mr. Hollis. You boys came dressed for a fight. Well, you drive one of those tanks through our fence or onto our driveway, you're gonna get one."

Hollis shook his head and gave a slight shrug of the shoulders. "All right. We tried to reason with you."

Ray Hollis walked back to the SUV. Gary snickered and called after him. "Hey, revenue man! Most of us know all about Waco. Guess what? All of us will shoot back this time. And you don't get a cease-fire when you run out of ammo."

Roy Jr. watched the SUV bump along and disappear down the road. Had he just guaranteed bloodshed? Should he have knuckled under, regardless of right and wrong?

He knew most of those standing with him were just as scared as he was. Maybe some of the boys who came with Gary were itching for a fight—he didn't know for sure. But Roy Jr.'s father, and grandfather, and great-grandfather had worked their lives away making the Chapanee Valley a profitable ranch to feed and clothe their families. Once upon a time Roy Jr. had assumed he could pass it down to his own son.

That wasn't a sure thing anymore. But he wasn't going to let some jackbooted Fed bulldoze his family off this land. Not on his watch.

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10

Y MINUS 20

SHREVEPORT, LOUISIANA

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THERE WAS ALREADY A keg at Captain Taggart's party when Trooper Macmillan arrived, dressed in a golf shirt and Levi Dockers.

Macmillan made the rounds. There were a lot of guys he didn't get to see often because they were off when he was on, and vice-versa. There was also a fairly hot blonde and some other chicks present, mingling. He would have to check them out before long.

He got absorbed in a story Trooper Beale was telling about catching two queers going at it at a rest stop. Everybody laughed themselves silly. Then when the story was over, they got in a competition over who could tell the funniest faggot jokes. Macmillan had a few that got everybody howling.

He felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to find Captain Taggart, in a loud Hawaiian shirt and shorts, holding a beer.

"Let me have a word with you, Macmillan," the Captain said.

Macmillan followed him around the swimming pool, past the tool shed to the corner of the wooden privacy fence surrounding the back yard. His mind churned through possible reasons for this special attention. He decided it must be about the Texan he'd left on the side of the highway with a dead battery. The civilian must have complained. Somebody looked the citation up, found he'd been pulled over for tinted windows, and decided Macmillan had gone too far this time. Macmillan kept his cool and began formulating a probable cause story in his mind to justify the traffic stop.

The captain faced him and asked him a few questions about if he was enjoying the cookout and so forth. Then he said, "I've been looking over your productivity, and you've been exceptional, Jason. Just exceptional. You've been consistently proactive since you've been on patrol."

This didn't sound so bad. Maybe Taggart was praising him as a preamble to warning him to dial it down a notch, after the battery guy from Texas.

"When I pull a trooper aside for a one-on-one," Taggart said, smiling faintly, "it's usually one of two reasons. One is if he's not being proactive enough. I give him the usual talk about how each trooper should generate enough revenue to pay his own salary, and all that." He paused to chuckle, slapping Macmillan on the shoulder. "That's not the problem here, Jason, so don't worry. The other reason is to feel somebody out for possible promotion. That doesn't happen nearly as often. Both of those take place on duty, when we're in uniform."

"Is this job-related?" Macmillan asked, confused.

Taggart took a conspiratorial look around. "Yeah. In a way. There's this program..." He paused to purse his lips for a moment. "Every so often, federal law enforcement takes a look at the Highway Patrol in different states. What they like about state and local police is that you're proven on the job. You've got a track record already; you've been screened for medical and all the other stuff. So they come down and look over entrance exams, psych profiles, interview transcripts and notes, performance reviews and the whole nine yards. Well, this time you were one of the troopers they took an interest in. A short list of badge numbers got handed to me and they're waiting on me to pick who I think the best candidate is. I don't know if I'm the tiebreaker vote or exactly how much weight they'll give my recommendation. I've never been in this position before."

“Macmillan mulled this over. He wasn't in trouble at all.

I'd hate to lose you," Taggart went on, "but I wouldn't want to deny you the opportunity, either. Think you might be interested?"

"Yeah. I would," Macmillan said. His strict enforcement was getting him rewarded, not punished!

"It's a bigger pond," Taggart said. "Probably harder to get noticed. But then there's probably a lot more avenues to advancement than here, too."

"Sounds great," Macmillan said.

"Word to the wise, though," Taggart said, expression and tone now turning a bit stern. "The Feds are really touchy about all this diversity stuff. The big thing right now is sexual orientation. You have to kind of jump on the band wagon. They don't tolerate homophobia and they don't play around when it comes to that."

It only took Macmillan a moment to make the adjustment. "Consider me an advocate, then."

Macmillan would march in the next Gay Pride parade, if necessary. For this opportunity, giving somebody a blowjob wasn't even completely out of the question.

"And of course it's the same for women and coloreds," Taggart said.

"I love niggers, sir. And I was just thinking we need more women on the State Police."

They both shared a good laugh.

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11

D MINUS 87

POTTOWATOMIE COUNTY, OKLAHOMA

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AFTER THE COUNTY CORONER and other forensics experts had been on site for a while, Tommy made sure they had what they needed from him, and returned to the office. He watched some of the questioning of Ms. Greeley and the boy not in the hospital, took care of some paperwork, then called it a day.

He pulled into his front yard on the rez after midnight, and was greeted first by his dogs. His wife, Linda, met him at the front door and they spent a few moments showing affection before she led him to the kitchen, where his supper was keeping warm in the oven. The kitchen was old, like the rest of the house, but Linda kept it clean and cozy, in the way only feminine women could.

Tommy and Linda still usually spoke to each other in Shawandasse, to keep in practice."Where's Carl?" Tommy asked, sitting, as she set the plate in front of him.

"Out in the garage, tinkering with that dirt bike again," Linda replied, and sat across from him at the table.

Carl was their youngest, and still lived with them. Gunther and Takoda had been on their own for a while, already.

"How was your day?" Linda asked.

Tommy frowned, not really knowing how to answer that question. What could you say after seeing what he'd seen over in Cynthia Greeley's basement? He felt bad, because his job put him in an unpleasant mood more often than not, and Linda was the one who had to deal with it. It wasn't her fault that he had to see that kind of stuff...

Well, in a way, it was.

Y MINUS TWO

ABSENTEE SHAWNEE TRUST LAND, OKLAHOMA

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WHEN TOMMY RETURNED from Sumatra, he at first considered going into hiding. Maybe assuming a new identity. That's how scared he was.

He and his brother Vince had been framed for the murder of an Indonesian cop, and had to run from the local police just to escape with their lives. But after all was said and done, Vince hadn't escaped with his life.

The attempts on their lives over there made it clear they had some powerful enemies who could pull strings just about anywhere. The only reason Tommy could think of was an investigation both he and his brother had been working, which grew to include a domestic terrorist incident, and involved complicity in the highest levels of the Justice Department, implicating involvement even higher up.

So when he returned to the States, Tommy figured his enemies would come at him from some other angle. Certainly his job as a special agent of the Bureau of Indian Affairs would be sabotaged somehow, just for starters. Then what? That murder rap overseas would be the most obvious line of attack.

But against his understandably paranoid judgment, he showed himself publicly, answered (or avoided, depending on who asked) a million questions, and attended Vince's funeral service.

It was at this very kitchen table, when Tommy was deliberating with himself about what to do, that Linda made her suggestion.

"You know Sheriff Flores is up for reelection, Tommy. He's not very popular."

Flores was crooked and most everyone in the county knew it. "So what?" Tommy replied.

"So, you know it doesn't matter who the Republicans run—they won't have a chance in this county. Flores is practically running unopposed."

"I still don't see your point," Tommy said.

"You should run for sheriff, Dad," Carl said, catching on quickly and loving the idea. "As an independent."

"County sheriffs answer to the people," Linda reasoned. "You won't be under the thumb of some federal agency, or the suckups in the Tribal Police, if you go back there. As a sheriff, you'd be able to defend yourself a lot better than as a subordinate of some career slave."

"I'm not a politician," Tommy said. "Sheriffs are all political these days. I couldn't win a popularity contest against Jack the Ripper, and wouldn't want to try."

"But you could," Linda said. "You're very popular right now. Word's been getting around about how you rescued Jenny and Susan Pyrch, and the other girls."

Tommy's niece Jenny, Susan Pyrch from here on the rez, and some of their college friends had been kidnapped while overseas on vacation. Tommy had led an effort to get them back—and succeeded with the exception of one girl.

"What kind of word is getting around?" Tommy asked, worried. Other men had gone with him, and he owed them more than he could ever pay. If their names got out, they could suffer for their association with him.

"You're a hero, Dad," Carl said. "You're all people are talking about at school."

"It's the same with my friends," Linda said. "I'm married to a living legend." She gave him a playful nose-honk with one hand. "Just don't let it go to your head, okay?"

"I don't know," Tommy said. "I'm not good at giving speeches or debating."

"Just be yourself," Linda said, now rubbing his cheek. "Your capable of charm, or you never would have got a second date with me."

He had to grin at that one.

"And I think you're popular enough right now, you wouldn't even have to say much," she added. "At least think about it. Unless you have a better idea."

Tommy didn't have a better idea, so he thought about it.

He ran for sheriff.

There were no debates. He gave only one speech, a week before the election, and it looked like half of the county, plus everyone on Shawnee Trust Land, came out to hear it.

"If you want a bigger jail, that's fine," he said. "I'm not gonna say you need one. And I'm not gonna seek federal or private money. If I'm sheriff, we'll handle things ourselves with the resources we have. I don't want Washington pulling strings here, so I won't invite that by begging for federal cheese. The way I see it, the office of sheriff exists to protect your rights."

This got a cheer, requiring him to pause before continuing.

"Politicians and bureaucrats get your tax dollars to serve you; not so you have to serve them."

Another cheer. Given the voting record of the electorate on the rez, he had expected heckling when he got to this part—or blank stares at best.

"Because most politicians see it the other way around, and usually get away with it, doesn't make it right. I'm glad you all are so enthusiastic about your rights. But your rights end where somebody else's begins. When rights get violated, that's when the police should get involved."

He spotted his family in the crowd, all toward the front. Takoda and Carl's hair was just beginning to grow back from their Mohawks. They and Gunther were typically blank-faced, but now with chests pushed out perhaps more than normal. Jenny was smiling broadly and Linda looked so excited she might faint.

"If I was sheriff, criminals would be put in jail," he continued, inspiring applause. "My deputies wouldn't be spending their time harassing people who aren't criminals. They wouldn't be engaging in random roadside checkpoints, or issuing tickets for tinted windows or seatbelt violations. If you respect the rights of your neighbor, then the law should be on your side. And it would be, if I was sheriff."

Tommy wasn't ready for the ovation he got for that short, unpolished speech. Linda threw herself at him and said, "Take me home, now, and ravage me!"

He laughed and shook his head.

"I'm serious," she said. "Have Carl spend the night with Gunther. I want you."

"I just pissed off every 'law and order' type in the county," he said. "People don't want what's right. They want..."

He was interrupted by some well-wishers who complimented him on his speech.

When he was done with this bout of glad-handing, Linda wrapped herself around his arm and said, "There aren't many 'law and order' types after Flores, Tommy. He converted them."

Tommy tried to smile, not so sure.

"Tommy, you could run for president after a speech like that, and even your sister-in-law would vote for you!"

Reporters crowded in to ask him questions, but Tommy ignored them. He ran the gauntlet of hand-shakers and eventually made it to his Blazer.

The election came and Tommy won, surprising him more than anyone.

His first order of business was to scrutinize his deputies. He fired all but seven of them, then sat the survivors down in the briefing room and gave them a longer speech than the one he delivered on the campaign stump.

"You men have heard the expression 'there's a new sheriff in town'?" Tommy asked, then just watched the deputies reactions as the thought sunk in.

"The reason you are the only ones here is because I let everyone else go. The first thing I want you to understand is that for every one of you still here, there's ten unemployed wannabes waiting in line, who paid to put themselves through the police academy. It will be much easier for me to teach them good habits than to correct any bad ones you might have. If you've been learning the wrong way to conduct this job before I came along, then you'd better un-learn it before I find out."

He opened the cardboard box on the desk, pulled out a handful of small booklets, and tossed one to each deputy.

"Each one of you took an oath to uphold the U.S. Constitution, and the laws of Oklahoma," Tommy said. "The Academy does an okay job teaching you the most common Oklahoma statutes you can use to trick, bully, and charge citizens. It does a disgraceful job teaching you about the Bill of Rights. These little books are copies of the Constitution, with the Bill of Rights and the later amendments, plus the Declaration of Independence and some other stuff. When you report to work tomorrow morning I expect you to have read the Bill of Rights. If you have any questions about it, ask me. I'm giving you one week to read the entire Constitution. You swore to uphold it, so as long as I'm sheriff, you're gonna know what's in it."

None of the deputies had worked with him before. Nobody grumbled—possibly only because they weren't sure how crazy a boss he would turn out to be.

"Until then," Tommy said, "here's some items for you to remember: if you ask for or accept any kind of bribe, you'll be fired. If you steal something, I'll put you in this jail myself. There will be no more checkpoints. No more speed traps. No more arresting people, then figuring out what to charge them with after they're brought in. No unwarranted searches; no warrants without probable cause—and probable cause does not include skin color, camouflage clothing or gun racks."

Tommy studied faces again. Some of the deputies blushed. He took note of them.

"You will not take one of the unmarked cars from the motor pool without authorization directly from me. We are not going to use unmarked cars for speeding tickets. If our objective is truly to make drivers slow down, then we want them to see that we are out there on the road with them.

"I don't want citations for seatbelt violations coming across my desk. Citizens are not our property. If they aren't endangering someone else, leave them alone. There's more than enough yahoos on the road out there driving drunk, tailgating, changing lanes without signaling, cutting people off, running stop signs, and all kinds of other idiotic stunts, for you to concentrate on. Citizens don't pay our bills to be harassed, or for you to make up excuses to cite them. You aren't revenue men anymore, so make that mental adjustment right now. From now on you are public servants, and your job is to protect and serve."

Kevin raised his hand tentatively.

"Save your questions until I'm done," Tommy said, and Kevin lowered his hand.

"If you find yourself in a situation that requires backup, then call for it. And if you need to use force—up to and including deadly force—then don't hesitate. If you're doing your job right, I'll have your back. But understand this: that badge doesn't give you the right to violate anyone's rights. If you hurt or kill somebody without good reason, then I will be your enemy. And if a suspect is truly resisting arrest, and the situation justifies a call for backup, your job is not to converge on the scene to get your sick jollies beating and tazing the suspect. You get them restrained and back here for booking as quickly, efficiently, and painlessly as possible. Is that understood?"

A chorus of sober "yes sirs" sounded in reply. This was not a happy crew.

"I'll take questions, now," Tommy said.

"Is it just us, now?" Kevin asked. "Are you going to replace the deputies you fired?"

"We're gonna work it like this for now," Tommy said. "I'll see how it goes. I might bring in a couple rookies if it turns out we truly are short-handed. But the workload will be going down now that we're out of the harassment business. This will probably be enough manpower, right here, to do the job we're getting paid to do."

Sheriff Flores had bloated the office with a small army of deputies, and ballooned the budget every fiscal year. Paying for all that excess made it necessary to generate revenue by "proactive" policing that made the locals despise and distrust law enforcement.

"Question," Jeff said. "If we're only concerned with people who violate the rights of others, how do we deal with drunk drivers?"

"Drunk drivers put other people's lives at risk," Tommy replied. "That's a violation of somebody's most basic civil liberties: the right to life: weaving all over the road and other drunk behavior will kill somebody; the right to liberty: a wheelchair is a definite infringement on their freedom; and property: the other vehicle or whatever else the drunk is going to crash into.

“Men, I spent some time in the Middle East. That region has the absolute worst drivers in the world. I wouldn't trust them at 20 miles an hour on an empty four-lane road. But they drive at 110 on two-lane, half-paved roads, with crossing livestock and blind corners. And yet they have only a fraction of the accidents as we have in the States, driver-for-driver. Why? Because they don't drive drunk. Period. They just don't do it."

Another deputy—Walker was his name—raised a hand. "You just told us to use deadly force without hesitation if we need to. Then you said you'll be our enemy if we hurt or kill somebody. That seems like a contradiction."

"Two problems, Walker," Tommy said. "First off, you didn't listen carefully to my instructions. Poor attention to detail. Secondly, it seems to me that you question your own ability to judge when force is necessary and when it's not. That's a fatal flaw in any peace officer."

"I think his concern," Harris said, "is the same as mine and everyone else's: I mean, it's our first day with you in charge and it's like you're taking the side of the civilians over us already."

Tommy shook his head and ground his teeth for a moment. "Let me make something real clear to all of you right now: you are civilians. You are not soldiers; you are not in an army; and we are not at war with the taxpayers." He pointed at the booklet Harris absently played with in one hand. "I don't just expect you to read that, men. I expect you to know it; accept it; and conduct yourselves as if you believe it, for as long as you work for me."

Within the first four months, three more deputies were gone. Harris tampered with his car camera; Walker coerced sexual favors from a prostitute in Norman. The third quit.

Tommy deputized some academy graduates to replace them. One of them was Janet Bailey, who covered for the dispatcher during her shift, and also updated the website. The image of the county sheriff's office turned around, between her efforts at communication and the reformed conduct of the deputies.

Looking back on that first year, Tommy was surprised more deputies hadn't quit. What surprised him even more was that, after a few months, the Feds seemed to lose interest in the bogus murder rap. He was questioned a few times; Gunther and Jenny were questioned; then the Feds backed off. Maybe, by some miracle, an honest person was calling the shots despite the Attorney General. And the fact that Tommy had been too busy with his new duties to keep sniffing around at the Justice Department probably helped.

D MINUS 87

Tommy set his coffee down, took Linda's hand and kissed it. "It's good to be home, baby."

Linda's dark brown eyes turned sympathetic. "You want to talk about it?"

"You remember that thing you told me about the other day—some link Jenny posted on Facebook about cults?"

Linda made a face. "Oh, yeah. Sick stuff."

"Can you forward the link to me?"

Linda nodded, then her jaw dropped. "Did you find something like that?"

Neither of them ever turned on the television, unless it was to watch a movie together; so it was no surprise she hadn't seen the news.

"Yeah," he said. "I still don't know how to process what I saw, yet."

"I'll send you that link," Linda said, then moved around behind him to massage his shoulders.

"You still think me running for sheriff was a good idea?" he asked, grunting with pleasure as she kneaded the stress knots out of him.

"I do," she said, stooping to kiss his neck.

"You're the greatest," he moaned, as she continued kneading. "Sorry if I'm more grumpy than normal. I don't mean to take it out on you."

"You owe me about 40,000 date nights, Sheriff Scarred Wolf," she said.

"I know," he said. "Let's have one Tuesday night. I found this place I think you'll like."

Later, Tommy read the article his niece had posted a link to. It reported occultic rituals all over the country with very similar characteristics to what he found in Cynthia Greeley's basement. He spent a few hours digging out what information he could on M.O.s, and the belief system which led people to commit these bizarre, disturbing crimes. He jotted down some specific questions to ask the woman and the two teenage boys during interrogation. So far nobody had stepped forward to post bail, and his deputies had little luck getting the boys' parents to come in.

12

Y MINUS FOUR

AMARILLO, TEXAS

––––––––

KEN FOWLER CURSED WHEN he got to the house. It was on a cul-de-sac and the front edge of everyone's property was squeezed together. What that meant for him was that he couldn't park his work van on the street in front of the customer's house without blocking the driveway. He also couldn't park on the driveway, lest the company van leak oil or some other fluid on the drive.

Two houses down there was an unoccupied space where the van could fit without blocking any driveways, so he parked there. It was going to make the job take longer, walking this far every time he had to go to the van, but there was no helping it. He checked the paperwork, gathered the tools he knew he would need, and walked to the customer's house.

After knocking and ringing the doorbell he waited three minutes without an answer. As he retreated back to where the van was parked, the door finally opened and someone called to him. Sighing, because he would just as soon not have to do this job or even remain in this neighborhood, Ken turned around and headed back.

The woman standing at the door was black, middle-aged and overweight. Though it was mid afternoon, she was dressed in a nightgown and looked like she'd just got out of bed. He put on the fake professional/polite voice he used for customers and asked, "Willie-Mae Harris?"

"Yeah, that's me," she said.

"Hi, my name's Ken. Looks like you're switching over from the phone company. I'm here to give you cable, Internet and a whole-house DVR on three TVs."

"Five TVs," Willie-Mae said.

"Well, there's only three authorized on the work order," Ken said. "But if you call customer service while I'm here, they can add the outlets and adjust your billing by the time I'm done."

"Adjust the billin'? Oh no. They said I get five boxes for that price right there." She tapped the price on his work order.

This was going to be one of those jobs, Ken realized. Either the salesperson had lied to the customer, or the customer was lying to him. He'd seen both happen plenty. But he knew what the cost of the services and extra outlets should be, and the company would not give it all to her for the price on the work order.

The first half hour was spent on the phone, trying to get it straightened out between the company and the customer. When they finally came to an agreement, he went to work.

The house was reasonably clean, and he was thankful for that. He'd been in many places that were so filthy, he almost refused to work there. But he needed to keep this job for a couple more years. Then he should have enough saved to start his own business and deal with customers on his own terms, and hire somebody else to do the dirty work, if there was any.

There were several kids in the house, playing video games at different locations. Surely they had to be the customer's grandkids. They were a bunch of rude, disrespectful children. Judging by how they stared at him, they obviously didn't see many white men, or like them very much. It briefly reminded him of that time back in Kindergarten.

Eventually the other adults in the house stirred, got out of bed and began going about their business while yelling at their kids. Willie Mae Harris casually cussed at and berated the adults and children alike from time to time. Ken had seen this scenario in hundreds of houses around town.

He passed through the living room several times while assessing, gathering tools, and performing the work to be done in various parts of the house. Every time he passed by, Willie Mae was seated at her desktop computer (where it was going to be very difficult to get her an Internet connection) playing Solitaire. The desk had been turned into kind of a booth with a frame made of black posterboard arching over the monitor and keyboard. The posterboard frame was nearly covered with cut out pictures of Barrack Hussein Obama; printed text of his famous quotes; pictures of Michelle; and the "O" symbol.

Ken had seen a lot of these shrines to "the first black President" in his line of work. Some of them juxtaposed pictures and quotes of Martin Luther King with those of Hussein. When he did work in houses with these shrines, in the past, he would ask questions (as neutrally as possible) to see what, if anything, the supporters knew about their messiah. None of them had even heard of the guy before 2008.

Ken didn't ask Willie Mae Harris anything regarding Hussein because she was still surly about not getting the extra outlets for free.

The job became really miserable once Ken got up in the attic. Attics were much, much hotter than even working in the direct sunlight in the summertime. At just over six feet it was hard for him to maneuver in the tight spaces and his body didn't take the extreme heat well. Progress was slow up there, and his mind often wandered as he scooted belly-down through the insulation an inch at a time. Today his mind wandered back to his first experience with race relations.

His family moved into a housing project in Houston when he was four years old, and stayed there for almost two years. It seemed like a nice enough place to Ken for the first year—but then he didn't have much to compare it to at that age. Then, after he'd started kindergarten, one day his mother answered a knock on the apartment door and found two black girls waiting there who he recognized from school. They asked if he could come out and play, and his mother let him.

He played outside with his new friends, and had a great time.

Some days later, out in the courtyard playing by himself, he spotted the same two girls playing amidst a larger group of children. Ken didn't pay attention to the racial makeup of the group, but that would be the last time he made such an oversight. He ran over and greeted his playmates, only to be shunned. Confused, he nonetheless remained there, assuming he'd be welcome to play with them. The other kids told him to go away. Too stubborn for his own good, he decided he had just as much right to be there as they did. Then two boys ran up and bashed him in the head with a large rock and a large chunk of asphalt.

The other kids laughed and pointed fingers, which angered Ken. He found a small rock and, when he recovered, threw it at one of his attackers. He missed his revenge target, hitting instead a girl who was even younger than he—one who had probably only learned to walk recently. The toddler cried, of course, and Ken ran away.

The two girls from his kindergarten class tattled on him at school, conveniently omitting everything that happened before Ken threw the rock. When he tried to tell the whole story in the principal's office, the principal continuously interrupted Ken until he was too frustrated to even speak coherently.

Ken's family moved again, so he went to First Grade at another school, but he never forgot how important it was to pay attention to skin color after that.

Somebody yelled for him, "Yo, cable man!"

As loud as the voice was, it meant somebody must have climbed his ladder and stuck their head into the attic hatch, though he couldn't see them from where he was. "Yeah?"

"You need to move your truck, man."

This made no sense. He had parked in the only nearby spot where he wouldn't block anyone's access to anything. "What's going on?"

"Yo man, I'm tellin' you you gotta move your truck! Our neighbor's pissed off."

Ken groaned and cussed. This was the worst time for this kind of interruption. He really didn't want to have to crawl through this attic any more than necessary. He decided to finish what he was doing before crawling all the way back to the trapdoor. Twice more someone stuck their head up the hatch to tell him about their angry neighbor.

He believed people had a right to forbid someone to park in front of their property, but jerks pissed him off, even when they were within their rights.

When he finally got out, filthy and drenched in sweat, he strode out of the garage straight for his van, intending to move it without any discussion so the neighbor could get the knot out of their panties. He would have to block somebody's driveway or mailbox, pissing off the US Mail or somebody else, but he had no choice. The neighbor had plenty of room in their driveway so it wasn't like they needed room for somebody else to park. It was best to not even speak to an unreasonable jerk, lest he lose his temper and get a complaint.

There were two black men in talking on the porch of the house he parked in front of. As he went to the van one called to him. "Yo, man, you gonna move your truck?"

"Yup," he said, and kept walking.

"Who told you to park up on my lawn?" the guy demanded.

Ken stopped at his passenger door, opened it, and put his tool belt inside. He wanted to avoid this conversation altogether, but it was obvious by tone of voice and body language that the guy was going to force it.

So be it.

"I'm not on anybody's lawn. I'm on a public street, where there are no signs posted, and I'm not even touching the sidewalk, much less the lawn."

"What!"

Ken shut the door and started around the nose of the van toward the driver's side. He heard some unpleasant comments pass between the two men. Then the aggressive one raised his voice again. "I don't give a shit if it's a public street! Why you park in front of my house?"

Ken stopped and pointed back at the Harris house. "I'm doing work over there."

"So why didn't you park over there then?"

"Didn't want to block anyone's driveway or mailbox."

"That's your damn problem!"

Ken got in the van, started it, backed up to the front of the Harris house and shut it down again. He was blocking the mailbox now, but there was no helping it. He got out again and went around to retrieve his tool belt thinking the discussion was over.

"I know you don't think you're bad, right?" The pissed off neighbor was now off his porch, approaching Ken as he went back toward the Harris's garage. The other man...the stocky one...hung back a ways, holding his tongue.

Ken gritted his teeth and kept walking. The aggressive one was about his size and build. Maybe he could fight; maybe not. If Ken wasn't on the clock, they would have found out.

"You gonna walk right out to your truck like you bad," the guy continued. "You went straight to your truck 'cause you knew you was wrong. I don't know who you're used to dealin' with, but we don't play that at my house."

Ken stopped and faced him. "Play what? What exactly am I so wrong about? Parking on the street? Where exactly would you park if you had to do work at that house right there?"

The guy got more and more wound up, like Ken had insulted him or something. Ken could think of plenty actual insults and wisecracks, but he had to swallow them because he represented the cable company.

"You shoulda' parked in their driveway, then," the loud mouth said.

"Against company policy," Ken said. "You wanted me to move the van. I moved it. Now if you'll excuse me, I have stuff to do." And he went back to work.

Next time he had to go back to his truck, the two men were standing on the sidewalk, talking again. The aggressive one was still doing most of the talking, but didn't seem angry now—just loud and boisterous. "...Know his white ass doesn't think I'm impressed. He may have to claim workman's comp up in here."

They shared a laugh, but it wasn't a genuine laugh inspired by humor. It struck Ken as bravado.

The loud mouth looked at Ken as he said, "Parked right in front of my daughter's bedroom window. Scared my daughter half to death. Man, I ain't tryin' to have no..."

Ken stopped again, and interrupted him. "Scared half to death? Wow."

"What? You say somethin' to me?" Loud Mouth asked, taking a few menacing steps toward Ken.

"What is it about a work van that's so terrifying?" Ken asked. "Does she have this phobia about all vehicles? Or has she never seen an automobile before? Maybe you should put her in the hospital; cause all it takes is for her to see one more work van and she'll be scared completely to death."

The guy got right up in Ken's face at that point. He obviously didn't like having his statements taken literally, or being challenged about the meaning of his words. He hurled insults and feinted striking a blow several times.

Ken knew he should have kept his mouth shut, but his buttons had been pushed. He now waited to see if the guy was going to make good on his threats.

It was hard to be heard over Loud Mouth's monologue, but Ken said, "I'm not supposed to get involved in fights, but I am allowed to defend myself if attacked. You're threatening me with physical assault right now. I suggest you back off."

"Or what, cracker?" Loud Mouth then spewed out all the euphemisms for "coward" he could think of, still feinting.

Ken wanted to pop him in the face really bad, but he at least had to avoid throwing the first punch. If the other guy swung first, he might get to keep his job.

The guy didn't swing. But Ken had to get out of there before he blew a fuse.

He felt like a yellow-bellied worm for doing it, but he got into his van and drove away, calling his supervisor to explain why he couldn't complete the job. While grumbling and cussing to himself later, he used the word "nigger," and meant it, for the first time in his life.

***

CLEVELAND PARKER ONLY partly enjoyed the white boy getting served. His younger neighbor, Meldrick, was a little too low-class for Cleveland's taste. Sure, it was good seeing the pink toe put in his place, but Meldrick behaved like a common thug to do it. The ghetto wasn't far away, but this neighborhood wasn't technically in it. There were classy people who lived here, like Cleveland and his wife, but you'd never know it by Meldrick's behavior, or by their welfare queen neighbor Willie-Mae Harris and her clan, to the other side of Cleveland's house.

Meldrick fancied himself a poor man's Denzel Washington, but he was missing a whole lot of class for that. The only reason Cleveland was making nice with Meldrick was because the brotha knew somebody with a late model Benz they might be willing to sell. Cleveland's Benz was pushing ten years old now and was way overdue for an upgrade.

After the white boy drove away, Meldrick finally gave him the address where the Benz was parked, so Cleveland could go take a look.

Cleveland entered his own house to put on some presentable shoes and get his car keys.

At the landing of the staircase between the first and second floors, he slowed. There was a spot on the mural about a quarter inch in diameter that looked like either a stain or a chip in the paint. He hadn't noticed it before so it must be new. Anger rose quickly as he tried to imagine who might be responsible. He didn't let just anybody in his house, so he should be able to narrow it down.

The mural wrapped around the landing. It was the scene of a tropical paradise, full of the green vegetation of Mother Africa. A lion sat on one side, a black panther on the other. Both regal cats looked toward the center of the scene, which was a life-sized portrait of Cleveland and his wife in loincloths. In the painting, their bodies were ebony perfection. He stood behind her, but their hands were joined in front in an ancient symbol for dignity. Their images stared out from the painting with stern pride.

His wife was getting her hair done downtown at the moment, so he'd have to inquire about the damaged spot later. He ascended to the master bedroom, changed shoes, came back down the stairs and fetched his keys.

He pulled a Lionel Ritchie CD from the shelf on his way out the door. In moments he was underway in his Mercedes, and put the CD in the player. The player ejected the CD right away. He pushed it back in. It ejected again. Yes, it was certainly time to get an upgrade—little things on the car were starting to give him trouble. He took the CD out for examination, just to make sure it wasn't scratched.

***

JOE TASPER COULDN'T afford bail, so he remained in jail until his hearing. Crystal was apologetic about the incident and didn't press charges, but he knew soon she'd start up over something else, real or imagined, and make his life a little more miserable. He had to dump the psycho bitch, but wasn't sure how to do it, yet. There was no doubt she would go batshit when he told her they were breaking up. She had previously threatened to kill him if he ever left her. At the time he assumed she'd been joking. Now he wasn't so sure.

In the mean time, he had lost his job.

He'd begun reporting for day labor gigs while searching for something permanent, but sure enough got a ticket for the cracked windshield. He was putting off paying it for as long as he could, thinking he couldn't be cited for it again at least until the payment deadline on the existing citation. But yesterday he'd been pulled over again for the windshield.

Pigs didn't have anything better to do. All the drug deals going down in this neighborhood; and prostitution; and theft; but the cops chose to make life harder for a guy trying to make an honest living.

Joe lived in a house in a black neighborhood because the rent was cheaper. But the vandalism and burglaries he suffered there made it not-so-cheap to live, after all.

Unable to risk getting pulled over for the windshield again, Joe would have to take the pickup truck. Shortly before Crystal moved in with him, he had traded his old S-10 for a full size Chevy truck. It burned more gas than the car, but he had no choice now. It was also parked behind his car in the driveway, so he would have to switch them around.

He started both vehicles and pulled the car out on the street. He left the engine running, walked back to the truck and pulled it onto the street, parking next to the curb. He got out and walked toward the car.

He saw a Mercedes speeding up the residential street toward him, but didn't think much about it because the driver had all the room in the world to stop and his own car was plainly visible. As Joe reached his car and was climbing in, he looked up and saw the Mercedes bearing down on him at the same speed, only much closer.

"Oh, no. No! No!"

He threw his car in reverse and hit the gas and horn. The cold engine hesitated. At the last second there was a squeal of tires as the Mercedes rammed him head-on.

Joe slammed the shifter back in park, turned it off and got out, walking forward to inspect the damage. His car and the Mercedes were crumpled pretty bad. The other driver got out—a stocky older black man with fancy shoes, clothes, and glitzy jewelry.

"You alright?" Joe asked.

"Man, what the hell you think you're doing, all over the street like that?" the guy demanded.

Taken aback by the guy's self-righteous attitude, Joe angered quickly. "What am I doin'? How 'bout you look where you're goin', jackass? You just ran into my car!"

The other driver said something, but Joe didn't catch it. Suddenly,Crystal was at his side , yelling at the other driver.

Crystal specialized in making bad situations worse, and she did so now, insulting the other guy with phrases like "fat coon." The guy got pissed and came after her, and Joe had to physically get between them. Finally Crystal retreated indoors to call the police.

It took nearly two hours for the police to get there. Meanwhile, several people from the neighborhood gathered on the sidewalk adjacent to the Mercedes, staring at the accident scene. The other driver spoke with them while they waited. One remark Joe caught from that crowd was, "You had the right-of-way!" like it was an open-and-shut case.

Well, it should all get cleared up when the police filled out the report. Joe wasn't impressed much with cops, based on his experience. But at least they were useful for stuff like this. If they ever showed up.

They finally arrived. There was an older cop and a younger one. The older one went right over to the Mercedes driver when they arrived. It seemed like a familiar greeting shared by the two. The Mercedes driver spoke in hushed tones, gesturing at Joe and the vehicles. They spoke for a long time.

The young officer, after looking the vehicles over, approached Joe. Joe explained what happened, and the officer took notes.

Finally the older cop, smoking a thin cigar, came over and told Joe to sign a ticket.

"You're citing me?" Joe cried. "You're sayin' I'm at fault?"

"That's right," the cop said. "You are at fault."

"How you figure? My car wasn't even moving! I had just got in it and this guy rammed me!"

"He had the right of way," the cop said, nonchalantly.

"Right of way for what?" Joe demanded. "My car was on the street first!"

"It shouldn't have been on the street," the cop said.

"I told your partner I was switching vehicles in my driveway," Joe said. "You can see there's no place to park it on this street. This clown was doing over twice the speed limit through here, and wasn't looking where he was going!"

"He had the right of way. You need to sign this ticket."

"The right of way," Joe said. "You're tellin' me I can run over anything on the street, as long as I have right of way? There are kids out here all the time. He would have killed them today, if there'd been one on the street."

"Kids aren't supposed to be on the street," the cop said.

"So you're sayin' I can haul ass down these residential streets as fast as I want to go, and you're fine with it? And if I run over somebody or crash into something, that's on them?"

"You can do that," the cop said, "but if I catch you, you're getting a ticket for it."

"Do you two know each other?" Joe asked. "Is that what this is about?"

The cop breathed cigar smoke in Joe's face and said. "Listen: you sign that ticket or we can do this another way."

Joe wound up signing the citation, but was determined to fight this one in court.

He later obtained the police report and saw that the younger officer had drawn the diagram to portray Joe's car as pulling out of the driveway and slamming into the Mercedes. The report named the Mercedes driver as Cleveland Parker. His occupation was listed, too.

He worked for the police.

13

D MINUS 74

LAS ANIMAS COUNTY, COLORADO

––––––––

JOSHUA RENNENKAMPF let the Palomino set its own pace up the mountain slope. The sun, where it shone between the trees, was hot; but the air had a cold bite to it in the shade. A nasty winter was due, and even this far out Josh could tell it was on the way.

Josh was tall and lanky, with classic Nordic features. His blond hair was grown out almost down to his collar, and he used the beard trimmer just often enough to keep perpetual five o'clock shadow. When he entered civilian life his divorce from the Army manifested in his appearance and his sleep schedule, if not his tactical mindset.

A rifle scabbard hung hunter-style from his saddle rig, and a pistol was holstered on his hip. From the opposite hip hung a scabbard full of oversize survival knife—the ESEE Junglas. In his breast pocket was a lensatic compass.

He didn't anticipate using any of this today. Most people didn't expect to get in automobile accidents, either, but they still paid for car insurance.

Beside the horse trotted two pit bulls—a 90 pound male and a 60 pound female. The female,Valkyrie, was buckskin, with amber eyes. The male, Ragnarok, was brindle all over except for black socks and tail, and a white patch on his belly. He looked like a burglar's worst nightmare, and probably was, though he had been just a growing puppy only a month ago. Neither had ears or tails cropped, as was the fashion for the breed.

So far only one of his traps had paid off for Josh. The raccoon dangled below his saddlebags.

He rode up to a spot overlooking his third and final trap, and saw that it, too, was empty.

Josh patted his mount, Denver, on the neck. "Looks like I still got some learning to do, huh?" He turned Denver around and let the mustang pick it's own way down the slope. Both he and the horse were startled when his phone rang. The dogs both cocked their heads to the side and stared curiously. He pulled the phone out of his breast pocket and checked the caller I.D.

It was Jennifer.

"Hey," he said. "How's it going?"

"I'm here," Jennifer's youthful, feminine voice answered. "I think this is the south entrance I'm at."

"That'll work," he said. "Just hang the cable back across when your car is inside. Keep it in low gear. First fork, make a right. After that, always go left. I'll meet you at the house."

"I remember," she said. "Okay."

He continued down the slope, thinking about Jennifer's tone of voice during their brief exchange. Was she still upset with him? It didn't sound like it, but then who could tell?

They'd had their first fight on her last visit when he insisted she leave her cellphone outside in her car. She'd thrown a few words at him, including "unreasonable" and "paranoid," the latter most likely applicable, but he told her that her choices were to keep it out in the car, or with her, turned off, after he had removed the secondary battery. She told him tampering would void the warranty.

He had wanted to give in, but didn't. More and more judges were ruling that, by voluntarily carrying around a device with a microphone in it, a citizen waived his Fourth Amendment protections.

When she left after that argument, he assumed it would be the last time he ever saw her. It was too bad, because she meant a lot to him.

Then, after a few weeks, she called. They began talking again, and she soon asked if he would still take her riding up in the mountain. Who could figure women? But when Jennifer sprang surprises on him, they were usually of the pleasant variety.

He heard the engine of her Jeep straining to make it up the steep driveway. His emotions were haywire. On the one hand, he missed her; but on the other, he dreaded this visit if they were just going to pick up where they left off last time.

Denver felt his own way down the trail and made it to the flat shelf a couple minutes after the Jeep. Josh dismounted and tied Denver to the hitching post in front of his dome house.

Ragnarok and Valkyrie had gone ahead and beat him to the shelf. They now stood facing the Jeep's driver door, tails wagging in sync like windshield wipers.

The Jeep door opened and Jennifer got out. "Hello, babies!" she said, stooping to pet the dogs. Valkyrie especially loved the attention and jumped up, her paws landing on Jennifer's jacket.

"Get down, Val!" Josh snapped. "You know better than that."

Val dropped to all fours, ears swinging back and head smoothing into an abashed expression. But her tail kept wagging.

Jennifer was short but shaped nicely. Her red-bronze face was pretty, but had a kind of toughness to it that Josh assumed was normal for the Shawnee nation. What he liked best were her radiant brown eyes.

They walked toward each other and she smiled, then hugged him, pulling back quickly.

Platonic. Well, so be it.

"They've both gotten so big," she said, reaching down to pet the dogs as they escorted her on either side. She then held up both hands as if ready to be searched. “Don't worry—no cellphone. I left it in the car.”

"Nice trip?" Josh asked.

"It was," she said. "I've really got to pee, though."

He waved toward the front door of his dome home and she headed toward it. He fell into step behind her and couldn't help admiring the scenery, glad she was wearing tight jeans, but half-wishing she wasn't at the same time.

"When you're done," he said, "we can eat if you're hungry."

"I'm fine," she said over her shoulder. "I'd like to start out right away. That gives us more riding time."

His house's exterior was painted subdued earth tones that blended in so well with the surrounding environment that it wasn't easy to see unless you knew what you were looking for.

They entered, both dogs taking a seat outside the door.

Inside were several shelves sagging with books; Josh's commo nook full of shortwave and HAM radio gear; and his server and four desktops.

Josh had removed the portrait of his ex-wife from the wall prior to Jennifer's very first visit here. If nothing else, Jennifer's friendship had helped him exorcise that particular ghost.

While Jennifer was in the bathroom, Josh fetched the pair of chaps he had bought for her. She came out and he handed them over.

"What are these?"

"There's cactus and thorny bushes out here," he said. "You may get brushed up against something with sharp edges now and then. These will protect your legs."

"Oh, these are chaps," she said. "Like the cowboys wear."

They went out to the stable and saddled Indy, the mare, and went off on their ride.

He took a trail that led farther away from his traps, with a gentler grade. Both he and Jennifer were novice riders, so he figured excessive caution was the best way to avoid doing something stupid. He hadn't owned the horses long and was learning their strengths and weaknesses even as he learned about horsemanship in general.

Only a couple miles up the trail some snow had stuck, but it was shallow enough the horses had no trouble with it. The dogs couldn't have been happier, either, licking up the snow on the run and snooping around in general.

Joshua and Jennifer didn't speak much, but every time he glanced her way, she seemed to be enjoying herself.

"It's so picturesque up here, " she said. "It's crazy to see snow this time of year."

"High elevation," he said. "If it's high enough, you get snow year-round."

"But it's worse in the winter, right?"

Josh nodded. "And there's supposed to be a bad one coming up."

Before long, the dogs' ears swung forward and tails extended down. Ragnarok growled.

"Stay on me," Josh said, but the dogs' instincts were too powerful and they bolted forward to investigate. Josh sighed and Jennifer giggled.

"Needless to say, we've still got some training to do," Josh said.

"I'm impressed that they're not barking, though," Jennifer said, always seeing the glass as half-full.

Josh noticed movement between the trees far ahead, perpendicular to the path of his dogs.

"Did you see that?" Jennifer asked.

He nodded.

"Is it a bear?"

He waited to reply until he got a better look. When he did, he saw it was another party of horses and riders moving across their path. No more growling or other noise from the dogs, nor sign of a struggle, either. "Looks like my neighbors."

The two parties drew close and Josh recognized Paul Tareen, a tough-looking hombre with a black mustache, his sons Dan and Reuben, both dark-haired and whipcord thin like their father, and his daughter Terry. They greeted each other and Josh introduced Jennifer, noticing the looks of appraisal she got from the two young men. Ragnarok and Valkyrie came back to sit at either side of Denver, panting, tongues hanging out from the run.

"This is the family that sold me the horses," Josh said, smiling at his neighbors.

"They're beautiful," Jennifer said.

"How do you know each other?" Terry asked, gaze bouncing between Josh and Jennifer.

As little as Josh understood women, he was fairly sure Terry had a crush on him. At 19, Josh considered her far too young for him, but she didn't seem to agree. Josh had always looked younger than his years, inspiring unflattering nicknames like "Baby Face" in some circles. In the past he'd tried growing his beard out to look more his age, but he didn't like how it felt when it got long. It itched and felt greasy.

"I'm friends with her uncle," Josh said, assuming he had been downgraded from boyfriend since the cellphone incident.

Terry, a pretty blonde with dimples in both cheeks, appeared to like this answer. But not Jennifer. In fact, maybe he was reading too much into it, but he had the impression Jennifer took a dislike to Terry from that moment.

"You been keepin' an eye on the Chapanee situation?" Paul asked.

"The Bar G Ranch?"Josh asked. "Yeah. Just read the latest before I went up to check the traps this morning."

"You think it's gonna get ugly?" Paul asked.

"I think it's already ugly," Josh said.

"Yeah. Man can't dig a retention pond on his own property..." Paul said, shaking his head. "The Feds will use any excuse to steal from us."

"The land owner got sent to the hospital for a heart attack," Josh said. "You know they're gonna work on his son—see if they can get him to cave in."

"What do you think about this Jade Helm business?" Reuben asked. "Is it just a cover for beginning martial law?"

"They're supposedly just carryin' blanks," Dan said. "I think they just might have live ammo."

Josh shrugged. "Hey, I'm a civilian like you. I'm out of the loop. Best I could do is speculate."

"Please do," Paul said, with a worried frown.

"I really do think it's an exercise," Josh said. "Will they springboard from it into martial law? I don't think so. For one thing, they're using SOCOM personnel—not who you'd want to earmark for occupation troops. Two things SpecOps have always done is special operations, hence the name, and military advising. So first off it's probably another psychological prep for the population—get civilians used to seeing soldiers patrolling Elm Street and Oak Street like it's no big deal. The Pentagon has been pushing more and more of these exercises over the last several years. Another thing it does is familiarize the participants with the terrain that a real operation might play out on in the future—a special operation, to take out the most dangerous leaders of a potential resistance movement, for instance."

"Night of the Long Knives," Paul mused aloud.

"Or it could be so they can advise foreign troops how to effectively pacify this region," Josh added.

"You think American soldiers would really go along with all this?" Reuben asked.

Josh nodded, feeling a pang of the old heartbreak again. "I do. Soldiers are mostly folks who were taught what to think by government schools and the idiot box, just like everyone else. They haven't read the Constitution and, these days, probably lack the reading comprehension even if they tried. So all they know about it is what they've heard.”

“From government schools and the idiot box,” Paul said, frowning.

Josh sighed and nodded. “Almost nobody joins for patriotic motives. I was an oddball because I did. It's all college money, signing bonuses, and job training. The different branches recruit by appealing to mercenary instincts, so they get mercenaries. G.I. Joe is gonna do whatever he's told to do. Likely they'll have him overseas in some U.N. or State Department manufactured hellhole violating somebody else's rights, anyway, while foreign troops are dealing with us. Bottom line is, don't put your trust in our military. It's not ours, anymore."

“The weapons and equipment ain't even made here now,” Dan remarked. “We could never go to war with China—all they'd have to do is stop sellin' us what we need to fight.”

“They have to do away with posse comitatus, too,” Rueben opined. “They know police will be a joke if they come up against organized resistance. They need combat troops if they get serious about coming for our guns.”

“They pretty much have done away with it,” Josh said. “But posse comitatus was never as restrictive as we wish it was. Not that politicians will abide by even the most simple laws, anyway. And nobody appreciates the danger of standing armies anymore.”

Paul turned solemn. "Josh, you reckon you could start teachin' me and the boys...um, Morse Code one of these weekends?"

Paul wasn't talking about Morse code. He obviously didn't know if he could speak freely in the presence of Jennifer. As the neighbors had gotten to know each other over the years, they found out Josh was a Special Forces vet. One primary mission for Special Forces was to train indigenous armies for war. “Advising.” Paul was asking Josh to train him, his sons and some like-minded friends for a war they believed was coming right to their back yard.

"I'll drop by your place one of these days," Josh said, "and we'll talk about it."

Terry flashed a charming smile at Josh."Maybe you could show me some orienteering, Joshua?"

"What's the matter?" Josh asked. "Your brothers don't savvy land navigation?"

"I bought compasses for all of them," Paul said. "But we haven't tried to use them much."

"You can do it without a compass, right Joshua?" Terry asked. "At night, by using the stars?"

Before Josh could answer, Jennifer said. "He can. He taught me how. I can teach you." The offer was made in a sweet tone of voice, and Jennifer's expression was innocent enough, but this struck Josh as the proverbial hissing and scratching of a cat announcing her ownership of the turf in question. Terry seemed to take it that way, judging by the fading smile and furrowing eyebrows.

"Matter of fact," Paul said, oblivious to all the covert saber rattling between the females, "if you're not doing anything for Independence Day, we'd be obliged if you'd come over and spend the day with us."

"You can try some of my potato pie," Terry suggested, undaunted.

"I appreciate it," Josh said. "Sounds good."

They exchanged a few more pleasantries and bid goodbyes.

Josh continued along the trail with Jennifer following. He expected either an angry outburst, or the silent treatment. Not that he had been anything more than polite with his neighbor's daughter. But since when did facts ever matter to a woman?

Jennifer surprised him again, though. She asked a few reasonable questions about his neighbors, but never escalated the exchange to an argument.

He turned back just after the waterfall so they would make it home before dark. The ride was a pleasant one, with horses and riders getting familiar with each other along the way. When they reached the house, Jennifer asked to take a shower. While she did that, he stabled the horses, rubbed them down and fed them.

Jennifer was still in the bathroom when he came indoors, but the water was no longer running. He called through the bathroom door, "You wanna eat something before you go?"

Her answer didn't come right away. "I'm staying here tonight, aren't I?"

That was the agreement originally, but judging by her lukewarm greeting and attitude, he assumed she had changed her plans. "You're welcome to stay if you want," he replied.

"I thought that was the whole idea," she said, rustling something around on the other side of the door.

"Well, yeah. But I figured you only wanted to go riding, after..." He shrugged, deciding to drop it and just play this visit by ear.

"After what?" she asked.

"Nevermind," he said, and went to the kitchen.

As he dug through the freezer, she entered the kitchen wearing a bathrobe she must have brought along, and a towel wrapped around her head. "What are you doing?" she asked.

"Trying to figure out what we're going to eat," he said.

She grabbed the freezer door out of his hand and waved toward the doorway. "Why don't you clear out. I'll take care of this."

"Cool. I'll go make sure the guest room is ready, then."

"And call Uncle Tommy," she said. "He wants to talk to you about something."

Josh rounded up sheets, blankets and pillows, and made the guest bed for her. Jennifer was the only guest he'd ever had sleep over at this house; and he'd been convinced they were finished as a couple, so he hadn't anticipated using the guest room again.

Josh wondered what Tommy Scarred Wolf wanted to talk about. For the several months after returning from Indonesia Tommy had continued the investigation which probably got he and his brother Vince marked for ruin in the first place. But then Tommy got too busy with the whole county sheriff thing and slacked off.

Josh opened up his video conferencing program and dialed his old friend. It worked much like Skype, only it was strongly encrypted—a custom program he'd installed on his and Tommy's desktops.

Tommy was an old buddy from Josh's A-Team in 5th Group. Tommy was a living legend getting short when Josh was an FNG fresh from the Q-Course. Still, they were like-minded in those days and got tight. They remained friends even after Tommy got out, but after Josh's time in Iraq years later...things changed. Joshua's attitude soured regarding the people running the U.S. government. Over time, the more he learned, the sour attitude became seething animosity, which trickled down to nearly every bureaucrat and person with any kind of authority. Tommy had become a cop like his brother, and that strained their friendship. Then he left the Tribal Police and went over to the Feds for a while, which was when Josh completely turned his back on him.

Then Tommy showed up one day right here on the mountain, in desperate need of Josh's help. Joshua still didn't completely understand why, but he couldn't turn Tommy down.

Josh got wounded helping Tommy on Sumatra. Then everything was further complicated when Jennifer came into the picture (her father was murdered, so Tommy was even more protective of her than normal). But somehow when all was said and done, Josh and Tommy were good friends again, as if they'd never had a falling out.

"Hey Tommy," Josh greeted. "Jenny says you wanted to talk."

"Yeah, thanks," Tommy replied. "I have something new for you to keep track of. Maybe dig at a little, when you have time."

"Is it related to the secret teams?" Josh asked.

Between what Tommy and Vince dug up, plus some information their friend Rocco Cavarra had once been privy to, they had pieced together evidence pointing to an ongoing black ops division hidden inside the intelligence community. The division employed an unknown number of clandestine "tier zero" teams, a couple of which Rocco and the crew ran into overseas. They strongly suspected at least one of the secret teams specialized in false flag ops.

After a hesitant pause, Tommy said, "I have no evidence of that. But it's something that looks pretty big. I can't really do much more digging from here without getting The Man back on my tail."

Josh fancied himself a pro at hacking into secure resources without being detected. "Whatcha got?"

Tommy told him about an epidemic of occult rituals involving both animal and infant sacrifice. Tommy himself had traced connections from some of the practitioners to classified government programs. He wanted Josh to glean more information, on the down-low.

"I'll see what I can do," Josh said. They exchanged a little more information and hung up.

After the meal of buffalo burgers and diced potatoes Jennifer cooked, Josh thanked her and bid her good night. His plans for the evening involved some reading on the living room couch before turning in.

He wasn't ready for her to sit in his lap, wrap her arms around him and stick her tongue down his throat. It stunned him, but was certainly another pleasant surprise.

The towel-turban was gone now and she looked earthy and glorious with her long black hair hanging down.

They had been affectionate with each other before, but something was different about this time. Jennifer was really revved up, and soon had his motor running at redline. He let his hands roam over her, and she didn't protest. Her breathing became heavy, but she didn't push his hands away until he began to slip one inside her bathrobe.

She pulled away, but he tugged her back into his lap. "Don't sleep in the guest room tonight," he whispered. "Stay with me."

Her only answer was a quavering moan and he was sure she'd finally surrendered. Careful not to make any sudden moves, he climbed to his feet, cradling her in his arms, and carried her to his bedroom.

All went well until he got her out of the bathrobe, then she shook her head and began crying. "I want to, Joshua. I really want to, but I can't."

He sighed and pulled away from her. He didn't want to argue. Besides, her crying killed the mood for him, anyway. He patted her on the arm, draped the robe back over her, and stood to leave. But she grabbed at his arm and pulled him back.

"Don't go," she pleaded, wiping her eyes. "I'm sorry."

"Is this about religion, still?" he asked.

She didn't answer. Which meant yes.

She sniffled and tried to smile, sitting up to wrap her arms around him.

"Since when," she asked, "am I just the niece of a friend of yours?"

"Since your last visit," he replied. "Our knock-down drag-out about the stupid phone. And reinforced just now. Did I miss something?"

She licked her lips. There was concern, if not fear, in her deep brown eyes. "We may not agree on everything; but I don't want to lose you, Joshua."

"That's good and all," he said. "But there are some things about me that will never change."

She tossed her hair. "The one thing about me that will never change is my faith. And I believe I should only give up my virginity when I'm married."

"Then why are you wasting time with me?" he asked, with an irritated tone. "There must be millions of church boys out there who would do everything you want."

"I'm not in love with them," she said. "I want you."

"But only on your terms."

She chewed on her lower lip. He sighed.

"I don't want to fight," he said, half-turning. "I'll see you in the morning." He pulled away again, but she tugged him back, locking her fingers between his.

He was doing just fine by himself. Why did she have to bring all this drama into his life?

She placed her palm against his face. She looked like she was ready to cry again. "I'm not willing to give up on you."

He hugged her, patting her back. Sexually frustrated as he was, he tried to give her what comfort he could.

After a while, she composed herself and asked if she could borrow a computer to check her email. He set her up, then checked his news updates on a different computer.

The item of most interest to him at the moment was the standoff in the Chapanee Valley. According to the video feed from one of his most used alternative news sites, the Feds had backed off. His fellow wingnuts were celebrating all over the country, like they'd just destroyed the Death Star and saved the galaxy from the Empire.

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14

D MINUS 65

NSA DATA CENTER

CAMP WILLIAMS, UTAH

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JUSTIN YAWNED, CHECKED the time, and turned back to his monitor. He'd been at it for 12 hours so far today. He'd put in a couple more before calling it quits for the night.

The room he sat in was crowded with computers, separated by small cubicles. There were ten tired, uncomfortable people in there, all trying to maintain enthusiasm for this project despite the long hours.

Justin closed the file he had just completed and went back to Surveillance Photo 18F-5 from the Garber Ranch. Several more zones of the photo had been grayed out since he last looked at it. He moved his cursor over an active zone and clicked on it. The zone grew to fill his screen, and he zoomed in on the little Ford Ranger parked on the side of the road. He kept zooming closer until he could make out the license plate, then split his screen to open the Motor Vehicle database.

"We got any more coffee?" asked Barnes, from the adjacent cubicle.

"Had about half a pot left an hour ago," Justin replied, checking the blackened bottom of his styrofoam cup to ensure his last dose hadn't magically reappeared.

"Which means it's empty again, and I'll be the one who has to fill it," Barnes complained. "You'd think they could get us one of those fancy machines where you just slide a packet in, push a button and it gives you espresso, coffee, cappuccino or whatever."

"They spent all the money on these work stations," Justin said.

Frawley, the green-eyed blonde in the cubicle to his right, rolled back in her chair and asked, "Did you hear the latest about that defensive back at Miami?"

Justin shook his head. "I don't follow football that much anymore."

Frawley looked almost hurt. "But..."

Tench, the short brassy-haired black woman in the cubicle to his left, rolled back and said, "I thought you were a wide receiver for UCLA."

"Tight end," he corrected. "But I'm done with football."

Justin's love for the game had been cooling for a while even before his back injury during senior year. It had cooled even more in recent years.

"You shoulda' stuck with that," Tench said. "You coulda' been makin' big money."

"You're still in terrific shape, too," Frawley said. "Most guys put on a lot of weight after they stop playing."

"That's Ex-Jock Syndrome," Justin said. "Guys who try to bulk up or trim down for their position ruin their metabolism. I never did that."

"So I guess you wouldn't be interested in joining a fantasy league," Frawley said.

"No. But thanks anyway," Justin said. His co-workers rolled their chairs back into their cubicles.

He ran the license plates through the database, pulling up the name and address of the person who registered the Ford Ranger. The owner had driven across two states to join the DomTers at Chapanee. Justin initiated a new file and began filling in the details.

First he checked for a criminal record. There was none. Some speeding tickets when the DomTer was a teenager, and an accident report filed 15 years ago made up the only entries on the rap sheet.

He looked up the DomTer's cellphone number and flagged it for monitoring and tracking.

Next he checked for prior military service. The DomTer, Gary Fram, served in the Army, in the combat arms. That moved him up the danger scale quite a few notches.

Justin looked over his medical records and filled in the requests for peripheral checks of his wife and children. He shifted to Fram's financial history and status, and confirmed his political affiliation by voter registration. The man's voting history started out typically sporadic, then he became a hell-or-high-water voter for several years. But he quit voting altogether after 2012. This would flag his profile as an extreme risk.

For variety's sake, Justin investigated his public library habits next. (Normally he put this off for later in the process, but switching around the routine helped relieve some of the monotony.) Several books checked out on the American Revolution, the Constitution, the Federal Reserve, and various survival topics all fit the profile and confirmed the risk level.

He ran the man's identifiers through the firearm sales database. Though this database was far from complete, it still showed a rifle and shotgun purchase, along with several ammunition purchases. The caliber of the ammo purchased indicated at least two additional weapons owned.

Only then did Justin begin poring through Fram's email, search engine and social networking history. This was the most tedious, time consuming portion of any profile. It generated anywhere from dozens to hundreds of peripheral requests for profiles of potential accomplices, but the intelligence rewards were too juicy to pass up.

Fram hadn't said anything that could yet be construed to suggest criminal intent, but his wife posted pictures on Facebook of him posing with a couple different weapons which did not show up on the firearm sales search.

Justin still had a long way to go on the social networking history when time came to go home. He would have to continue that tomorrow. He estimated that it would take another day and a half before he could wrap up with an analysis of the DomTer's home, based on satellite and street-level images from Google. Only after all that was complete could the DomTer's residence be more thoroughly investigated via thermal imaging, ground-penetrating radar and other methods available by satellite or U.A.V...assuming he or his wife hadn't bought into DropCam or some other service that installed cameras inside their home, which would make everything easier.

Justin began shutting down and gathering his stuff.

"You calling it a day?" Barnes asked.

"Yeah," Justin said, logging out of succeeding security layers. "My eyes are burning. Guess I'll be back in about 10, 12 hours."

"You know what we're doing here, right?" Barnes asked, rising to his feet and hurrying around the cubicle row to where Justin stood.

Justin shrugged, not sure what his co-worker was driving at. But no doubt Barnes would do his best to enlighten him, whether the enlightenment was welcome or not.

"It's like 'reconnaissance by fire'," Barnes said, grinning at the opportunity to share his theory. He was retired Air Force, and looked for the military angle in everything. "You know those old fashioned wars...infantry attacking defensive positions and all that. Well, what you do is send a heavy patrol out at night and make contact, but just to harass—not to try overrunning the position or anything. The defenders open fire, and you take note of how their defenses are laid out—where their machineguns are; mortars, artillery; whatever. And which parts of the perimeter are only defended by riflemen. Then when you're ready to attack, you knock out their heavy weapons first, then hit them where they're weakest. Of course today you don't have to do that because we got satellite intelligence and so forth, but you get the idea: we're probing the DomTers to find their strong and weak links."

"You think we intended to back down from the standoff all along?" Justin asked, incredulous.

"Well, the whole operation may have been part test balloon," Barnes said. "If that old cowboy prick had been reasonable, we'd have just moved on and taken care of business. But these DomTers are feeling their oats. They think they won't get a spanking—or that it won't hurt that much. So we'll let them go on thinking that, while we just pin down where all their assets are."

"I wonder why we don't spend this level of effort on the folks swarming across the southern border," Justin wondered aloud. "I mean, Domestic Terrorists aren't the only threat we have to worry about."

Barnes frowned, shrugged, and headed back to the coffee maker.

Justin left the “data mine” and exited through a series of security checkpoints until he finally made it outside the building. On the way to his car, he considered his short conversation with Barnes. He hoped he hadn't come off as critical, or the Department might decide he had tendencies that were sympathetic to the enemy.

The enemy.

It should be bizarre thinking of American citizens that way, but Justin was getting used to it. It kind of bothered him at first when reading department memorandums gave him the impression that a civil war was expected by his bosses, and their bosses. Mainstream culture was clueless that anyone even considered it possible. Yet in the minds of many intelligence professionals, it was a done deal.

Justin remembered enough world history to know that evolution of a state and its culture was inevitable. The great empires all lasted approximately 200 years before corruption ate them away from the inside, or weakened them enough to be toppled by external forces. That meant the United States of America was on borrowed time anyway.

At least his job was secure. In the emerging global order his kind of work would always be in demand.

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15

Y MINUS TWO

UPPER EAST SIDE, MANHATTAN, NEW YORK

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JASON MACMILLAN FOUND the park bench in question. A moderately attractive 40-something woman sat on it, wrapped in a fur-lined parka, smoking a cigarette.

"Ms. Simmons?" he asked, when he was still a polite distance away.

She glanced up and flashed him a business-casual smile. "You must be Jason."

He shook the thin hand she offered and was surprised at the electricity that passed between them. His eyes and mind told him she was nothing fantastic on the desirability scale (especially around the Washington-New York axis, which was crawling with hot, horny women) but his body didn't agree.

He sat on the bench, with less than a yard of space between them.

"It's not that cold yet, is it?" he asked, with a meaningful look at her expensive coat.

"It's partly psychological," she said, taking another puff of her cigarette. "I keep hearing what a bad winter we're in for one of these years, so I'm bundling up in preparation. Plus I just spent a month in Hawaii, so my blood has thinned out."

He nodded toward the huge building where the Council met. "They should be out by now, shouldn't they?"

"Oh, their meeting's been adjourned," she said, with assurance. "But there's the usual hob-nobbing to do afterward. And then Lawrence goes through his dog walking ritual. Are you familiar with that, yet?"

Macmillan shook his head.

"Well, you are new, after all," she said. "His show champion dog has its own dedicated driver and vehicle. Can't be getting shedded fur all over the limousine, now can we? Then his dog handler escorts the dog to Lawrence and hands it off. Lawrence walks with it for exactly half an hour, then hands it off back to the dog handler, who hands it off to the doggie driver, who takes it out of sight, out of mind for the rest of the day."

She didn't seem scornful or bitter. Rather, amused. But not quite mocking.

"Has he given you the speech about Border Collies?" she asked.

"Not yet," he replied.

"Oh, then you're due for at least one. He's got dates and places, names of breeders and dogs. He'll tell you all about how Collies were bred to help herd livestock. They're born with the herding instinct and even his spoiled, urbanized pet unconsciously tries to herd him away from traffic and other perceived threats. Lawrence is fascinated with the whole concept of herding, in fact."

"He hasn't opened up to that extent with me, Ms. Simmons. He probably doesn't know yet if I'll work out."

"Call me Jade," she said, patting the bench surface right next to her. "Come here. I don't bite."

Macmillan scooted over until they were right next to each other.

"I hear you started out in the Louisiana Highway Patrol."

He acknowledged the question with a slight hunching of the shoulders. "Yeah. But that was a long time ago."

"Impressive that you've climbed so far."

Her voice was sensuous—almost hypnotic. He was turned-on despite himself. Forget Viagra—this broad was an effective cure for erectile dysfunction all by herself.

"I think I like you, Jason. So I'm going to share a little privileged information up front—otherwise it might take you some time to figure out: Lawrence wants to meet with both of us at once in order to foster competition between us. So don't be surprised if he seems to be pitting us against each other sooner or later. He believes we'll both work faster and harder for him that way. Ironic, isn't it? So Free Market of him."

"So you're my competition, then," Macmillan said, trying to reciprocate her subdued, playful manner.

"But I don't think it should be totally competitive," Jade Simmons told him, with direct eye contact. "I prefer cooperative arrangements." She glanced pointedly at his left hand. "So you're married."

"Is that a problem?" he asked, smoothly.

"That's up to you," she replied, patting his thigh this time.

He wasn't sure how to respond. He was used to being the sexually aggressive one.

"I'll save you some more time," she continued, chuckling. "The only reason you're in this is because your assets are expendable, whereas mine are valuable enough, Lawrence wants to save them for future operations if possible."

This sounded like an insult, which rankled Macmillan. His agents were sharp and well-trained. So elite even the CIA wasn't privy to their ops. How could her guys be less expendable than his? Maybe she meant only his civilian informants.

"I agree with him," she said, "which means I want you to succeed. So the game is rigged in your favor: if you can get your dominoes lined up, you get the operation."

Lawrence Bertrand appeared around the corner on the sidewalk, flanked by two imposing bodyguards, with his Collie leashed at his side. He was a tall, thickly built aristocrat with a nose like a vulture's beak, probably in his mid-to-late 60s.

As Bertrand's small entourage drew closer, someone else arrived at the park bench and stood beside it, waiting—obviously the dog handler.

Bertrand made it to the bench, handed the leash to the handler, exchanged a few words about the Collie's diet, then dismissed him. The two bodyguards wandered far enough away from their boss to provide some privacy, but close enough that they could go into action in case Alex Jones popped up out of a trash can with a video camera or something.

Jade Simmons made as if to stand. Moving quicker, Macmillan shot to his feet and made room for Bertrand to sit on the bench. Bertrand took the offered space. Macmillan stood facing the seated Bertrand and only then noticed that Jade was still seated. She smirked. She had only feinted at rising. This was some sort of power play, to establish that Macmillan was lower on the totem pole than her.

Macmillan would like to get her alone, where he'd show her exactly where to stick the totem pole.

"I trust you've introduced yourselves," Bertrand said.

"Yes sir," Macmillan said.

Jade nodded. "How was the meeting?"

Bertrand frowned. "All this oil fracking on private and state land is a nuisance. But still, we're at the point where, with or without more quantitative easing..." his words trailed off and he looked annoyed. "That's hardly any of your concern, Jade."

The reprimand didn't seem to bother her that much, but it kept her mouth closed for a moment.

"How is the initiative coming along?" Bertrand asked her.

"I've got penetration across the board," she replied. "Per your instructions I've concentrated on the DomTer cells, and we've got assets in or close to leadership in 38 states. We're pushing for full permeation, of course, but in the mean time we've got fully trained, invested assets who are ready to go right now."

Travis turned from her to address Macmillan "I've got Jade going at this from a different angle, but her priority is identical to yours. We need assets tuned and fueled up PDQ, waiting on the 'go'."

Pretty Damn Quick was a lofty goal when you had to accomplish all that was cut out for Macmillan and the people under him.

"Your predecessor not only failed," Bertrand told Macmillan, scowling, "but he managed to lose valuable assets in the process. I think part of the problem was, he promoted operators to leadership who were too hands-on. Brice Mallin was a hell of an operator; but the wrong man to run the show. Chiefs plan; Indians execute. Show your fangs a little, but I need you and your command structure where you can observe and administer. That means delegate and supervise. Unfortunately, it also means recruiting, to replace the operators we lost."

Brice Mallin had a big reputation as a bad dude. But not only did he lose three teams of shooters overseas, he wound up greased himself.

"Yes sir," Macmillan said.

"The teams we spoke of," Bertrand went on, "with the civilian assets prepped for high-profile...that is your priority until further notice."

Civilian assets. So that was it, after all. That was why McMillan's teams were considered more expendable than whoever Jade Simmons had working for her.

"I want to see significant progress very soon." Bertrand now glanced at Jade to include her in what he was about to say. "With any kind of operation like this, discretion is of the utmost concern. We can't expect the press to be able to continue damage control for us with the same success they've had in the past." His scowl deepened. "There are too many rogue elements out there now." He gestured toward the headquarters building. "We're working on that problem, but frankly, we might not be able to accomplish much until after you've done your job. Anyway, we've got to police the situation tightly, and there are these rogue elements trying to start trouble...most are crackpots, but there's this one B.I.A. agent that doesn't know his place."

"Are you saying we've been compromised?" Jade Simmons asked.

"They're all poking their noses into our business," Bertrand replied. "This one was snooping around one of our prior operations. He's not a blogger or reporter or anything like that, but he's kicked up some dust in his little backwater. The risk is, having some training in investigation, he could stumble onto current operations. Perhaps even our priority initiative."

"So you need him out of your hair?" Macmillan asked.

Bertrand coughed and made a face. "It's trickier, now. He's running for sheriff in his home county."

"Too high profile," Jade said, nodding.

"Not if he starts making waves again," Bertrand said. "For now he's backed off. So let's get what we can on him. He's got family. And if he does become sheriff, he's got that to lose. In any case, I'm putting him at the top of our database."

"Yes sir," Macmillan said.

"Understood," Jade said.

Bertrand directed his focus back on Macmillan "You should have the mission parameters already."

"Yes sir," Macmillan said.

"I want you to be prepared to operate anywhere on that list of venues. And I want every item from the criteria addressed."

That was a tall order, but not impossible. Macmillan welcomed the challenge.

"Above all," Bertrand said, "we can't have loose ends. The press can't smooth over sloppy work as well as it could in the past. They can't until we sort out this whole Internet boondoggle. Eric Varney will help us with background checks on recruits, as always. But beyond that, you need to do some careful screening of your own. And keep on top of it, even when candidates pass. Attitudes can change. Someone might decide to stop being a team player."

Bertrand was paranoid, Macmillan decided. Nothing on Earth could turn a made man once he'd graduated up through all the layers of concentric circles to get here. C.I.A. and NSA employees didn't even have the clearance needed to be a part of this organization, now operating within a subcompartment of the DHS. Most of Congress didn't even know the organization existed.

"If there's any security breach whatsoever," Bertrand said, "well, let's just say you don't want to be the person responsible."

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16

D MINUS 56

AMARILLO, TEXAS

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16

D MINUS 56

AMARILLO, TEXAS

"Oh man, I don't believe this shit," Delton Williams muttered as he swung his car around the curve and saw the po-po lined up across the road, lights flashing on their cruisers. Another random roadside spot check. Another part of the "zero tolerance policy" garbage the politicians on the local news were talking about lately.

Delton had lost his job months ago when the company he worked for downsized and outsourced their remaining labor overseas. His Unemployment Compensation was about to run out and he'd had no luck finding a job. He'd just sacrificed some gas to go to an interview which turned out to be a scam. He should have known the "no experience necessary" was too good to be true in this economy. Their job posting said he'd get paid training to be a financial consultant, when in actuality it was a door-to-door sales job and they expected him to pony up some cash to pay for the training. He'd spent the last of his cash on gas and now he wouldn't be able to buy baby formula. He and his girl already switched to cloth diapers, hang-drying them on the apartment balcony because disposables were too expensive. The easy way out would be to either start selling weed in his neighborhood, or go on welfare. He didn't want to do either, but was running out of options.

He needed to get back to the apartment soon so his girlfriend could take the car to her late shift job at the convenience store. Delton's sister had borrowed the car Sunday and he hadn't had a chance to clean it out since then. Who knew what she might have left in there somewhere? He was only a mile or so from his apartment. This checkpoint was the last thing he needed right now.

Six cruisers were parked here, in all. Most of the cops stood over by a cluster of trees shading them from the late afternoon sun. They were all either white or Hispanic.

He rolled down his window as he came to a stop abreast of the two cops standing in the road. Maybe they would wave him on and harass the next guy.

"Good afternoon, sir," greeted a short, beady-eyed cop, leaning down to face Delton through the open window. "We're conducting roadside spot checks today." He pointed beyond the paved shoulder to an area in front of the trees. "Would you mind pulling off up there so we can check you out real quick?"

"Yes sir, I would mind," Delton said. "My girl got to get to work and she got no ride without this car."

The cop blinked in puzzlement. Evidently he wasn't used to people treating a question like a question. "That's alright sir," he finally said. "It'll only take a second."

Just in case the cop was being honest, Delton asked, "What exactly you gonna check?"

"We just need to look at your driver's license, registration and proof of insurance, and to look the car over to make sure everything's all right."

Delton was behind on all his bills, because Unemployment was not covering his expenses. He had foregone paying the electric bill so he could send a token payment to the insurance company. He was pretty sure it appeased them for at least another month. But the premiums kept going higher and higher every year...

"You wanna search my car without a warrant?" Delton asked.

The beady-eyed cop's demeanor changed. Hard lines formed around his mouth. "Excuse me?"

"I said you need a search warrant to do that."

Beady Eyes looked over the car's interior. "Is there something you don't want us to find in here?"

Now the other cop, taller and uglier, stooped over to join Beady Eyes outside Delton's window. "Is there a problem here?"

Beady Eyes gave the big ugly cop a meaningful glance. "He's refusing to comply. Says he wants to see a search warrant."

"Have you got something to hide?" asked the second po-po.

"I ain't hidin' nothin'," Delton said. "Why I gotta be hidin' somethin'? I told this officer here I need to get home so my girl can take the car to her job."

"You could be in and out of here if you didn't give us a hard time," the second cop said. "This is just a random stop, as part of the zero-tolerance policy..."

"I ain't givin' you a hard time," Delton said. "I'm mindin' my own business, just tryin' to get home so my girl can get to work. You're givin' me a hard time."

The second cop stood to his full height and hitched up his gun belt. "Tell you what: do me a favor and pull up over there."

"No thanks," Delton said. "How 'bout you do me a favor and let me get home?"

"You need to think hard about this, sir," the second cop said. "If you insist on making this difficult, you won't like what happens."

"You guys can't search me unless you got a reason," Delton said.

"Where'd you hear that?" Beady Eyes asked, voice dripping with disgust.

"Man, it's my rights!" Delton replied, unable to keep the irritation out of his tone.

The two cops exchanged a look. The other cops, over in the shade, were now taking notice that something was amiss. Beady Eyes turned to them and called out, "We've got a belligerent one, here."

The other cops hurried over, stationing themselves on both sides of the car.

Why can't they just leave me be, Delton wondered, wracked with the sinking feeling of hopelessness. But he countered all their demands by insisting they produce a search warrant.

Finally one of the other cops approached to lean down in his window. "Unless you show us your license and registration, we're gonna arrest you."

"I'll show you that stuff," Delton said. "No problem. He reached across the front seat to open the glove box, where his registration was.

"He's going for a weapon!" Beady Eyes cried.

Cops flung open both doors and grabbed Delton.

"Chill the hell out! I was just gettin' the papers, like you axed!"

His words were drowned out in the shouting of the cops. More and more hands grabbed hold of him and they hauled him out. He tried repeating his protest but they didn't hear him, or paid no attention. All of them were shouting at once and he couldn't sort it out. They shoved him against the side of his car and somebody wrenched his arm behind his back.

They were going to cuff him.

Delton tore his arm away and twisted around to face them. "Back off, man! I was just gettin' the..."

Something hard hit him in the ribs. Through blinding flashes of pain he saw the one holding the night stick. His body reacted before his brain thought it over, and he planted his fist in the guy's face.

Now sticks crashed all over his shoulders and the top of his head. The only female cop in the group aimed a tazer at him. He batted it out of her hands and pushed her. She went tumbling backwards.

Blows rained down so fast and heavy it was like fireworks went off inside his head. Through the blinding pain of the beating he felt the ground come up to strike him yet another blow on the back of the head.

The perp's resistance was an unexpected highlight to the checkpoint duty. Not only did they get to see Officer Katy Hobbes go tumbling ass-over teakettle after losing her tazer, but they were getting quality stick time like most of them had never enjoyed before. Then Archuletta began yelling, holding his arms out to stop the beating.

Panting but pumped on the adrenalin, they gradually stopped swinging. Their human pinata was unconscious.

They all glanced at each other and smirks were exchanged. Hobbes picked herself up and came over to take in the scene, and a couple jokes were cracked at her expense. Then Archuletta squatted to examine the perp.

"Hey guys, this doesn't look good."

"Cuff him and get him in my car," Fender said, chuckling. "Somebody can bring aspirin to his cell."

"No," Archuletta said. "I mean this looks bad. Maybe we should get an ambulance over here."

Archuletta stood again, then noticed all the civilians from the backed-up traffic standing outside their vehicles with smartphones out, taking pictures and video.

"Oh, shit."

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17

D MINUS 53

JACKSONVILLE, FLORIDA

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THIS WAS BS DUTY. JAKE McCallum trained his team for direct action. That's what their purpose was. And yet here they were in a rented storefront doing flunky work that the local cops were more than capable of.

Local cops were there. And state troopers. So were the U.S. Marshalls and reps from competing federal agencies. Mac's boss had played up this assignment as a "joint task force" operation that faced a significant threat. The threat level was exposed for what it really was when they were told they wouldn't need helmets, armor or rifles.

In this little store front meeting room, local police and federal agents were busy collecting information from outraged members of a group that had been circulating a petition for secession. The perps were forced to surrender their wallets and let the agents go through their I.D., insurance cards, credit cards, cash and other personal items. Cellphones were confiscated and checked. They were grilled regarding places of employment, aliases, alternate addresses, friends and relatives. While local and federal agents recorded information on them, the group members protested, but were obviously not going to offer any violent resistance.

When Mac remarked about this bogus operation, his boss told him it was a sort of quid-pro-quo job. They relied on the NSA's intelligence database for some of their raids. It was a good idea to pay the NSA back once in a while with this kind of hands-on data mining that couldn't be accomplished online when the DomTers didn't advertise their personal and group information on social media.

On first glance none of these group members looked like domestic terrorists. They were all middle class; most were middle aged; they were dressed conservatively and practiced good personal hygiene. And they weren't all white. Mac couldn't imagine them carrying bombs or rifles. But they sure were carrying dangerous ideas around.

Still, Mac's men would be better employed against somebody who did look, smell, and act more like a terrorist.

While his men helped interrogate the people in the store front, Mac's mind wandered back over the few operations he'd led since taking over this team. He cringed upon remembering he'd have to write the report for the last operation.

Mac had been putting this off, because he didn't want to deal with it and wasn't sure how to spin it: The raid on the Tasper house in Texas had been carried out with clockwork precision—his experience as an operator had finely honed his ability to organize and lead such missions. Trouble was, the intelligence was faulty. After busting in the door at 0300, rounding up the family for questioning, and cracking the gun safe, they found nothing illegal. At least nothing currently illegal.

Mac's boss had offered to "season" the site. Plant evidence, in other words, so Mac would be credited with a good bust for his efforts, at least. This was something else that bothered him, but he'd give it more thought later when he'd dealt with other matters.

Other matters like one of his shooters: Samuels.

It was bad enough the operation was all for nothing, but Samuels had to stomp a baby kitten to death in the little girl's bedroom. The Tasper family was complaining about that to their representative more than about the damage to their house. How was he going to explain that incident in the report?

Mac's tablet beeped to warn him of an incoming file. He stepped outside through the back door to look it over.

Another Contingency Profile from Domestic Intel. He opened it and began reading about Gary Fram, whose profile raised just about every red flag there was to raise. Mac studied the satellite and street-level images of Fram's house. Within a few moments he had decided which SOP, with what modifications, would work best for a home raid. He'd drafted enough of these contingencies that he could get the basic plan spelled out succinctly, to be adjusted further in the future, according to situation, policy, or team assigned, if a raid was greenlighted. But before he finished drafting a contingency for the profile, his phone rang.

He recognized the incoming number as one of Jeffries'. "Yo, what's up DeAngelo?"

"What's goin' on, my brotha. Hey, I'm in the neighborhood, man. You wanna get some chicken wings?"

Mac checked the time. He hadn't eaten for quite a while and realized he was famished. "That sounds like a plan," he said. His team really didn't need his supervision to finish this data mining flunky work.

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THE LOCAL HOOTERS WAS packed every night, but at that time of day they had it mostly to themselves. Their redhead waitress was about a seven, but would probably only rank a five without the makeup, push-up bra and short shorts. They ordered beer and the hottest wings available.

"So how you settling in?" DeAngelo asked, dipping his first wing in dressing.

Mac nodded, tearing a hunk of meat off a wing with his teeth. After swallowing, he said, "I'm getting the hang of it."

"From what I hear, you've got the planning thing down," DeAngelo said.

It was good to know somebody appreciated Mac's ability. He wondered who DeAngelo knew in his chain of command to get this information, though.

"That's good," DeAngelo went on. "You gotta represent, Mac. You're the only brotha up in there. Make us look good and they may hire some more of us."

"How is it where you work?" Mac asked.

"A lot like major league baseball—it's mostly a white show, with a few of us token niggas so they can say they're not prejudiced."

"The few, the proud, the nappy," Mac remarked, and they both grinned around their spicy chicken meat.

The waitress came by to check on them and replenish their beer. Both men watched her little white booty as she walked away. Mac couldn't help wondering what she'd be like. He'd heard a lot of comments about how crazy redheads could be. Crazier than white chicks in general.

Mac sobered up quickly, though, when he remembered Samuels. "You ever had to deal with a shooter who pushed things just a bit too far?"

"What's up, man?" DeAngelo asked.

Mac told him about the kitten-stomping incident. DeAngelo listened, then shrugged.

"He's just being a white boy," DeAngelo said. "Half of them are psychopaths, man. If they weren't working for the government, they'd be serial killers or something. Did you hear what happened in Texas?"

Mac shook his head. He'd been too busy to check the news.

DeAngelo frowned, his eyes flashing something dangerous for an instant. "More white cops, man. Pulled this brotha over for nothin'. Drag this brotha out his car and beat him to death right there, man."

"What set them off?" Mac asked.

"Drivin' While Black," DeAngelo said, shrugging. "They're tryin' to say he didn't have insurance, and that he attacked them first. Six different cops, man. There's video going viral, though. He didn't try to defend himself until they started beatin' on him."

Mac immediately thought of Eric Garner and grew infuriated. "This is too much, man. How far are they gonna try to push us?"

DeAngelo shook his head slowly, with a hard scowl. "I'm tellin' you: local police are nearly as bad as the Constitutionalists. And state police ain't much better. All those good ol' boy networks, man. You'd think they'd be extinct by now, but they're gettin' even stronger. It's all gonna come to a bum rush one of these days."

Every time they talked, DeAngelo sounded a little more militant in his worldview, but that matched Mac's own evolving mindset. White people's media and entertainment might be getting ostensibly more sensitive and diversified all the time; but at the same time there were more and more bloggers, blog followers and social media participants sounding less sensitive and more separatist. Their boldness grew daily as they railed about the decline of western civilization. They called African-Americans "feral," referred to mixed relationships as "mudsharking," talked about Caucasian heritage like it was something to be proud of, and even used the phrase "white supremacy."

"You think it's any better at the federal level?" Mac asked.

DeAngelo swigged some beer down and made a face. "It's a white man's world over here. America is racist—no way around that."

Mac nodded. "I'm the Jackie Robinson where I am, seems like."

"Not even that, my brotha," DeAngelo said. "You're a Buck. I'm a Tom. At least that's how The Man sees us. They talk a lot of shit about equality and all that, but when it comes down to drawing lines, they'll side with their own. You and me are useful to them for now, but we'll just be another couple niggas to them eventually."

Mac licked buffalo sauce off his huge fingers, then stared at the texture of the skin on a drumstick while forming his words. "You hint around a lot that something big is coming down, racially. You know something I don't?"

DeAngelo sighed. "Off the record?"

Mac held his hands out and raised his eyebrows. "Just you and me talking, man."

"These cats like Sharpton and Jackson are a joke," DeAngelo said. "Nearly everybody knows it. They ain't done a damn thing for black folks, except make Whitey hate us even more. It's like two gangs getting ready to rumble out there, man. Actually more than that—the Spics already outnumber us, and it's gettin' worse every day. But imagine something like Baltimore or Ferguson, only nationwide, and our people actually throw down this time. Meanwhile, Whitey is thinkin' if he can't have us for slaves anymore, he should either kill us off or send us back to Africa."

"Race war," Mac said. "You think it's gonna come to that?"

"Oh, I know it is," DeAngelo replied, solemnly. "And like I said, we may not just be fightin' the whites. Might be a three-way fight with them and the Spics...or they may gang up on us. And that ain't even puttin' the Asians in the equation. You know there's never been any love lost between us and the Slopes, man. They'll most likely side with Whitey, too."

Mac let this sink in. It was a lot to process. He knew there would always be rednecks, and some degree of white privilege, but had always assumed life would continue on pretty much as it was. Or, if anything, get better. They had finally gotten one of their own people in the White House, after all. For two terms. But DeAngelo talked about a coming attempted genocide like it was a done deal.

"That's one thing makes working with the feds an advantage," DeAngelo said. "We'll be able to see it coming a lot farther off than those poor brothas in the hood."

"And then what?" Mac asked, the pitch of his voice raising.

"Again, off the record," DeAngelo said, locking eyes with Mac.

Mac nodded.

"Me and some other brothas been gettin' together. Nothin' official, and still we're careful about what we say and how we say it. But we all know there's a day comin' when we'll have to look out for each other, y'know? Mutual protection."

Yes, Mac decided, that was smart thinking. It wasn't just a good idea—if what DeAngelo said was true, it would prove to be a necessity.

"Hey, you know the circumstances we met under," DeAngelo said, shrugging. "Like it or not, I know all about your background. And because I know it, I know we could use a brotha like you, when it all goes down."

DeAngelo was inviting Mac into some kind of clandestine brotherhood within clandestine agencies. One that might make all the difference in the survival of their race in North America.

Mac had made friends in SF, in Delta and as a contractor. Some of those friends were black; some were other minorities; some were white. But he lost touch with most of them and gave up on the rest as politics became a more and more powerful influence in everyone's life. You just couldn't agree to disagree anymore.

In Iraq the man he trusted most was Leon Campbell. But Leon got out of the contracting biz, went back to the States and started a business with friends. Mac had other guys in SSI he got along with—some who he'd even dodged bullets and eaten dirt with. But none of them knew what it was like to be black. They never would—and probably didn't want to.

DeAngelo knew. And he was in touch with others who knew. There was power in that.

"Give me a holla next time y'all get together," Mac said.

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18

Y MINUS THREE

AMARILLO, TEXAS

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KEN FOWLER USED HIS lunch break to drive to the polls. He took his voter's guide inside with him, signed his name on the register, and stood in line.

He recognized a young woman as she left a booth and handed off her ballot and instructions. It was Mandy Albright, a pretty girl with an outgoing personality he dated for a while when she had first moved to town. Mandy had naturally curly blonde hair—just like the girl in the Charlie Brown comic strip. Ken nodded at her.

Her eyes flashed recognition and a big smile formed on her face. She stopped to chat, sharing that she was married now and it was so nice to see him and wasn't it just wonderful the country was finally moving forward and she was so proud of him for voting.

She bid him ta-ta and breezed away.

What an airhead, he thought. And naturally she assumed that he'd be voting the same ticket she obviously was.

A louder-than-normal buzz of conversation drew his attention. A group had entered behind him. There were about 15 of them, who were all short, dark, with straight black hair, and dressed much heavier than the weather justified. A poll worker gave them the instructions she gave everyone about how to use the ballot, and a well-dressed Latino translated the instructions into Spanish for his group.

Ken shook his head, suspecting exactly what was going on. This was one of those places that didn't check ID, so the usual suspects were taking advantage by shuttling illegal aliens in to cancel out opposition votes.

Then he noticed Willie-Mae Harris standing in line in front of him, with some other blacks. He would never forget her face, thanks to that confrontation outside her house. She didn't live in this district. She had no right to vote here. Since she didn't work, she was probably spending the entire day visiting the polls in different districts to cast multiple votes.

Ken's fists clenched of their own accord.

He knew it would do no good to point this out to anyone. He would just be called a racist and thrown out for causing a disturbance. Maybe arrested. Also, the Black Panthers and other black supremacy groups were out in force today (they had some of their members posted at certain poll stations armed with clubs to scare away anybody they believed would not vote correctly), and might even have somebody outside this station, ready to beat him if he made a fuss.

Ken took no comfort in the fact that Texas wasn't really a swing state. There was enough of this going on in swing states to steal the election once again anyway. Everyone knew about the massive voter fraud going on, but nobody with authority would admit to it. In fact, they obviously wanted it. That's why they fought so hard to make it possible.

Requiring people to show identification was racist, they said. Requiring I.D. wasn't racist for anything else; just for voting.

When it was his turn, Ken filled out and cast his ballot. He knew his vote had been illegally canceled out, and knew he could do nothing about it.

Outside, he sat in his work van and watched. After a while the illegal aliens emerged from the building, all piled into a passenger van, and their translator drove them away.

He drove to his next job angry and depressed.

Ken's experience in kindergarten wasn't his last unpleasant encounter with the “black community.” In elementary school some loudmouth picked a fight with him, but Ken was the only one to get in trouble. In junior high, three colored boys found out Ken had cash in his wallet. They waited for him after school and jumped him. In high school one of them stole his new pair of sneakers from the locker room. Another one, his junior year, cold-cocked him simply because they disagreed about something in Algebra Class.

Since then he generally avoided the black neighborhoods when his job didn't send him there. Violence didn't happen as often since his school years, but there was an attitude among most blacks that since he was white, he owed them. And violence was sometimes threatened when he didn't “lend” strangers money for beer or whatever. He got bum-rushed by five black dudes once because his refusal to “lend” money escalated into a pissing contest. He might have been badly beaten had a pickup truck full of rowdy white football players not swung around the corner onto the scene just as it was unfolding.

In the movies, on TV, and in their own minds, blacks were always the victims of whites. In his experience, it was the opposite.

You couldn't even point out election fraud for fear of being classified as a racist and ostracized.

Their entitlement just never ended. They were entitled to his money via theft, coercion or wealth redistribution. They were entitled to jobs he was more qualified for via Affirmative Action. They were entitled to scholarships and grants simply because of their race. They were entitled to the world's sympathy regardless of who was right or wrong in a given dispute. They were entitled to pronounce guilt on the people they hated. They were entitled to commit election fraud if they thought the end justified the means. Their politicians were entitled a free pass for incompetence, corruption and straight-up crime. They were entitled to media attack dogs, to smear any who dared criticize them. They were entitled to select what parts of history should be remembered, and how it should be skewed. They were entitled to select what statistics, incidents and anecdotes were valid to report, as well. And they were entitled to blame their own behavior and performance on the “racism” and “privilege” of everyone's favorite whipping-boy—the white heterosexual male.

Ken Fowler was done with it. He wasn't participating in the entitlement racket anymore, if he could help it. They would never get sympathy from him again. He would be on his guard around them at all times, and do whatever he could to protect himself and other white folks.

The black mindset was to always take the side of whoever looked most like themselves, regardless of the facts. It was time for white people to start looking out for their own, too.

19

D MINUS 50

COCCOCINO COUNTY, ARIZONA

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ROCCO CAVARRA HADN't done much swimming or diving since moving to Arizona. Each morning he did a few miles on the bike, though, because his knees and shins didn't very much like the jarring abuse of running, anymore. After the bike ride he would prepare and eat a big breakfast, which he'd gotten used to decades ago in the Navy.

Roberta came this way to visit him once in a while, but the visits were getting fewer and farther between. He hadn't heard from his ex-wife in many years, which was fine, but he didn't hear from his kids very often, either. His daughter Jasmine had visited when he first moved, but only once since then. He also no longer saw his old buddies. Were he a younger man, Cavarra would probably regret leaving California. But the economy and taxes there were making life less and less tenable. He could see that even his nice little suburb of San Diego was no longer very safe, and was only going to get worse.

Besides, life wasn't all lonely and quiet here. He had the business. Their age gap probably kept them from being super-tight, but Leon and Carlos were friends as well as business partners. They'd been through some stuff together and he trusted them. It didn't get much better than that these days.

Cavarra liked his eggs fried hard, along with hash browns, toast and a small cut of steak. He ate it right out of the frying pan to cut down on dirty dishes. As he ate, he checked his news feeds.

Topping everyone's list that morning was yet another police brutality story, this one from Amarillo, Texas. The news reports only gave the bare bones info: a black driver stopped by police and beaten for "resisting arrest." He later died of a brain hemorrhage or something everyone assumed was ultimately caused by a blow or blows to the head. Cavarra had quit paying attention to mainstream media long ago, and didn't even fully trust his alternative sources. So minimal details were okay, especially this soon after the incident.

But whereas the reports were bare bones so far, the people who commented shared all kind of details. Most of it was probably opinion, embellishment or rumors passed along via social networks but presented as suppressed facts. Cavarra read down through one of the comment threads just in case there was a kernel of truth to be gleaned. Of course plenty of commenters assumed that Delton Williams had been targeted because he was black; that officers used excessive force because he was black; and there would be no repercussions for the police because their victim was black.

Cavarra remembered back to Eric Garner and figured they were probably right about the cops getting away with it. It was just another symptom of the contempt the ruling class had for the citizenry. But rather than recognize the problem and direct their outrage at those responsible, citizens preferred to see each other as the enemy, based on racial and ethnic differences.

"Get over yourself and quit playing the victim," one person commented. "Not everything is an anti-black conspiracy."

Several people responded by calling the commenter "racist," "redneck," "inbred cracker" and similar euphemisms. Then others responded to those comments just as ignorantly, throwing around the N-word as well as "jungle bunny" and "coon." Cavarra chimed in to attempt reasonable discussion, but was ignored and drowned out in the racist flame war that ensued.

That's what happened pretty much every time he appealed to reason in these matters. People weren't interested in reason. At least most didn't seem to be.

Cavarra realized, with great irritation and a deep sadness, that if all the people in the comment thread were physically gathered at a single location somewhere, they would be throwing punches instead of insults, and the violence would probably escalate to fatal.

He could excuse the irrational anger for somebody who personally knew Delton Williams and cared about him. But for these other dirtbags he was just a symbol—an excuse to unleash the ignorance and hatred they'd been carrying around locked and loaded for just such an occasion.

And another aspect of this bothered him.

For decades now blacks had gotten away with (in fact, were pretty much encouraged to harbor) a blatantly ethnocentric worldview. They looked at everything through a racial lens, and got a pass for their racist attitudes toward whites and others. They enjoyed Sacrosanct Victim Status by virtue of simply being born. And because they were Sacrosanct Victims, their own racism and bigotry was never recognized as racism and bigotry.

It wasn't just blacks, of course. Women and other minorities also got awarded Sacrosanct Victim Status at birth. There were scholarships, institutionalized hiring practices, de facto public relations programs in Hollywood and the press, and armies of activists waiting to rush to the defense of anybody who suffered an inconvenience. Anybody except a white male heterosexual, who was forever barred entry into the Sacrosanct Victim Club.

For the offense of being born.

For decades, white men (those without the correct political affiliation, anyway) walked on eggshells for fear of offending somebody, and dared not make too big an issue when they were victimized because it ran counter to the overall Sacrosanct Victim Narrative.

But now that was changing. White men were growing openly contemptuous of everyone who habitually played the victim card...and those who maybe were innocent but still shared the genetic traits of the "social justice warriors" who did play the victim. Cavarra wouldn't be surprised if some men started wearing shirts with "You wouldn't understand—it's a white thang" logos, or maps of Europe on their sweaters. More and more white men were speaking and behaving like the bigots they'd been accused of being all along.

That's what bothered him most. That meant it was officially hopeless.

And in another self-fulfilling prophecy, the G.O.P. was becoming the white people's party. It sure wasn't the "right-wing" party, at least by any accurate, objective definition. Republicans differed from the Democrats only by degrees; certainly not in principle.

Cavarra had never seen the country so racially polarized. Up until recently he'd assumed racial differences would decline in importance as time went on, until they were no longer a concern to most people. But there was a motivated subculture in government and media determined not to let that happen, and they were winning the struggle. When former egalitarians descended into tribalism, the prospects were grim.

Then, of course, there were card-carrying white supremacists coming out of the closet now, like the dirtbag who showed up at the office the other day.

And where would Cavarra be, if worse came to worst? Blacks considered him white; Hispanics considered him Gringo; and tribal whites would probably decide he was too swarthy to be racially "pure." He'd suffered his share of prejudice as a young man. He had worked hard to neutralize the heavy Sicilian accent passed down from his grandparents because he tired of having people assume him stupid due to his speech.

Cavarra tuned to one of his pre-programmed satellite stations on the drive to work. He cranked the volume when the virtual DJ played the Rolling Stones' "Gimme Shelter."

War, children...

It's just a shot away

It's just a shot away...

After singing along with the chorus for the third time, he couldn't help wondering if the song was an omen.

Cavarra and Leon arrived at the office at the same time. Carlos was already there.

They got started the usual way: jokes and insults over coffee. But everyone had heard about the killing in Amarillo by now, and it didn't take long for the conversation to go there.

"You think there'll be riots?" Carlos asked.

Rocco nodded. "I'm kinda' worried it might be worse than that this time."

Both younger men gave Cavarra their attention.

"Just seems to me it's all at the boiling point," Rocco said, shrugging. "On the one side you've got agitators screaming 'America is racist' and that the Man is out to get black folks. Not only are people in the hood listening, but they've seen cops kill one too many of their own. Not just in Amarillo, but all over. And of course they've been programmed to classify the incidents like Michael Brown and Freddie Gray as more crimes against Africa. Some of them have actually assassinated police as an attempt at social justice. Then on the other side you've got these Hitler Youth cops...and judges who agree with them...who think their badge puts them above the law and that they are basically occupation troops inside an enemy nation. They're just itching to taze or beat or shoot somebody. Now they've got armored vehicles and combat gear..."

"C'mon, Rocco," Leon interrupted. "You make it sound like racism is just a figment of our imagination. And 'crimes against Africa'—what's that supposed to mean?"

"That's how they think; not how I do," Cavarra said. "I have no doubt there are plenty of racist cops. And racist judges and district attorneys and police commissioners. But not everybody with this police state mentality are white, are they? So you've got consistent behavior but inconsistent racial composition. That right there busts the myth that the core motive for their fascist behavior is racial."

"People of color don't see it that way," Leon said.

"Right," Cavarra said. "That's why I'm worried we're at the tipping point."

"Wait 'til Sharpton and Jackson and those guys get out there and start drumming," Carlos said. "Like stirring nitroglycerin"

Leon had to roll his eyes and groan upon hearing those names.

"Even when they've been provoked," Rocco said, "a peaceable population won't normally strike back without people mixed in who aren't afraid to use violence. But we've got plenty individuals who are comfortable using violence in the inner cities, don't we? And I'm worried they're not going to be content smashing a few windows and stealing a few TV sets this time."

“I'm glad I don't live in the big city,” Carlos said.

“I'll tell you something else,” Cavarra added. “When you look at those videos from, say, Baltimore...blacks attacking whites, but the whites won't fight back...”

“One dude did,” Carlos pointed out. “They hit his girlfriend with a trash can, so he went out to throw down with the guy who did it...and like a dozen black dudes all jumped on him, man.”

“But none of the white guys went to help him out, did they?” Cavarra asked. “They just wouldn't fight back.”

“It's a solidarity thing, I guess,” Carlos said. “White boys don't have it.”

“Right,” Cavarra said. “But what happens when that changes? What happens when a mob attacks some white person, and a whole bunch of white people decide that an attack on one is an attack on all? What happens when they start fighting back?”

“A race war,” Carlos said, “no?”

“Look at it this way,” Rocco advised. “When was it...2009? Anyway, the Fraud-in-Chief warned us he was gonna build a 'civilian' army more powerful than our military. So now we've got all these militarized police with armor, helmets, assault rifles, grenade launchers, armored vehicles, and the DHS by itself has what—maybe 100 rounds of jacketed hollow point for every human being in North America?”

“That's just the .40 caliber,” Leon said.

“Right,” Cavarra agreed. “So here's this huge solution looking for a problem. Along comes Ferguson; then Baltimore; now Amarillo. Ta-da! And in this corner, may I introduce...the problem!”

Leon looked as though he wanted to say something, but car doors slamming outside alerted them that their first customers of the day had arrived.

In mid-afternoon a green Corvette pulled into the parking lot. The exhaust noise was very loud—though all three partners were at different parts of the property, they all noticed the strange, lumpy sound of the engine. When the driver tapped the gas pedal at one point, it snarled like some kind of doomsday machine.

Carlos, who owned an old Camaro and knew something about cars, left his customer and walked over to investigate. Noticing this through the window, Cavarra left the counter and went outside.

As he drew close to the 'Vette, he recognized the young man now out of the car talking to Carlos. It was Takoda Scarred Wolf. He'd met him at Tommy's victory party.

Cavarra knew Tommy's oldest son Gunther, and liked him. Takoda, however, struck him as a troublemaker.

Carlos nodded toward Cavarra and bumped fists with Takoda. "Rocco can hook you up. I gotta get back to my customer."

Takoda nodded and turned to regard Cavarra.

The young man was built like his father and brothers—all lean, ropy muscle with veins bulging through his red-brown skin. His face seemed locked into a permanent fierce scowl. He looked the caricature of an Indian warrior, only missing the feathered war bonnet and tomahawk.

Cavarra offered his hand and Takoda shook it with crushing strength.

"What brings you to Arizona?" Cavarra asked.

"This place," the young man answered. "Carlos gave me a business card back at the victory party."

"And you kept it all this time, huh?"

Takoda shrugged. "I wanted to come try it out. I have a couple days off. Figured now would be good."

"Okay," Cavarra said. "Let me show you around."

Cavarra gave him the tour. Takoda showed a keen interest in the urban target course they called "the Wild West Shootout." Rocco advised him it would be better to start out on the Jungle Walk and work his way up to the Shootout, but Takoda knew what he wanted. Rocco got on the radio and advised that whoever got freed up first should go over the targets real quick. That turned out to be Leon.

Takoda filled out the paperwork while Leon inspected the course. Cavarra advised him to run through it with a pistol, but Takoda insisted on using his AK.

The frontier-style facade buildings in the Shootout course not only made it popular for cowboy action shooters, but more serious-minded customers loved it as well, because the pop-up and moving targets presented a tremendous challenge, even painted to resemble Old West bad men.

Nobody at CBC Southwest Tactical freaked out when customers came geared up with military style weapons, as a lot of them did. And no records were kept of who brought what.

By the time Leon was done with his inspection, Carlos was freed up to give Takoda the safety briefing. When he was ready, Carlos hit the start switch.

Takoda was like a machine, running, crouching, dropping, crawling, rolling, taking a knee, running again, and using what cover/concealment was available as he moved. He missed a lot of targets, as everyone did (especially their first couple times through), but he fired at least once at every target. Including targets that most people never saw their first time through. And he kept his weapon pointed either downrange or straight up, without being reminded. He finished with a really good time, but cussed at himself when Carlos calculated the hit ratio afterwards.

"Relax," Carlos said. "You did really good for your first time through. And with a rifle, no less. Most people don't get a shot off on some of those targets, even with a pistol."

"How much to go through again?" Takoda asked.

Not everybody was willing to pony up the dough for the Wild West Shootout, but those who did almost always got hooked. Rocco gave discounts for multiple runs through the course, which encouraged repeat sales. So it was a big money maker—not even counting the ammunition sales it generated.

Carlos was surprised how much Takoda improved his second time through, even though some of the moving targets tracked the opposite direction on subsequent runs, to keep shooters on their toes. When the sequence finished, and they removed their shooting muffs, Carlos said, "You handle that rifle pretty well. You got experience from somewhere?"

"I plink around a lot," was all Takoda said.

He went through a third time, and his hit ratio was now impressive. Some recently-arrived customers had gathered to watch behind the Safe Line, and appeared intrigued.

Carlos congratulated him afterwards, but Takoda wasn't happy with his performance.

"No, trust me," Carlos said, "you tore it up. That was truth."

"I still missed targets," Takoda grumbled.

"Everybody does. Even the best shooters to run this course."

"Who is best?" Takoda asked.

Carlos sighed. "Leon's got the best score. It's like 74% hits." It was irritating to admit this, since Leon was a sniper, and wouldn't normally be expected to be so accurate with snap shots. But Carlos' best score so far was 69% and Rocco's was 66%.

"I can't afford another run today," Takoda said, grudgingly. "But I'll be back."

"Long way from home, aren't you?" Carlos asked.

Takoda shrugged and chinned toward his Corvette. "Not in that. It's nice to take her out on a long stretch of open road once in a while."

"My Camaro's set up more for quarter mile," Carlos said.

They talked cars for a while—a little about gear ratios, horsepower and top end—before Takoda spotted Leon over at the 1,000 meter range. "Excuse me," he said.

Carlos waved the paperwork in the air. "Just stop by the front counter and settle up when you're done."

"How'd he do?" Rocco asked, once Carlos joined him behind the counter.

"He's legit. It's almost scary."

"Guess the apple doesn't fall that far from the tree," Rocco said. "At least in physical abilities, huh?"

"That whole family is the truth. But I got the impression that this one spends most of his time trying to give Tommy an ulcer," Carlos said.

"Yeah, me too." Cavarra shook his head, grinning. "Well, if you want to watch the counter for a while, I can go patch up the targets."

"Sounds good, Rocco. Stretch your legs."

Cavarra pushed out the door and nearly ran into a trio of men headed the opposite way. After perfunctory apologies all around, the stocky man in front stuck out his hand.

"Howdy. Gary Fram. These two are with me."

Cavarra shook the offered hand and nodded at the others.

"We came here to try out the Jungle Walk and to dope in one of our big caliber rifles," Fram said. "We heard about this place on the Web. But we just watched your Western Shootout deal, and might want to try that while we're here."

The "Jungle Walk" was down by the arroyo. An arroyo was like a dried riverbed (in the Middle East these were called "wadis") which moved a lot of water during flash floods, but was usually dry. But there was enough moisture lingering under the surface at this one that quite a few juniper trees grew nearby. Cavarra and his partners had planted extra trees in between the junipers to make it seem more like a forest. It didn't look like a jungle by any stretch of the imagination, even using old black & white Tarzan movie standards, but there was enough foliage to hide targets in.

Cavarra gave Fram his friendly businessman smile and thumbed over his shoulder toward the office building he just left. "If you go in there and talk to Carlos at the counter, he can hook you up."

Cavarra made to resume his trek, but Fram followed up quickly with a question.

"Is he the one to talk to about possible discount bulk rates, if we bring a group here?"

Stopping in his tracks, Cavarra asked, "A group? Like how many?"

Fram exchanged glances with his friends and said, "About 20, right? Yeah, probably about 20 of us."

Before Cavarra could answer, everyone noticed Leon and Takoda approaching with an old ammo box full of spent brass.

"It's a lot like the difference between the UFC and the NFL," Leon was saying. "Combat is a team sport. You may miss everything you shoot at. The man left and right of you may miss, too. But as long as you helped your unit take the objective, then you won. Maybe all you did was hold the line; cover for your buddies. But the enemy retreated 'cause they was afraid if you get close enough, you'll stop missin'. See, you can talk all day about air strikes and force multipliers and laser-guided ordnance or whatever, but even with all these science fiction gizmos we got, winnin' a war still means you gotta take and hold key terrain and resources. Only infantry can do that. So as long as there's war, there'll always be infantry."

Leon and Takoda arrived at the spot where everyone was standing outside the door, and noticed they were the focus of everyone's attention.

"What?" Leon asked, then handed the ammo box to Takoda and raised his own hands as if submitting to a search. "No brass, no ammo, sir."

Cavarra grinned, blinked his eyes, shook his head and turned back to his customer. "Come on inside, Gary, and we'll see what we can work out."

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20

D MINUS 50

COCCOCINO COUNTY, ARIZONA

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IT WOUND UP BEING A good day at work, even though Leon felt like a dark cloud was lurking on the horizon, waiting to move in. On his drive home, he thought about what happened in Amarillo, and what Rocco said that morning.

Leon had checked his news feeds and social networks over lunch. Relatives in the hood, and acquaintances of theirs, were making remarks about killing cops; killing whites in general; and burning Amarillo to the ground. And pictures were being uploaded which made Amarillo look like Damascus—platoons of police in body armor and Kevlar helmets packing carbines, tear gas and flash-bangs, backed up by MRAP armored vehicles. It all looked to be going down just how Rocco predicted.

FLAGSTAFF, ARIZONA

Leon came to where the road was blocked for construction. Of course one of the few streets that was in good shape and needed no repair was the street being torn up. He shook his head and followed the arrow on the “DETOUR” sign. Anticipaing a right turn at the end of the detour, he drove in the right lane. He approached an intersection with a small side street, following a tractor-trailer. When the tractor-trailer pulled far enough ahead, he saw faded paint on the asphalt indicating he was on a right-turn-only lane.

Unlike 90% of drivers on the road, Leon actually checked his mirrors before changing lanes. When he did so, he saw other cars behind him swerving into the middle lane and accelerating. After each one got past him, he intended to change lanes, but before he could, another car would dart out and pull abreast. He was worried he'd be forced to turn onto the side street, but finally got an opening and whipped out into the middle lane just before he had to stop for the light.

A car pulled up beside him in the far left lane.

“Hey!”

Leon turned toward whoever was yelling at him. A white couple sat in the front seats of a little Nissan. The young man behind the wheel was glaring at him. “Yeah you, monkey-man! Learn to drive, boy!”

“Up yours, redneck,” Leon replied.

“What?!?” The redneck's face contorted in rage. “Up yers? Up yers? Boy, I'll kick yer black a-yass!”

“You're welcome to try,” Leon said.

“What!?!”

“You got a hearin' problem?” Leon asked, “or you just don't savvy English?”

The redneck was bent down and leaned over the young woman's lap to get a good look through his passenger window at Leon and his truck. “Stupid coon, yer lucky Ah got mah baby here in the car, or Ah'd put yer black a-yass in the hospital!”

“I guess one of us is lucky, anyway,” Leon said.

The light turned green. The far left lane moved faster, and the redneck sped ahead, calling Leon everything except a human being.

The more Leon thought about the loudmouth jerk, the angrier he got.

Less than a block later, the redneck got stuck behind somebody stopped to make a left turn. Leon stared at the ignorant slab of meat in the Nissan as he passed, muttering under his breath.

When the detour required him to finally make the right turn, Leon slowed and waited for the vehicles in front of him. Cars buzzed by on the left.

Something flew in his window and hit the inside of the passenger door with a violent thud. The first thought that occurred to Leon was, “Grenade!” He swerved, looking for the projectile, ready to throw his door open and dive out before it exploded.

Then he saw it was a ¾ full bottle of Mountain Dew.

Leon's gaze swung back to the left lane and he saw the Nissan speeding away, the driver flipping him the bird as he went.

In his younger days, Leon probably would have chased the redneck down and found out if he was as bad as he thought he was. But he let it go, cranking his music to calm him down.

His old compilation CD came to his only Kanye West track: "Jesus Walks."

I need to recruit all the soldiers,

All of God's soldiers...

We at war.

We at war with society, racism, terrorism,

But most of all, we at war with ourselves.

Leon appreciated the commentary.

Police were getting ready to rumble. Hood rats were getting ready to rumble. Rednecks were out for blood. And then those dudes showed up at the office, planning to bring a group numbering 20 or more to run through the combat courses? It didn't take Sherlock Holmes to guess what was on their mind, either.

Even the Indians were convinced a fight was coming, if the Scarred Wolf kid's appearance that day was any indication. But who were they planning to fight? If they took their marching orders from television and professional victims, as most minorities generally did, they'd side with the government. But Native Americans, more than anyone else, had powerful reasons to distrust the government. And the cops were the enforcement arm of government—the same cops who were out to get minorities. But Tommy himself was a cop. It was all hopelessly muddled.

Besides, Tommy Scarred Wolf was cut from a different cloth. He didn't have a victim mentality and preferred to think for himself. His son Takoda was already skilled before he stepped on the shooting range that day. It had to be because Tommy had trained his sons. If he also believed a fight was coming, which side would he be on?

Or was Leon reading too much into the day's events? He'd grown to be fairly paranoid over the last quarter century.

But then paranoia had kept him alive and healthy for that quarter century.

Leon parked in his driveway and hid his sidearm in his fag bag before unassing the truck. Scarcely had the engine even shut off when the doggie door pushed open and Shotgun came running out to greet him, her tail wagging to beat the band.

He squatted to pet her. "How's my four-legged home security system today, huh?" She licked him but he kept their affectionate greeting short and regained his feet. She'd been a working dog in Iraq when he was a contractor and he still felt a compulsion to keep her sharp, not letting her get too comfortable in this lax civilian life. In fact, he should bring her with him to work so she'd stay familiar with the racket of small arms fire, but he felt his home was more secure with her here while he was gone.

His one-story house on ten acres was paid for with cash from what he'd managed to save working as a contractor in the Sandbox. And looking back, he'd got out of that business at pretty much the right time. The situation over there went from bad to worse; and just when it seemed impossible for it to get even worse still, it did. A whole lot of blood and money wasted, was how Leon looked at the Iraq occupation.

But Washington was always looking for ways to waste even more blood and money.

Leon shook the thoughts loose and unlocked the front door. Shotgun entered before he did—an ingrained habit from Iraq, to ensure there were no booby traps awaiting him.

Once inside, he heard the TV from his bedroom. Funny—he hadn't watched it for a few days, he thought, and went to investigate, pulling the pistol back out of his fag bag even though Shotgun was calm.

"Oh, hell no," he exclaimed, after opening the bedroom door.

Lachelle was still where he left her that morning, only wide awake, with dirty dishes beside her on the bed and an open bag of tortilla chips. Some talk show emanated stupidity from the TV.

"What happened to you leavin' after your shower?" Leon demanded, feeling stupid. She could have robbed him blind because he'd been trusting enough to leave before she did.

She stretched and said, "Damn, don't shoot, Negro. Hello to you too."

Lachelle was a bootylicious ghetto princess who got over like rover in every respect. Even all the junk food she consumed went to just the right places, and her skin was as healthy as could be.

"Where is your car, woman?"

"It's my cousin's car," she explained. "He came and picked it up"

"But he didn't pick you up with it? And why you invitin' strangers over to my house?"

"He only saw the driveway. Why you gotta sweat a sista?"

"What happened to the job applications you was gonna put in today?" he asked, holstering his pistol.

"I didn't feel like it," she said, with an irritated tone, eyes going back to the TV. "I'll go tomorrow."

She had never worked a day in her life, and probably never would, he guessed, even if the economy weren't such a wreck.

"You should at least be helpin' your mama 'round the house, then."

"Damn, you sound just like her," she complained. "Who are you—Judge Judy?"

"Get outa' my bed," Leon said, turning the TV off. "Clean up them dishes and get out. No, I take it back: I'll clean up your mess; you just get out."

Shotgun sat watching the scene unfold, gaze shifting back and forth as if watching a tennis match.

Lachelle must have sensed Leon was serious, because her demeanor sweetened for a moment. "What's the matter, baby? You don't like havin' me around? You sure liked havin' me here last night."

Despite her perfect body, she wasn't all that great in bed. Like everything else in life, she was accustomed to others bothering to put in all the effort and learning to perform well.

In the back of his mind Leon knew what she was about when Lachelle made a comment about how his truck was almost 10 years old.

She had no concept of earning anything and automatically expected to receive the best anyone had to offer just because that's what she was used to.

"Guess I was temporarily insane." He gathered up the dishes and bag of chips, set them aside and yanked the covers off her. Maybe he shouldn't have done that, because she wore nothing but her underwear, and the sight of her body made it difficult to keep a clear head about all this.

But no worries—she quickly broke her own spell by copping a blackitude. She angrily jerked off the bed, shot to her feet, stuck her finger in his face and went into that Egyptian side-to-side head-shifting movement women practiced so much in the 'hood. "Nigga, I don't know who you think you're dealin' with; but don't you evah..."

He clamped one hand on her shoulder, turned her around until she was pointed at where her clothes lay, and swatted her on the (magnificent, he had to admit) booty. "Get dressed. You got five minutes."

She spun back around, livid. "Now I know you didn't just lay hands on me, nigga!"

Shotgun, now standing next to them, wagged her tail tentatively but growled low and quiet at Lachelle.

"Four minutes and 45 seconds," Leon said. "Your clothes are right there. Make sure you take your drama with you, too."

"Drama? You wanna see drama? I got about 40 niggas who'd come put a cap in yo' ass if I axe 'em to."

Whatever insanity she may have been capable of, she was obviously leery of the growling German Shepherd. She kept a wary eye on Shotgun even as she talked trash.

"Four minutes," Leon said.

She began dressing, but paused to rest hand on hip and challenge: "Whatcha gonna do, huh? Whatcha gonna do afta fo' minutes?"

Shotgun growled a little louder. "Three minutes 50 seconds," Leon said.

Lachelle made a clucking sound and turned back to dressing with a look of toxic hatred.

Leon escorted her out the front door. She stomped toward his truck, but when she realized he had turned back, she stopped and whirled. "Where the hell you goin'? How'm I opposed to get back home?"

"Call your cousin," Leon replied, "or take the bus."

Her nostrils flared with rage and she stalked toward him shrieking obscenities, but Shotgun's growl got loud quickly. The Shepherd bared her fangs and advanced toward the charging woman, barking and snarling. The fear was obvious in Lachelle's body language as she stopped in her tracks.

"You a punk, Leon! You bettah hide behind a dog, 'cause I'll jack yo' ass up!"

If Shotgun wasn't here and Lachelle did take a swing at him, he knew which side the cops would take on a domestic violence call. Getting a dog had been one of the best decisions he'd ever made.

"I don't need another bitch to lay around my house all day," Leon said, gesturing toward Shotgun. "At least this one is willin' to work for a livin'. And she don't make a mess inside."

Lachelle screamed a few really nasty accusations, but stomped away down the drive, stabbing buttons on her cell phone.

"Bus stop is that way," Leon called after her, pointing.

She seemed to be resigned to leaving with no further drama, so Leon and Shotgun returned to the house.

"Next," Leon muttered.

He cleaned up his bedroom and washed dishes before he forgot, and gave Shotgun a few treats before settling in for the night.

Leon grew restless on Saturday.

Something was off. Something was missing.

He enjoyed peace and quiet. He thought once he became a civilian again and got a healthy dose of solitude on a regular basis, the emptiness would go away. Instead, the solitude just helped him notice the empty spot more.

It wasn't lonliness—he enjoyed good friendships during his military and paramilitary careers, and he still had a couple now. Girls didn't fill the empty spot, either. He even thought he was in love once...but the ache was always there underneath.

Alcohol didn't fill the hole—and he certainly had tried that back in his younger days, as a paratrooper. He didn't believe drugs would be any more effective.

So as Sunday got closer, he thought more and more about giving church another try. When some smiling strangers rang his doorbell and invited him to attend their worship service, he took that as a sign.

Maybe God forgave him for all the work Leon had done with a sniper rifle over the years, and this was a message.

He dressed up Sunday morning and drove to the 'hood. Leon didn't want to go to the church he'd been invited to, even though it was right around the corner. The redneck in the Nissan had reminded him about skin color again, and he didn't want to be the only black face there.

Leon had gone to a few different black churches in town, previously. Although he enjoyed the music, everything else was playing to emotions; repeating catchphrases and street slang to make the amen corners laugh and affirm; and faking “spiritual gifts.” Black church was mostly tribal entertainment, and a fashion show.

On that morning Leon steered toward the one church that stood out as exceptional. The preacher and congregation struck him as more intelligent, and even humble. The music was still good, but there were no theatrics or pretentious oratory.

A few people recognized him and welcomed him back. There were some fine sitstas in attendance, too, but Leon tried to concentrate on the message.

The preacher taught from Genesis, on Cain and Abel—the first murder in human history. Of course this brought up Leon's old conundrum about killing vs. murder, and if a sniper was anything more than an assassin in uniform.

Then the preacher went off on a tagent about the “Black Lives Matter” meme.

“Sure, maybe slavery was commonplace in the 1800s,” the preacher said. “But I don't think God is up there saying, 'well, it wasn't as big an affront to my people's dignity, since everybody was doing it back then. Now I'd have a problem with it, but back then, it wasn't as big a deal'.”

The amen corner all voiced their approval for this line of reasoning.

When service was over, the preacher made a point of engaging Leon on the way out. He was friendly and seemed sincere, asking where he lived and where he was from and the usual polite questions. Then, after the preacher shifted to gladhanding the next person in line, one of the deacons went through almost the same routine with Leon, and asked what he thought of the sermon.

“I was curious why he fit that little part about slavery in there,” Leon replied.

The preacher overheard and responded to the question. “Some of the white pastors I know tend to lean conservative, and more than one of them has tried to say we have to put slavery in context.”

Leon turned from the deacon back to the preacher. “How does that come up in conversation?”

The preacher shrugged, smiling. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” Leon explained, gesturing toward the members of the congregation nearby. “When I hear it come up in conversation, it's usually because some black church person says America is racist, or America couldn't ever have been a Christian country...because slavery.”

Other people lollygagged to listen in. The preacher laughed nervously and shrugged again. “Well, if the shoe fits...”

Others chuckled. Some said, “That's right,” and, “I know that's right.”

Leon nodded. “So then the other person would probably say, 'compared to what country?' That's where the context comes in, sir.”

Some of the congregants sneered at Leon like he'd just blasphemed. One of them said, “Yeah, and then they try to defend America by comparin' it to other countries.”

“That's right.”

“I know that's right.”

“Well, when you try to make America resemble other countries,” Leon said, “ain't it only fair that they compare it to those countries?”

Attitudes changed rather quickly, from polite hospitality for a visitor, to hostility toward an Uncle Tom. Body language, facial expressions and tones of voice all reflected this as the crowd in the foyer reacted to Leon's question—some verbally; some non-verbally.

“Hey, in case y'all missed it,” Leon said, “the U.S.A. fought a war to end slavery. Slavery lasted about 80 years over here. Wanna compare that to how long it lasted anywhere else, includin' Africa? And take a guess who sold our African ancestors to the Europeans in the first place? Other black folks.”

“Sounds like you get your information from the same source the white pastors do,” the preacher said, smugly.

“That's right!”

“I know that's right!”

“You ain't nevah lie.”

“Well what does your history book say?” Leon asked, and pushed his way outside.

Yeah: black lives matter, Leon thought. But are we the only ones? Do Arab lives matter? Do Chinese lives matter?

He stuck his hands in his pockets as he walked to his truck.

They were so convinced slavery was the single most horrific phenomenon in world history...what about the slavery still going on around the world? Leon would bet everybody in that church bought clothes, and shoes, and electronics that were made by slave labor, without a second thought. They didn't even bother to look at the labels to see where it was made.

At Wal-Mart and most other stores it was nearly impossible to buy anything not manufactured by slave labor. Where was the outrage about that? People had it better in America than they could have it anywhere in the world, but all that mattered to them was what happened to black folks in the southern states from 1787 to 1865.

He climbed in his truck and tossed his Bible on the passenger seat.

Probably none of those people had ever set foot in a socialist or Muslim country, and had no clue what it was like to live under such a regime. But they were hell-bent on “fundamentally transforming” America into one of those hellholes.

How was it they went to church more than him, but he know the Ten Commandments better than they did? The first one they needed schooling on was: “thou shalt not covet.” The Democratic Party would fall apart overnight if people obeyed that one. But all they could think about was how much they wanted to get in Whitey's wallet; how they wanted to shake down the One-Percenters.

“I'm oppressed. Buy me more stuff,” he mocked, aloud, starting the engine.

The First Commandment, forbidding idolatry? They put their own blackness before God 24/7. The Commandment not to murder? They broke that one against their own children, except when they used them to get more entitlement money. “Thou shalt not steal?” Well, technically they got the government to do the stealing for them—so that made it okay. “Thou shalt not bear false witness?” Ferguson showed how seriously they took that one, didn't it? Religious blacks all over showed themselves to be just as dishonest as the “eye witnesses” to the Michael Brown shooting. They claimed to have seen pictures and video clips that didn't exist, and lied about what was on video that did exist, all to push a narrative that made America sound like South Africa during Apartheid.

Leon drove away shaking his head. He hadn't meant to cause a scene. But he thought he had finally found some folks who were different. Then they went pushing his buttons like all the rest.

There was so much more he should have said, and what he did say could have been said better. But ultimately it would have made no difference. Like Josh Rennenkampf once told him: there were certain people whose minds could never be changed by giving them information.

How could America survive, when so many wanted it destroyed, and so few wanted it preserved?

Once back home, Leon checked his news feeds again. The professional race-baiters were already in Amarillo stirring things up, and wild exaggerations were flying. According to one Facebook meme, when Delton Williams was pulled over, he asked the reason for the stop and was told, "We don't want your kind in our city."

Shades of Ferguson. It only served to desensitize average people to fiascoes like what happened in New York City around the same time, and Baltimore later on. Leon had watched the video and, so far as he was concerned, Eric Garner had been murdered by those cops for no reason. But they got away with it because they had badges and Garner didn't.

During that same time a story circulated about a representative from Timberland Boots insulting his black customers at a press conference. It was being passed around as legitimate news, but just sounded too over-the-top to Leon—especially the part about the boots being designed so men could walk from the construction site to the local Klan meeting. Family members and other black folks he knew called Leon naive and gullible for finding the story suspicious.

After a little bit of research online he discovered that the story was, indeed, a hoax. But none of his outraged acquaintances would believe him—even the ones who were intelligent when it came to other matters. He'd mulled the whole experience over since then. What it came down to was that most African-Americans just desperately wanted to believe everything that reinforced their victim mindset, and reject anything that didn't. No matter what.

Leon might have turned out the same way, but during his military career he had developed a different outlook. Sure, there were brothas who retained their ethnocentric worldview throughout their military service, but Leon had found that judging men by their character was more conducive to wise decision-making. Who would prove trustworthy when it counted most couldn't be determined by looking at skin color. Hadn't Martin Luther King himself said something to that effect?

Since leaving Fort Benning, there were times when Leon honestly didn't notice what color other people were. Well, he noticed, the same way you might notice somebody is bowlegged or has a tattoo.

It was others who forced him to start noticing again. When ignorant whites uttered racial slurs, it was hard not to notice. When welfare recipients and beneficiaries of race-based scholarships and hiring practices obsessed about how Whitey oppressed them, it was hard not to notice. When he was expected to support Obama because of his color, it was hard not to notice. Nearly all the brothas jumped on the big “O” bandwagon, for that reason alone.

It all made it really hard not to notice color.

When Leon first got back to the World, he experienced some of the normal stuff—white women clutching their purses tighter when he got too close; subdued hostility in looks and under-the-breath comments from rednecks; store clerks assuming him ignorant when they tried to explain something to him.

When dirtbags like the guy in the Nissan tried to bean him with a bottle, it was hard not to notice color.

And then there were people like Lachelle—a living stereotype of the lazy, good-for-nothing welfare princess. Well, she was useful for one thing. But that made the stereotype even uglier. Leon cringed, imagining the redneck in the Nissan pointing to her and saying, "See, Ah toljah how them thar negras act!"

The sad part was, Lachelle was far from unique. Flagstaff wasn't big enough to have much of a ghetto, like Valdosta or Atlanta. And yet folks like Lachelle caught the ghetto mindset seemingly by osmosis. Then there were the folks in church, who had the same exact mentality as the punks on the street...except they didn't cuss.

So if Rocco was right, America might fall apart from within for a number of reasons—one of them being racial animosity.

Where did Leon fit in the scheme of things? He sure wasn't on the side of the government and their badge-wearing gangsters. He kind of sympathized with the men who stood up to the government at Garber Ranch, and the Bundy Ranch before it. But those kind of people were almost all white—and all racists according to the media. Would such people even accept him? Could he ever trust them or feel comfortable if they did? Or was the only option for someone of his color to stick with his own—even though he didn't trust most of "his own" as far as he could throw them?

The most tempting answer was to just leave the country and watch it tear itself apart from afar. But the looming oppression (the real kind, this time) coming to the United States was status quo everywhere else. And America didn't have a monopoly on racial strife, either, as the professional victims would find out when they got what they were pushing for.

When America bit the dust, there would be no place to go.

God show me the way, because the devil tryin’ to break me down.

The only thing that I pray is that my feet don’t fail me now.

And I don’t think...there’s nothin’ I can do now to right my wrongs.

I wanna talk to God, but I’m afraid ‘cause we ain’t spoke in so long.

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21

Y MINUS ONE

AMARILLO, TEXAS

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ARDEN THATCHER ONLY knew his contact by the first name: Ted. He had never met the other guy with Ted today, but the guy carried himself like he had a lot of authority.

Arden met them at a doctor's office right beside a one of those pre-employment drug test labs, in a strip mall. He'd been in here once before, but never seen a doctor or nurse.

Ted said nothing when he saw Arden. He rose from behind the counter, opened the door on the side and waved him in.

Arden followed him down the hall past a couple exam rooms to a sort of small conference room with a table, chairs and not much else. He took a chair. Ted and the overweight old balding guy sat opposite him.

Arden fished out his lighter and pack of cigarettes, putting one between his lips. "You guys been spendin' a lot of time in Armadillo lately." He laughed to himself. "Y'all call this town Amarillo, but to me it's Armadillo."

"What do you think you're doing?" Ted demanded, pointing at the cigarette.

Arden froze, dismayed. "Smells like somebody's been smokin' in here already. I just thought..."

"It's a damn doctor's office, moron," the stranger growled.

Embarrassed, Arden put his smokes away. "Sorry."

Ted folded his hands on the table and fixed Arden with a hard stare. "Look, Arden, we don't have time to fool around. You screwed up the last two assignments."

"No, wait, Ted," Arden protested. "I didn't screw up at CBC Southwest Tactical. They just didn't like me for some reason. It wasn't my fault."

"Why didn't they like you, Thatcher?" asked the heavy bald guy.

Arden shrugged, face heating up. "I dunno. I didn't do nothin'."

"Then you said something," Ted accused. "It's you're mouth that gets you in trouble."

"I didn't say nothin'!" Arden insisted. "I did just like you said—asked to get some trainin' on their shootin' range. You know—start a business relationship like you said. I didn't say nothin' 'bout niggers or Jews or anything."

Fat Bald Guy leaned forward and said, "Alright, shut up. I don't want to hear excuses for why you failed, or denials that you failed. This is your last chance, Thatcher. You better get this one right, or we're done with you. Got it?"

"Yes sir," Arden said, burning with shame and desperation.

Ted dropped a folder on the table and opened it. He pushed it toward Arden, who pulled it the rest of the way toward himself. There were pages inside the folder full of digital images and text.

"These are the men you're gonna make friends with," Ted said.

Arden briefly scanned over the faces in the printed snapshots, relieved that they were all Caucasian "Is it a militia?"

Ted nodded. "A dangerous one, Arden. Call themselves the 'Free American Patriots,' or F.A.P. They know all about the Zionist Occupation...and they approve of it. Take some time when you get home and read some of their social network comments; how they drool over Ben Carson and Walter Williams and Thomas Sowell and Mia Love. About how wonderful Israel is and how we should support Israel and how they just luuu-uuuv the Jews."

Arden bit his tongue because cussing probably wouldn't come across as professional to Ted and the other guy. And his future depended on controlling his tongue.

"In other words, Arden, these guys are traitors to the white race. Groups like this are going to help the Zionists take over. And you know what that means. You think there's too much mudsharking now? Just wait. They'll have the white race bred out of existence in 20 years." Ted pointed at himself and Fat Bald Guy. "And we won't be able to help you. We won't be around anymore. The Jews will replace us with nigger police."

Arden's mind flooded with visions. In one of them, a hulking black beast in a police uniform raped his mother.

Ted pointed at the folder. "We've got to find out what these guys are up to; who their friends are; what weapons they have; everything. And when the time comes, we'll need you to go into action."

"So listen real good, dumbass," Fat Bald Guy said, with a withering glare that made Arden avert his gaze. "To do that, they've got to trust you. That means you have to pretend. Get it, dumbass?"

Arden's face burned even hotter.

"You just  luuu-uuuv Israel," Ted sing-songed. "You're a patriotic American. You luuu-uuuv your little black, brown, red and yellow brothers as long as they love America. You're colorblind, see? I know it's disgusting to even pretend, but the survival of western civilization depends on you making these Zionist stooges think you believe the same things they do."

Arden forced himself to nod. "I get it."

"You better give an Academy Award performance," Fat Bald Guy said. "Or you're done."

"You only criticize niggers and Spics when they disagree with what F.A.P. believes," Ted said, pointing at the folder again. "And you're careful about what you say, even then."

"At no point," Fat Bald Guy said, "you listening to me? At no point, ever, do you take one of these scumbags into your confidence."

"You have to get them to take you into their confidence," Ted emphasized.

"You might get friendly with some of them," Fat Bald Guy said. "You might get where you think you can trust one of them."

"Don't ever trust anyone," Ted said, "except us."

"Your little pea-brain might play tricks on you," Fat Bald Guy went on. "Agents under deep cover have been known to start sympathizing with their enemies."

"Even hostages," Ted added. "Stockholm Syndrome. You heard of Patty Hearst? White girl. Good blood. Good, pure white family. Got kidnapped by some niggers and after a while started robbing banks for them."

"Stupid whore," Arden snarled. "Damned zebra, monkey-lovin'..."

"No, she was intelligent," Ted interrupted.

"She was educated," Fat Bald Guy said. "Unlike you."

Why did Fat Bald Guy keep calling him stupid? Arden's father always insulted him like that, too, whenever he was out of prison. Arden would have liked nothing more than to kill his father. But he had to be cool with this fat bald guy, or his days as a secret agent against the Zionist Occupational Government would be over.

I may not be book smart, Arden thought, but I'm street smart.

Ted didn't call him stupid. Maybe Ted could be convinced he wasn't. Arden could prove himself if he could infiltrate this nigger-loving Zionist militia and make them think he was one of them.

"So the point is," Fat Bald Guy said, "you might find some of these guys likable despite your differences. You may even come to think of them as friends. That's fine—in fact, it will reinforce your cover. But don't ever so much as peep about the Z.O.G."

"Or white purity," Ted added. "Or anything about Aryans. Don't let anything slip about mud people and don't even so much as use the word 'nigger'."

"Now, when this assignment is complete," Fat Bald Guy said, "assuming you don't jack it all up as usual, then if somebody sticks a microphone in your face...then and only then: feel free to tell them all about the kikes and the jungle bunnies and pure Aryan bloodlines. Mix in some 'America the beautiful' shit and mention the Constitution a few times. Just don't say anything about your work for us."

"Just like I told you in our first conversation," Ted said. "Never say anything about us or what we ask you to do. The survival of western civilization may very well depend on agents who don't blab what they know."

"I understand, Ted," Arden replied, with a determined look. "I won't let you down."

The office used by some of McMillan's boys had been a functioning mini-clinic at one time. The name on the sign and window decal even bore the name of an actual doctor—though the doctor worked for one of Lawrence Bertrand's organizations in another city.

Once Arden Thatcher had left, Bruce Shilling ("Ted") turned to Macmillan and said, "That business about saying what he really thinks if somebody puts a microphone in his face...that could backfire."

Macmillan shook his head. "No. That's why I specified 'when the assignment is complete, and not before'."

"This isn't exactly a rocket scientist we're dealing with here, sir," Shilling said. "What if he gets confused about when the assignment is complete?"

"Make sure he doesn't," Macmillan said. "With any luck, he won't be able to talk then, anyway. And if he is, we may have to Jack Ruby his ass."

That would be the safest option. Even dead, Thatcher would point to the enemy. His background had been sanitized to help in his efforts to infiltrate right-wing networks, but it was only a temporary cleaning. All the information needed on him would read like an open book if and when the time came.

Shilling swallowed his resentment. He'd been handling informants for years successfully and didn't appreciate this "personal attention" Macmillan was giving. Yes, Thatcher was dumber than a box of rocks, which made infiltration very difficult. But when a good fit was found for him, his weak mind would prove perfect for the mission, and pay enormous dividends. Macmillan poking his nose in and telling Shilling how to do his job could only complicate matters.

But Macmillan was a hard-charger to begin with, and was evidently under pressure from the money men.

"Who you got next?" Macmillan asked, lighting a cigarette.

Shilling didn't need to check his notes. Instead, he lit up, too. "My 11 o'clock is another closeted Aryan activist. But she's not quite as stupid."

"Is she the 1488 chick we paid with a boob job?"

Shilling laughed. "Yeah, and it's paying off, too."

"What's she going to ask for next—a face lift?"

"No, she's already good there, and knows it," Shilling said. "I'm guessing she'll want money for clothes and jewelry."

"I can't wait to see this rack. She any good in bed?" Macmillan asked.

Shilling flashed a wolfish grin. "She knows what she's doing, all right. We've got video archived."

"Hell with video." Macmillan checked his watch. "Eleven, you say?" He walked over to the restroom, closed the door behind him, pulled a plastic baggie out of his pocket and popped one of the blue pills inside it. "Sieg heil," he mumbled. "I'll be ready to salute der Fuhrer when you get here, Fraulein."

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22

Y MINUS FOUR

AMARILLO, TEXAS

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JOE TASPER NO LONGER lived in a house. He had begun his own scrap-hauling business, dumped Crystal, and moved into an apartment on the other side of town.

He was having a decent day. He had one more stop, to pick up an old washing machine, then should be able to get to the scrap yard before it closed. He drove through an upper-middle-class residential district, enjoying the fresh air and sunshine.

To get to the customer's house, he had to turn right at the next street. He pulled into the turning lane, behind a slow-moving Honda. Once behind it, the Honda slowed even more, and finally came to a complete stop in the lane, before reaching the intersection.

"What the...?" Joe had dealt with too many idiotic drivers, and had given up on figuring them out. They could sit there and brainfart all they wanted to, but he had somewhere to be.

Joe checked his mirrors, swung into the thru-lane and accelerated to get around the Honda. Then, from the right turn lane, the Honda driver made a left-handed U-turn right into him.

Two older women were in the Honda. The driver cried and blubbered, insisting she had never been in an accident and accusing him of tailgating her.

Police showed up on the scene eventually. Joe cringed, but there was no way they could blame him for this one.

Back when he lived in the 'hood, Joe's home had been burglarized. Some fatass donut-eater came by to fill out a report, but refused to take fingerprints. Same deal when Joe's car window was smashed out with a cinder block and his custom sound system was stolen. The message sunk in over the years: cops had no interest in serving, protecting, or catching bad guys. Their purpose was to shake down normal people just trying to make an honest living, who minded their own business.

Cops were lazy, stupid parasites—petty bureaucrats who were drunk on the power of their badges. Still, there was no way they could screw this up, was there? The woman had made a left-handed U-turn from a right turn lane without even checking for traffic.

After spending about an hour in his cruiser, the cop cited both the woman and Joe for the accident.

Joe refused to sign the citation, at first, but the cop threatened to throw him in jail if he didn't.

He signed, while fantasizing about killing the officer with multiple gunshots to his ignorant face, and bulging belly.

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23

D MINUS 50

INTERSTATE 40, EASTBOUND

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MOST INDIVIDUALS WITH good horse sense would be careful not to attract police attention with an AK47 and live ammo in the trunk, even though the weapon was a semiauto-only version—perfectly legal.

Takoda Scarred Wolf had more good horse sense than people assumed. But he also had a huge whopping lifetime prescription of Fuqitol.

He averaged 140 miles-per-hour on the Interstate, except when his radar/laser detector warned him of speed traps. When it fell silent, he went back to streaking through traffic like it was standing still. This brought him through Arizona, New Mexico, and Texas without molestation.

This had been a good day. The Shootout course had been a real challenge. He had missed a lot of targets, but knew he would get better with more practice. The course was great for reflexes, but unlike a video game you had to combine reflexes with the real techniques and weaponry you would need in a firefight.

The other thing that impressed him was the obvious camaraderie between Carlos, Leon and Rocco. You could just tell they'd been through stuff together, though there was no tangible point of evidence to prove it was there.

Takoda knew that bonds like that were forged in combat. But the only men he knew well who'd experienced combat were his father and his great uncle. Well, and Gunther, now.

Everyone who knew him assumed Takoda was antisocial. Looking back at his own behavior he could see why people would think that. But though he was a loner in many ways, he had always longed for that kind of brotherhood that warriors had. At times he considered the desire silly, and didn't like admitting he had it. But at times like this it was hard not to think about.

Psychologists said that degree of close friendship only came from shared trauma (like combat), or from family relation.

Takoda had family. Good family. His two brothers were honorable. Why was he not close with them like that?

He had to admit that the biggest reason was probably his own behavior and attitude. Though everything he'd told Gunther that one night at their father's house was true, Takoda was still in the wrong. Sure, Gunther had lessons to learn, but some things took care of themselves.

Looking at that altercation honestly, Takoda admitted he harbored resentment because his father had chosen to take Gunther along with him to Indonesia. Takoda had been left behind when his dad needed men he could count on and, though he'd never admit it, it made Takoda feel like he wasn't good enough. It reminded him of all the times he felt slighted growing up, when it seemed his parents favored Gunther over him. And that case of butthurt led him to act like a first-class jerk sometimes.

He needed to patch up relations with his family. He needed to dial down his Fuqitol dosage.

He'd even shunned little brother Carl, though Carl had done nothing wrong and had been left behind just like him.

Carl's birthday was coming up in a few months. Maybe Takoda should take him to CBC Southwest Tactical for the occasion. Dad's old war buddies could put them through the paces. They'd make a day of it. Carl would love it and maybe it would be the first step of their journey toward the brotherhood they should have had all along.

Maybe Takoda should invite Gunther, too. But he was almost certain that wouldn't go over well.

How could he fix what he'd broken?

He slowed down approaching Oklahoma City, and took I-35 South, getting back on the gas after clearing the city limits.

Takoda now lived east of the rez, by himself.

He tore through the Shawnee Trust Land to reach his place, because it was a more direct route and traffic was lighter. By this time he was on rural highways and had slowed considerably, but was still blasting along at triple digits when traffic didn't slow him down.

The radar detector went from silent to full alert in a split second. He instinctively backed off the gas, but the full L.E.D. meter meant he was already clocked.

The Tribal Police must have instant-on radar, now.

In the rear view mirror, far distant, he saw a patrol car swing out on the road with lights flashing.

Takoda took stock of distance and traffic, and put the hammer down.

His LS7 Chevy small block snarled with hunger for speed. He hadn't done much to the internals of the aluminum V8 besides installing a healthier camshaft, and porting/polishing the heads. But the twin turbo system made an already impressive powertrain thrust like a moon rocket. The suspension and drivetrain were up to the task of keeping that power planted, too. And the light composite body slipped through the wind like a bullet.

The speedometer and tach needles swung hard to the right, but Takoda did little more than glance at his instrument panel. At the speed he was doing now, his life depended on seeing developments on the road miles in advance.

***

OFFICER RACHEL WHITE Bird had just clocked an S.U.V. at 16 miles over the limit and was about to go after it when she heard the mechanical snarl growing in volume. Already following the S.U.V. with her gaze, she saw a low, dark shape bearing down from the opposite direction.

Holy crap, but it was moving!

She aimed the radar gun and triggered the instant-on. The vehicle blasted by with an ear-shattering roar. It was green but she didn't get a good look at it.

The readout showed 97 MPH.

She set the radar gun back in its mount and switched it to scan. The speed of the vehicle was climbing higher, fast. She put the cruiser in gear and floored the accelerator, tearing grass and spitting dirt as she peeled onto the pavement, toggling her lights.

Officer White Bird only caught a fleeting glimpse of the green vehicle. It had a swoopy shape like maybe a Ferrari or something. It could be somebody visiting the rez, but she knew of only one local who had a green sports car: Takoda Scarred Wolf.

This could be a big break.

The patrol car hit 100, but the perp was still pulling away—just a small shape in the distance. White Bird kept the pedal mashed and continued to accelerate. 105, 110, 115...

The perp was still losing her! She reached for the radio mike but fumbled around, scared to concentrate on anything but the road at this speed—now 120. Finally she got the call in, unable to accurately identify the vehicle—much less read the plates. The desk sergeant told her to maintain pursuit until they could get more assets in on the chase.

130. The patrol car felt strangely light, like it might lift off the road at any minute. She was terrified. Was this the "rush" that she heard her male counterparts discussing now and then? They could keep it.

At 130, the perp just continued to pull away. The green object was almost too small on the horizon to see, now.

The border of the Tribal Trust Land was coming up in just a few miles, and her jurisdiction ended. And frankly, she wasn't going to catch that car if she had a thousand miles to do it.

She radioed the Pottawatomie County Sheriff's dispatcher to warn them. They could set up a road block to catch the perp. But though the County was tough on drunk drivers and other violations, they didn't make a big effort to nab speeders.

Besides, even if it was Takoda and they could catch him, another force having him by the short hairs didn't give her the leverage she needed. Especially when Takoda's own father ran the show, there.

She would have to find another way.

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24

Y MINUS TWO

ABSENTEE SHAWNEE TRUST LAND, OKLAHOMA

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OFFICER RACHEL WHITE Bird didn't have an invitation to the party, but she showed up anyway.

She could only speculate about who talked to the Chief of the Tribal Police, or what all was said. But the Chief had taken her to the side; sworn her to secrecy; and gave her the assignment to get what she could on the Scarred Wolf family.

He wouldn't tell her why, though she had heard the rumors about a murdered police officer overseas. Word was, however, that the murder was an attempted frame.

Rachel asked for parameters and the Chief told her to make friends with one of the Scarred Wolves if she could, or find a reason to arrest one of them if not. Once one of those toeholds had been achieved, they could cross the next bridge.

Rachel was technically off duty. She dressed like she almost never did: tight skirt, girly blouse and her hair down. She didn't have a definite plan—just decided to exploit whatever developed.

The celebration was at Tommy's house. Gunther and Carl had built a kennel in back to lock the dogs in so they wouldn't go crazy or scare visitors.

The front yard was treated as a parking lot during normal circumstances. The only difference about this occasion was the number of vehicles parked there.

Neighbors and friends from around the rez came by, of course. Uncle Jay was the first guest to arrive and even Vince's widow, Betty, made an appearance. Frank, an old buddy from Fifth Group, brought a keg, which might not have been such a great idea with the rampant alcoholism in the area. But how could there be a party in these times without at least beer?

Leon had checked with Tommy before bringing Shotgun. She went by to snoop around the kennel, driving Tommy's dogs insane for a few minutes, but after that she followed Leon around pretty much everywhere he went. Leon and Tommy shook hands and slapped backs, exchanged a few words, then Tommy got pulled away by someone else. That would happen a lot before the night was over.

Leon had just filled his first plastic cup with beer when Rocco arrived. Leon wandered over to greet him. Rocco climbed out of the driver's seat of the GMC Yukon, and a beautiful shortie got out of the passenger side.

Cavarra, you old dog, Leon thought. But then he was introduced.

"Hey Cannonball," Rocco said, shaking his hand. "This is my daughter, Jasmine. She's spending a couple weeks with me. Jasmine, this is Leon."

"Oh, okay," Leon said, shaking Jasmine's hand. "Nice to meet you."

Jasmine smiled and it was dazzling. "Nice to meet you, Leon."

"Hey, got something for you," Rocco said, sauntering back to the rear hatch. He opened it and pulled a scabbard out from under some blankets and other stuff. He handed it to Leon.

"Uh-oh," Leon said. "This what I think it is?"

"Happy birthday, Cannonball," Rocco said.

Leon zipped open the scabbard and pulled out the contents. It was a black anodized M21 in a polymer pistol grip stock. Leon worked the bolt and checked the chamber out of habit before turning it over in his hands to admire it. "Aw, man...I don't know what to say, Rocco. Did you put this together?"

Rocco nodded. "I've been meaning to do it for years, but it kinda' got buried under other projects in my shop. I found it again when I was packing for the move. Did a little grinding, filing and sanding before the stock would fit, but it fits good now."

"This thing is the truth, Rocco. Thanks, man." Leon had thought about buying a chassis for an M14 (the sniper version of which—the M21—had become his favorite rifle), but balked at spending that much money for something that shouldn't even cost a quarter of the asking price.

Then something Rocco said sunk in. "Wait a minute...packin' for a move? Where you movin'?"

"Arizona," Rocco said.

A rumbling sound caught their attention. A red-and-white Camaro pulled up into the yard and shut down. The driver's door opened and a average-sized Hispanic man climbed out.

Rocco and Cannonball recognized him at the same time. "Bojado!"

Carlos Bojado squinted at the two guys calling to him. He hadn't seen them face-to-face since that boat ride back from North Africa, but he recognized them on sight. Campbell hadn't aged a day, despite all the years. More of Cavarra's black hair had turned white, and his weathered face made him look more like a Mafia don now than a Mafia enforcer. And who was the little hottie standing near them? She was drop-dead gorgeous.

Carlos walked over for handshakes and backslaps. The babe was Cavarra's daughter, it turned out.

"I heard you went back in the Corps," Rocco said.

Carlos confirmed that he had.

After the Sudan mission, Carlos gave serious thought to what he wanted to do. Initially he went back in because the economy sucked; he wanted three squares a day; the Marine Corps wanted him back at his previous rank; and he wanted to see more action.

He did see action. And when it was time to get out again, the economy was even worse.

It kept getting worse, so he kept signing on the dotted line. Finally he decided to just finish out his 20 years and get a pension, in case the economy never recovered.

"I did some contract work over in Iraq," Campbell told him. "Tried to look you up a couple times, but never found your unit."

"They had me in Ass-Crackistan by then," Carlos explained.

"It's good to see you again," Cavarra said.

"Yeah, same for me," Carlos replied.

"We got all the survivin' Retreads together, man," Campbell said. "Except Mac, this time."

"He's with SSI too, no?" Carlos asked.

"Vice-Prez," Campbell confirmed, nodding.

Carlos had kept in touch somewhat with the other "Retreads" via email and social networks. He was retired now, unable to find decent work, and had time on his hands. When he heard Tommy Scarred Wolf had run for office and won, he just had to make the party.

The three of them sipped beer and caught up a bit.

The party was underway when Joshua Rennenkampf arrived, and dusk was giving way to darkness. Off to the side of the house a bonfire was blazing. Suspended over the fire by a crude brick structure was a rectangle of iron grating, which somebody was loading up with burgers and chicken breasts. Josh chuckled as he switched off his radios and got out. Tommy couldn't just use a back yard gas or charcoal grill like anybody else. Nope, the dinky-dau redskin had to have meat cooked over a wood fire in the open air.

Josh walked toward the house, but saw somebody he recognized grabbing something out of the trunk of a wicked-looking brown '04 Mustang. When the lean young man with pronounced Shawnee features straightened up, he glanced to the rear and saw Josh.

"Yo, Rennenkampf," he said with what passed for a smile on the Scarred Wolf men.

"Gunther!" Josh closed the distance and shook his hand. "How it is, hero?"

"It's all legit, man. What you been up to?"

Josh had only known Tommy's firstborn for a short time, but considered him a stand-up guy.

"Maintaining an even strain. How's the pilot deal going?"

"I'm certified now," Gunther said. "Trying to get a job flying freight."

Josh slapped his shoulder. "Wow. Congrats, man. That didn't take you long. You must've kicked ass."

Gunther shrugged. "I'm not playing around. I want out of that stupid casino like yesterday."

"Well, I hope you get the freight job. You gotta take me for a ride some time."

"You and everybody else here," Gunther said, gesturing in a circle, with a hiccuping sound that passed for laughter.

"There's a lot of folks here," observed Josh, taking in all the vehicles parked in the area.

"Rocco and Cannonball showed," Gunther said. "Some other guys Dad knew from the service. Plus family, friends, and a whole lot of folks from around the rez."

"How's Tommy taking the crowd?"

Gunther laughed for real this time. "You know Dad—he'd probably rather be swimming in the Everglades."

Josh grinned, remembering how much Tommy hated swimming. "Where is he, anyway?"

"Over by the fire," Gunther said, pointing. "I think Jennifer's still in the house helping Mom with side dishes."

Josh wasn't going to ask about Jennifer, but Gunther knew they were into each other and was cool with it. Tommy knew; but wasn't always as cool with it.

"Thanks. You need help with anything?"

Gunther shook his head. "Naw. Go grab a beer or soda and just enjoy yourself."

"My, what a civilized host you are." Josh winked, tipped an imaginary hat, and made his way to the fire.

Even in a crowd like this with noise and movement all over the place, you still couldn't sneak up on the Scarred Wolves. Tommy turned to spot him before Josh reached the fire.

"Baby Face!" Uncle Jay called out, while flipping ground chuck patties on the makeshift grill.

"Jungle Walk!" Tommy greeted. "I was hoping you could make it."

"Why?" Josh asked, warily. Did Tommy intend to "have a talk" with him about his niece? Josh dreaded that conversation. He now wanted to patch things up with his old friend and mentor, but Jennifer made everything complicated.

Tommy squinted his obsidian eyes at him. "Whaddya mean, why? 'Cause I haven't seen you for a while."

"Oh." Josh felt relief, then guilt for being defensive. "Hey, congrats on the victory, Tommy. I'm happy for you."

"Thanks," Tommy said, slapping his shoulder, then waved toward his uncle. "You remember Uncle Jay?"

"Wazzup, Uncle Jay?" Josh greeted.

Jay Scarred Wolf, with his 1st Air Cavalry Division hat on, as usual, saluted with his spatula. "Fighting soldiers from the sky..." he sang. "Fearless men...who jump and die..."

"Oh, blow it out your schnoz," Tommy said.

Laughing at his own joke, Jay said, "I heard you Green Berets are sooo-ooo bad, there's 35 ways you can kill somebody with your bare hands."

"Pick a number, leg," Tommy retorted.

"Gee, that's the first time I heard that one," Josh groaned.

"Jay sets them up; Tommy knocks them down," said a big outlaw biker-looking bear of a man with a beer in one massive paw.

"Griz!" Josh cried, and embraced his old buddy, who nearly crushed him.

"I been hearing about you," Griz said. "Heard you live in an old missile silo, shoot down drones to pass the time and count black helicopters instead of sheep."

"Close enough," Josh replied. "But Tommy said I couldn't wear my tinfoil hat if I wanted to come to his party."

"Joshua is a good man. He scares many, because he sees what they don't want to see."

The words were spoken by somebody with a whistling old gravel voice and a stilted accent. Josh peered over the flames but couldn't make out who said it.

Tommy and Jay shared an arched-eyebrow look, then Tommy placed his hand on Josh's back and steered him around the fire.

"We're all bolo," Josh said. "This fire has ruined our night vision."

Tommy chuckled. "You know you're a grunt when you close one eye to open the fridge at night."

"Grunt, hell," Josh said with an exaggerated scornful look. "I'm an A-Team commando."

They stopped in front of a decrepit-looking old Shawnee man in a wheelchair with a patch over one eye and a deformed hand missing three fingers. "I don't think you ever met Michael Fastwater." Tommy now addressed the old cripple. "Grandfather, this is my friend Joshua. We knew each other in Special Forces."

Fastwater nodded acknowledgment. His piercing gaze made Josh squirm. His still features in the fire light made him look kind of spooky.

"A warrior brother," Fastwater said, as if a juror reading a verdict. "That's what you are."

Confused, Josh's gaze bounced between Tommy and the old man. "Um, does he...have we...?"

"Nope," Tommy said. "Pretty sure you haven't met." Under his breath he added, "Just smile and nod. He does this kind of stuff all the time."

"You two have faced death together," Fastwater said. "Good friends. Brothers. You need to put aside your differences. It's more important now than ever."

Fastwater didn't have the nervous tics or laughter or banal chatter Josh associated with most lunatics. But he sure was digging into some personal stuff. Normally Josh would assume he was just going off information given in confidence. But Tommy had never been one to "bare his soul" to another human being, so either the old man made some lucky guesses, or he'd received the information some other way.

"Michael was a marine in the Pacific," Uncle Jay said. "He's the reason most of us just can't bring ourselves to buy Japanese cars."

Josh examined the old man in the wheelchair and realized he must have lost his eye and hand in defense of their country. "It's an honor to meet you, Mr. Fastwater. Thank you for your service."

Fastwater nodded slightly and blinked his one eye. "Semper Fi," he said.

"Are you a medicine man?" Josh asked him.

Tommy and Uncle Jay laughed. Before Fastwater could reply, somebody called out, "Where's the dinky-dau redskin?"

Everyone turned to the sound. Rocco, Cannonball, another guy, and a gorgeous young woman had arrived on the periphery of the crowd around the fire. They all peered into the mixture of darkness and patterns of flickering light.

Uncle Jay waved his spatula up in the air, then pointed to his nephew. "You're surrounded by redskins; but the dinky-dau Injun is over here."

The newcomers wandered over. Once close enough, they recognized their friends and greetings were exchanged with jokes and insults. Josh was introduced to Carlos and Cavarra's daughter, Jasmine. The three men didn't go back as far with Tommy as Josh did, so introductions were made between them and Uncle Jay. And Michael Fastwater.

With a misanthropic nature, Josh wasn't normally interested enough in other people to observe them closely. But he noticed looks flashing between Carlos and Jasmine which were easy to read even for a dumb hermit like Josh: they had only just met, but there was a strong attraction already.

Tommy noticed it but didn't mention it, either. He turned to Josh and, with some resignation, said, "Jenny's in the kitchen with Linda. She's been waiting for you to get here."

Josh made eye contact with Tommy and again felt waves of guilt for being a judgmental prick over the years. And for not giving Tommy the benefit of the doubt on certain matters, the way one would for a friend.

Just a bit self-consciously, Josh gave him a quick man-hug and said, "Thanks, Chief."

Tommy turned to shoot the breeze with his other friends while Josh headed for the house.

The house was crowded, too, though the population here was mostly female. When Josh stepped inside the front door, a brief silence fell over the din of overlapping chatter as a party of Shawnee women turned to stare at him. Tommy's wife, Linda, stepped out of the kitchen with a dish towel in her hands and a curious expression. She brightened when she saw Josh, ran over to him and seized him in a warm embrace. "Joshua! Oh my gosh!"

She was a small woman, pretty, but with that matronly pear shape which came after multiple childbirths. Josh hugged her back. She had always been like a big sister to him, and he remembered that now. He missed her.

"Thank you for coming," she said, pulling back."Does Tommy know you're here?"

"Yeah. I swung by the fire and said hi."

She asked him how Uncle Jay was doing on the grill and he began to answer when Jennifer emerged from the kitchen.

Tommy's niece was built nicely, had a pretty face, and radiant brown eyes that Josh would never get tired of looking at. A smile spread over her face when she saw him. She walked over and addressed Linda first. "All that's left to do is add the tomatoes to the salad...and the potatoes should be ready in ten minutes."

"We have it covered," Linda told her niece with a motherly smile. "You two go ahead."

Jennifer stepped close and inclined her head up to study Josh's face with a grin of her own.

"How are you?" he asked, as Linda went back to the kitchen.

"I'm blessed," she replied. "You?"

He steered her toward the door with his hand on her lower back. "I'm living the dream."

Once outside he led her by the hand into the dark, away from the house and the noise and all the people.

"I miss you," she said, squeezing his hand.

"Yeah? Well, when you gonna come visit me?"

She made a humming noise, then leaned her head against his arm as they walked. "I have a long weekend coming up."

"Sounds good," he said.

"You know, I graduate this year."

"Yeah, I figured."

"It's kind of scary all the sudden," she said. "Don't know where I'll go afterwards or even if I can get a job, degree or not."

"It's rough out there," he said. "Only gonna get rougher."

"You're such a bright little ray of sunshine," she said with a laugh. "You really know how to alleviate a girl's insecurities."

He stopped and pulled her against him. Her lips were ready and willing.

"Did that help?" he asked, afterwards.

She opened her eyes. He nearly drowned in them at this range. "I feel a little better." She pulled his head back down to hers.

Carl found Tommy at the fire, listening to his friends and Uncle Jay talk and joke.

"Hey Dad, you know where Takoda is?" Carl asked.

"He's around here somewhere," Tommy said. "I heard his Corvette pull in a while ago. Haven't heard it leave. Why?"

"He said he'd tune my carburetor," Carl said.

"Son, don't worry about the dirt bike tonight, okay? Just hang out and be sociable. That's probably what your brothers are doing. At least they're supposed to."

"But Dad, you heard how rough it's running..."

"Oh, I heard alright," Tommy said. "Everybody for 50 miles hears that thing when you ride it. Don't start it tonight, Son. We won't be able to hear ourselves think over that racket. It's bad enough when your brothers start their engines."

Carl chewed his lip briefly. "Well, if you see him can you tell him I'm looking for him? Maybe he can look at it after the party."

Tommy sighed and nodded, while Carl wandered away from all the boring old folks.

Gunther brought the bags of hamburger buns to Uncle Jay, who directed him to set them on the fold-up picnic table a few yards from the fire. Gunther figured he might as well bring out the condiment jars so people could spread it on right there, and so made his way back toward the house. On his way he nearly bumped into a woman he vaguely recognized. He excused himself and began to step around, but she smiled and greeted him as if they were old pals.

"Sorry," he said, "but you'll have to jog my memory how we know each other."

"I used to work with your father," she replied, extending her hand. "I'm Rachel."

She had some Shawnee features and was moderately attractive. Gunther shook her hand.

"Where did you work with him?" he asked.

"The Tribal Police," she replied.

"Oh, okay. Well, glad you could make it."

"Thanks," she said. "I was so happy to hear your dad won. Pretty sick, huh? You must be so proud."

"Yeah. Everybody who knows him is. But then I was proud of him even before this sheriff thing."

Rachel nodded, the grin still plastered on her face. "I wish I could have heard that speech. I heard it was really truth."

"It probably wasn't much as far as speeches go," Gunther said. "I think people liked it because he didn't try the normal BS. He just mentioned some of what's wrong in the county, and what he'd try to do if he was running the show. He was just honest—which usually doesn't score many political points with folks who matter. He's more surprised than anybody that he won."

"Oh, we all knew he'd win," she said.

Gunther tilted his head and studied her face closely. "From what I understand, your boss doesn't like him much."

"Oh, that's not true. Where'd you hear that?"

"From everybody who knows both of them," Gunther said. "Except you, I guess."

"Oh, everybody knows Tommy's a hero," she said.

"Well, anyway, nice to see you. I gotta go get some stuff."

She maintained the smile, but it dimmed with disappointment somewhat as she nodded, gave him a wave and proceeded toward the fire. Gunther wondered why she addressed him with such familiarity, when they just barely knew each other.

He didn't notice that she disappeared behind a Minivan and never reemerged on her way to the fire.

As Gunther turned around from there, he saw Susan Pyrch approaching him.

Susan was a knockout, by Shawnee or any other standards. Possibly even better looking than Jasmine Cavarra. Susan was mixed, and all the most physically attractive qualities of the different races seemed to be consolidated in the little diva. Nevertheless, Gunther had to suppress a groaning eye-roll when he saw her.

"Hi Gunther."

"Hi," he said.

"Surprised to see me?"

"A little."

"You never did withdraw the invitation," she said. "So I thought I still might be welcome."

He forced a polite smile. "You are. Thanks for coming. Mom and Jenny and your mom were all in the house last I saw. I'm heading there now if you want to come along. I know Jenny will be happy to see you." He sidestepped her to continue toward the house, assuming she would fall in step beside him.

"Are you not happy to see me?" she asked, standing still.

He stopped, frowned, sighed and turned. "Not tonight, Susan. Okay?"

She blinked her eyes and a tear rolled down from one of them. "Can't we at least talk? I promise I won't be a shrew this time."

Gunther stifled a second sigh and backed up to lean against the bed of a pickup truck. She drew close to him but before she could touch him or say anything, he said, "It was your idea to see other people. You said you wanted space and all that. Well, I'm giving you space."

"But I changed my mind," she said, in a pleading tone.

"You should quit changing your mind and stick to a decision for once."

She flinched. "That was a mean thing to say."

"Just being honest."

"No you're not," she said, more tears streaming, now. "This isn't about that. You're mad because I talked to that investigator. That's what this is about!"

"You want to go there, Susan? You really want to go there?"

"Go ahead!" she snapped. "We might as well! Is that a threat? Am I supposed to be scared? Are you going to slap me around or something?"

He pushed away from the pickup and began to walk away but she jumped forward to grab his arm. "Don't walk away from me, Gunther. Please."

He could have brushed her off easily, but he decided maybe she did deserve a discussion at least. He leaned back against the truck and she moved in to embrace him, but he grabbed her by the shoulders and held her at bay.

Like Jennifer, she didn't normally wear jewelry. But he noticed she was wearing it now. Takoda would say the reason must be because she was ovulating. Maybe he was right. She seemed borderline hysterical and that definitely could be something menstrual.

"I told you not to give them anything, Susan."

"What was I supposed to say?" she demanded. "They knew about the boat trip. They knew we'd been kidnapped. And they knew that we came back here the same time as you and your father."

"They didn't know who else was in on the rescue," he reminded her, "until you told them."

"So what, Gunther? It's not like I said they did anything wrong. I think they should all get medals for what they did. And I didn't even know their real names, anyway!"

"You gave them descriptions, Susan. And I bet you would have given them names and addresses if you'd known them. In fact, you did give them my name."

"They already talked to the other girls," Susan said. "They'd know if I was holding something back, and I'd be in big trouble. Should I have lied to federal...whoever they were?"

"That's a classic interrogation trick, Susan: to make you think other witnesses have already spilled the beans so you'd better do it, too. My dad told you that's what they would do."

"Well I'm sorry, but I wasn't raised by a war hero and I never learned this 'death before dishonor' code you seem to have."

"You better check that snarky tone when you talk about my father," Gunther said.

"What was I supposed to do?"

"What me and Jenny did," he snapped. "Keep your mouth shut. Play ignorant if you have to. Ask them if you're suspected of a crime. If not, then ask if you're free to go. Keep asking until they give you a straight answer."

"Jeez, Gunther—you're the one who told me about the NDAA. They could just say I'm a terrorist and lock me up for the rest of my life without a trial."

She was right about that one, so he didn't retort.

"I don't see why it's all got to be such a big important secret," she continued, encouraged by his silence. "You act like you're Spiderman and I just revealed your secret identity or something!"

Gunther took in and let out a deep breath. "You weren't there for everything that went down. Somebody tried to kill my dad and Uncle Vince. When that didn't work, they framed them for murder. They did eventually kill Uncle Vince. Any day now somebody might try to assassinate my dad again, or bring that murder rap back here and indefinitely detain him for that. When you opened your big mouth, you put everybody at risk for the same kind of thing. Everybody who went with him to bring you back."

Susan raised her hands. "Hey, I have nothing against your father. And of course I'm grateful to everybody who went with him. But do you even realize how paranoid you sound?"

This time when Gunther walked away, he didn't let her stop him.

"And that's why I didn't want to have this talk," he said, not caring if she heard him or not.

Still listening at her spot behind the Minivan, Rachel White Bird was sure some of what she'd just heard must be valuable. After Gunther and Susan had gone away in different directions, Rachel went over to where the crowd was concentrated, near the fire.

The beer flowed steadily. Rocco, Leon and Carlos found seats among the sycophantic core of the crowd, tightly orbiting Tommy, Uncle Jay and Michael Fastwater. Rocco got asked about his move to Arizona a few times, until finally some drunk opined that the economy in Arizona might wind up as bad as in California. This got a grumbling conversation started about the economy, and more questions were asked.

Carlos had his retirement check, which wasn't great, but would keep him from starving. Rocco had his pension, of course, but was also relocating his tactical shooting school and supply business. Leon anticipated returning to the Sandbox because not only was there work for him there, but it paid better than anything he'd be able to find back on the block, even if the economy wasn't wrecked beyond what anybody with a platform was willing to admit.

"I'll tell you what part of the private sector is booming," Tommy said. "Ammunition sales. Retail."

Rocco whistled. "Boy, don't I know it. It's hard to even find 22 Long Rifle these days, much less nine mil, .40 cal or any NATO rounds."

"Maybe I should start reloading," Carlos thought out loud. "I could sell that for some extra bucks. People would buy it, I bet."

"Reload your own ammo," Leon said. "Sell the virgin stuff. That's the smart way."

"There's a demand for sure," Tommy said, using tongs to transfer a chicken breast from the grill to his styrofoam plate.

"Don't you need a license or something to sell ammunition, though?" Jasmine asked. "I bet it's illegal."

"Everything's illegal, anymore," Uncle Jay said.

Rocco tapped Leon on the chest, backhanded. "You ever thought of teaching people how to shoot, Cannonball?"

"What you mean? My own sniper school or sumpthin'?" Leon asked.

"It wouldn't have to be sniping," Rocco said. "But there's lots of guys who hunt or target shoot and are always looking for ways to improve accuracy."

"I thought that's what your school was for," Leon said, and the others snickered.

"I teach some different techniques," Cavarra replied, ignoring the laughter. "But I was never a sniper. I don't know all the sniper tricks."

Leon shot to his feet. "Hey! Did y'all hear that? I think Rocco just admitted I might know sumpthin' he don't!"

More people laughed, and harder. "Score one for the grunts," Uncle Jay remarked.

"Sit down, punk," Rocco said, still enduring the laughter and backslaps.

Leon resumed his seat, giving Rocco a playful push.

Carlos stopped laughing and said, "Wait. was that a job offer?"

Leon turned serious and studied the former SEAL Team commander. "Is that what that was, Rocco?"

"Could've been if you weren't such a jerk.” He paused to make a face, then sobered again. “No, I mean, if you want to keep contracting, that's fine. But I was thinking about expanding the school a bit from what it was before. I've got customers—a lot of them from the area where I'm opening shop. I think I'll get more customers, too. Seems like somebody's always asking me about long range marksmanship. They see all these sniper movies out there, I guess, and think it looks fun."

"Fun, hell," Leon said. "Ain't one man in a thousand would want to do what a real sniper has to do."

"But you got to admit," Rocco said, "there are parts of it that are enjoyable. If you take all the fun parts, minimize the suck, and package it as really good training...what do you Army pukes call it again?"

"High speed," Tommy said.

"Right. Really high speed training. Civilians would eat it up. I've been thinking of other stuff that would be fun, but useful, too."

"Like what?" asked Carlos, with undivided attention.

Rocco shrugged. "Well, I'll probably set up a jungle walk. Everybody likes those. But if I had the money, I'd build something like that pop-up/moving target range you guys had in Fort Benning."

"Oh yeah," Leon said. "I went through that, waaayyy back in Infantry School. It was high speed."

Tommy nodded, finishing a mouthful of chicken meat. "Yeah it was."

Rocco addressed Tommy and Leon. "How much would you pay to be able to shoot there again? Or some place like it?"

Rachel White Bird drifted from clique to clique, listening in on portions of conversations. How many people recognized her she couldn't say, because most paid her no mind. She hadn't made any enemies on the rez, that she knew of. But she hadn't made a lot of friends, either.

When she reached the inner core surrounding Tommy Scarred Wolf, though, she parked for a while. There were a few men she just knew must be worth remembering. Judging by the way they interacted with Tommy, and some of what they said, she was pretty sure they were military men, too. She knew all about Jay Scarred Wolf, who served in Vietnam; and Michael Fastwater, the WWII veteran. Her boss knew that much. She needed to find out all she could about the strangers.

Carl hadn't been able to find Takoda yet. He put his search on hold when he heard the dogs fussing. They had finally quieted down a couple hours ago, so something must be stirring them up, now. He decided to check it out.

The whining and tentative barking fizzled out as the dogs heard and smelled him drawing near. Inside the chain-link structure he and Gunther erected for this occasion, they watched him with tails wagging, dancing in place or rearing up to lean their front paws on the chain link. When Carl reached them, he pressed his hands against the fencing so they could lick him. Whatever they'd seen or heard, it must not have been anything threatening.

He heard somebody cry out. It sounded like Susan Pyrch.

He had caught a glimpse of her earlier, and she looked upset. He knew she and Gunther had a fight a while back, and he hadn't seen much of her since. He assumed they must have broken up, but here she was at the party...so he wasn't sure what was going on.

Susan Pyrch was a smoking hot babe. Gunther must be crazy not to treat her like a queen.

Maybe she went off by herself to cry. Carl felt a pang of sympathy for her. He was just a kid to her, but maybe there was something he could do. He moved through the dark toward the sound he'd heard.

Now he could hear more noises. There was rustling of fabric, friction of something relatively heavy against the ground, wet glitching sounds and labored breathing in between, laced with whimpers almost too soft to perceive. It was all coming from somewhere behind the mound of the septic tank.

Carl had practiced moving silently since he was five years old. It was something he prided himself on, and proved he was a Shawnee warrior (to himself, if nobody else). He closed the distance now without making a sound.

Just before Carl rounded the corner of the mound, he heard a whisper. "What are we doing?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

After some more of the wet sounds, Susan whispered, "I mean we shouldn't be doing this."

More wet sounds, and she whimpered.

"It doesn't...feel right..." she panted.

The other voice chuckled, "You're acting like it feels right."

"But he's here. He's on the other side of the house, for cr..." She interrupted herself with a gasp.

"I'm pretty sure he doesn't have X-Ray vision, Susan."

"But he...we only...it's not like...I mean we didn't actually..."

"You want me to stop?"

She moaned.

Carl recognized the second voice, but he advanced until he could see the two figures in the deep moon shadow behind the septic mound. His young mind would never forget the image of Takoda and Susan together in that instant.

He backed quietly around the mound, turned, and wandered quickly away.

His heart pounded. He felt all kinds of emotions at once. Most of all he felt dirty, and outraged.

He should tell Gunther. Susan was his girlfriend and he deserved to know. But he didn't want to snitch on Takoda, who was also his big brother. But whether Gunther and Susan were broken up or not, this was a shameful betrayal and Takoda deserved to be called out for it. Still, Carl didn't want to be a snitch. What was he supposed to do?

Linda had arrived at the fire. By now almost everyone had food and drinks. She yelled and waved to get everyone's attention, calling Gunther to join her. She held onto her husband's arm with one hand. She smiled broadly, but Tommy looked embarrassed.

"I just want to say something about my husband and my son," Linda called out. The crowd quieted to listen.

"Just in case you don't already know the reason for this celebration," Linda said, "Tommy won the election and will be the new sheriff!"

People clapped and cheered.

"I want everyone to know how proud of him I am," Linda went on. "And also, my oldest son, Gunther, has finished his hours, passed all his tests, and is now a certified, instrument-rated pilot!"

More clapping; more cheering. Gunther looked as embarrassed as his father.

Linda had both of them by the arms, now. "Many years ago, this handsome guy I remember seeing in school and around the rez, he just disappeared. I was still in school. But he graduated... Anyway, I asked around about him, and found out Tommy had joined the US Army. So time went by; I graduated; I dated some boys..."

Several wolf-whistles sounded in the crowd, and everybody had a wisecrack.

“You asked around about me, eh?” Tommy asked, trying to be playful.

“Don't let it go to your head, Big Boy,” she replied.

This inspired more drunken laughter and catcalls.

"I heard some more about Tommy from time to time," Linda continued, undaunted. "I found out he had joined the Green Berets."

Josh, Frank, Kurt and Griz barked their approval and Jenny hooted, but Uncle Jay, Rocco, Carlos and some others blew raspberries and made derogatory remarks.

Linda laughed but went on. "Well one day I got this call from Tommy. He was home on leave from Fort Bragg, North Carolina. I don't know how he got my number, and he never would tell me...but his brother was on the Tribal Police and I always wondered if that's how he found out."

People laughed, intoned comments and catcalled some more.

While Linda entertained the crowd, Rachel slipped away discreetly. She wanted to write some notes on the legal pad in her car before she forgot any details of what she'd learned. Someone might get suspicious if they saw her taking notes, but with everybody gathered around paying attention to Linda and Tommy, this was the perfect time.

Before reaching her car, Rachel saw somebody crossing her path heading toward the fire. She hadn't seen Tommy's youngest son very much, but enough to recognize him.

"Hi, Carl."

He didn't even turn his head to acknowledge her. "Hi."

"You're missing it," she said. "Your mom's talking about how her and your dad got together."

He grunted and kept walking.

Every bit the conversationalist as the other Scarred Wolf men.

Rachel unlocked her car door and slid inside, but didn't shut the door. She pondered Carl Scarred Wolf, who seemed in a trance. She heard the caged dogs yipping tentatively and her curiosity got the better of her.

She stepped out, closed and re-locked the door. Carl had come from a direction that, when she traced it backwards, led behind the house to the approximate area the dogs were making noise.

Susan felt a little better now. Or did she? In a way, she felt worse.

In school she had occupied the highest strata of popularity and never considered the Scarred Wolf brothers in her league. Not the taciturn loner Gunther; and especially not the rowdy delinquent Takoda—who was younger than her, anyway.

But things had changed.

She tried to kiss some more, now that they were done. She wanted reassurance that what she'd done was justified and everything would be all right. Takoda kissed her back, perfunctorily, but began to dress and grew preoccupied with that.

She searched around for her own clothes in the dark, found her panties and slipped them on. "What do we do now?" she asked.

"I'm going to get a burger from Uncle Jay," he replied, "if there's any left."

"That's not what I mean."

"What do you mean, then?" he asked, with a casual attitude that gave her none of the reassurance she sought.

She wrapped her bra around her, backwards so that the fastener was in front where she could easily clasp it. "I don't know how to tell Gunther."

"Tell him what?" Takoda asked, pulling on his boots, his pants on already.

She spun the bra around her torso, loaded the cups and slipped her arms through the straps. "About us." Jeez, why was he so dumb all the sudden?

"What about us?"

It was like he was deliberately playing retarded to annoy her. She'd found his aloof nature attractive just a little while ago, but right now it tempted her to scream at him. She didn't like having to spell these things out. "That we're together now." She resisted the urge to add a "duh."

"Who said we're together, now?" Takoda asked. "We never said that."

"But..." Words failed her for a moment. "Takoda! What is this?"

Whatever he might have said in reply, it remained unsaid. The dogs began going crazy. Then Rachel White Bird appeared around the corner of the septic mound and stopped in her tracks, staring wide-eyed. "Oh, I'm sorry..." she blurted.

"White Bird," Takoda said, pulling his shirt on. "Who invited you?"

At first Susan played it cool. She finished dressing with a casual greeting to Rachel. Then once Susan finally excused herself and retreated, the shock and shame was too much for her. Susan's throat constricted; the tears flowed like water from a tap; and she felt nauseous. She lost it—a sobbing, wailing breakdown.

Takoda sauntered over to the fire and grabbed a burger, like nothing was amiss. His mother, father and older brother were collecting hugs, handshakes and general good will from the attendees gathered around. Evidently, Takoda had missed something. He thought of asking Carl what happened, but his little brother gave him a stony glance and walked away.

He'd never seen an expression like that on Carl before, directed at him. He was like Takoda's personal servant growing up, willing to do almost anything to please his big brother. Carl had been asking him to tune the carburetor on his bike for weeks, and Takoda still hadn't done it yet. But that hardly warranted icy hostility. Or did it?

Takoda stopped eating the burger after two bites. His stomach knotted on him. He didn't want to admit, even to himself, that it was guilt he felt. He headed for the garage to take a look at the dirt bike. He wouldn't fire it up tonight, but at least he could look at the spark plug and a few other parts.

Rachel returned to her car and scribbled notes furiously. Her instructions had implied getting dirt on the Scarred Wolf family if possible while winning what confidence and gathering what information she could. She'd done pretty well for one night's work.

Movement caught her eye and she looked up. It was Takoda walking by. She continued writing. A few minutes later, he passed going the opposite direction with a partially eaten burger on a styrofoam plate. She wrote on. A few minutes later, Susan staggered toward the fire, pretty face still shining with tears.

Rachel got out of the car. This might be a scene worth watching.

Rachel followed the young woman at a discrete distance, and saw Susan march right up to Gunther.

The garage door was open. Tommy's Victory Hammer sat near the work bench, while Carl's dirt bike leaned on its kickstand near the tool chest. Takoda had the spark plug out, examining the electrode and insulation as he chewed a mouthful of burger. Gunther arrived and stood in the doorway. Susan was a couple steps behind. Takoda looked up, then stood.

Gunther remained silent for a long moment, just staring at Takoda. Finally he said, "You're a real class act, aren't you, brother?" He spoke in Shawandasse, and coated the word "brother" with sardonic contempt.

Susan didn't speak Shawandasse—few people did, even among full-blooded Shawnee. But Tommy, Linda and their boys were all fluent.

"You still got her on a pedestal?" Takoda asked, in their indigenous language, chinning toward Susan. "I thought you nexted her."

"Oh, well I guess that makes it okay, then," Gunther said, feigning epiphany.

Takoda shrugged. "It is what it is."

"I've stuck up for you all your life," Gunther said, shaking his head. "At the casino; in school; even with Mom and Dad. I've actually got in fights when people called you a sociopath or a moron... because you're my brother. I never would have believed you'd do something like this."

Takoda's face remained perfectly blank, as all the Scarred Wolf men were naturally expert at.

"You know," Gunther said, "I just realized something about you: You've never apologized for anything in your whole life. Never once. I would think that this, at least, is something you'd be sorry about. But I'll die of old age before you could ever see that you were wrong about something."

"You're better off without her," Takoda said, pointing at Susan. "You think she's a special little snowflake, even now? Let me tell you about her: she's had the red carpet rolled out for her all her life. She's never had to work for anything. Everywhere she goes she gets special help and special attention that other people don't get. Teachers and all the guys who orbit her, and pervy old men—they all fawn over her and line up to make life easier for her. She got awarded letter grades at least two places higher than what she ever earned, and never had to do homework because there was no shortage of chumps willing to do it for her. You can bet money it's the same way for her in college."

"What is he saying about me?" Susan asked Gunther, who stood listening, dumbfounded.

"Everything has always just magically fallen into her lap," Takoda continued. "She's become convinced that it's because she's just so damn good. The world and everything in it is her entitlement—but listen to her talk about how oppressed she is, some time. How hard she's had to work, if you want a really good laugh. So nothing's ever good enough for her, and never will be. She deserves more simply because she exists. You think she was upset because you dumped her? Wake up! You're too naive to guess it, so I'll tell you: she's upset because you dumped her before she could dump you. You accidentally threw a wrench in her twisted psyche. She deserves more and better than you, bro, so how dare you act like you don't need her?"

"How did this all become about her?" Gunther asked.

"See?" Takoda chortled, setting down the ratchet, stepping around the dirt bike and advancing toward Gunther as he spoke. "You're proving my point. You naturally blame it all on me, like she had nothing to do with it. She gets off scot-free, and smells like a rose. I must have mind-controlled her or something. It had to be that because God knows she can't be held responsible for anything negative. Hasn't it ever bothered you that she has no friends? Oh, she's got other girls who are jealous of her, and guys who want to bang her..."

"What's Jennifer?" Gunther interrupted. "Chopped liver?"

"Jennifer would try to make friends with a rattlesnake," Takoda said, laughing harshly. He stopped with only a few feet between them.

Their father, mother, and little brother all arrived in a hurry right then, with Jennifer and Josh right behind. Uncle Jay and Jennifer's mother brought up the rear, only a couple seconds behind them.

"You're spending a lot of time making her sound bad," Gunther said. "That's just a smokescreen for what somebody who claims to be my brother did."

"What's going on?" demanded Tommy, his gaze bouncing back and forth between his sons.

"Ask him," Gunther said, index finger aimed at a point between his brother's eyes.

Everyone's attention shifted to Takoda who, for a moment, was uncharacteristically speechless.

"Somebody better answer me," Tommy said, voice raising.

Takoda thrust his chin toward Susan. "Me and Head Cheerleader there, Miss College Beauty Queen, just finished having some fun together."

Linda gasped, hands flying up to cover her mouth.

Both boys wore blank expressions, but Tommy knew them well enough to read the fury underneath. Himself stunned, he willed himself to move and betrayed no emotion of his own as he stepped between the two dangerous young men. He had taught his sons how to fight and one of them might very well seriously hurt or kill the other if they threw down.

"I don't know what she's going to say now," Takoda continued, in English. "But it was consensual."

Susan turned and fled into the darkness, wailing like a siren. Now Jennifer's jaw fell slack. Josh surveyed the scene, wanting to escape from it himself, but standing ready in case Tommy needed help if it got physical.

Linda stepped forward and slapped Takoda hard across the face, voicing how shamed and crestfallen she was in nigh-unintelligible screeches.

Takoda made no move, his head held high with stubborn pride.

Jennifer moved forward and positioned herself to face Gunther. She touched his shoulders soothingly and made eye contact. Gunther's eyes had gone dead, which meant he was possibly microseconds away from extreme violence.

"Please, cousin," Jennifer said. "Don't do anything to him. Please."

Her words did seem to rinse some of the death out of Gunther's stare.

"Congratulations, Takoda," Gunther said, cold as a tombstone. "Some say that betrayal is the highest form of coup you can count." His gaze shifted to Jennifer. "I'm not going to touch him, cousin. He was right about one thing: Susan's obviously not worth it. But neither is he."

Gunther stepped back, turned around and stalked away into the dark. Everyone knew better than to go after him. Trying to comfort him or make him talk would only make him angrier.

Tommy turned to face Takoda square-on. "Aren't you just full of yourself? You showed us all, huh? What a big, proud badass you are."

Takoda held his head erect, but his gaze involuntarily lowered. The chink in his armor...the fallibility of his Fuqitol prescription...was that he couldn't now look his father in the eye.

Gunther's Mustang fired up with a powerful snarl. He didn't let it warm up like usual, instead ripping wide strips out of the turf with his rear tires, peeling out of there.

"If you weren't his brother, he would have killed you just now," Tommy stated in cold, terse Shawandasse. "If you weren't my son..."

Tommy never finished the sentence. His gaze raked over his middle child like two red-hot spikes. Finally he just shook his head and turned away. He wrapped his arm around his wife and led her from the garage. Gradually everyone else left, too.

Takoda stood there like a statue for a moment after everyone had left him, then tried to shake it off. That look of disappointment in his father there at the end cut him deeper than anything could have. But he wasn't going to admit that—not even to himself.

Ramp up the dosage in his Fuqitol prescription—that was the answer. He cleaned the spark plug and reinstalled it, then examined the magneto. It looked like the party was breaking up now anyway, so he started the dirt bike's loud, two-cycle engine and adjusted the fuel-air mixture.

Rachel White Bird didn't speak Shawandasse, so most of the yelling had just sounded like gibberish to her. But from her vantage point in her parked car she had seen the confrontation and could guess the gist of what was said. Surely there was some way what she'd just learned about the family could be put to use.

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25

D MINUS 50

LAS ANIMAS COUNTY, COLORADO

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JENNIFER SCARRED WOLF was an early riser. Joshua Rennenkampf was not.

By the time Josh got up and dressed, her bed was made and she was nowhere to be found in the house. Josh peeked out the window and saw her Jeep was still there, so he figured she was out taking a walk or picking flowers or some of that other girly stuff she liked to do. It was one of the things he loved about her, come to think of it: she was so easy to please, even just nature made her happy.

Another thing he loved about her was that she didn't watch much TV. When she did, it was usually the Weather Channel. She'd sit and watch it like it was a fascinating interview or something.

Josh booted up his work station in the living room. He still had work to do on a couple of his contracts, but decided to get started on Tommy's request instead. This was the weekend, after all.

He had lost track of time when Jennifer came inside, shedding her jacket.

"Good morning," she greeted, cheerily. "Brrr. It's nippy up here in the mornings."

"Morning," he replied, taking a sip of coffee.

She pressed her small, cold hands against the back of his neck and he jumped at the icy sensation.

"Told you it was nippy," she said, laughing.

"You're such a brat in the mornings," he said, finding her cheer contagious despite himself. "Jeez, it's not that cold outside, but your hands are like icicles."

"Cold hands, warm heart," she sing-songed, sweetly.

"Where were you?"

"Oh, I played with the dogs a little," she said. "Brushed Indy down. I had to do something while you were sleeping your life away. I'll go make breakfast in a minute."

"Sounds good," he said, rubbing her hands in between his to warm them.

She sat in his lap and glanced at the monitor. "What's 'MK Ultra'?"

"Just one of the rabbit trails I followed, checking into something for your uncle."

Her expression turned thoughtful as she skimmed over some of the text on screen. “Monarch... Montauk... What is all this?”

Josh alt-tabbed to another window. “Oh, just some conspiracy stuff you probably don't want to hear about.”

“Ah,” she said, poking him in a ticklish spot. “Trying to find out whether I'm real or a lizard-person?”

“Oh, I know you're reptillian,” he deadpanned. “Your hands just gave it away, you two-legged iguana.”

She frowned, started to speak a couple times, then hesitantly said, "I've been meaning to ask you something."

Josh sobered in an instant. He dreaded "the Talk," but knew, sooner or later, they were going to have it. Was now the time? They'd already had a couple Big Talks recently—surely he had earned a postponement?

They had the Religion Talk, wherein he had assured her he had no problem with her faith. He believed in God; just didn't know much about Him and never made an effort to know. He'd never read the Bible before meeting her, and still wasn't very keen on it, or going to church. But he suspected there was something to Christianity, or the pinkos wouldn't be so rabid in their efforts to smear it.

They had the Political Talk, wherein she acknowledged the Hegelian patterns he pointed out in economic and foreign policy over the last century; conceding it might be plausible that people in authority could conspire to frame their enemies and kill innocents just to accumulate more power for themselves and push an agenda that couldn't achieve popular support otherwise. She just didn't like to dwell on it, and he could certainly understand that.

The Talk that was still forthcoming was about their future together—if there was to be one.

"I've been thinking about how my dad and Uncle Tommy were framed for that murder in Indonesia," Jennifer said.

Relief flooded through Josh's brain, despite the sobering subject of her murdered father. "Yeah?"

"Uncle Tommy thought it must be because of what they were investigating before they left. He couldn't think of anything else it could be."

Josh nodded. "It implicated some powerful people in some pretty serious crimes. It went high, high up in the so-called Justice Department."

"Which fits just perfect in your conspiratorial worldview," she said, tweaking his nose playfully.

Josh shrugged. "Guilty as charged."

"Well, this unit, or secret team you found out about," Jennifer went on. "What did you call what they do? Black Ops? False...?" She frowned, trying to remember the term.

"False flags," Josh said.

"False flag, right," Jennifer said. "Like the Gulf of Tonkin incident, or..."

"The Gulf of Tonkin was just a fabricated story," Josh said. "There was no actual operation. But it does fall under the same category as far as motive—if not execution."

"You said maybe even the JFK assassination," Jennifer reminded him.

"Well, Rocco Cavarra heard scuttlebutt about a secret team when he worked for Naval Intelligence, which may go back that far. It would make sense to me, but then every "lone nut" narrative makes me suspicious."

She tousled his hair. "No comment. But you said the reason they must be worried about the investigation is that they probably have another false flag planned."

Josh nodded.

"Well, did you change your mind?"

"No."

"Then why aren't you looking into that?"

Josh was surprised by the flow of this conversation. He was used to people he cared about trying to push his head into the sand, not deeper into his "tinfoil hat."

"I don't know," he said, shrugging.

"Don't you believe it's true?"

He nodded.

"Don't innocent people die whenever there's one of these false flags?"

"I don't know how many are always innocent," he said. "But yeah, people always die. That's the whole psychology behind false flags: they have to be shocking and tragic enough to illicit the desired response."

"Then aren't you morally obligated to do something about it?" she asked.

Josh sighed. "What's the point, Jennifer? I've been tipping at windmills for years. Nobody wants to believe what's going on. On the rare occasion they'll pay attention long enough for me to build a case and prove it to them, they just don't care enough to do anything but watch more TV. All it takes is a few hours of the idiot box and they forget everything except that I'm a hopeless whack-job. What's the point? I'm supposed to make people stop what's happening? You can't even get them to elect the lesser evil, anymore. Well...okay, the Bushes. Granted. But people are begging for what's coming, and they're gonna get it, good and hard. It doesn't matter what I do."

Still in his lap, she leaned back away from him a little. "So you're content to just hole up here like a hermit and let the world burn?"

"It wants to burn," he said.

She pressed her hands against both sides of his face. "Joshua, I might not have believed all this stuff if I hadn't seen some of it over in that horrible place. I still wish I didn't believe it. But I think it's real; and I know you do. Maybe if you can at least leak word out to the right people...I don't know. But you have to at least try to do something. For me, if nobody else."

Why did she have to pierce him with those big puppy-dog eyes when making her hare-brained request?

But she was right, of course.

Josh wanted to adopt the attitude of so many people who disgusted him, and just ignore an impending disaster rather than take action to avoid it. But there were people out there who saw the danger—Jennifer, Tommy, Gunther, Cannonball...maybe a handful of others around the world. Maybe not.

Were five people worth risking his life for? Worth charging at another windmill?

Yes, they were.

"Tommy hasn't said anything about it for quite a while," Josh said.

"I'll ask him about it next time we talk," Jennifer said. "It surprises me he'd just let this go."

Josh sighed. "You're right, Boo. I'll start digging again."

She kissed him and got up to make breakfast.

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26

D MINUS 49

BOSTON, MASSACHUSSETS

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MCMILLAN'S PHONE BEEPED first.

He stirred, groaning, and fumbled for the lamp switch. When it lit up, Jade Simmons rolled over and made a few groggy, profane remarks. Both had been enjoying deep sleep from post-coital exhaustion.

Macmillan took his glasses from the end table and slipped them on. Then, blinking repeatedly, focused on the backlit screen of his phone. "It's priority message from Bertrand," he said. "Encrypted."

"It better well be priority at this hour," Jade grumbled, throwing her forearm over her eyes.

Macmillan swung his feet over the edge of the mattress and lurched to a standing position. He only had two minutes from the time stamp on the text message. He woke up his tablet and opened the correct page in his browser, then fished his keys out of the pants hanging over the chair back. At the two minute mark he copied the code on the display of his key fob, and entered it into the appropriate field on the web page. The code table appeared on screen, with which he was to decode the text message.

By now Jade's phone was beeping.

Macmillan began decoding, and in two minutes Jade was doing the same.

Even busy with her own message, she noticed when he had finished, and gave him a curious glance.

"We've got the city," he said. "And the probable venue."

When she finished her own, she nodded. "It's a go. This means the event is coming within a couple months."

Macmillan began pulling his clothes on. He'd start making calls once dressed, and have a meeting in his office at 0630. He and most of his key support elements would be operating exclusively out of Texas for a while.

Jade also dressed. "The suspense is over," she said. "Just not the waiting."

"Looks that way," he agreed, cheerily, pulling on his socks. "Do you have teams going active, too?"

Her eyes now adjusted, she switched on the main overhead lights. The interior of the hotel room now stood out in harsh clarity. "You know I can't talk about my little projects." She flashed him that smirk he found so sexy for some reason. "So are the facilities going to be big enough at Amarillo Station?"

"I think we're going to need at least one more property to stage..." he began, then stopped himself.

She had done it again. After refusing to divulge her own ops, she had casually managed to make him confirm the location of his own.

That annoyed him for a couple reasons. One was the usual way she effortlessly wormed information out of him. The other was that she already suspected Amarillo was the city, and evidently knew something about his facilities there. He had no clue where any of her ops would be—unless Amarillo was one of them. If it was, then maybe that's how she knew. But if it wasn't, then she was being told more than he was...

"Why do you think my place is Amarillo?" he asked, tying his shoes.

She shrugged. "Isn't it?"

"You're not answering the question," he said. "And quit giving me that non-disclosure bullshit."

"Didn't I warn you when we first met, Jason," she asked, "that Lawrence would try to set us against each other? You're playing into his hands. This doesn't need to be a competition. There's a reason why I have more access than you. Think of it this way: you are Plan A; I'm Plan B. It's just normal security protocol that you wouldn't have access to my work. But I need to know yours, in case I have to pick up where you left off."

Macmillan didn't like her answer, but he had too many items on the day's agenda to waste time pursuing it further.

Jade remained in the hotel room after Jason left. Checkout wasn't until noon, so she might as well take advantage. She sent messages to the handlers for the assets she had in Amarillo, Fort Worth, Oklahoma City, Phoenix, and elsewhere. Then she sipped at her coffee while scanning the CNN site.

She read about the latest school shooting, this one in good old California, and frowned. How many more atrocities had to take place before the neanderthal gun nuts in flyover country would finally give up the death-grip on their deadly phallic substitutes?

There was a photo and one-sentence bio of the shooter. Jade sighed.

She multitasked back to her daily planner and entered a note for herself to look over the most recent rejects who had washed out of training. Often they took to conditioning well enough for simple tasks, but physically or otherwise just couldn't hack the advanced training. Another batch of them were being sent back to China Lake in the coming week.

The handlers replied by the time she had skimmed through the top stories. She blasted them with an encrypted message revealing the venue for the activation protocol and mission briefings.

Out loud, she had told Jason the Event would take place within a few months. In reality, she had a much more precise understanding of the timetable. She knew within a few days when the Event would kick off.

POTAWATTOMIE COUNTY, OKLAHOMA

Terrance Handel got a signature on his clipboard, left the package with the customer and returned to his truck. As he finished logging the delivery, his ears picked up a high frequency whine. He knew right away it didn't come from the truck, his cellphone, the smart clipboard or any of the electronic equipment he carried around. It was just something his ears picked up every now and then for no apparent reason. He assumed it was just a very mild symptom of his hearing disorder. It wasn't painful, and was quickly forgotten.

He started the truck and continued his route.

Terrance had been assigned this rural route after years of delivering inside OK City. He knew it well enough now that he usually didn't need to use the GPS...except inside the reservation, simply because he didn't get that many deliveries there and so hadn't learned the roads well.

Normally, on the reservation, he delivered to the casino and that was about it, but lately he'd been getting deliveries and pickups from the police station and the homes of a couple managers at the casino. If it kept up, he'd know the roads there without the GPS, too.

Terrance went about his day like normal, listening to a local Top 40 station whenever in his truck. Normally he would hit the gym for a while after work, but as the day went on he thought more and more about just going home to chill. He worked hard, consistently, and deserved a break from the regimen. By the time he clocked out, the decision was made.

He prepared a microwave dinner in his apartment later, turned the TV on and sat down in front of it to eat. Normally he would spend the evening texting the girls on his dating rotation, but he didn't even feel like going through all that trouble tonight. He'd been getting plenty of sex, so there was no urgency.

He flipped through dozens of channels, trying to find something worth watching. He finally settled on a sitcom, because one of the actresses was pretty and thin, but had a nice rack.

A beer commercial came on, and he remembered he had a 12-pack in the fridge. He fetched three back to the coffee table, kicked his shoes off, propped his feet up, and went to work on the first beer. Now another commercial was showing exotic vacation spots around the world. Some credit card with travel points or something. It got him thinking about vacation time.

Terrance had five PTO days saved up at work. It seemed like he should have more. He knew he'd vacationed in Mexico last year; California the year before; and Appalachia the year before that. He knew because of records and receipts, but he couldn't remember a thing about those vacations.

To anyone else this might have been so weird it was disconcerting, but Terrance Handel had gaps in his long-term memory going way back to childhood and grudgingly accepted it as just one of those things.

He accepted it, but it still felt like he'd been robbed when he couldn't remember enjoying those vacations. Of course he'd likely been blitzed on vodka the whole time.

I'm not going to get drunk at all next time, he thought as he watched video footage of translucent blue surf, golden sand and sexy beach bunnies.

The first gap in his memory occurred in grade school, long before he'd ever had his first swig of vodka. He had trouble sitting still in class; blurted out questions or answers without raising his hand and waiting to be called on; and showed too much competitive behavior on the playground. His parents took him to doctors for a while, then he went back to school but was sent to see some grownup every day who asked all kinds of questions.

Terrance noticed the gaps when his mother would ask what he'd learned...and he couldn't remember anything he'd done all day, besides riding to and from school. He already had to swallow pills every night; and after the memory problems began he had to swallow even more.

He had plenty gaps from his time in the Marine Corps. And then it wasn't just days at a time—most of his enlistment was just a fog. He remembered random minutia from those years, and that was it. He mentioned it when the doctors screened him at the V.A. Hospital once he got back, and they told him it was most likely a psychological reaction to his PTSD. He didn't think he had PTSD. He didn't have flashbacks or freak out when he looked up at ceiling fans or any of that Hollywood stuff. He didn't remember any traumatic experiences. That was part of the point: he didn't remember much of anything.

But he sure had some medals and certificates when he got back to civilian life.

Now the gaps were back to a manageable level. So maybe he had seen something traumatic overseas and his subconscious just blocked it out.

The sitcom ended and the news came on. Terrance finished a beer and started another.

The big story was about the investigation on the Delton Williams beating in Amarillo. Local blacks were convinced that they would be denied justice again. A reporter interviewed a young black woman with glasses and a hat turned sideways. On the screen toward the bottom, text read "Eye witness to the beating."

"These white cops pulled him over for no reason," the young woman said. "Just DWB. Drivin' While Black. With all the white drivers, they just look at the driver's license and let 'em go. But they surrounded this man's car from both sides. Drag him out on the street. Started beatin' him. They's laughin' and jokin' with each other while they beat him, too."

The sober-faced newscaster mentioned the scheduled date for the trial before moving on to the next story.

There was a school shooting in California. The owner of the Bar G ranch had recovered from his heart attack, but was now under investigation by the IRS. There was another college campus rape accusation. There was more tension between Israel and its neighbors, and threats were being made. The White House had given the Israeli prime minister an ultimatum about Jewish settlements in the occupied territories, but Jews were flooding into the small country from France, Germany and other parts of Europe. New settlements were popping up in the West Bank at a frenzied rate.

Then they got to a story that lightened the mood a little bit: an upcoming Woodstock-style festival being held out on the Nevada desert in the fall, called Autumn Rave.

Footage from the previous year's celebration was shown while the news anchor explained there would be music, dancing, motivational workshops and so on. It looked a lot like an updated Woodstock, by the images on screen.

It sounded kind of lame. Terrance wasn't into that scene. He wasn't even into music that much (though it was all right, he guessed).

A strange animation took place on screen as the anchorman kept talking: a mirror shattered, and in multiple shards of it the reflection of a butterfly appeared. The butterfly morphed into the Autumn Rave logo. Then the scene jumped back to last year's event footage.

There were several shots of young women with blurred or blacked-out video effects concealing what must be bared breasts. Even with strategic body parts concealed, Terrance grew aroused. They also interviewed some old dude who said his memory had been restored after participating in one of the workshops.

It wasn't lame, after all. He should spend his vacation at Autumn Rave. It might be life-changing.