

JEFFERSON'S ROAD: THE SPIRIT OF RESISTANCE

First SMASHWORDS Edition

© Michael J. Scott, 2010

All Rights Reserved

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Jefferson's Road: The Spirit of Resistance

Copyright © 2010 by Michael J. Scott

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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### Praise for The Spirit of Resistance:

Michael Scott's masterfully written novel explores what could be the very real, very private thoughts of angry American citizens... and what would happen if those citizens acted on their thoughts. Chillingly realistic; frightfully feasible.

\- Linda Yezak, Give the Lady a Ride

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A well-crafted, captivating thriller. Illuminating, thought-provoking narrative. Well placed twists. Inventive plot. Surefooted, accomplished writing. An impressive read.

\- Alan Chaput, Savannah Passion

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Well-written, well-researched book! I highly recommend it!

\- Jaffy, Amazon Kindle Reader

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I wondered if DHS was scanning my computer and creating a dossier with my name on it as I read! I'm truly looking forward towards the next installment.

\- Name mysteriously withheld...

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A deeply layered and well thought out story. This is going to be one of those 'buckle yourself in for ride' kind of books.

\- Missy Fleming, Mark of Eternity

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A most intriguing and complex storyline. A pleasure to read.

\- Andrew Burans, The Reluctant Warrior: The Beginning

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Exciting book, always running at a fast pace.

\- Neville Kent, The Secrets Of The Forest

***

### One

"It's evil."

"It's the lesser of two evils."

"It's still evil. You can't fight evil with evil. You know that."

"So what are we supposed to do, Peter? Nothing? Sit around and wait for something good to drop out of the sky?"

I pulled away from the window and sat on the ledge. Martin glanced up from the easy chair, one leg draped lazily over the armrest. In his blue jeans and T-shirt he looked harmless enough. Not weak, though. Definitely not weak. Martin's arms were knotted muscles from four years in the Marines, two of them fighting terrorists overseas. He smiled broadly, if only to keep me from mistaking his tone. He wasn't mad at me. He was just mad.

His eyes. His eyes were dangerous. And I strongly suspected he would move this conversation from the theoretical to the practical if I lost the argument.

I had to try harder. "It's not that you wait for something to 'drop out of the sky.' It's that you wait for God to act. And you trust that He will. It's called faith."

He kept smiling and turned away, picking up the half-empty bottle of Killian's on the end table. He'd already ridden my case for not buying American beer. I pointed out that it was still bottled in New Jersey, but he just shook his head. It was his way of saying I didn't get it.

"You ever heard of a Deus Ex Machina?" he said.

"God out of the machine."

"That's what playwright's relied on when they wrote themselves into a corner."

"Yeah, I know what it is."

"The gods would just show up at the end, rising up from a trap door in the stage and make everything all right. Modern writers don't use it anymore. Hell, you couldn't even get a book or play or movie considered if you took that approach."

"Is this about my writing career?" I hastily tried to change the subject. He was backing me into just such a corner where that kind of theophany would've proved useful. "'Cause I've still got a real good shot at finding an agent."

"You know why writers don't use that technique anymore?"

He wasn't going for it. I'd hoped the beer would've kicked in and helped him jump the tracks onto a new line of thinking. Commenting on my thin chances of making it as a writer was one of Martin's favorite subjects. At least it felt that way, sometimes. "My little brother," he'd say. "World famous author. Oh wait, you're not! How many books have you written now? Five? How many have you had published? Zero. What's Einstein's definition of insanity?" To keep doing the same thing and expect different results.

Any moment now, I hoped he'd start. Instead, he said again, "Why don't they use that technique?"

It was not a rhetorical question, and I knew it. His tone demanded an answer. "'Cause it ain't realistic," I mumbled.

"It ain't realistic. I am not against faith. I carried a King James Bible with me every time I went into combat. Right here." He patted his chest. "Wore it over my heart just in case something tore through the Kevlar. And if that bullet wasn't stopped by my Bible, then at least it would carry its words and embed them in my heart. I can't think of a better way to die than that."

I nodded. "You've told me." At least a hundred times.

"I am not against faith. But I am against using faith as an excuse for non-action, as a cover for cowardice."

"That's not fair. Just 'cause I didn't sign up—"

"I didn't say that. I ain't talking about you going in the service. It's an all-volunteer military. You wanted to pursue your writing career," he derided. "Can't do that when you're getting shot at, can you?"

I glared at him. He sipped his beer, bemused. Then all levity left his eyes. "I am asking you to consider for a moment whether or not God isn't waiting for someone to step up and take action. Like Edmund Burke said. 'All that is required for evil to prosper is for good men to do nothing.'"

"It wasn't Edmund Burke."

"Well, who was it?"

I shrugged. "No one really knows. It's always been attributed to Burke, but no one knows for sure."

"So he might've said it. So what? The question is: are you still gonna do nothing? Are you still gonna wait for your Deus Ex Machina? Or are you finally gonna say 'enough is enough', and pick up a weapon to defend what's right?"

"I'm not saying we should do nothing."

He stood up and faced me, one hand on his belt, the other holding his beer. Beneath his Cincinnati Reds ball cap, cold blue eyes took my measure, as if weighing whether or not I was even worthy of his time. I felt like our entire relationship hung in the balance. I shivered.

He spoke quietly and firmly. "Then what should we do?"

I tried to meet his eyes, but found I could not. I needed a different tack. "Marty, we have elections in this country." He sneered and walked away, presumably for another beer. "Free and fair elections," I called to his back. "We're supposed to be a government of the people, by the people, for the people." He came back into the room with two beers. He handed one to me.

"The people have spoken," I said. "Just because we don't like the results doesn't mean we have the right to force them to choose otherwise. Freedom to choose must mean the freedom to choose wrong."

He sat back down, this time on the armrest. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and uncapped his beer. "Ever hear that governments rule by consent of the governed?"

"John Locke."

"That means that every government is chosen." He put 'chosen' in quotes with his fingers. "Hitler was chosen by the people. They elected a tyrant. Lenin was chosen, if only in the sense that the Russian people were sheep, and they chose to let him oppress them. King George was chosen, or at least until we decided to choose differently, and took up arms against our oppressor." He kept emphasizing 'chosen.'

"The American people are sheep, Peter. Just dumb sheep! They'll follow anyone who promises to keep them warm and well-fed. This man we've elected is a Marxist. He can't support and defend the Constitution, 'cause he doesn't believe in what the Constitution says. He doesn't believe in the rights of man. He doesn't believe in the right to life, 'cause he kills unborn babies. He doesn't believe in the right to liberty, 'cause he wants to take our guns away, which is our very source and protection of that liberty. And he doesn't believe in the right to property, 'cause he wants to redistribute the wealth, instead of letting hard-working Americans keep what they earn."

He rose from the chair and came over close, leaning into me, his eyes searching. I could smell the beer heavy on his breath. "Do you remember what Dad made us memorize?"

"Jefferson." I shrank from the word, from him.

"He knew this day would come. I've thought about this over and over again. I can't tell you how many times—when they were shooting at me over there—and I'd get back, and I'd hear what those liberals were saying over here. His letter to William Smith."

"I know it, Marty."

He quoted it anyway, measuring the words in his tone, making them his own. "'God forbid we should ever be twenty years without such a rebellion. The people cannot be all, and always, well-informed. The part which is wrong will be discontented, in proportion to the importance of the facts they misconceive. If they remain quiet under such misconceptions, it is lethargy, the forerunner of death to the public liberty. And what country can preserve its liberties, if its rulers are not warned from time to time, that this people preserve the spirit of resistance? Let them take arms.'" He beat the windowsill with his open palm, accenting his point. "'The remedy is to set them right as to the facts, pardon and pacify them. What signify a few lives lost in a century or two? The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time, with the blood of patriots and tyrants. It is its natural manure.'"

I sighed and pushed away from him, ducking under his outstretched arm. "I-I don't know. Assassinating the President? How are we supposed to pull that off?"

He smiled. Satisfied. I realized then that he'd won the argument. The questions were no longer theoretical. He put a comforting hand on my shoulder. "Just leave that to me."

I swallowed the beer, and felt numb.

### Two

I went to the back porch while Martin made a phone call. Sitting on the railing that overlooked the woods, I trained my eyes through the maze of trees and browning leaves, staring through the exposed underbrush, hoping to catch sight of a buck or doe. At almost anytime of the year they could be seen wandering through the woods, their noses probing the ground, large ears perked for any sound. Sometimes a breath of wind would carry our scent from the house in their direction, and they would lift their noses, sniffing the air, then turn with a muted bark and flee farther into the woods, white tails bobbing into nothingness.

There were no deer I could see at this time of day. Not that it mattered. It wouldn't be deer season for another week and a half anyway. Only the bow hunters would be out now. The sun shone citrine near the horizon, casting beams through the crown of trees and throwing a golden hue through the woods. Daylight savings had ended just a few days before, edging the darkness an hour closer in the name of preserving sunlight for a populace who no longer farmed, who mostly slept in. Last night's election ended late in the evening, with giddy newscasters declaring victory for the Democratic candidate long before even half the precincts had reported results.

It made no difference who won. This year's election season offered Americans a choice between two candidates whose policies were virtually indistinguishable. It didn't matter if the winner was a Democrat or a Republican— either one would edge us closer toward big government socialism and further away from the early vision of the founding fathers. As Martin often said, "Would you like to get hit by a red Mack truck, or a blue Mack truck?"

I picked at the peeling paint on the railing. The bright yellow finish had corroded long ago, leaving the mottled gray of weathered wood exposed to the elements. Dad wouldn't have liked to see his house falling into such disrepair. He left the place to Martin and me in his will five years ago, along with the diminishing remains of a $250,000 life insurance policy. Taxes claimed most of the money, but what was left was enough to live on for a time while I pursued my writing career.

There was probably enough left to fix up the place if we wanted to sell it—though I doubted either of us could stomach the thought. Martin and I had both been born in the house. Mom died giving birth to me. Dad followed twenty years after—like he was waiting for his sons to grow up and stand on their own before joining his bride in heaven.

It was the only home we'd ever known.

All told, we owned twelve acres just off Route 104 in the town of Ontario, Wayne County, New York. Around us, most of the farms had either sold out to developers who'd left the land vacant in the housing market crash of '07 and '08, or were apple orchards contracted to local firms that employed migrant workers during the harvest.

Our land had never been built into a farm—at least, not anytime during the past fifty to a hundred years that I could tell. There was an old stone wall that ran along the northern edge of the property. Some barbed wire was caught up and buried in with the stones, now rusting into dust while the farmland it once guarded had long ago surrendered to the woods and deer. We used our land mainly for hunting and harvesting firewood for heat during the winters. A portion to the east of our house had been cleared and was well suited to a garden, but neither of us had the inclination to work it, and it was overgrown with brush and weeds. Episodically, I would grab a rake or a hoe and tear into the brush, threatening to bring back the garden Mom or Dad had worked so hard to scratch from the earth. It was an idle threat, and the thorn bushes and weeds seemed to know it.

Writing doesn't provide much physical outlet, and on those days when the stress of addressing the world's problems through the pen grew too tiresome, or when the words refused to cooperate, I would come out to the garden and thrash about, fulminating conquest. Later, after the effort exhausted me, I would retire to the porch and drink a cold one, congratulating myself on the garden's progress.

But nothing ever got planted. The weeds returned, often with a vengeance, and I would go back to my rants and constipated complaints.

Martin never said much during these times. He'd just shake his head and wait for something to get done. He seemed to know it was a pointless effort. My own way of letting off steam.

I looked at my hands. The calluses from my last foray into farming had faded back into smooth skin. I felt very much like picking up the shovel or hoe and going at it again, but the thought of tearing my palms in a futile expression was dissuasive.

And it wouldn't do a thing to relieve the pressure I now felt.

Something had happened to Martin. I looked back at the house, watching him talk on the phone to Jerry Knapp, our mutual best friend and fellow miscreant. Jerry lived on the outskirts of Webster. His father owned a gun shop, which Jerry pretty much ran for him and expected to inherit when the old man died. No doubt the conversation involved the guns. Martin was animated, waving one arm angrily in the air while the other crushed the phone to his ear. He'd only been back from the war for nine months, having taken some shrapnel from a roadside bomb outside of Tikrit. Most of the wound was in his right shoulder, though he could still handle a gun and do most things he enjoyed. But sometimes it pained him. They'd gotten most of the fragments out, but a few pieces were embedded so deep it was deemed too risky to bother.

When he first returned from the war he was quiet. I learned quickly not to ask him about the bomb or his experiences there. Sometimes he'd open up, and spill some disconnected anecdote about rebuilding a school or helping a little girl find her parents. Most times, he was silent, answering questions monosyllabically when he said anything at all

During baseball season, he brightened up considerably, even though the Reds had absolutely no chance of making it to the playoffs this year. But toward the end his countenance grew darker, his diatribes more pointed. The election season had him on edge, and with each new revelation about the leftist leanings of either candidate, he'd only grown angrier and more frustrated. Now he was completely over the wall.

In a way, I suppose it was my fault. I'd made the mistake of trying to talk him out of it, instead of simply nodding my head and listening agreeably. "Man, what do you keep griping for?" I'd said. "It's not like there's anything we can do about it."

He'd closed his mouth then, perhaps rightly concluding I'd heard enough and didn't want to listen anymore. But as he'd grabbed his coat and stalked off into the night he'd muttered, "Somebody ought to do something." That was two days ago. Yesterday, after completing our civic duty by casting ballots that didn't matter, wouldn't make a dent in the electoral tally from New York—weighed down as we were by the liberal leanings of the Big Apple to the southeast—he'd stopped the car outside the polling place, turned to me and said, "Just theoretically, suppose somebody did do something. What do you think would happen?"

"What do you mean?" I'd said.

"Well, a single person can't do nothing about Congress or the media, or Hollywood. But the President—now that's a different story."

"Whaddya mean 'do something?' Like run for office?"

He shook his head. "Don't be stupid. Ain't nobody gonna vote for you or me. We'd have to sell ourselves out and become like lawyers or politicians to even get close, and by the time we got there, we'd be just as corrupt as the ones we're trying to replace."

"Well, that's the problem then. It's the system, not the man in it."

"Yeah, it's the system. But that's what's gotta be brought down."

"Okay. How?"

"Well, that's what I'm thinking. D'you know how World War Two got started?"

"Yeah, Hitler invaded Poland. Or Czechoslovakia, or something like that."

"Yeah, but how did Hitler get started?"

"I dunno. He took advantage of the economy. Got himself into power by giving the Germans a scapegoat. The German economy was in the toilet because of the peace accords of World War One."

"Right. That's what I was getting at. World War Two changed everything. Our whole way of life accelerated with the dropping of the atom bomb, the invention of the computer, television, radar, advances in avionics. All that found its source in the turmoil of World War Two. Necessity is the mother of invention. But World War Two came out of World War One. So how did World War One start?"

"Well, it was a tumultuous time. There was a lot of change in the air from the Industrial Revolution. The old ways were crumbling. The new ways were untested and scary. I think it was Malcolm Muggeridge who said, 'the Rock of Ages has been blasted for us.'"

"Right. Sound familiar?"

"What, you think it's the same thing today?"

"I think it's very similar. I think that's what our culture wars are all about. The last couple of elections have been down to the razor—and despite the fact the country is more divided than ever between left and right, it's still going right down the drain. Just like it was at the turn of the last century."

"Okay." I was puzzled. Martin had an intensity in his eyes I hadn't seen before. "So what's with the history lesson?"

"Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it."

"George Santayana."

"Right. So today is a lot like it was a hundred years ago. What broke it all out? What burst the bubble and brought about the war?"

"Oh. The assassination of the Archduke Ferdinand by a Serbian nationalist."

"One man. One bullet. Changed the world."

"What are you suggesting?"

"I'm suggesting that maybe it's time for the tree of liberty to get a little refreshment."

It was the first inkling he was going down Jefferson's road to revolution. I didn't like the look of it at all. "You are speaking hypothetically, right?"

He laughed and rubbed my shoulder, then started the car and drove us to the store for chips and beer. Later, as we walked back to the car, he'd said. "What if I weren't speaking hypothetically?"

I clutched the six-pack we'd pulled from the cooler. The bottles were cold. I felt their chill run up through my arms and freeze my insides. "Then that would be treason. And it would be stupid—suicidal, 'cause there's no way you'd get by the Secret Service."

"What if you could? What if you could actually get away with it?"

"It would still be stupid. And it would be immoral."

"Why?"

I shrugged and climbed into the car. "What do you mean, 'why?' It's murder. Murder's wrong."

"What if you were killing Hitler?"

"That's different. Hitler was evil."

"So it's okay to kill evil people."

"That's—aah." I shook my head and waved him off. Martin drove us home. He let the subject die the rest of the night. But this morning he brought it on full force. All hypothetically speaking, of course.

Except, I feared, he wasn't.

I heard the screen door open behind me. Martin stepped out onto the porch. "That was Jerry," he said, coming up to stand beside me. I nodded. "He's coming by when he gets off work."

It was time to be direct. "I don't want to do this."

"Do what?"

"What you're hypothetically talking about."

He leaned against the porch, a penknife in his hands, cleaning the dirt from his fingernails. "Scared?"

"Hell, yeah!"

He nodded. "It passes. First time I went into combat I nearly crapped my pants. They try to prepare you for it. In basic they fire live rounds over your head while you're crawling through the barbed wire. It helps a bit—but even then you know it's not real. You know they're trying to miss. I think some guys get shot 'cause they still believe that. It's like they can't wrap their heads around the idea that someone might be shooting at them, and not just toward them. Next time you go out it gets a little easier. Third time, fourth time, you don't even notice. Ah hell, you still get scared. Don't get me wrong. But it doesn't paralyze you. You can do your job. The fear is like a friend to keep you on edge. Keep you alert. Keep you alive."

"I don't want it to pass, Marty. I just don't want to do it."

He grabbed my shoulder and gave it a comforting squeeze. "I know. I won't ask you to do anything you don't wanna do."

"I don't want you to do it, either."

The squeeze grew hard. He pulled me around and forced me against the column, his eyes boring into mine. "Well, that might not be an option. If we do this, I'll need your help. You and I, we're all we've got. I know you're scared. I know you don't want to do this. But what's right is right. And it's time you took a stand."

"Marty!"

"Some men are born great. Some achieve greatness." He let go of my shoulder. "And some have greatness thrust upon them."

I rubbed my left shoulder. It hurt. He might've bruised it. "William Shakespeare. Twelfth Night."

He grinned and tousled my hair. "You always know the source, don't you Peter?"

He was wrong. I didn't know the source of this at all.

### Three

Jerry showed up a little after seven. He brought pizzas with him, which ought to have gone down very well with our beer. I could barely taste mine. We sat around the kitchen table with a catalog of Barrett rifles Jerry brought from the store. The page was open to the M107.

Jerry read aloud, "The Barrett M107 is a .50 BMG caliber Special Applications scoped semiautomatic sniper rifle. Meant for long-range firing, it has the capability to hit on target from a distance of 2,000 meters. The complete system consists of the .50 caliber semiautomatic rifle, various optic sights that can be used in all kinds of weather, day and night, a ten-round detachable magazine, detachable bi-pod, tactical soft case, transport case, detachable sling, cleaning equipment and manuals. The rifle weighs ten kilograms unloaded with a barrel length of 736 millimeters." He folded up the catalog, looked at us and said, "And, I might add, it's completely illegal in New York State."

"So how do we get one?" said Martin.

"Got to order it special."

"And the suppressor?"

Jerry chuckled. "Good luck with that. You make a move to buy one and the ATF will be breathing down your neck."

"Yeah, yeah. Keep talking. How do we get one?"

Jerry grinned and said to me, "Persistent little booger, isn't he?" I didn't answer. Jerry went on. "I got a friend in East Rochester owns a machine shop. He builds parts for me when I need him. He could probably make one to fit."

"Untraceable?"

Jerry shrugged. "I guess so. Parts are custom made. Not like he signs 'em or anything."

I listened to this exchange with growing apprehension. Sometime between the back porch and Jerry showing up, I'd convinced myself this wasn't really happening, that my brother was just talking hypothetically, processing out his frustration through some kind of violent fantasy.

"'Course, you get caught with it, I don't know you at all."

"Good luck with that. All they gotta do is open up our high school year book."

"I'm just saying. You want to buy something like this, just keep it on the down low."

Martin shook his head and grinned. Ever since middle school he, Jerry and I had been involving ourselves in one kind of escapade or another. First there was the time we took over the photography lab in seventh grade. It was a simple matter of locking the teacher in the darkroom with the lights off until he cried to be let out. The principal called our father on that one, but Dad only shook his head and said the teacher, Mr. MacGuire, was a pansy for being afraid of the dark. Jerry was grounded for a week and told not to play with us Baird brothers for a while, but Dad made sure we apologized to the Knapps, who probably forgave us too easily.

In high school, we were more daring. Jerry managed to obtain a key to the bus garage. Before the Friday night football game in Fairport, we snuck in after school with a set of socket wrenches and climbed aboard the football team's designated bus. We removed all the bolts to the seats, leaving them to fall over loosely as soon as the players climbed aboard and started on their way. The school called the cops on that one, but Jerry threw the key into the bushes before anyone suspected it was us. We never got caught, and never told anyone either. It was the closest thing to a brush with the law we'd ever had. Things settled down for us after the Knapps moved to Webster to be closer to the store. Jerry had to transfer to a different district, and our days of conspiring against the school were over.

Jerry was saying, "Seeing as it's my neck on the line here, if you don't mind my asking, what do you want all this for?"

Martin poked a finger at him. "See that? That's how I know you'd never make a real arms dealer. Now a real arms dealer doesn't want to know. Like Lucius Fox in Batman. He just supplies what's ordered. No questions asked. That way he can't be held responsible."

Jerry grimaced. "Sorry, Bruce Wayne! I thought we were friends."

"Try Tim McVeigh," I said. Martin cast me a warning look. I ignored it. If he was gonna drag Jerry into this too, the man had a right to know what he was in for. Besides, I could use an ally.

"McVeigh?"

"Marty here wants to assassinate the President."

Jerry stared at me a moment, then started laughing. He shook his head and picked up his beer. "Shoot. You two had me going. Can't believe I fell for that."

Martin leaned back in his chair. "Little brother's only half-right. I don't wanna just assassinate a President. I want to start a war." He stood up and walked over to the sink.

Jerry's laughter faded. "What are you talking about?"

Martin turned around and leaned against the counter. "Revolution. We need one. Our entire country's been taken over by a bunch of Marxists and Socialists. Our own government has turned against us. It's a bureaucracy now, bloated and ineffective for anything except stifling freedom and oppressing people. Since the 1900s the federal government has grown to be about ten times its rightful size. People aren't free anymore, Jerry. And what's worse: about half of them don't want to be. The other half—people like you and me and your Dad—they're suffocating."

"Well, how is starting a war going to do anything about that?"

Martin ran a hand through his hair. "It's—ah—it's sorta complicated."

"There's another problem," I added quickly. Martin did not look happy. "The federal government is like the Hydra. From Greek mythology," I added for Jerry's sake. He wasn't as well-read as Martin and I. He didn't have our father. "You cut off one head. You kill the President. Cut off one head. Another's going to spring right up in its place. Vice President becomes the President. You kill off both of them. Now the Speaker of the House becomes the President. I'm sure you don't want her to lead."

"I don't want any of them to lead," Martin said. "I want to bring the whole thing down."

"Yeah, but won't trying to assassinate the President just make everything worse?" Jerry was starting to warm up. "I mean, look-lookit—look at nine eleven. They brought the Towers down, right? What the government do? Pass the Patriot Act, right? I mean, hell, I thought it was a good idea. Go get the bad guys. But those civil libertarians have a point. They can use that act. They've expanded their powers, and we've got less freedoms now!"

"I know." Martin folded his arms. He looked like an impatient high school teacher.

"So you're just gonna make it worse!"

"Exactly."

Jerry looked at me for help. I shrugged. I didn't understand it either. "How does that help you?" he said.

He came back to the table and sat down. "When we went into Iraq, we were first hailed as heroes. We brought down Saddam Hussein. Killed off his sons. Liberated the people. Within a very short time the United States military was bogged down trying to keep the peace between the rival factions of Shiites and Sunnis. We imposed martial law, and the people revolted. They used guerilla warfare tactics to keep us off balance. It wasn't until the surge that we were finally able to quell the resistance and bring about some order to that country.

"Right now our country is divided, and our military is exhausted. We just elected a man to be President who is a Marxist, but he's also inexperienced. And his staff is inexperienced. We take him out and his administration will overreact. They will impose martial law on the country. Hell, they almost imposed it when the banks collapsed.

"Once martial law goes into effect, and the people see what's happened to their rights, that's when the resistance will start. The government will continue to do what the government's been doing. They will continue to try to control power, enforce their will; but the military, burned out from the war, won't be able to help. In fact, they won't even want to help, because most of them would be on our side. They're not going to agree with this guy's government. That, and the fact the libs have gutted the armed forces anyway—they won't be much use.

"The media won't be able to help out, because the martial law will affect them, too. And with the economy in the shape that it's in, the whole thing will collapse like a house of cards."

Jerry shook his head. "I-I don't know, Marty. The whole thing just sounds too far-fetched to me. I mean, come on. What are we here? We're just three guys sitting around a kitchen table in the middle of the country, drinking beer and eating pizza. You really think you can take on the federal government?"

Martin shoved a bite of pizza into his mouth and said between chews, "Why not? That's how our country got started."

"Yeah, but then the government was Great Britain, and they were a thousand miles away across an ocean."

"Yes, but you're also forgetting that Osama Bin Laden lives in a cave somewhere on the border of Afghanistan and Pakistan, and he's taken on the U.S. Why do you think he's so frickin' popular over there?"

"Yeah," I said, "look how well it's worked out for him."

"Look, all I'm saying is that it's possible to do this. If there was ever a time in the last fifty years to try to do something about our country's decline, this is it. We may never get a better chance. Now, I'll understand if you ladies want to sit on the sidelines and watch your country slide into moral, economic and political ruin, but I feel like standing up and doing something about it. 'Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world.' Why?"

I frowned. "'Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has.' Margaret Mead."

He sighed. "Look," he said to Jerry, "if it makes things any easier, all I need from you is the gun, rounds, and flash suppressor."

Jerry was silent for a long moment. Then he said, "Hell, Marty. We've been friends forever. If you're doing this, I'm with you. I never liked that guy anyway. 'Some people just need killing.'"

I stared at him.

"Solid Snake. Metal Gear? Online gaming?"

I shook my head.

### Four

Jerry and Martin continued talking in the kitchen. I got up and returned to my perch on the back porch. The sky was pitch black now. A warm breeze blew the smell of decaying leaves and musty earth across the yard. Light from the single streetlamp on the road in front poured white across the lawn, casting stark shadows that stretched away from the house like a living thing, as if something were thrusting the blackness of my brother's thoughts out of the house and into the deep woods.

What's going to happen when they find out about this? The feds would surely swoop down here and cart my brother off to prison or to a mental institution—possibly taking Jerry and myself along with him just for good measure. It wouldn't matter that I disagreed with Martin's plotting. The mere fact I refused to inform on him would make me complicit.

It'd probably be the mental institution. The court would order a psychological evaluation, determine that he was suffering from some form of post-traumatic stress disorder—Gulf War syndrome, or something like that (hell, maybe even a new diagnosis)—and cart him away for "treatment."

I think the Soviets did something like that with political dissidents. How could anyone possibly disagree with the State? You must be crazy!

I chipped away at the paint. We really should get out here with some scrapers and a couple of gallons of Sherwin Williams. Sometime before the whole house fell apart through neglect.

My brother wasn't crazy. He was angry. He was frustrated. And he was coldly rational. I didn't think for a minute his plan would work. Guys who try to kill the President always get caught. In the twenty or so different attempts on Presidents' lives throughout our nation's history, none were committed by an "unknown assailant." They always caught the guy.

Or maybe they just found a patsy to pin it on. I smirked. That theory was nothing new. Oliver Stone practically built his movie career on it.

I stopped scratching the paint long enough to recognize what was really bothering me—even frightened to discover it wasn't the moral question which worried me most. I wasn't quite ready to agree with Jerry that "some people just need killing." And who pulls their quotes from a video game anyway? Ignorant hick!

No, the moral question was a smokescreen. True, I didn't fully agree that assassination was the morally right course of action, but I didn't exactly disagree with it, either. If Hitler'd been assassinated, a lot of lives could've been saved. I still wondered whether or not we shouldn't have sent a small strike team into Baghdad and taken out Saddam Hussein with a single bullet, rather than sending in the army. Probably ought to do it to Ahmadinejad. Maybe even a couple of them nasty Mullahs who kept preaching hate and jihad.

No. What was really bothering me was the fact that I would lose my brother. There was no way they wouldn't catch him. They'd find trace evidence. A fingerprint. A drop of blood. A shell casing. A frickin' hair follicle! Almost anything. And it would tie him to the crime, and they'd ship him off to the mental ward or the electric chair. I'd seen too many episodes of C.S.I. to even think differently. The feds were just too good at catching people.

Or worse, someone would let slip what Martin intended. Could be Jerry. Could be his machinist friend. Could be someone we hadn't even met yet. Someone would catch wind and let it slip out. Someone would overhear a conversation—maybe even an old army buddy to whom he complained one time—someone would put two and two together, call out the Secret Service.

And my brother would be gone.

I turned around and peered through the window. Yellow light from the living room peeked through my mother's lace curtains. Between the stitched paisley and floral patterns I could see the television flickering against the wall. Jerry had turned on Jeopardy!, and was trying his best to fathom why anyone would want to memorize so many insipid factoids. It's not like the show paid out any real cash. Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? or Deal or No Deal? paid out better.

Martin was the only real family I had. Oh, there were a couple of cousins living down south in Canandaigua, and an uncle over in Auburn, but nobody we really connected with. And not even Jerry could play with quotes like Martin.

He just didn't have our father.

Dad was a classic conservative. He'd served his country honorably in Vietnam fighting the Communist Threat (yellow reds, he called them), only to come back and find them taking over the country he'd fought to defend. Dad hated the war. Not because we fought it, but because we fought without the will to win. "If you're going to get into a war, get in a war to win it," he'd always say. Dad used to say we should've bombed Hanoi then bombed Berkeley.

He'd hated the way conservatives continued to cave to the liberal elites. "They lack the will to win," he'd said. Too many of them were knee-jerk conservatives, embracing the political philosophy of the right without bothering to understand its historical or philosophical underpinnings. I sometimes wondered if he oughtn't to have home-schooled us. Maybe if Mom were alive he would have. He kept us in school, but then he schooled us even harder when we got home. Dad made us read the Federalist Papers, the Anti-Federalist Papers, the writings of Thomas Jefferson, the political essays of John Locke, Thomas Hobbes' Leviathan, among others. He pushed us to memorize significant passages of political writings and the Bible.

"'Like arrows in the hands of a warrior,'" he'd quote, "'so are children in the days of your youth. Blessed is he whose quiver is full of them.' You boys are the only two arrows I got. I'm going to send you out as far and as fast as I can. I will send you straight and true to the heart of the matter, and you will be my weapons to turn this country back from tyranny."

We took it to heart. I became a writer, drawn to blog about politics and pop culture. Martin entered the military. But after Dad died, we took our foot off the gas. It was like he was the rocket engine driving our success, and without him pushing us to greater heights, we fell back to earth. I sometimes wonder what would have happened—what we would've become—had he lived a little longer.

I couldn't help wondering what he would think of Martin's latest plot. In some ways, it reminded me of the time Martin decided he wanted to swim the length of the Finger Lakes. All eleven of them—including the two that are illegal: Hemlock and Canadice. His plan was to start with the smallest, Canadice, at only three miles long, work his way up through Honeoye and Otisco, and then do Hemlock, Conesus, Owasco, Skaneateles, Canandaigua, and then Keuka, at nineteen and a half miles long. Finally, he would tackle the two largest: Seneca, at thirty-eight miles, and Cayuga, at thirty-eight point two.

I never thought he'd make it. The English Channel is only twenty one miles across from Dover to Calais—and though there's a world of difference between swimming in freshwater to salt, the distance alone would crush him long before he got to Seneca or Cayuga. For an entire year he practiced every day he could, spending an extended time flopping about in Lake Ontario off Sodus Point then keeping it up with daily swims at the YMCA in West Webster during the winter.

Then one day he came home and announced he was ready. That weekend we climbed into Dad's pick up and drove toward West Canadice. Martin's goal was to start at the southern end and work his way north. Dad and I would follow along beside him in the canoe, ready to pull him in the moment we spotted trouble. We got down to the edge of the lake, and before we could even get the canoe in the water, someone spotted Martin's swimming trunks and called the Sheriff's office. Or maybe he just happened to be in the area. We never did find out how he got there so quickly. All I know is that we spent the day paddling about in the canoe, and Martin never did get to go in the water.

As I watched him now from the back porch, I began to hope this latest ambition would wind up in the ash heap of Martin's big ideas, right alongside the quest to swim the length of the Finger Lakes. I had no doubt my brother would take this about as far as he could go with it, but in the end, the threat of getting caught—or just the utter futility of his plan—would grind his scheme to a halt.

I couldn't have been more wrong.

### Five

I didn't hear Martin raise the subject of assassination again for the next few weeks. Thanksgiving was on its way, and once more we were invited by the Knapps to their house for dinner. It was an annual tradition, begun in earnest when my father died. Don and Mary Knapp were what my father had called 'good people.' Both were unrepentant Baptists—meaning they wouldn't see the truth no matter how many times Dad tried to convert them to the rightness of the Methodist doctrine. But they were Christians well enough. They'd always been willing to invite us to church or to lend us a hand whenever Dad's heart condition got the best of him. Mary would sometimes make dinners and bring them by, if only out of compassion for three men who didn't know their way around the kitchen. I never bothered to tell her that Dad was, in fact, an awesome cook—and I, his protégé—because we didn't want to spoil her fun. She cleaned, too, or did until she wasn't able to get up and out as much as she used to.

Despite Mary's desire to cook and prepare everything for the holiday meal, I always insisted on bringing a dessert. Usually a pumpkin or apple pie. Jerry was always fond of mincemeat, but as I couldn't stand the taste, I never made the attempt. I always told him I'd never know if it turned out right or not.

The Monday before Thanksgiving Day, Martin walked in the door at eight o'clock. I frowned because I hadn't heard him leave, and had assumed he was sleeping off the bourbon and beer from the previous night. He must've had less than I'd imagined—less than I had, at least—because he walked in briskly with as hearty a "Morning!" as I'd heard him say in years.

"Morning, yourself. Thought you were still in bed."

He shook his head. "Nah. I been up since six. I left some coffee for you."

"Tossed it. I thought it was from yesterday."

"Probably old anyway. You make fresh?"

I poured him a cup. He sipped it gratefully, then said, "Get your coat. I want to show you something."

"Dude, I'm not even dressed yet."

"Well, throw some pants on then. Better get some shoes, too. It's cold outside."

I cradled my coffee back upstairs and threw on yesterday's jeans, and was just slipping into my shoes when he stuck his head through the door. "You coming?"

"Give me minute! Sheesh!"

I was still tucking my shirt into my pants when I followed him outside. He was right. It was cold. I could see steam rising from the back of his flannel to mingle with the overcast sky. My own breath was a dissipating vapor in the morning light. The sun was barely a splash of brilliance in the eastern sky. All else was a dull, whitish gray. Morning frost still clung to the grass, and it crushed beneath our feet, leaving defrosted footprints to mark our path.

He brought me around to the trunk of his car, which he opened with a flourish and stood beside proudly. I took a sip of coffee and hugged myself tighter, wishing I were still inside. The morning chill did not compare to what I saw in the trunk.

Two M107 sniper rifles with infrared scopes, front-mounted bipods, and matte-black flash suppressors menaced the trunk. Several boxes of ammunition lay scattered to one side. I stepped back as if they were alive, and turned to regard my brother.

He grinned wryly and said, "Whaddya think? Ain't they beautiful?"

I swallowed. "Sure."

He slapped my shoulder. "Merry Christmas, bro."

Some of my coffee spilled over my hand, burning me. I licked my wound. "Thanks. I was going to get you a sweater—what did you get me this for?"

"What do you mean, what for?"

"Did I ask for a gun?"

He reached in and pulled one from the trunk. "Well, this way we don't have to share. I got some targets, too. Figured we could practice together in the back yard, get the feel for the weapon."

He handed the rifle to me, keeping hold of it while I wrapped my hands around it. The gun was huge with the flash suppressor attached, and it felt like it weighed a ton. "This thing is a beast." I sighted down the barrel, feeling powerful.

"Here. Check this out." He opened one of the boxes and pulled out a .50 caliber round. The bullet looked more like a small missile. It was easily as thick as my thumb and about twice as long. They shoot this at people? I breathed out a blasphemy. Martin nodded appreciatively. "Can you imagine one of those things punching through your gut? That thing travels at 2,700 feet per second. The gun can fire ten rounds in less than ten seconds."

The very thought was horrific. "That'd split someone in half."

"You bet it would. .50 caliber round will punch through body armor. Hell, you could probably punch a hole in an engine block."

I whistled. "Recoil's gonna be a bear."

"Uh-uh. This thing's built with so many springs inside you'll barely feel it."

"No kidding?"

He grimaced. "Just don't drop it in the snow."

"There ain't any snow," I sighed.

"Good thing," he harrumphed. Last time we went out shooting with Jerry, he brought with him a pistol grip, pump action shotgun loaded with armor-piercing rounds. We went out into the deep woods, where an old Volkswagen Beetle decayed in a pit. Most of the car was rusted, broken, and beyond recognition, but the engine block still lay exposed in the back end. After receiving careful instructions, I took the first turn and aimed at the car. When I squeezed the trigger, the cannon I'd mistaken for a gun flew out of my hands and landed in the snow, effectively ending our practice until Jerry could clean and dry the weapon.

Martin never let me forget it.

I pushed from my mind any inklings of what Martin intended for the guns. The thought of target-shooting with such an incredible weapon was thrilling, and I didn't want to consider anything else. Martin picked up the targets from where they'd lain under the guns and a box of ammo. Together we headed for the back woods.

"How'd Jerry manage to get a hold of these things?"

Martin smirked. "He knows his business. It cost me a little extra, but it's worth it."

I frowned. "How much did these cost?"

"Believe me. You don't want to know."

I stopped. "How much?"

"Twelve."

"Twelve. Hundred?"

"Grand. Twelve grand."

"Twelve thousand dollars?!"

"Apiece."

I stared, mouth agape. "You spent twenty-four thousand dollars on a couple of guns?! You could've bought a truck for that!"

He shrugged. "Don't need a truck."

"You could've lived for a year on that!"

"It's my money."

"Marty!"

"What is your problem, bro? I don't tell you how to spend your money."

"That's 'cause you don't have to. I spend my money wisely."

"Doing what? Supporting your hobby? You forget, I have an income. While you were typing away at your little computer I was getting shot at by bad guys. I got paid pretty good money to be a target. And the house is paid for. Got no family but you. It's not like I got something else to spend it on." His eyes held mine for a moment, then he spat to one side. "You got your hobby. I got mine."

He turned and kept walking.

"Yeah, but how am I supposed to pay you back for this?"

"It's a gift, dummy. You're not." He took out one of the paper targets and tacked it to a foot thick tree trunk several yards away.

"Yeah, but—you said 'Christmas,' right? What am I supposed to get you now? I mean, it's not like a sweater's gonna cover it."

"Is that what's eating you?" He walked back toward me.

"I don't know. Maybe."

"Don't worry about it. We'll think of something." He tugged me back. We moved several hundred feet away from the target.

"All right," he said. "Let's give this a shot."

I watched as he dropped the clip and began loading the heavy shells into the cartridge, pressing them against the spring until they clicked into place. I followed suit, slipping the clip into place and chambering the first round. Martin extended the bipod and lay down on the ground. From where we stood, we could barely see the black circle of the target against the white paper tacked on the tree. I raised the scope to my eye to get a better view.

"I wouldn't," Martin warned.

I kept my eye trained on the target. "I ain't. I'm just watching."

Martin said nothing, but clicked off the safety. In a moment, I heard a series of rapid cracks from the ground beside me. In my scope the target exploded, splinters of tree flying out behind it as the rounds penetrated the wood and shattered the trunk. I stared at the carnage my brother had unleashed. I could see daylight through what had once been a solid trunk of wood.

I exchanged a glance with my brother. Martin grinned and rose to his feet. He set his weapon on his shoulder and marched down range to the tree, pulling out a fresh target. When he was about ten feet away, a ponderous groan echoed through the woods. Martin stopped and stared as the top of the tree bent forward, as if bowing in greeting, before it snapped clean of the trunk and fell on top of him.

"Marty!" I ran toward him. He lay pinned beneath the trunk, pushing uselessly against the log, which pressed him into the dirt.

"Get this frickin' tree off me!" he hollered. I set the gun down and bent to lift the tree off him. I started laughing as I pulled.

"You dummy!"

He rolled out from under it and glared as I dropped it.

"You okay?"

He shook his head, then started laughing. "Stupid tree."

"I don't know, Marty. You're the one who shot it in half. Seems to me the tree got you back the only way it could!"

We laughed together a bit more, and then he scrambled to his feet and checked the remains of the tree, where the .50 caliber rounds had blasted through the trunk. "Isn't that something?" he whispered. He looked at me. "Come on, let's set up a new target. Your turn."

"Fine. Let's just make sure the tree don't fall on me this time."

***

Later, we stowed the guns and the remaining boxes of ammo in the attic. We'd shot through a box apiece, and toward the end were both becoming quite confident with the high-powered weapon. I found myself grinning boastfully when I proved my third target had a tighter circle than Martin's. He acknowledged the accomplishment begrudgingly, but some- where in his eyes I witnessed pride.

I fixed us some lunch and sat down with him at the table.

"I've thought of something," he said.

"What's that?"

He wrapped his hands around his coffee mug. "I've thought about what you can do. To repay me. Call it a Christmas gift, if you like."

I frowned. "Okay."

"I'm not good with words. Not like you."

"Yeah?" I nodded for him to continue.

"I want you to write something for me. A statement. Longer than that. I'm not sure what the word is."

"What sort of statement?"

"About why. About getting our country back. Taking it back from the socialists and liberals."

"A manifesto."

"Yeah. That's it. That's what I mean."

"What do you intend to do with it?"

"I want you to put it on the internet. One of them blog things, like yours. Or something like that."

Manifesto? I felt like Kazinsky's brother. What sort of idle ramblings and psychotic rants did Martin have in mind?

"Marty," I began, "I don't know..."

"Look, Petey. I'm not some sort of nut job here—"

"Sure about that?"

"Cute. It's me. I ain't crazy." His eyes were feral. He held mine for a moment before I dropped my gaze. I didn't trust his sanity. I didn't see how I could and still keep my own. The simple truth was that sometimes I didn't recognize him at all. Whatever it was that had happened to him in Iraq had changed him in ways I couldn't begin to measure. I kept hoping if I humored him this would all go away. I'd wake up from this nightmare, and he wouldn't be a terrorist. I'd have my brother back.

He read my doubts, and when I looked back up I could see the wound welling in his eyes. He breathed out a blasphemy. "You're my brother, Petey. My own brother."

I nodded, hoping to make him understand.

"Yes, but are you mine?"

### Six

"Now what the hell is that supposed to mean?" Marty said.

"Means I don't think I know you anymore. You're talking about assassinating the President of the United States. You're not just talking about it—you've gone out and bought yourself a frickin' gun! Now you want me to write your manifesto, and you think it'll make it all right—that if you just tell the world what's going through that head of yours, it'll all make sense and maybe they'll forgive you the murder. What you don't realize is all you'll do is just confirm for the world just how crazy you really are."

He pointed a finger at me. "Not if you write it, though."

"Are you kidding? What makes you believe they won't think I'm nuts, too?!"

"So, just wanting to kill the President makes you automatically crazy."

"Yeah, it does! Of all the assassins, name one who wasn't."

"John Wilkes Booth."

"That was a war. Doesn't count."

"Civil War was over."

"Not for Booth."

"So? You think because there's been no formal declaration of war that we're not in one?"

"Well, yeah."

"So. Declare war."

"You want me to declare war on the United States of America."

"More or less. Sure."

"And you don't think that's crazy." I blasphemed again. It was getting habitual. "How do you expect to win such a fight?"

He sat back and sipped his coffee. "Let's get a couple of things straight. Number one, when I entered the service, I took an oath to support, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, both foreign and domestic. I raised my right hand and solemnly swore before Almighty God that I would do this—same as every civil employee from the President down to the postman. I meant it. Unlike the liberal Marxist who just did it to get into power, I meant it. I still mean it." He folded his hands in his lap. "The problem is that little phrase: 'both foreign and domestic.' The guy we've elected? He's one of those domestic enemies. He's like one of them—shoot, what was that movie, the one with Denzel Washington, where the guy's been brainwashed?"

"The Manchurian Candidate?"

"Yeah, that's the one. That's what this guy is. A Manchurian. And unless he's stopped, he'll be the end of this great nation. Bringing down a guy like that ain't a protest of the Constitution, but a protection of it." He paused. "You might want to write this down. This is pretty good."

I sort of agreed with him. I grabbed a pen and paper. I nodded for him to continue.

"Since we ain't been deceived by his promises and lies, we have to take it upon ourselves to remove him from power. By force, if necessary. You know what? You might want to put in there something about calling on the President elect to voluntarily resign. Let's give the S.O.B. a chance, you know? And then if he doesn't, we'll take his refusal to resign itself as a declaration of war upon us."

I sighed and looked up. "All right, hang on a second. I'll be willing to write up your little manifesto, 'cause maybe you're not crazy. But I haven't signed up for this little jihad, so don't be using the word, 'us,' 'kay?"

"Whatever."

"All right. What've you got next? Workers of the world, unite?"

"Cute."

"How about, 'Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their country'?"

"You gonna take this serious, or do I have to come over there and slap you?"

I held my pen up and shot him a meaningful look, ready to write.

"All right. We need to say something about calling people to arms. This is supposed to be a revolution, right? And maybe we ought to put something in there about why—you know, really spell out all the reasons. Economic, political, cultural, social, religious—I mean, cover the bases. Show people why we need this revolution."

Something troubling occurred to me. "Marty, what happens if you succeed?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, say it's possible you really pull this off. Not just the assassination, but the whole revolution thing. What happens if we win?"

Martin smiled. "See? Now that's what I like to hear. Now you're talking!"

"Wait, I didn't say you would. Personally, I don't think you've got a snowball's chance of pulling this off."

"Yeah, but that's not what I meant."

"What did you mean?"

"You said 'we.'"

Did I? I shook my head.

He started laughing. "Yeah, you did. You said 'we.'"

"Okay, so maybe I did."

"You did."

"Whatever. I still don't know what happens after."

"Think it matters?"

"Duh."

"I don't mean in general. I mean for this." He tapped the table. "The manifesto. D'you think people want to know this?"

"I think it's not enough to have someone or something to fight against. I think you've got to give people something to fight for."

"How 'bout freedom?"

"Too nebulous. You need to be specific. Freedom means too many different things to different people. You've got to give people a vision of the common good. Show how revolutionizing things will make things better."

He was nodding. "Yeah, that makes sense." He got up to pour himself another mug of coffee. The caffeine must've been hitting his system pretty good about then, because he started talking faster than ever. The words tumbled out of his mouth, a cascade of ideas and thoughts. Capturing his statements with my pen was like trying to catch Niagara Falls in a paper cup.

"See, I think it should be something like a Constitutional Convention. But we need to completely bypass the state legislatures. Maybe they ain't all as bad as Albany, but I'd be willing to bet they're corrupt."

"Inept at best."

"Yeah. It's got to start in the villages and towns. Each municipality will elect a representative to send to the State governments. And the State governments will appoint an ambassador to the federal."

"How is that different from what we've got now?"

"Now you've got career politicians in place. We've got to get rid of them."

"Yeah, but how do you keep them from just running for office again on a local level?"

"We don't let them."

"But what prevents someone who thinks like them from stepping up again?"

"You mean, how do we keep the towns from electing Marxists and liberals?"

"It is how we got into this mess in the first place."

He rubbed his eyes. "Well, that's what the war is for, buddy."

I pushed my pen down. Was this my own brother? Did I really just hear him recommend killing people for disagreeing with us? The room felt small and dense, as though some unseen force were compressing the walls, the ceiling, the floor. "I—I need to get some air, I think."

I let go of the pen. It rolled to the floor. Martin didn't move. He watched me silently, his lips pressed into a thin line. I felt like I couldn't get to the door fast enough.

The door flung open. I don't remember turning the knob. I was outside on the back porch, gulping huge gasps of air. Above me, the gray sky descended, enveloping everything in an opaque cloud. What was happening? Beneath my fingers lay the rough, cold wood of the porch railing. At that moment, it was the only solid thing in my world. I clung to it. I half-expected to tip over the edge and plunge headlong into the abyss.

I heard Martin come up behind me. I didn't want to talk to him. He put his hand on my shoulder.

"What's the problem, little brother?"

"This is madness."

"We've been over this."

"Not—not just the assassination part. You're talking about killing people. Innocent people."

"Nobody's innocent."

"You really mean to start a frickin' war! A civil war! Here in the United States!"

"Wouldn't be the first time."

"No, it wouldn't. Last time we had a Civil War, more than six hundred thousand Americans lost their lives. As many as in all wars America fought from the Revolution to Korea! Our nation is now some three hundred million strong. Nearly a hundred and thirty million of us voted in this last election. Now, how many of them do you think need to die so you can have the kind of country you think you want?!"

Martin sighed and took a seat on the edge of the balustrade. "Petey, I don't want anyone to die. I don't even want the President-elect to die, if he voluntarily resigns. But you're right: I do want my country back. War isn't about killing people. It happens in war—and maybe it's a necessity, but maybe it's not. The bulk of American citizens aren't going to take up arms—either for or against. Most of them couldn't name the difference between a capitalist and a communist if you paid them to. They take their freedoms for granted, and live in a blissful ignorance of what's at stake. And it doesn't matter how much they earn or how well-educated they are. The issue is passion and concern, not capability.

"But my beef isn't with the idiots who don't care who's in charge. I am concerned only with those passionate souls who drive the engines of liberalism against the freedoms and vision of the founding fathers—who use the ignorance of those idiots against them and against us. Those are the ones we've got to stop.

"Starting a war is about wresting power away from tyranny and giving it back to the ones who can handle it responsibly. The kind of war we have to fight is the kind that will win hearts to our cause, will discredit the Marxists, Socialists and Communists who disguise themselves as freedom-lovers, will strip away the façade and expose the ugly rottenness of their political, economic, and social philosophy for what it is."

I turned to face him—a new thought forming in my head. "You're talking about an information war."

"Yes!" He squeezed my shoulder.

"Not an actual war."

He shook his head. "I'm not saying nobody's gonna get hurt, but stacking up bodies ain't gonna do us any good. We do any kind of strikes, they're gonna be guerrilla strikes against primary targets, designed to disrupt the infrastructure and force the hand of the powerful."

"So we're gonna be terrorists."

He ran a hand across his brow. "Depends on who wins. You do your job right, they'll be calling us freedom fighters."

"The good war hallows any cause."

"Nietzsche."

I heaved a big sigh. "All right. I'm in."

### Seven

I don't know why I told him that. Maybe it was because I believed what he said. Maybe I was just relieved to hear he wasn't picturing blood in the streets as a good thing. Maybe I hoped if I signed on to an information war, something along the lines of what I'd been fighting all along with my blog, I could keep him from doing something really dangerous.

Regardless, he laid off me for a while. The country was settling in to the fact of the election. We watched the new President-elect appointing the members of his cabinet, laying out his policy decisions and weighing his options against the foundering economy and foreign threats to national security. Thanksgiving at the Knapp home came and went without a hitch. Little talk of politics beyond the typical grousing against the federal government or the fat cats in Albany. There was some general approval for the current governor—despite the fact he was a Democrat, he was nonetheless scaling back on social programs in a bid to rescue the State's coffers from bankruptcy. It seemed some common sense had finally taken hold in the capital—something along the lines of what we hoped we'd always see happening on the Federal level, but hadn't since Ronald Reagan or the spending cuts of the '90s Republican Revolution.

I continued working my blog feverishly, sometimes hinting at the need for revolution, and sometimes steering clear of the subject. I wanted to put out just enough information to draw supporters to our cause, without either driving people away by saying too much, nor inflaming the governmental watchdogs who kept an eye on all internet chatter. I was reasonably confident my rants had come to the attention of the Echelon spy system once or twice already. But I did not expect any interference. While the watchdogs would undoubtedly assess all threats, they'd only pay attention to those deemed "credible," and in this twenty-first century global milieu, that was largely confined to Islamo-fascists and other Muslim extremists.

A week after Thanksgiving, Martin disappeared for a few days. I'd asked him where he was going, but the only reply was "Scouting." I suspected his meaning, but wasn't sure. When he came back three days later, he wasn't alone.

"This is Grant," he said, introducing a tall, muscular jarhead in a leather bomber jacket and jeans. I shook Grant's hand. His grip was iron, but he graciously avoided crushing my fingers. "Grant was in special forces in the desert," Martin said. "He's gonna help us out."

I looked from Grant to Marty. Grant looked as well. "Is he vetted?" Grant said.

"What do you mean, 'vetted'?" I asked.

"No worries. He's my kid brother."

"Yeah. Don't care."

"What's 'vetted' mean?"

"Vetted means you ain't gonna do something stupid like call the Feds, or make noise to the wrong person." Grant glared at me.

"I told you. Don't worry about it. He's cool."

"Vetted means you can be trusted."

"Sonova—you—you brought him in on this?!" I couldn't believe what I heard.

Grant raised an eyebrow. "This is what you call brilliant?"

"He's a lot smarter than you know."

"That's good. 'Cause I don't work with morons."

"Can't handle competition?" The words were out of my mouth before I could think better of it. Grant's eyes narrowed. He took a menacing step toward me, but Martin intercepted him.

"Let's not get off on the wrong foot, boys."

"Might be a little late for that," I countered.

Grant grunted, a half-smile crossed his lips. He stepped back and sat on the edge of the counter. "First intelligent thing he's said yet."

"Marty, what's going on?"

Martin shook his head at both of us. He walked to the fridge and pulled out three beers, tossing one to each of us. "Forming a strike team. Grant's an expert on logistics. We need his help to set up the operation. And Petey here," he nodded toward me, "is a crack shot with the M107, and he's our writer. He explains to the dogs what we want them to print, and they just lap it up, turn around and spit it out again for everyone else."

Grant opened his beer. "Propaganda."

"Hardly." I glared at him. Who did this guy think he was?

He swallowed. "What would you call it then?"

"Telling the truth."

He held my gaze for a moment, then chuckled. "Truth."

"What?"

"First casualty of war."

I raised my eyebrows. "Aeschylus."

"Huh?"

"Greek dramatist. Around 500 B.C."

Grant looked confused. "What about him?"

"'In war, truth is the first casualty.' Aeschylus said it."

Grant looked to Martin for an explanation. Martin shrugged. "It's our thing. Someone says a quote. Petey here knows the source."

After a moment, he shrugged and said, "Whatever."

I glanced at Martin, wanting to say something. This arrogant S.O.B. was about all I could take. Martin gave me a warning shake of his head and took a seat at the kitchen table.

"Come around, boys," Martin said. We took seats across from each other. He pulled out a map of downtown Washington D.C. and spread it out on the table. "All right. Let's work backwards. The Inauguration will be here, on the steps of the Capitol Building. The best location for us is..." He traced his finger along the map route. Grant leaned forward and stabbed his finger onto an intersection.

"Right here," Grant said. "Pennsylvania Ave and 11th Street. There's a couple of high rise buildings here. The roof line will get you above the street level, give you a clear shot to the Capitol."

"Won't they be guarded?" I asked.

Grant snorted. I instantly felt stupid. "'Course they'll be guarded. But the Secret Service only has about thirteen hundred in its uniformed division. The rest of the patrols will be done by the Metropolitan police and the Park police. I'm saying we can get around the patrols. This is your best location."

"How are you gonna get around the patrols?"

Grant said slowly, "I can get it done."

"I'm not questioning that." My voice sounded small. "I just want to know how."

He smiled. "Not your problem, is it, Cherry? Look, you want to learn logistics, you could always sign up and take your turn defending our country. And maybe someone will take pity on you and show you the ropes. But until you do that, leave the planning to the experts, 'kay?"

"Hoorah," I deadpanned.

Grant shook his head and looked out the window. I took pity on him. "How long you been in the service, Grant?"

"Eight years, straight outta high school."

"Never had to work with civies before?"

"Not if I can help it."

"Cats and dogs. Military guys are like trained dogs. You can train a dog to do almost anything you want. It'll obey because it's loyal and don't know any different. Civies are like cats. We do something 'cause we want to do it. We don't follow orders."

"I hate cats."

"Figures. Look, all I'm saying is, if we're going to get along, we need to understand we're coming at this from totally different angles. I'd like you to be more forthcoming, and I'll back down on the snarky comments. Deal?"

"Snarky? Is that a word?"

I strenuously resisted the urge to offer him a remedial vocabulary lesson. The poor man had been subject to nothing but abbreviations and acrostics for the past eight years. It wasn't his fault he was functionally illiterate.

"Gentlemen, d'you think we can get back to the task at hand any time soon?" Martin finished his beer and grabbed another one. Grant, I noted, had barely touched his.

"All right," Grant muttered. "Roof top position at Pennsylvania and 11th Street. Take positions on either side of the street in two man teams. Both teams will—"

"Why two-man teams?"

"I'll explain later," said Martin.

Grant massaged his temples. "Both teams will deploy to take down the target, but not until after he takes the oath of office and starts the acceptance speech. It'll come after the gun salute, clear?"

We nodded.

"You take your shot then you get the hell outta Dodge. Leave the guns behind. There'll be pandemonium at this point, and the cops will be overwhelmed. We get down to the street level, we blend in with the crowd, and go to the rendezvous point."

"And where's that?"

"TBD. It won't be in Washington. Everyone will be responsible to get across the bridges as quickly as possible, before they shut the city down."

I nodded. It was starting to come together, to make sense. Over the past few weeks I'd suppressed my moralistic panic, but it surged to the forefront now.

The arguments were solid. The reasons sublime. I'd gained an understanding of just how difficult the Revolution had been the first time. The books and movies didn't begin to capture it. It was a terrifying rush. Ben Franklin's comment, "We must all hang together, gentlemen... else, we shall most assuredly hang separately," was no mindless quip. It was a sobering assessment of the price of revolution. Whether history judged you a traitor or a hero depended solely on whether or not you won. "The good war hallows any cause," as Martin had quoted Nietzsche. And while I could not subscribe to that brand of nihilistic cynicism, Nietzsche had a point. History books were written by the winners. They were often the only ones left to tell the tale.

"What happens if someone can't get out in time?"

"You want to mount a rescue? Ride in there and save the day? Is that it? You've seen too many movies," Grant said. "You're an American. You blend in until you can get out. If anyone asks, you're just there for the inauguration."

I looked at my beer. "Okay, but what if—"

"Petey," said Martin, shaking his head.

"No, it's all right. They don't teach this in civie boot camp." Grant studied me, his eyes searching. "You wanna know what to do if you're caught, right?"

"Yeah."

"You do the honorable thing. Do I hafta spell it out for you, or are you smart enough to figure it out on your own? It's about protecting the mission. Think you can handle that?"

I nodded, not at all sure that I could. At that moment, the back door opened. Jerry walked in, taking off his ball cap.

"You're late," said Grant.

"Sorry. Got held up at the shop. Ooh, that's a poor choice of words, huh? Hey Petey."

Martin snickered. "Good to see you, Jer."

Jerry helped himself to a beer. I nodded to Martin. "Can I talk to you a second?"

Martin let out a breath and pushed away from the table, following me to the living room. Behind us, I overheard Grant muttering, "Guy's worse than a woman. Sit down, Jerry, I'll bring you up to speed."

I faced Martin. "You're bringing Jerry with us?"

"We've been over this."

"Yeah, but that was for the guns, not for the operation."

Martin put his hand on my shoulder. I grimaced. "Look," he said, "We need a four-man team. And the fewer that know about this, the better. Jerry's already in the loop. It just makes sense to use him."

"He can't shoot worth spit."

"He ain't gotta shoot. All he's gotta do is stare through binoculars at the target. He's a spotter, nothing more. That's why we need two people per gun. One spots, one shoots."

I shook my head. "I don't like it." He gave my shoulder a squeeze. I pushed his hand off. Martin raised his eyebrows.

"You got a problem? Spit it out."

He glared at me. I sat on the edge of the couch. "All right. I guess I do have a problem with this." He folded his arms, waiting. I prayed God would help me make him see reason. "It isn't going to work," I said. "None of it is."

"Care to explain why?"

Jerry and Grant came in the room. I swallowed. This wasn't going to be easy.

### Eight

"Well, for starters," I said, "this isn't 1776. We're not the Revolutionary Fathers. We're not organized like they were. We're not trying to fight an enemy that's a thousand miles away across an ocean. And most importantly, we don't have the backing of the American people."

"I think you're underestimating them."

"I think you're overestimating them. Badly. At the most, sixty-percent of Americans are relatively conservative. Of that, maybe ten percent would support someone taking the kind of action we're talking about. And then, only if they had no other choice."

"But that's the plan, Petey—"

"I know."

"This is a deliberate act to force the government's hand. It's the frog in the kettle theory. As long as we gradually surrender our freedoms, no one will raise much of a fuss. You want the frog to jump out of the pot, you've got to suddenly crank up the heat. A sudden loss of freedom. Martial law. Then the people will revolt!"

I shook my head, "No, they won't. Not as long as they think the heat's necessary, and believe it's temporary. Look at the response to 9-11. Insanely long lines at the airport. Suspension of our freedoms. The Patriot Act. Did one conservative raise a voice in protest? Hell no. We supported it! We voted for it. We gave the President unprecedented powers. And who was it finally said, 'Enough!'? It was the liberals. The very ones we want to get rid of.

"Same thing happened in Germany, just after Hindenberg appointed Hitler Chancellor. I've been studying up on it. They used a patsy, a Dutch communist named Marinus Van Der Lubbe, to set fire to the Reichstag—their version of the Capitol. Hitler called for and got Hindenberg to declare martial law and suspend liberties until the commies could be routed out. And the German people nodded in agreement and followed him right into hell."

I caught my breath. "You want to start a revolution, you're going to have to do a lot more than just assassinate a President and wait for the chips to fall where they may."

There was silence in the room. Martin slapped his thighs and stood. "All right, Petey. What do you suggest? Do we take the assassination off the table? Do nothing? Continue to cower with our tails between our legs?"

They stared at me. I swallowed. This was it. This was my moment to pull us back from the brink. If I could just hold onto it, I could keep us all from plunging headlong into the abyss.

"You have to lay the groundwork first," I said. "You can't do it with just a couple of guys in a room somewhere. Think about the Revolution. Long before Lexington and Concord, long before the Boston Tea Party, there were the Patriots building a network of supporters in all thirteen colonies. They were gentlemen rabble-rousers, building a coalition of willing fighting men from the ground up. Most people at that time were Tories in heart and deed, but the Patriots won them over. Why?"

"This is pointless," muttered Grant.

"No, wait a sec. Let him go," said Martin.

I shook my head and answered my own question. "Because the Patriots were better organized, and they had the cooperation of the press in getting their message out. Samuel Adams said, 'It does not require a majority to prevail, but rather an irate, tireless minority keen to set brush fires in peoples' minds.' That's what they were doing before taking action. Setting brushfires in people's minds. You do anything before that's done, you lose. The American people will not support you."

"Hell's bells," stormed Grant, "how can you be so smart and so stupid at the same time?"

I furrowed my brow.

"You really think we ain't thought of that?"

"Grant," said Martin.

"Well, I don't know. Maybe. But I've just been writing on this for a couple of months now. Just weeks really. There hasn't been enough time. That's my point."

"Good Lord, you really are that stupid. You think you're the only one, don'tcha?"

"Grant!"

"Shut up, Marty. You want him in on this, he needs to know the whole thing."

I looked from Grant to my brother. "Marty?"

He thrust his hands into his pockets and smiled thinly. "There's a network."

"What?"

"There is a network. People who think like we do. All over this country. We're already plugged in."

I shrank from them. "What network?" I said, not really wanting to hear the answer.

"Militias."

"Militias? Oh my God, are you talking about the white supremacists out there? The frickin' Klan?"

"They're one of them," said Grant. "Aryan Nation's another."

Martin held his hands out placatingly to me. "It's not like that. They're not all racists."

"Christian Identity, Christian Patriots, White Patriot Party, Militia of Montana," intoned Grant. Martin glared at him.

"What the hell are you hooking us into? No one's gonna support the white supremacists. Hell, even the white supremacists know that! They've been downplaying their ideology to attract more followers."

"Good thing," said Grant. "They've been very successful."

"That don't mean we want to get into bed with them!"

"Why not?" Grant shrugged.

"Whaddya mean, 'why not?' Are you a racist?"

"Not in the least. I'd have voted for Alan Keyes, given the chance. All I care about is the man's policies, and the ideology that backs them. That's what's got to be stopped."

"And you think aligning ourselves with a bunch of Nazis is the way to go?"

"War makes strange bedfellows."

"Shakespeare. The Tempest... Sort of." The actual quote was 'Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows,' which seemed more relevant, given how I felt. I turned to Martin. "Please tell me you understand the problem here. The Nazis were left-wing. National Socialists—that's who they are! The whole association between the Nazis and conservatism has been one of the greatest hoaxes ever pulled off by the left wing media. We're trying to get rid of left-wingers, and you want to get in bed with them?"

"You're conflating the two," said Grant.

I stared at him, not the least for using a three-syllable word like "conflating."

"The only thing that connects neo-Nazis and the Third Reich is the anti-Semitism. Especially here in the States. I won't speak for the European groups. But that's it. Just the hate."

"Just the hate," I repeated. Like that wasn't enough.

"Yeah. Just the hate. Not the ideology. Not the socialism. Americans don't want to control other people. They just don't want to be controlled. Are they racists? Some of them, hell yeah. But most of them are just xenophobes. They don't like people coming in and making them change their ways. Change who they are. They're racists for two reasons." Grant held up his fingers and ticked them off. "One: because that's how they were raised. Simple as that. These are the great grandkids of the Confederacy, and the racism is part of it. But the second reason, the most important reason, is this: they are racists because they are resistors. They're resisting the cultural changes being forced on them by the liberals. They don't like being told they are ignorant. They don't like being told they wrong. Especially when the people telling them so are openly advocating homosexuality, abortion, euthanasia, and God-knows-what-else. The sins of the left-wing scream so loud that these people can't even hear the arguments against racism. It just gets lumped in there with the rest of the reasons to toss out the libs."

I vented a frustrated breath. "So you're saying the racism is no big deal."

"Not for our purposes."

"Well, I think it's going to be a very big deal for the American people's purposes, and maybe for the very same reason you just cited."

"Whaddya mean?"

I sat on the edge of the couch. "Every solid point the militias make will be obfuscated by the fact that they're hate mongering racists. Everything is clouded by that. It's the fly in the ointment that makes the whole batch stink. And it isn't just the racism anymore. We're losing the current generation on homosexuality precisely because the liberals packaged and sold it to us as a civil rights issue—painting gays with the same brush they used to win on civil rights. They show homosexuals as an oppressed minority and play upon the sympathies of the uninformed. And I'm just as sure they'd love to do the same thing with the Muslims, except that Muslims refuse to cooperate by being victims. They keep blowing stuff up."

I took a breath. "You put us in bed with these people, you risk losing the whole thing."

After a moment, Grant said, "You know what? This isn't my problem. I've got me an op to plan, and I don't need to spend my time worrying about the propaganda." He turned to go, but then whirled and stuck a meaty finger in my face. "Look, you wanted to know how we were gonna get people on our side. I tell you we've already got a good number of people on our side, and you start picking them apart 'cause they ain't perfect. Well, hell's bells, that is not my problem, Cherry. You're the information guy. You're the writer. You handle the propaganda. Set some frickin' brush fires already."

He turned and stalked back into the kitchen. Jerry followed a moment later, leaving me alone with my brother.

"What the hell is wrong?" Martin said. "Are you with us or not?"

"Why didn't you tell me about the militias?"

"Why should I?"

"You're my frickin' brother, that's why! I'm writing this damn manifesto of yours and you won't even tell me what's really going on!"

"I've told you everything you need to know."

"Oh really?"

"Yes, really."

We stared at each other, like two bucks taking their measure before clashing horns. Finally, he said, "You want to know why I didn't say anything."

"At least."

"How about for your own good? Just hear me out," he added when I opened my mouth. "I didn't tell you about the militias because I didn't want you making the case for them—either for or against."

I frowned.

"If you come out in favor of the militias, you poison the message, and everybody thinks we're just another hate group. Another McVeigh. If you come out against them, then it looks like we're trying to distance ourselves from the association, like we've got something to hide. It'd be like blood in the water to those media sharks. They'll start investigating, and they will find out."

I looked away. He made sense, though I didn't want to admit it. "So you didn't say anything to me, because once they start to investigate, they'll start with me—because of my blog, and for helping you on the manifesto."

"That's right."

"And if I don't know anything about the militias..."

"Then you can't confess anything one way or the other."

"And the message stays pure. Plausible deniability. That's why you didn't want Grant to say anything."

"That's right. Grant's good when it comes to planning an op, but he's got no head for the political stuff."

"I heard that," came Grant's voice from the other room.

"It's a frickin' compliment!" Martin called.

"I know," Grant hollered back.

"Why didn't you stop him?" I asked.

Martin shook his head. "Once the cat got out of the bag, there's no way you'd let it go. You'd make a good journalist, Petey. You've got the same nose for blood."

He was right. It would have been better had I not known. In so many ways.

I searched his face for a solution. "What are we going to do now?"

### Nine

I wanted out. I don't know why I didn't tell Martin right then and there. Maybe I was scared of what Grant would do. I had no doubts he'd suggest something radical to be sure I didn't talk to anyone—something I'd find unpleasant.

On the other hand, I knew it wasn't possible. Not without Martin. If I left him now, I'd lose him forever. I was sure of that.

In the days that followed, a nagging suspicion grew in my mind—one I couldn't bring up even to Martin. It started when the cable channel played the movie Rounders that night, and we watched it in the living room with the lights off, letting the pallid glow of the television set toss shadows around the walls. When Matt Damon's character Mike McDermott, heading for a poker table, said, "Here's the thing. If you can't spot the sucker in the first half hour at the table, then you are the sucker," I sat up and listened.

I don't think I remember anything else from the movie after that.

I began thinking about the last time a president was assassinated—particularly the Oliver Stone take in J.F.K., that Lee Harvey Oswald was the patsy. 'Course, in real life, Oswald pulled the trigger. I still remember Charles Gibson doing a report on the whole J.F.K thing and proving that one gunman took the shot. But that was little comfort, now. I thought again about Marinus Van Der Lubbe, and the way the Nazis used him.

I glanced around the room. Grant watched the movie through eyes that were narrow slits; his face void of expression. I genuinely couldn't tell if he was engrossed, bored, or comatose. Martin sat across from him on the couch, looking mildly interested in the film, but honestly more entertained by his beer. Jerry had grabbed a handful of chips and disappeared onto the back porch for a smoke. I could see the firefly glow of his cigarette through the lace curtains.

I didn't trust Grant. No great shocker there. Grant was Martin's friend. Co-worker. Comrade in arms. Whatever. It didn't make a difference to me. I didn't know him from a hole in the wall.

I trusted Martin. Sort of. He was still my brother, and that had to count for something, but a part of me wondered whether his training in the Corps and experience overseas changed him too much—made it impossible for him to come home.

How could I ask him about this? How could I ask him if I was supposed to be the patsy? He'd deny it, of course. He'd have to. He was the one who dragged me into it. Which meant I was either getting paranoid, or my brother'd lied to me from the beginning.

I wanted to believe I was just paranoid.

I was reasonably certain Jerry wouldn't lie to me. I don't think he had a duplicitous bone in his body. Of course, there was just as much chance that Jerry was the patsy as me.

It didn't make sense, though. There were only four of us. What would they need a patsy for? And why pin an assassination attempt on me or any of us, especially since I could finger the rest of them?

On the other hand, there was the simple fact that they weren't telling me everything. They'd admitted as much by keeping the militia connection from me. I wanted to know what else they were hiding.

That Friday we piled into Grant's SUV with the M107s hidden in the wheel well in back, buried beneath four bedrolls and duffel bags, a cooler of beer, a second cooler of food and a set of collapsible camping chairs. I noticed Grant tucked a .38 in the glove box. Just in case we got pulled over for any reason, he'd explained. I wanted to challenge him about that. Our beef wasn't with the local cops—or even the State police—and the thought that one of them might get killed so we could swing a little practice time in with the M107s was beyond ridiculous.

On the other hand, even a brief traffic stop could prove disastrous if the cop asked to inspect our vehicle. One look at those M107s and we'd be done for.

Don't know how much use the .38 would be one way or the other, though. Most cop cars I'd ever seen had cameras in them, and they were sure to record the license plate number even before getting out of their vehicle.

All this ran through my mind as we pulled onto the road, heading east down 104 toward the Adirondacks. I could've mentioned it to him, but I had a feeling he'd just snarl about working with civies, call me "Cherry" again, and point out how he'd already thought of all that.

Nope. Better to keep silent and be thought a fool than to open your mouth and remove all doubt. I think Mark Twain said that one.

We spent four hours on the road, taking 104 east through Oswego to hook up with 81 North for a spell, then turning east again outside of Watertown. I know we took Route 56 into the mountains, but after that, I was totally lost. Grant had some address programmed into his GPS unit and made so many right turns down winding roads into nowhere that I was sure we'd wind up in Canada before long.

Abruptly, Grant pulled to the side of the road, muttering, "Hang on a sec," as he stepped out of the vehicle. He crossed over to the far side and began pulling at a downed log, moving it into the road.

"Now what is he up to?" said Jerry, craning his head around to watch Grant through the windshield. Martin leaned back in his seat and yawned.

After a few minutes, Grant returned to the SUV and switched off the GPS. We drove around the log into a clearing in the woods. Again, Grant stopped and got out. I unrolled my window and peered through, watching as he crunched through the snow back to the log, pulling it into place. I snorted. It was such an obvious tactic, and except for the tire tracks in the ditch, if you didn't know what to look for, you'd never find the hidden entrance.

Soon we were bumping along a snowy path that could barely be described as a road. Branches and leaves lashed the sides of the vehicle, and at one or two spots, I was sure we would've gotten stuck. We came to what might have been a fork in the road. One path veered uphill along rough boulders. The other followed a gradual, sloping decline along a smooth path. I nearly objected when Grant chose the rougher road, switching into four-wheel drive and jostling us roughly as we crested the mound of boulders. On the other side, we found an easier path made smoother by crushed stone glazed over with a thin coating of ice.

"Where'd that other trail go?" I asked.

Grant glanced back in the rearview mirror, his eyes crinkling. "After another mile it drops off into a bog."

"Beautiful. Anyone ever get stuck out there?"

He shrugged. "Don't know. Never looked."

I chewed my lip and looked out the window. Who in their right mind would build such a road? I knew the answer before the thought finished forming. Someone who didn't want to be found.

After fifteen minutes, we turned sharply and stopped in front of a steel barricade. Grant put the car into park, shutting off the engine. I undid my seatbelt and reached for the door handle.

"I wouldn't do that, Cherry."

I paused, hand on the door handle. "Okay. Why not?"

"You just sit tight a bit. They'll let us through in a minute or so."

I wanted to know who they were. "Do they even know we're here?"

"Oh yeah. See that motion sensor up there? Soon as we came around the bend we rang the doorbell."

"So we just sit here?"

"Best way to avoid getting shot. Somebody lost would just turn their car around and go. Cops would get out to investigate. We're just gonna wait politely."

"Whatever you say, Chief."

After five minutes a man in a ski cap and camouflage overalls appeared on the other side of the gate, carrying an SKS assault rifle. He unlocked the gate and swung it far enough to come through, then closed it again.

Grant unrolled his window.

The man dropped the barrel down, pointing it right at us. "State your business," he demanded.

Grant let loose a blue streak. "Point that thing somewhere else, Rick!"

The man Grant called Rick hesitated, but then lowered the barrel toward the ground. "Sorry, Grant. State your business."

"Training cherries like you. Open the gate."

"Password?"

"It's me, Rick. I don't need a frickin' password."

"Sorry," said Rick. "Can't let you in without the password."

"You believe this?" Grant said to Martin. "Open the glove box."

Martin opened the glove box and set the .38 in Grant's open hand. "I got your password right here, Cherry!" he hollered, pulling the revolver free of its holster.

Rick raised the SKS and fired, the round cracking air and splintering the tree branch just over our truck. Jerry and I swore and ducked as Rick leveled the gun, sighting down the barrel at Grant.

"You've got five seconds to get the hell out of here! Four! Three! Two!"

"Rosebud!"

I watched from behind the seat as Rick grit his teeth then lifted the SKS back to his shoulder. He saluted smartly and opened the gate to let us pass. Grant shook his head, handing the revolver back to Martin, who quaked with laughter.

"You really think he'd have shot us this time?" Grant muttered.

"Yeah, I think so," Martin chortled.

Grant shifted into gear. "That's a little more like it, Cherry," he called out to Rick, returning the man's salute with a narrow grin as he drove us into the compound.

"All right, ladies," he said, reaching back and tapping us both on the shoulders, "you can get up now."

Jerry and I sat back up, glancing around at the bivouac that opened around us.

"Welcome to Camp Nundawa Ono."

### Ten

"Nundawaba Uno what?"

I was grateful Jerry'd said it, and not me.

Grant didn't seem to mind. "Nundawa Ono," he repeated. "It's Seneca for 'people of the great hills.' It's what they call themselves."

"Weren't the Senecas located out west? Near Buffalo?"

"Still are," said Martin. "Take I-90 far enough, you pass right through the sovereign nation of the Seneca people. This part of the country belonged to the Oneidas, I think."

"Okay," I said, "so why name this after the Senecas?"

"Most aggressive tribe in the Iroquois Confederacy," beamed Grant. "Totally sovereign. Still willing to take on the government. Seemed appropriate."

I stared out the window at the complex sprawled around us. A dormitory rose two stories on the left, next to a smaller unit Grant said was the armory. The main building lay directly ahead. It housed the kitchen, mess hall, and meeting rooms. A long porch wrapped around the front and one side, and beneath the overhang, a cork bulletin board that read "Daily Activities" hung on the wall.

Grant pulled into a parking space in front of the main building. Three other cars were parked there, each bearing a blanket of snow. One of them had a bumper sticker that said, "Gun control means a firm grip."

I watched Grant and Martin climb out of the vehicle and sat there a moment longer before feeling ridiculous. I glanced at Jerry. His face was as blank as the ground outside.

"Think they'll shoot us if we get out?"

"Huh?"

I repeated my question.

He grinned and shook his head. "Sorry. I was someplace else. Come on, I gotta pee."

I followed him out of the SUV and onto the front porch. The air was damp and chill. I shivered, watching my breath come out in a dissipating vapor. Together we mounted the steps and burst through the wooden doors.

Inside, Jerry disappeared down a hallway marked "Restrooms," while I shuffled over to the large fire pit in the center of the room. An enormous black stovepipe hung from four chains over the fire pit, like an upside down funnel. Beneath it, a few logs smoldered. I sat with my back to the fire and looked around, grateful for the warmth. A moment later, the front door banged open and shut again. I shivered and caught the eye of Rick the guard. His lips were set in an unpleasant frown. Hair parted in the center descended on either side of a weathered face, with furtive eyes sunken beneath thick blond eyebrows. He nodded curtly in my direction and stalked off toward the kitchen.

A moment later, he reappeared with Grant and Martin in tow. "Dumbest stunt you ever could pull," he was muttering.

Grant smiled and slapped him on the shoulder, "Don't worry yourself, Cherry. You did fine."

Despite Grant's assurances, Rick looked anything but fine. Or satisfied. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and kicked at the ground. "So what's the plan?" he finally said.

"Well, I want to get these cherries some lunch, and then I figure we'll head up the face in about an hour or so."

"All right. You want me to unlock the armory?"

"Nah. We're all set. Just take a radio with ya. I'll give a holler when we reach the summit."

"Yes sir. You might wanna dress warm. There's a front supposed to be coming through sometime tonight."

"Cabin got propane?"

Rick shrugged. "Maybe. Don't know who used it last. There's at least a half a cord of firewood stacked inside, though."

"That'll have to do, then. Anyone else around?"

"Maybe half a dozen guys down by the swamp. Booger's got 'em running drills."

"All right. Let Boog know we're up there, but tell him to keep it on the down low. I don't want anyone coming up while we're there. You stickin'?"

"Can, if you need me. Marcy wants me home, but I can always make a phone call."

"No need. Tell her I said hi. Maybe she'll make us one of those pies again."

"I'll let her know you asked."

"You do that. Wait for my signal, then go ahead and bug on out. I'll see you again at the rally on the thirtieth."

"Yes sir."

"You did good, Corporal. Dismissed."

Rick saluted, then turned on his heel and left. Martin and Grant came over and sat by the fire.

"Little baby's all growed up," said Martin.

Grant snickered. "He's getting there. Hope he tells Marcy about them pies." He looked at me. "You like Mincemeat? Marcy makes the best."

I shook my head. "Not really a fan."

"Your loss. We're gonna grab ourselves some grub first, then I'll take you up the mountain. Where's Jerry?"

I nodded toward the restroom. "Using the can."

"All right. Let's get started."

***

We made ourselves a hearty lunch then loaded up four backpacks with food supplies, clothes, and our bedrolls. On top of that, Grant handed the M107s and ammo to Jerry and me, saying, "Time to earn your stripe, boys."

I wanted to point out that we hadn't enlisted in any army, but there didn't seem to be much point. At one o'clock sharp—thirteen hundred hours, according to Grant—we started up the mountain.

The hike was slow going as we clambered over large rocks and across large swaths of frozen earth. The early snows had barely pierced the forest's canopy, and the rust-colored pine needles beneath our feet provided a dry but dubious footing. More than once I skidded unevenly across the ground, certain I was about to twist an ankle or wrench my knee. After a half hour, I was sweating profusely. Pain shot through my calves and thighs. I glanced at Jerry, who fared little better.

I'd been on numerous hikes in our back woods and along the trails through the nature preserves and parks near home, but none of that prepared me for this climb. My shoulders and back burned from carrying the gun and backpack. I stopped and stretched, eyeing Martin, who walked beside me.

"How much farther?" I muttered. Martin shook his head, grinning.

"Holy cats, Cherry, you whining already?" said Grant. "I didn't just hear you ask, 'Are we there yet,' did I?"

"Go to hell."

Grant turned and stalked back to me. He pulled the M107 off my back and reached for the backpack. "Already been there," he said. "Thought I'd share the experience."

"Next time how 'bout a T-shirt, instead? Or maybe one of them snow globes?"

He shook his head. "C'mon. Give me your pack. We've got miles to go before we sleep."

"Robert Frost," I said. "Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening." I let the pack fall off my shoulders. He swung it up onto his back next to his own, turned, and trudged up the mountain. I hung my head and followed.

Martin squeezed my shoulder. "Now you're learning, little brother."

I looked to Jerry, who watched us from the corner of his eye. His cheeks were flushed. "How you doing, Jerry?" I asked.

He blew out a breath. "I'm holding out," he muttered, and started walking again.

***

I was relieved when Jerry only lasted fifteen minutes more. He was, after all, a little bigger than me. Martin took his pack and gun, and together we followed the two ex-soldiers up the rest of the ascent. We reached the summit a little after fifteen hundred hours. I don't know the name of the hill we'd climbed, but it offered us a three hundred sixty degree view of the surrounding mountains and valleys. In the distance we could see the ponderous profiles of the high peaks to the south and east looming over our small achievement. I suddenly felt insignificant.

A hunting cabin squatted just on the other side of the summit, burrowed beneath the crown of pine and all but invisible except from where we stood. I wondered if anyone but those in Grant's militia knew of its existence. Grant handed the M107s to Martin and brought Jerry and me into the cabin. He had us lay out our bedrolls and stock the pantry with the food we brought while he dragged in some firewood and inspected the room. Then we returned to the peak.

Martin had both guns loaded with silencers attached and placed on the summit face, their muzzles pointing away toward nothing. He stood beside them, staring through a pair of binoculars at a distant hilltop, the radio pressed to his ear.

"All right, try it now," he said. "A little more—hold it! That's perfect." He handed the binoculars to Grant. "See what you think, chief."

Grant took the field glasses and studied the mount. "That's good, Corporal. Thanks a million." He saluted the hilltop and turned to us.

"All right, Cherries," he said. "Now the fun begins."

### Eleven

"Peter, let's start with you. Take a gander through that scope and tell me what you see."

I lay on my stomach beside one of the M107s and put my eye to the scope. Training it across the valley, I caught movement on the far hillside. "Son of a gun," I muttered. "What is—is that a ski lift?"

"Used to be," said Martin. "We brought it over here and reconfigured it."

"I'll say."

Through the scope, I watched as a string of department store mannequins suspended from poles waltzed through the air. At the end of their circuit they turned and flew back the way they came. Pulling away from the scope, I studied the hillside with my naked eye, barely discerning the figures moving across the open grade.

"It's kinda like one of them old carnival shooting galleries," said Grant. "Super-sized."

"'Cept this ain't some mechanical duck hunt," I muttered.

"No, it ain't."

"I gotta see this." Jerry kneeled beside me, lifting the other M107. "Wowee," he breathed. "What's the range?"

"A little over two thousand meters."

"That's at the extreme high end for accurate."

Martin crouched between us. "Gentlemen, we are gonna train with these weapons for the next six days. We will eat, sleep, and breathe the M107. We'll shoot them in all kinds of weather and under every circumstance imaginable. Rain, snow, or shine, we will become the masters of this gun. Any questions?"

Jerry said, "Yeah, is there anybody over there? 'Cause I don't want nobody wandering around up there while we're over here firing off these cannons, know what I mean?"

"No worries, Jer," said Grant. "Rick's already bugged out, and the only other crew is training with Boog down the mountain."

"An' they ain't gonna come wandering up this way?"

"Booger knows we're here," said Martin. "He'll keep the rest away. Most of them'll be gone by the time we're done as it is. You probably won't even see them."

I raised my hand. I had to know. The question had been bothering me ever since Rick first mentioned it. "Who's Booger? And does he know you call him that?"

"Lieutenant Boog. The nickname's sort of inevitable. He told us to call him that when we first met in Basic. Boog helps run things when I'm out," said Grant.

"Unfortunate name."

"Keeps it real, man. Guys like Boog? That's who we're fighting for. I'll tell you about it sometime. But right now, we got shooting to do. All right. Jerry, you take the field glasses. Martin's with you."

Martin took the rifle from Jerry and led him over to the far side of the summit. Grant knelt down beside me.

"This isn't so different from your run-of-the-mill sharpshooting, son, but there are a few things you've gotta know. Number one, you and I work as a team. You time your squeeze to your breathing. You breathe out and squeeze the trigger. Just sight in on your spot, breathe and squeeze."

"But the targets are moving."

"Ah, you do pick up quick. You don't sight in on the target. You sight in on your spot: a point the target is passing. I'll be studying the same point through the glasses. When the target passes your spot, I'll say, 'Now.' But don't squeeze the trigger unless you're breathing out. At this range, the slightest jolt will throw you off target. When my 'Now' and your breathing happen at the same moment, you take your shot. But only when you're breathing out. Clear?"

I nodded and bent forward, sighting through the scope. On the far hill, I found a small tree growing beside a rock, just on the other side of the reconfigured ski lift. "All set."

"Where're you looking?"

"There's a large rock beside a small birch, about a third of the distance between ends of the thingy."

"I see it. Time your breathing. Wait for my go."

I started measuring my breaths, keeping my eye glued to the tree. A moment later something large and blurry passed by my field of vision.

"Now."

I shrugged. "Missed it."

"Don't worry it. Just time your breaths."

I blew out a long breath and sighted in on the target again. A moment later, I heard Grant say, "Now."

I let out my breath and squeezed. The gun bucked. Through my scope, I watched the mannequin blow apart, leaving only the head and shredded torso suspended from the pole. The remains swung wildly in the air a moment before collapsing to the ground.

Had that been a man...

"Oh my God. I just blew him in half."

"Good shot," muttered Grant.

I turned and stared at him. "This is what you want to do to someone? To the President?"

Grant studied me silently. There was a loud crack from my left. Jerry yelled, "Whoo! You see that?" He grinned at us. "Martin just blew his frickin' arm off."

I shook my head.

"Cherry?"

I looked up.

"Don't think about it. It's just a target. Nothing more."

I stared across the valley, watching the sunlight play over the snow patched earth. To the northwest, the mountains disappeared into a slate gray bank. A storm was coming.

"How—?"

"Don't. I know what you're thinking. I know what you're going to say. You're over processing it. You've got to rein that in, Cherry. It's just a target. I want you to say that. Right now. It's just a—"

"It's just a target," I breathed. "Just a target." My voice trailed off. It wasn't just a target, and I knew it. It was a man. A man who had a wife and children, and whose only crime that I could see was that he thought differently than we did.

And what was this country, if it wasn't a place where people could think differently? Could agree to disagree? Was being a Marxist really a crime? Or had we only convinced ourselves of this, because our arguments against it failed?

No, that wasn't entirely true. The arguments against Marxism were solid enough, and anyone who wanted to transform the American system into a Communist utopia was, at the least, not acting in the best interests of the country, and at the most, an enemy of the state.

I turned and looked across the valley to where I'd just blown a mannequin in half. Something Saint Paul once wrote trailed through my head. It was from the twelfth chapter of his letter to the Romans, I think. "If your enemy is hungry, feed him. If he is thirsty, give him something to drink."

And if he disagrees with you, blow his frickin' head off.

Somehow that didn't seem to mesh with what I'd learned in Sunday School. More "Whoohoos" came from Jerry. I glanced at my brother and my friend. They were clearly in their element, thoroughly enjoying blasting away with the cannon at the string of make-believe people wandering harmlessly on a hillside a mile away.

Martin looked at me and grinned. "Come on, Petey! Think you can outshoot your older brother?"

Martin. He was why I was here. Somehow, I had to find a way to get him out of this.

Grant shifted his feet and kicked some dirt. "You gonna make me stand out here all day, Cherry, or you gonna start shooting?"

I seriously thought about telling him off, but it wouldn't help me save Martin. I had to get them apart, get Martin away from Grant. And I couldn't do that here. If I left now, I wouldn't be able to do anything else. I had to stay.

I lay down again, sighting in on my tree, waiting for the next victim to wander into view.

I had no other choice.

***

Later, after we'd blasted through the remains of the mannequins, Grant and Jerry headed over to the far hillside to reset the gallery while Martin taught me how to field strip the weapon.

"In case you have any problems," he explained.

"D'you mind if I ask you a question?" I said as we worked.

"Shoot."

"It's about this whole thing. Shooting the President. You really think it's necessary?"

Martin didn't even bother to look up. "Hell, Peter. How many times do we hafta go over this? There is no other way."

"Yeah, but..." I searched for the words. "I mean, splitting a man in half..."

"Is that what's eatin' you? The firepower?"

I shrugged. "I guess. Maybe. Yeah. I mean, there's no recovery from this."

"True that."

"So wouldn't it be better just to, you know, wound him?"

He chuckled. "Never thought you were such a pansy. You remind me of Jocelyn Elders. You remember her? 'We can build safer weapons,'" he slurred his speech to mimic Clinton's ill-fated surgeon general. "'We can make safer guns and safer bullets.' What a moron. Guns are designed to kill people, Petey. That's their only function. Well, animals, too, I guess, but not something like this. These guns kill men. They have no other purpose." He caught my gaze and held it. "And don't tell me you didn't know that when I brought them home. You can talk about peacekeeping and deterrence all you want, but in the final analysis, it's about killing someone. Plain and simple."

"He's got a wife and children."

"So do most soldiers. They still die." He started putting it back together. "It ain't just the firepower. It's the range. We've got to be far enough away that they never see or hear it coming, and we've got to have the means to kill at that distance."

He finished reassembling the weapon and handed it to me. "This man we've elected? He is an evil man. He believes an evil doctrine that he will not hesitate to impose on the rest of us. Marxism has been responsible for more death in the world than any other belief system, including Islam. A hundred million people have died because of it. A hundred million. Can you wrap your head around that? The Marxists make Hitler look like an amateur. Marxism isn't just an economic theory, Peter. It's a worldview, and it elevates the masses above the man, ignoring the fact the masses are made up of men! Marxists and socialists will cheerfully kill in the name of achieving their utopia."

"I know what Marxism is."

"Do you? You remember what Che Guevara said in Motorcycle Diaries? 'Crazy with fury I will stain my rifle red while slaughtering any enemy that falls in my hands... With the deaths of my enemies I prepare my being for the sacred fight and join the triumphant proletariat with a bestial howl.' Does that sound like a reasonable man to you?"

"Yeah, but that's Guevara."

He snorted. "It doesn't matter, Petey. Marxism leads to death everywhere it's tried. 'Soon or late, it is ideas, not vested interests, which are dangerous for good or evil.'"

"John Maynard Keynes."

Martin put his hand on my shoulder. "He gets into power, he will kill."

I shook my head, bewildered. "This is America."

"Yeah," he nodded. "And we know how to handle tyrants."

### Twelve

I hated to admit it, but Martin was right. Not about the killing the President thing, but about the way we were going about it. The gun freaked me out. A hit with one of those .50 caliber rounds meant it was over. Whoever we shot would be dead. Period. There was no getting around it.

I suppose I ought to have understood that from the beginning. Dad always taught us: never point a gun at someone you don't intend to kill.

Which meant it was about killing the President. Flat out. We had to go into this meaning it. Scratch that. I had to go into this meaning it. Martin wasn't the one struggling with this. I was. If I was going to sight in on the President of the United States, then I had better intend to kill him, and that was the end of it.

Which meant I was right back where we started. Martin had me. I couldn't disagree that Marxism was evil, or that it was wrong to kill an evil man. I couldn't even argue against the preemptive strike—that whole 'chance to kill Hitler before he'd done anything,' argument. If an intruder breaks into your house with an axe, you don't wait until he swings it to take him out. You just shoot the bastard and have done with it.

What bothered me was simply this: I didn't want to be the one to pull the trigger.

I was afraid. Plain and simple. Afraid of losing my brother. Afraid of losing my own life. Afraid of doing something so utterly indelible. I wanted anyone else to take care of things for me, rather than risk taking action myself.

I was acting like a coward, and for that, I felt ashamed.

It wasn't long before Grant and Jerry came trudging back up the mountainside, and I was sorta glad to see them crest the summit. Grant handed me the field glasses and said, "Take a look."

I peered across the valley, and this time, rather than seeing mannequins sailing through the air, I saw white and black targets—each about three feet tall, suspended from the poles.

"Run out of mannequins?"

He shook his head.

"Oh hell no," gushed Jerry. "You should see the set-up they got over there. There's got to be like, hundreds of them all stacked in this pole barn behind the lift."

"What did you do? Raid Macy's?"

"Something like that," said Grant. "Whenever a department store closes down, we gotta guy who gets in there and buys 'em up cheap. It's kinda like our own little revenge against the government driving folks outta business. But I thought this might be easier to start with. Something a little less dramatic, eh Cherry?" He clapped my back, shoving me forward a step. I felt embarrassed.

"This isn't easy," I muttered.

"What's that?"

"C'mere, Jerry," said Martin. "Let's get some grub going." He steered Jerry away from Grant and me.

"Whaddya want me for?" Jerry whined. "I can't cook."

"Everyone takes a turn. C'mon."

I watched as Jerry and Martin ambled toward the cabin. Martin didn't want him listening in on us. I wasn't sure why. It might've been to protect me from embarrassment, but I think it had more to do with keeping Jerry away from me. Jerry'd had no trouble at all shooting the targets. Why he didn't was a mystery to me, but it didn't look like Martin wanted me messing with his head.

"So what's wrong?" said Grant.

"Shooting someone. Killing them."

Grant blasphemed. "Told you not to think about it, Cherry."

"That's like asking me not to breathe."

"Whatever works."

"Cute." I handed him the field glasses and stuck my hands in my pockets. "How do you get over it?"

"You don't. Not without killing your heart. It does get easier, though."

"So I gotta kill him before I feel good about killing him?"

"Feel good? You think this feels good?"

"Well, no. That's not what I meant."

"Let me tell you something, Cherry. It never feels good. I think about every man I've killed. I still see their faces at night. Not every night. I ain't going all P.T.S.D. on you. But yeah, I still see them. Make it feel good? Not gonna happen." He gulped the air, staring over the valley at his targets. "Nazis wanted to do that. They gave each of their S.S. officers a puppy. Had them feed it. Take care of it. Bond with it. Then after a couple of weeks they ordered them to kill the puppy. Those that couldn't didn't make it through. Those that did? It desensitized them. Made it easier to impose the Final Solution. That's how you make it feel good. So unless you wanna turn into a sadistic killer, don't go looking to get over it."

I swallowed. "So what do you do?"

"Grow a pair already, will ya? You do what you hafta do. It's the mission, Cherry. Take out the bad guy before he takes you out. Listen, this why we frickin' brought you up here, okay? We get it. Martin and I? We've been there. We've both been where you're at. It's called Basic Training. You learn to shoot. You learn to run. You learn to fight. And you learn to obey orders. You learn to do your frickin' job. Nobody wants to kill people. Those that do don't last long. But this is a war, Cherry. Maybe they haven't openly declared against us, but it's a war, nonetheless.

"Now you can die the death of a thousand cuts, and the rest of us go down with you, or you can take up arms and shoot the bastards before they bleed us all dry. Which is it gonna be?"

"I don't know if—"

"Quit thinking! I didn't ask what you knew. I'm asking you to choose. Which is it going to be?"

I pressed my lips together. There wasn't any choice. Not with him standing there ready to throw me off that mountain if I answered wrong. "All right."

"What's that? Sorry. Didn't hear you."

"I said all right."

"All right what?"

"All right I'll do it." I felt my face flush.

"Do what?"

This was it. There was no way out. Grant and Martin were right about one thing, at least. When you came right down to it, the decision really was quite simple.

The words were barely a whisper in my throat. "I'll... I'll kill him."

Grant half-smiled. "Or you'll be killed," he said quietly. "And you don't want to die, do you?"

I shook my head.

"So let's say we train you in this weapon, so you can stay alive."

***

Grant had me shoot through three magazines before he was satisfied enough to let me up again. By now, the smells of cooked meat had pierced the acrid tang of gunpowder and made my stomach rumble. Grant complimented my shooting as we packed up the weapons and headed toward the cabin.

"Your brother was right," he said. "You're a crack shot if I ever saw one."

"Thanks," I mumbled. My chest hurt from lying prone on the ground so long. I wondered if I'd ever get the feeling back in my shoulders.

"Still, you need to relax. You're tensing a bit whenever you shoot. You're hitting a pattern just fine, but it could be tighter. I've seen snipers bull's eye penny nails at a hundred yards. You could be that good. Honest to God."

I wanted to tell him this wasn't like shooting penny nails, but thought better of it. I'd been lectured enough for one day. Inside the cabin, Martin was tending a fire while Jerry stirred a pot. "I think it's burning," Jerry was saying.

"Get it off the flame, dummy!" called Martin, still working the fire.

I handed the rifles to Grant and went to the stove to rescue Jerry and what was left of dinner.

"Told you I can't cook," he muttered.

Inside the pot was a scorched mass of dry noodles. I wrinkled my nose and started scraping them into a bowl, picking the charred ones out while trying to rescue the macaroni. It was then that I noticed the smoke rising from the oven.

"Looks like the meat's done," said Jerry.

I swore and grabbed an oven mitt, pulling open the door to release a cloud of smoke into the room.

"Oh, that's just beautiful." On the broiler tray were four charred steaks. I set about prying them free of the pan.

"I told you I can't cook," Jerry said again.

"It's not like it's hard, Jerry," said Martin. "You just gotta pay attention to what you're doing and follow the instructions. How're you ever gonna stand on your own two feet if you can't fend for yourself?" He came to my elbow, inspecting Jerry's work.

"I ain't," Jerry retorted. "That's why I still live at home. I plan to stay there until I get married, then let my wife cook for me."

"What makes you think anybody'd marry you?" I said.

"Well, it ain't for his cooking," Martin rejoined before Jerry could answer.

Grant shook his head. "Looks like you'll be cooking all week, Jerry."

I set the spatula down, hands braced on the sink. "Why in the name of all that's holy would you do that?"

"Seriously," Jerry said, eyes wide.

"It's all about following orders," said Grant. "You've got to learn to hear instructions and carry them out. If you can't do that with a recipe, how are you gonna do that on mission?"

Jerry fidgeted. "But I can't cook."

Martin grabbed his shoulder. "And you're gonna learn."

I stabbed one of the steaks with a fork, holding it up like a torch. A wisp of smoke trailed from the surface of it. "You sure you wanna do that?"

"That's one thing you'll learn, Cherry. One man fails to follow orders, the whole team suffers."

"Great."

"Besides, charcoal's good for ya. Helps with the digestion. Serve it up, Jerry. Let's eat!"

***

Later, after we'd struggled through dinner and cleaned up the dishes, we sat in front of the fireplace, picking our teeth and chugging beer. Martin had us bring in several loads of firewood before shutting the door for the night, and not a moment too soon. Outside the cabin, the wind had picked up, howling with phantasmagorical fury, rattling the shingles like a thing alive, demanding entrance through the rafters. Snow and ice lashed the window panes, as if whipping us for overstaying our welcome. Despite the blaze in the hearth, I felt chilled.

"Ain't that wind something?" Jerry muttered.

The corners of Grant's mouth turned up a bit. "Now'd be perfect," he muttered.

Martin shook his head. "Limits, Grant. They ain't ready for it."

"Just saying." He sipped his beer.

"Ready for what?" I asked.

"All weather training."

"Are you frickin' nuts?"

"Don't give him ideas," Martin warned me. I strongly suspected they were making this up as they went.

"Another day or two, this'd be perfect," said Grant.

I pointed toward him with my beer. "What did they do to you in the military? This'd be inhuman."

He shrugged. "Inauguration's in January. You'll be shooting from the top of a building in high winds. No telling what the weather will be like. You've got to be prepared, Cherry."

"Speaking of prepared," said Jerry. "What happens if it don't let up? We gonna get snowed in up here?"

"Could happen."

"They'd send up a rescue party, right?"

"Who's that?" said Martin.

Jerry shifted in his seat. "The guys back at camp."

"You mean the ones who left today?" said Grant.

"Are you telling me there's no one back there who knows we're up here?"

"Never was. 'Cept for Boog and Rick."

"Wait a minute," I said. "The militia doesn't know we're up here?"

"They know what they need to know."

"And what's that?"

"They've been ordered to stay off the mountain this week," Martin explained. "So we don't cross paths. Most of them don't even know we're here."

Grant added. "Boog'll look in on us at week's end if we don't check in. Other than that, we don't exist."

"You're keeping us a secret?" Jerry asked. They nodded. "Why would you do that?"

### Thirteen

"We've got our reasons," said Martin. He and Grant shared bemused expressions. Jerry and I stared at them both. Outside, the wind continued to whip hard particles of ice against the windows, and the chill in the room deepened. After a moment, Jerry set his beer down.

"You know, I've been thinking," he said. "Petey and I are on board with this thing, and I know you've been piecemealing intel out to us. Telling us only what you think we need to know, when you think we need to know it. While I respect that you've got yer reasons, I don't think it's good enough."

"What are you saying, Cherry?"

"I'm saying you should cut the crap. Tell us what's going on."

"What do you want to know?"

"Everything."

Martin snickered. "Think your head's big enough for that?"

"Screw you, Marty."

Martin laughed aloud. No one joined him.

"'Everything' is a pretty broad category, Jerry," Grant drawled. "Maybe you could narrow it down a bit for us, so we know where to start."

Jerry squirmed. I watched him from the corner of my eye, fully sympathetic. We both felt out of the loop, and it was beyond annoying. If I hadn't been asking Grant and Martin so many questions myself, I doubted whether they'd have told us anything.

"All right," he finally said. "For starters, how long exactly have you and Marty been talking about this?"

They exchanged glances, then Martin said, "Maybe ten months, give or take."

My jaw dropped. "Ten months?"

He shrugged. "Could be longer."

"I thought you started this in November."

"That's just when we decided to pull the trigger on it. Op like this takes months to plan."

"You had all this worked out months ago. So, what was all that talk after Election Day? Were you playing me?" I started wondering about patsies again.

"Naw, it's not like that, Petey. I won't say I wasn't trying to find a way to get you involved. Hell, yeah, I was! But that don't mean I was playing you. I've known for years we'd have to do something sooner or later. Hell, I think we all knew that. Grant and I started talking maybe a year and a half ago. Just sorta putting feelers out there, trying to figure out whether or not one of us was going to turn the other in. After a while, I guess we trusted each other enough to start talking strategy and tactics."

As he continued, his eyes lost their focus, as if he were staring wistfully into the past, relishing the memories.

"We talked about bombs and biologicals, chemicals, radiologicals—you name it. Nothing was off the table."

"Radiologicals? You mean—"

"We were gonna steal a nuke."

Grant chuckled. "Yeah, that was a dumb idea. We wanted to put it in downtown Washington and just take out the whole city. Too difficult, though. Nuclear material's too well guarded. Even the Russian black market isn't as open as people think. Otherwise Ahmadinejad would've taken out Israel a long time ago. We did talk about a dirty bomb though. You can make one of them with enough explosives and about a zillion smoke detectors."

"Better yet, microwave ovens," Martin corrected. "Stuff's just too frickin' dangerous to work with though."

"Word gets out and they pop themselves a couple of iodine capsules and take a good shower, and there's not much point."

Martin nodded. "And we talked about anthrax. Ricin. Problem with all that is the delivery mechanism."

"It ain't targeted," said Grant.

"It ain't targeted," Martin repeated.

"That's when we hit on the idea of assassination. It's quick. Easy. Take your shot from far enough out, there's no way to really eyeball it, so they won't see it coming. That's what Oswald did with Kennedy. Most the other recent attempts involved small arms—and for that you have to get too close. That's why Hinckley failed. He used a .22 caliber revolver."

"That, and he was a nut bag."

"That too. But that's the problem. Secret services sees you and takes you down before you can deliver. You want to be effective, you've got to go large cal, and you've got to be far enough away that you can plan your shot."

Grant nodded. "After that, it was just a matter of figuring out when and where."

"I've got a question," I said.

They looked my way.

"What happens after the op?"

"You blend in till you can get the hell outta Dodge."

"No, I don't mean the whole escape thing. Ah—" I pressed my lips together and fought for the right way to frame my question. "Let's assume everything goes as planned, you know? I mean the assassination, the escape, the response of the government—everything you're hoping for. The government declares martial law, goes after everyone's guns—the whole shooting match. How will we be organized to respond? 'Cause you're talking guerrilla war, right? I mean, have you got a list of preliminary targets we're supposed to hit? And shouldn't we be training for that stuff, too? It's gonna be hard to do that after all this hits the fan."

Martin said, "Hey Bro, let's not jump the gun here. The militia wouldn't know you from Adam. Once you pull the trigger on the Prez, your job's done."

"My job? What do you mean, my job?"

"What do you think your training for? Geez!"

"Yeah, but—"

"It's a team effort, all right?" Martin ran his hand through his hair. "Point is, this team only has one job to do. Once we do it, we're done."

Grant said, "You do understand there's a reason we chose men who weren't part of a militia, right?"

I frowned. The thought hadn't actually occurred to me until just then. With so many already trained and prepped in the sort of operation Grant and Martin had planned, and certainly motivated to respond with far less resistance than I showed, why weren't they using militia men?

"I guess I don't," I replied.

"Petey, for very strategic reasons, there cannot be any—I mean any—connection between the assassination teams and the militias."

"What about Grant?"

"What about me?"

"Grant's the only connection we can allow, and I'm confident enough in his abilities that it won't make no difference."

"Why can't they be connected?" Jerry asked.

Martin looked like he was ready to fall into an open hole. "Please tell me you're sharp enough to understand this."

I leaned back in my chair and stared at the ceiling. The firelight made the shadows of the rafters throb against the wood, something dark and living quivering above our heads. "The assassination attempt is designed to provoke the government. The government reacts by imposing martial law and trying to seize our weapons. The militia groups see this as... unprovoked. They didn't assassinate the President, but the liberals are using that as an excuse to go after the militias, thus forcing them to either surrender or fight.

"If the police or the news media can tie the assassination to the militia groups, it'll provoke a backlash against the right wing. But if this is all seen as coming out of left field, pardon the pun, then the militias are innocent bystanders being attacked by their own government."

Martin smiled, looking pleased. "And when the American people see the militias being served up as the scapegoat..."

"They'll side with the militia groups against the government, thus bringing on—"

"Full scale collapse," he finished for me.

I nodded. It made sense, in a Machiavellian sort of way. "You're manipulating the militia groups."

Grant's eyes were narrow slits reflecting firelight. "If you want to put it that way."

"So the goal isn't to take down the government with this, but to provoke a confrontation. My God, it's April 19th all over again."

Jerry looked confused. "What's the deal with April 19th?"

"You never did study your history, did you?" said Martin.

"I hate history."

"Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it."

"Hell, even I know that one. That was Santana."

"Santayana," I corrected. "George Santayana."

Jerry frowned. "Who?"

"Santayana. Santana's the guitarist."

"He didn't say it?"

I grimaced. "No."

"Whatever. What's the deal with the 19th?"

"The shot heard 'round the world," I said. "Opening salvo of the American Revolution at Lexington and Concord."

"No kidding?"

"No kidding."

"Who fired the shot?"

"No one knows. Probably wasn't even one of the troops on the ground. Not unlike now."

"Told you he was smart," Martin said to Grant.

"You know, it occurs to me: if you're manipulating the militia groups, it's because you're trying to get them to do something they don't really want to do."

Grant snorted. "Nobody really wants war, Cherry."

"But you've determined it's necessary."

"Hell yes."

"Shouldn't the militias have a say in that?"

He shook his head. "Talk about learning from history. What else do you know about April 19th?"

### Fourteen

"Waco," I said. "April 19th, a fire broke out at the Branch Davidian compound. Eighty-one people died. Conspiracy theorists still maintain the government set the fire."

"Conspiracy theorists," Grant exclaimed.

"I ain't saying they're wrong. Exactly two years later, Timothy McVeigh bombed the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City, killing a hundred sixty eight men, women, and children. McVeigh claimed it was in retaliation for Waco and Ruby Ridge."

"Not bad," Grant said. "How'd you know that?"

"You start talking militias. I start doing research. April 19th is like the Holy Grail of the movement."

"There's good reasons for that," said Grant. He began ticking off dates on his fingers. "April 19, 1933 Franklin Delano Roosevelt took us off the gold standard. 1961: the failed Bay of Pigs invasion. 1992 was the first attempted raid on the Weavers in Idaho. 1993 was Waco. 1994 Dr. Henry Kissinger announced publicly there would be a New World Order, and the U.S. would be forced to change its perceptions of the world and its place in it. 1995 we struck back. All of this on April 19th. And on April 19th, 1996 the United States Marine Corps issued a treatise against its own people, calling us right wing extremists. Still think we're conspiracy nuts?"

"Theorists," I corrected. "And I didn't say you were nuts. I didn't even say you were wrong."

"That's good, 'cause we ain't. Do you understand what April 19th represents?"

"I think so." When he said nothing, I realized he wanted an answer. "It's the day of revolts, the lynchpin of movement for or away from tyranny."

"It's also a day of failure and missed opportunity."

I reached for my beer, but it was empty. "Okay. I guess I don't understand."

"Every spring I hear these cherries up here start talking about April 19th. April 19th this. April 19th that. Oh, when April 19th comes, then we'll show them. We'll remind the government who they work for. Bullcrap. It's been almost twenty years now, and they ain't done a damn thing. The simple fact is they ain't gonna jump unless they're pushed, and I mean pushed hard."

"See, that's where McVeigh went wrong," said Martin.

"I thought it was when he murdered babies."

"That didn't help any," he agreed. "But McVeigh thought that by striking the government, he could signal his fellow militia men to rise up and support him. But our people don't rise up unless they're personally provoked. Japan learned that in World War Two. The Taliban learned it again on nine eleven. Hell, it's been that way ever since the Revolution. King George learned it after he punished Boston for the Tea Party. The rest of the colonies didn't like it, and that's what made them ready for war. The King played right into the Patriots' hands.

"You strike the American people, you make them angry, provoke them to respond with force. McVeigh thought he was striking a chord for the American people against the government, but he didn't take into account that the average American doesn't feel attacked by the government. Annoyed, sure, but not attacked. You've got to provoke the government into attacking the people—which is why we cannot have this operation come back to the militias, otherwise it's just Oklahoma City all over again.

"There was support for our cause after Ruby Ridge and Waco, but soon as the people thought it was the government going after a few isolated nut cases, they didn't feel attacked. We have to provoke the statists so bad that they finally do what they've always wanted to do, seize the reins of power from the people and suspend civil liberties. Then the people will rise up."

Grant pointed at me. "Do you realize why the American people were able to take all this land from the Indians?"

"We had the guns," said Jerry, answering for me.

"Naw, that ain't it. We were trading guns and ammo to the Indians long before we wiped them out. They had guns, and they outnumbered us like thousand to one. But the Indians refused to band together until it was too late, and because of that, we were able to divide and conquer. They lacked the will to fight. Plain and simple."

"These guys lack the will to fight, too, then. That's what you're saying."

"I'm saying they ain't properly motivated. Lethargy is death to the republic."

"Jefferson," I replied. "So you're taking it upon yourself to motivate them."

"Better to fight than die the death of a thousand cuts."

I shook my head and blew out frustration. "Has it never occurred to you that maybe these guys aren't motivated because they're just not all into this?" When they didn't respond, I felt emboldened. "I mean, let's face facts: for most of these guys, this is nothing more than bravado and blowing off steam. For others, it's all about playing soldier-boy. You know? Cops and robbers or cowboys and Indians for grown-ups. Nothing more. These are just weekend-warrior types. And they don't want to take on the Federal government, 'cause they just ain't that crazy."

Grant snorted. "Here I am, waiting for you to say something relevant."

"Petey," said Martin, "sooner or later we're all gonna have to step up. Not put up or shut up, 'cause it's too late for that. We're gonna have to step up, whether we like it or not. That's all there is to it. Getting our country back ain't some idle fantasy. It's a cold, hard, reality. 'Cause if we don't, we ain't gonna have a country to try to take back no more. It'll be gone. The dream will be dead, and without America to light the way, the whole world will plunge into darkness."

"You want to know what it's about?" said Grant, rising to his feet. "It's about Lieutenant Boog." He went to the fridge and pulled out four more beers, passing them around.

"Boog's a fourth generation Marine. Men in his family have served in every war since the Civil War. He got called up under Desert Storm, served in Kuwait and the first wave that rolled over Baghdad. He took shrapnel in his leg defending his tank crew from enemy fire. A real American hero in the truest sense of the term. He gets back here, and while still recovering from his wounds, he learns that the state has decided to seize his land through eminent domain. He'd inherited a tenement house in New York City and was planning to renovate it when he got called up. While he was still overseas getting shot at, the city comes along and condemns the property on him, swoops down and gobbles up the land, and leaves him holding the bag on the loan he'd taken out to improve the property. He came home and found they'd already razed the building. Nothing left but a pile of bricks and a big ole hole in the ground. They paid him thirty cents on the dollar for what they'd assessed him in taxes. He lost everything so they could give his property away to some big shot developer who'd paid them off in campaign contributions.

"He can't even go to the Supreme Court for it. Not after they betrayed the people with that decision of theirs, what was it? Kelo vs. New London. Gave the government the right to take your land and give it to someone else in the name of economic development. Now that's just Boog. That's just one example. I could give you hundreds. But that's who we're fighting for, 'cause they've shafted so many people—so many stories just like that—and it's nothing more than a big shell game with them. They pretend they're protecting your rights and defending what's good, but when push comes to shove, its all about money and power with them. Nothing but thieves and crooks."

"See, that's the thing," added Martin. "It's the system that's corrupt, and that's what's got to be taken down. Wipe the slate clean and start over with just the United States Constitution and We the People. Jefferson thought we should do this every twenty years. Well, it's been two hundred, and maybe that's why things are ten times as worse."

"And the government ten times bigger," Jerry snorted.

Grant folded his hands. "And if that means we have to shake things up a bit to get it moving, so be it."

"What signify a few lives lost?" I quoted. "The tree of liberty must be refreshed."

"Now you're talking."

"Even if that blood is yours? Martin's? Or Boog's? Patriots and tyrants get killed in war."

"War is hell."

"Yeah, but it's a hell you're going to unleash on everyone else."

"Better a little hell up front than a lot of hell later."

I snorted. "You sound like William Booth."

They exchanged glances. "Who?"

"Founder of the Salvation Army. He once said that, instead of sending his recruits to bible college for five years, he'd rather send them to hell for five minutes. That would do more than anything else to prepare them for ministry."

"Well, preach it, Cherry. That'll work for me."

We fell to silence after that, and took to finishing our beers. Grant announced lights out and tossed a few more logs on the fire before we packed it in.

I rolled out my sleeping back and crawled inside, already warm from being near the fire. Shadows continued to flicker in the rafters and on the walls. The moaning wind, lonesome and bereft, closed our eyes and covered us beneath a snowy blanket, as if mourning our lost innocence.

### Fifteen

I woke late the next morning. Grant and Martin were already up. They'd made coffee and were sitting at the breakfast table, talking in low tones. I shuffled past them and poured a cup, then took a seat at the table.

Stifling a yawn, I said, "How do you do it?"

"What's that?"

"Go without sleep. You guys are always the last to bed and the first up."

"You can sleep when you're dead."

"Combat makes you a light sleeper, Petey. Small price to pay to stay alive."

"Right," I murmured, tossing back a large swallow of caffeine.

"Somebody gonna wake up sleeping beauty?" Grant queried. Martin snorted.

"Better not," I replied.

"Jerry's not a morning person," Martin explained.

"No he is not," I agreed. "Comes from living with Mom and Dad too long."

Grant grinned wickedly and picked up a pillow from the couch. "Hey! Jerry! Get up!" He threw the pillow at him.

Jerry groaned and threw the pillow off.

"Make breakfast, girl!"

Jerry gave a muffled, "Shut up!"

Grant stood up. Martin and I shook our heads knowingly. This would not end well. He walked over and tore the blanket off Jerry, dumping him onto the floor. Jerry almost seemed to bounce off the floor before he was on his feet, launching into Grant with a full body tackle. Just as quickly, Grant rolled backwards, kicking his legs high and tossing Jerry onto the far side. The table and chairs shook when he landed. Grant flipped over and got in his face.

"Morning," he said sweetly.

Jerry groaned and swore.

"Now, don't be like that," Grant chided. "We've got fresh coffee for ya, and it'll make all the headache go away."

Jerry blew out a long breath and rose to his feet. Grimacing, he rubbed his back and walked to the sink. I poured a cup and set it on the counter beside him as he splashed water on his face.

"Thanks," he mumbled, and joined us at the table.

"All right, Cherries, listen up: we're gonna eat breakfast and clean up by 0900 hours. At 0901, we will be out on the deck, guns in hand, sighting in on our targets. Martin will fire up the ski lift ahead of time. We've got a lot of training to get done, and we're already losing daylight. Forecast calls for more storms this afternoon. We're gonna go as long as we can. We got less than an hour, so let's get moving."

Jerry and I exchanged glances. I was certain we were both thinking the same thing, but telling Grant to stick it in his ear probably wasn't going to make our stay anymore pleasant. Still, Jerry hunched over the table and sipped his coffee, in no hurry to get started. Grant stared at him, evidently at a loss.

"Maybe you should just let the man finish his first cup of coffee," I suggested. "It's not like any of us are looking forward to his cooking."

"This isn't a vacation," Grant insisted.

"Maybe not. But it ain't boot camp, either."

"Marty?"

Martin shook his head, leaning back in his chair. "Jerry only does what Jerry wants to do, Grant. You can't force him. You can either let him have his way or kill him, but you won't make him."

"Yeah, I don't wanna cook no more."

"Ah, hell."

"Cats and dogs, Grant," I said.

"There's a word for this," he muttered darkly.

"It's called rebellion. Ain't that what you're trying to start?"

He sat down at the table, fuming. "How in the hell are we supposed to pull off an operation this complex if you two can't even get up on time, let alone follow orders?"

"You're the logistics, guy," I snapped. "You figure it out."

He glared at me. "Logistics require that people do what they're supposed to do when they're supposed to do it."

Jerry set his cup down. "Look, you want to stick me on a building while one of you takes potshots at the President, I got no problem with that. But I ain't gonna have someone tossing me outta bed, calling me his girlfriend, and demanding breakfast."

"Yeah, where's your values?" I said with a grin. "Assassination? No problem. But wake a man up early? That's just wrong."

Martin slammed his hand on the table. "The man's got a point. What's this country coming to when a man can't finish his coffee before he has to go practice killing someone?"

Grant swore, but cracked a smile. "It's like working with the Three Stooges."

"Just wait'll we start with the guns."

"All right, all right. Could we please just try to get started by nine o'clock?"

"Sure," said Jerry. "How do you want your eggs, just in case one turns out that way?"

***

The rest of the morning went more smoothly. Grant had softened his militaristic tone, having gotten Jerry's not-so-subtle point. Jerry did a little better making breakfast than dinner the night before, but he still managed to break all the yolks and scorch the eggs before scraping them onto our plates. By the time we were dressed and ready with our guns, it was a little after nine.

Outside, the sun blazed through the overcast sky. The crisp air turned our breath into miniature clouds trailing away into nothingness. We trudged the M107s out through the two feet of snow that had fallen the previous night, following the rough path Martin had made a half hour earlier. When we got to the flat surface Grant called the shooting deck, we had to clear the snow first before setting the guns down on the hard-packed, icy surface. Martin showed up a few minutes later, thrusting his way toward us through the drifts.

"You're late," Grant chided, pouring him a cup of coffee from the thermos.

"Lines were frozen. Ice was so thick it didn't want to roll over the pulley. Had to break it loose with a stick."

"Figures. You set up the mannequins?"

"See for yourself."

Grant pulled out his field glasses, staring across the snowy valley at the targets moving on the far ridge. He grunted and put down his thermos, retrieving a satchel he'd brought from the cabin.

"All right, Cherries. Let's set up and start shooting."

Martin and I took prone positions. I sighted in on my spot like Grant taught me the day before and waited for Grant to start saying, "Now."

Instead, I heard a pop and a fizz, and a roiling cloud of bluish smoke filled my scope.

"What the hell?"

"Now," said Grant, peering through the binoculars.

Over to my left, I heard Jerry spotting for Martin. "Now, I think."

I glanced over the slope, seeing a pair of canisters emitting the dark haze. Smoke bombs.

"Now," Grant called again.

I squeezed off a round, missing the target completely.

"Relax, Cherry. Time it with your breathing."

"I can't see anything."

"Stretch out with your feelings, Luke," mimicked Jerry. "Let the force flow through you."

"Just breathe and squeeze," Grant muttered. "Now."

I searched the haze for my spot, finally finding the tree again. At that moment, a shadow passed in front of it. I squeezed off a round, blowing a mannequin to pieces.

"Got one!"

"Doesn't count. That could've been the Chief Justice or the Speaker of the House or any of a dozen people at the podium. Maybe even a pastor. You only squeeze when I tell you to. Got it?"

I craned my neck and resettled, trying not to think about what he just said. "Got it."

My next set of shots went much better, but Martin was still pulling to the left. Before long there was only one more target left wheeling along the cable. "Okay," Grant called out. "Last target. Winner take all. Losers walk."

"Not fair," I protested. "Martin gets first shot."

Grant snorted. "From what I've seen he needs it."

A loud crack from the left, and Jerry said, "Missed."

I grinned as the target swept toward my spot. Taking a long breath, I released it slowly. As soon as Grant said, "Now," I squeezed the trigger three times.

There was silence for a moment then Jerry muttered a curse.

I peered through my scope, tracing the line of the lift, expecting to see the remnants of the mannequin dangling from the cable. "Where is it?"

Grant tapped my shoulder. "You hit it."

"Cool. Which round?"

He chuckled softly. "Which round."

I looked from him to Jerry and Martin, who were staring back at me with wonder. "All of them, Petey," said Martin. "All three rounds hit. You practically vaporized it."

I flushed, feeling something akin to pride and horror. It was one thing to be good at something. It was quite something else to be good at this, something so utterly destructive. A quote fluttered through my mind, from the Bhagavad Gita, said by J. Robert Oppenheimer when he witnessed the first test of the atom bomb in 1945. "Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds."

I sat back on my knees, feeling colder inside than the winter ice encasing the ground.

***

My feelings of horror and pride had subsided when we set up again later that afternoon. We'd taken a break for lunch while Martin and Jerry reset the shooting gallery. Despite my success, Grant kept up the pressure, explaining that he wanted consistency more than anything else.

He tested us with more smoke bombs, flash bombs, and sometimes both together. He'd toss the flash bombs just before a mannequin would fly into view, trying to throw off my aim with the explosion.

Still, despite his distractions, I was destroying targets seven out of every eight rounds by the end of the day. Martin was close, at five out of eight, but still pulling to the left. I was sure it had something to do with his war injury, but didn't feel like I ought to mention it. We'd burned through close to half our ammunition by then, and I began wondering what else Grant had up his sleeve for the rest of the week. If we kept training at this rate, we'd be out of ammo by tomorrow evening.

We wandered back into the cabin shortly after sundown for another round of Jerry's attempt at cooking. Martin set him up with a pot of pork and beans and hot dogs, but it still seemed like an exercise in futility. Jerry burned the beans and overcooked the dogs, such that we found ourselves eating soggy, split wieners that tasted like rubber.

"Well, thank God for beer," I said, washing down dinner.

Jerry managed to look hurt. "I tried."

"Hey," I tapped his shoulder, "it was much better than last night."

He rolled his eyes and muttered darkly. I picked up my plate and dropped it in the sink, then went to stoke the fire. Behind me, I heard Grant say to Martin, "We need to talk." I turned from the fireplace, but they were already putting their coats on and heading outside.

"Wonder what that's all about," I said to Jerry. He shrugged and said nothing. Rising from the fireplace, poker in hand, I stole over to the door, pressing my ear against it, trying to hear through the wood.

"Better hope they don't come back in," Jerry warned. "They'll smack up you right upside the head when they open door."

"Shh!"

Through the wood, I could hear their voices, but not the words. Whatever they were arguing about, Grant appeared to be winning. All I could make out was, "Do what we hafta do." Then Martin seemed to relent.

I dashed away from the door, quickly picking up another log and tossing it on the flame in a hail of sparks as they came back inside.

"Good news, Cherries. We're bugging out early."

### Sixteen

"Early?" I said.

"Yep. We're gonna finish another round of targets tomorrow morning. Then we'll head back down the mountain."

I glanced at Martin, but his face was stony. The last time I'd seen him with that expression was when I'd first asked him about the IED that took out his Humvee in Tikrit. It meant he was in no mood to talk, period. I wondered what Grant had said to him.

The conversation that evening was flat and dull, like a sodden landscape of melting snow. Gone were the pleasant barbs we'd exchanged that morning, or the cryptic jokes Martin and Grant had shared the night before. Jerry pouted on the couch, nursing his wounded pride, as if we had failed to fully appreciate the genius of his culinary incompetence. Martin glowered in the easy chair. Grant seemed satisfied but grim, as if some important decision had finally been settled. And as I was the only one of them experiencing anything resembling a good mood, I couldn't escape the feeling that somehow it was all my fault.

I sat at the kitchen table and stared out the window, seeing nothing but the pallid glow of the full moon veiled by clouds. There was no wind outside, just a damp chill brooding over the snow-packed summit, as though even the weather had lost all passion. Its fury of the night before expended, it abandoned us to our fate.

Martin turned in early, followed a short moment later by Jerry and then Grant. I stayed at the window for an hour longer, lost in thought, and only once tossing a log onto the fire in a vain attempt to ward off the chill. In the spectral reflection of the window, I stared at my mirrored self, translucent and dark, framed by the fire.

What had I done? What sort of man was I becoming? I was good with the M107. Shooting it felt good. Powerful. I had a natural talent for it, the way some people have a talent for baseball or music.

Except that nobody died from catching a fly ball or composing an opera. Why would God give anyone a talent so contrary to life? Dad always loved to quote Psalm 127 when it came to Martin and me, but until now, I'd never really thought about what it meant. 'Like arrows in the hands of a warrior are sons born in one's youth.' Not arrows in the hands of a hunter, but in the hands of one who intends to kill other men—maybe protecting the homeland, maybe in conquest. But whether in defense or offense the effect was the same.

This was what I was training to do, and evidently, I was rather good at it. I wondered now whether or not I shouldn't have followed Martin into the military. Maybe I was supposed to be there for him when they were attacked, and lacking my presence, he was injured instead. Like the old poem: for want of a nail the shoe, the horse, the rider, the battle, the war—the kingdom was lost, and all for want of a nail. The butterfly effect in reverse.

Was I born for such a time as that, and had I missed my moment?

On the other hand, I might just as easily been killed in battle, and maybe my continued existence was itself a mistake—a cosmic joke on all my petty ambitions.

Or, and this thought I found more disturbing than all the others, perhaps I was right where I was supposed to be, and my skill was given to me for no other purpose than to destroy an evil in this blessed land before it blossomed into hell.

Did God breed men for such battles?

I polished off the last of my beer, finding answers in neither the empty bottle nor the blank reflection in the window, and shuffled off to bed.

As I lay down, wincing at the creaking mattress, I found myself looking into Martin's eyes. He lay on the bed next to mine, still awake, blinking languidly. I watched him watching me, something unseen passing between us. On the far side, I could hear Grant or Jerry snoring softly. We were alone.

He smiled sadly and whispered, "I want you to know: I'm proud of you."

I furrowed my brow. "Why?"

He didn't answer, but he didn't have to. I knew why. I'd done well. I'd measured up, rewarded his confidence in me. Today, on the face of the mountain, I'd bested them all, beating them at their own game. No matter what came next, or whatever ways Grant might find fault, nothing would take that from me.

"Martin?"

"What?"

"What did—" I swallowed. "What did Grant say to you...outside?"

He shook his head. "Nothing."

"You weren't—good—when you came back in. What happened?"

"Go to sleep."

"It's okay. You can tell me."

He smiled, his eyes flicking to the right. "He told me he thought your shooting needed work, and I said he was full of crap, 'cause you're the best damn marksman who ever picked up a gun."

"Bull crap." I almost laughed.

"Well, it was something like that. Good night, Peter." He rolled over, and left me staring at his back. I watched him until the fire died, and the silver moonlight lengthened the profiles of the windows on the floor, until all was lost in darkness.

***

The next morning I relieved Jerry—and the rest of us—of the burden of breakfast. He grumbled while drinking his coffee, as if he couldn't decide between feeling rejection or relief. But no one else complained, and I took that as more proof of my newly won status. I wasn't sure how long the good will would last, but I fully intended to milk it for as long as possible.

We finished breakfast and packed up our stuff for the hike back down before heading out to the summit one last time. Martin and Jerry wandered over the valley to the ski lift to load up the last of the mannequins, and I waited with Grant on the mountainside, grateful I didn't have to plow through the snow, but wondering equally what the operation over there looked like. During our stay, I'd never actually seen it.

Grant poured me a fresh cup of coffee from his thermos while we waited. I wrapped my hands around it and shivered, sipping it slowly.

"Gonna miss this," he muttered, looking southeast toward the high peaks.

"Which part?"

"All of it. The peacefulness mostly. Peace is precious. Paid for in blood. There's always someone trying to take it from you, wanting to horn in on your little slice of happiness. Used to be a man could live off the land, unmolested by government. Then we got pushed further and further west till we ran outta land. Now there's nowhere left to go." He sighed heavily and looked at me, as if taking my measure. "We can't live free, Peter. Not like we were meant to. Now we've got to fight for it. We've got to push 'em back."

I drank my coffee and said nothing, pondering what the American Indians would think of Grant's nostalgia, his take on Manifest Destiny and the American Dream. He stood there on a mountain in a private campground named after a noble people long bereft of real freedom, in the largest state-controlled area in the contiguous United States. I wondered what he meant.

"More and more the government's trying to control our lives." He continued to wax eloquent, seeming to enjoy the sound of his voice. "Now they're talking about taking over health care, deciding who lives and who dies based on the word of a bureaucrat instead of a doctor. The Marxists won't stop. They'll worm their way into every corner of our lives, dictating what we think, who we love, and God knows what else. Know what I'm saying?"

I nodded and said nothing.

"Didja ever read 1984?"

"George Orwell."

"Exactly. That's what I'm talking about. Orwell saw it. He knew where we were headed. He might've got the date wrong, but not the agenda."

I wondered what Grant would say if I told him Orwell himself was a socialist.

"See, that's what I like about you, Peter. You get things. You've got a good head on your shoulders and a hell of an aim. There's just one thing that worries me."

I stopped in the middle of sipping my coffee and looked at him. He fixed me in his gaze. I swallowed. "What?"

Without blinking he said, "Whether or not you'll pull that trigger when the time is right."

I wanted to agree with him, but sensed it would be unwise. I had no interest whatsoever in pulling that trigger, but how could I tell him that? Instead, I replied, "What makes you say that?"

"You've got to have something in you that's hard as steel. Call it a streak of cruelty, if you like. There's got to be something in you that's hard enough, strong enough, to take another man's life, to kill one man to save the many. First time for me came about six years ago. I was stationed in Baghdad, in the Green Zone. Pulled guard duty with some buddies at a check point. This Hajji comes barreling through in a minivan, ignoring the signs to slow down. I could see his face, his eyes—glaring at us with all that fear, that hatred and rage. He was shouting." He grimaced and sniffed. "My buds around me were scrambling. Paralyzed. I raised my weapon. Squeezed the trigger and held it fast. Emptied my magazine into his windshield. The whole thing exploded. Cut him to ribbons. Two seconds later the back end of that van blew up. Knocked us down. Shattered windows around us. If I hadn't shot him, he'd have driven right into us. Blown us all to hell. Friggin' shaheed. Two months later I applied for Special Ops training. Killing that man changed my life."

"And you don't think I can do that."

"I haven't seen it yet."

Should I take that as a compliment? I know he didn't mean it as one. "So what do I do now? Strangle a puppy for you?"

He laughed and clapped my shoulder, glancing down the mountain. Two figures were meandering back across the valley toward us. "Naw," he said, "you ain't gotta kill your heart, Peter. You just gotta harden it a little bit is all."

***

We blazed through the rest of the ammunition just as soon as Martin and Jerry got back to the summit. Grant tossed the last of his flash grenades and smoke bombs in front of us, but it didn't make a difference. I hit my target every time I took aim now. I'd mastered the weapon, just like Martin had said we would.

Martin continued to have difficulty with his shoulder. I suspected that lying prone on the cold ground for so long wasn't helping matters. He kept sitting up and rubbing it, grimacing, and after a while, I started trying to burn through the remaining ammo just so he wouldn't have to sit there anymore, and we could get off this mountain and rejoin civilization.

When the last mannequin fell to earth, Grant had us clear and clean the guns, then we shouldered our bags and started down the mountain. The descent was slightly more treacherous than the trip up, both for the angle and for the patches of precipitation that had snuck past the crown of trees and frozen our path.

We said little on the way back, and even though it felt like we were making good time, it was still dark before we reached the camp. True to what Grant and Martin had said, the rest of the militia had bugged out while we were gone, with no vehicles in the parking lot beside Grant's snow-encased SUV, and the main hall and other buildings locked up tight. Grant let us into the mess hall, where we built a fire and loaded up on dinner. Outside, the weather decided to remind us it was winter, and without argument we chose to spend the night there rather than driving home in the dark and the snow. We rolled out our bedrolls around the campfire and soon drifted off to sleep.

Somewhere in the middle of the night, I felt someone shake me awake. I started to say something, but a hand covered my mouth, and against the dwindling light of the fire, I saw Jerry put his finger to his lips and motion me to follow. Pulling free of my sleeping bag, I glanced at the supine forms of Martin and Grant, snoring quietly near the fire, then turned and followed my childhood friend out into the kitchen, where he closed the door behind us and flipped on a light. It was then that I saw his hands were shaking.

"What's wrong?" I whispered.

Jerry ran a hand through his hair. "I got to talk to you real bad, Peter, and it can't get back to those other two."

I glanced behind me, seeing no one. "Okay."

"I got your word on that?"

What was eating at him? "Yeah, sure."

"Okay. Here's the thing. Martin—oh man." He blew out a long breath.

I grabbed his shoulder. "Jerry, what about Martin?"

When he looked at me again, there were tears in his eyes.

### Seventeen

"What about Martin?" I repeated.

He pushed his palms into his eyes and took another breath. "Did Martin talk to you?"

I frowned. "About what?"

"Sacrifice."

I shook my head. "I dunno. Maybe. Why?"

"What about Grant? When Martin and I went to reload the targets this morning. Did he say anything?"

I relayed the content of Grant's soliloquy to him. He sniffed. "But nothing about sacrifice?"

"No. He just wanted to know if I could do it, if I had the balls to kill a man."

He looked down at the floor. "Martin asked me if I thought I could die."

"What?"

"He said it could happen, in the operation. He said it might have to."

"What do you mean? Was he threatening you?"

"No. Just that it could happen. He wanted to know if I could lay my life on the line. You know, take a bullet if... if I had to."

I shook my head. This didn't make any sense. "I'm—I'm sure that's just Martin being melodramatic. Did you see him today? His shoulder's been acting up lately. I think it's from the cold. It's probably just on his mind. I don't think he meant anything by it."

"That's not the way it sounded."

"Well, how did it sound?"

He was silent a moment. "Just—I don't know. Maybe you're right. I shouldn't worry myself like that."

"It's been a long week."

"Yeah. Crazy week." He smiled. "Least I don't have to cook no more."

"You were getting better at it toward the end."

"Was I?"

I slapped his arm. "Sure you were. You just gotta practice is all."

"Yeah? Guess so. Thanks."

"No problem. Let's get some sleep."

"Sure." He started to follow me out, then he hesitated and said, "You're a good friend, Petey."

I stopped and met his eyes. "You too, Jerry."

He snorted and followed me back to the fire. As we tucked back into our respective sleeping bags, I caught Grant watching us out of the corner of my eye, and I wondered how long he'd been awake. Shaking my head, I rolled over and went to sleep.

***

The next morning we grabbed a quick breakfast before loading up the SUV with our stuff. The weather let up enough for us to escape the confines of Camp Nundawa Ono, but by the time we cleared the log barring our path back onto the main road, it was snowing again in earnest.

We rode in near silence down from the mountains, the driving sleet and wind lashing our every move, threatening to bury us if we stood still, but at the same time hindering our progress forward. Once or twice Grant lost sight of the road, nearly embedding us in a snow bank amidst the trees. Without cell service, we'd have been trapped there for days, if we'd have ever gotten out at all. Fortunately, the SUV's four-wheel drive matched the blizzard's fury and kept us moving inexorably back to civilization.

For most of the drive, I stared out the window, watching the sodden trees slip by, listening to the occasional comments from Martin to Grant about the weather and the roads. Jerry was silent beside me, lost in his own thoughts.

There was something going on between the three of them, and whatever it was, I couldn't help but feel like I was at the center of it. Between the private talks of Grant and Martin, and Martin and Jerry, something important had happened, but what it was escaped me. I couldn't quite make sense out of what Jerry'd tried to tell me last night, or why he wanted me to keep it from Martin and Grant. He acted like it was something he was afraid to say aloud.

What concerned me most was the way they all spoke to me. Despite their sullen moods and downcast looks, every last one of them had nothing but praise for me. Grant pulling me to one side to pump me full of rhetoric. Martin letting me know how proud he was of me—even manufacturing tears. Jerry telling me what a great friend I was.

I felt love-bombed, and no matter how much I tried to deny it, it could only mean one thing. I was being set up.

It didn't make sense though. I was the best shot out of all of them. Why would they need to play me for the patsy?

Unless they didn't need someone to be a great shot. Maybe an average shot would do just fine. I leaned my head against the glass, feeling the cold press into my skin. I didn't need to understand it to believe it. Jerry had never tried to tell me what a great friend I was in his entire life. Truth be told, we weren't even that close. Martin connected us, and if Martin were willing to sell me out, Jerry wouldn't be far behind. All his talk about sacrifice the night before. Taking a bullet for the team. What was that? Some kind of mind game Grant put him up to? It explained why he was all shaking and nervous standing there. And Grant watching us the whole time, pretending to be asleep while really making sure his minion did his job.

Or maybe I was just paranoid. Then again, "Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they aren't after you." Joseph Heller said that in Catch-22, though both Woody Allen and Kurt Cobain stole it. People really should learn to source their material.

The only thing that made any sense, that connected the dots for me in a meaningful way, was the resistance I kept showing. Everyone else was on board but me. Everyone else embraced the madness, which was maybe why they were ready to throw me under the bus. Grant had pushed me hard on the mountain—but I still didn't know if I could do what they wanted of me. How could anyone know what he would do until he faced the challenge directly and in person?

More importantly, how much longer could I keep this up—deceiving them? Or deceiving myself into thinking I would go through with what they wanted?

I smiled in the stillness. There was a certain kind of romance to it. An adventure, of sorts. In all my days, I'd never really strayed that far from my own front porch—and maybe that's why I couldn't get anything published. My thinking was too insular, and my writing reflected it. Certainly, hanging out with Martin, Jerry, and now Grant had broadened my horizons. I'd been places now, seen and done things I'd have never had attempted. I was now in a group bent on doing something dangerous. Something radical and world changing. It was exciting, to say the least. The only thing I lacked was an exit strategy for Martin and I, some way to avoid the inevitable. I'd have to come up with something before it was too late.

Maybe I could fake an injury...

"Uh oh."

That single sentence from Martin broke my reverie, shattering the boredom in the car as well.

"Don't nobody panic, now," Grant replied.

I looked through the window at the road ahead. We'd come out of the Adirondacks some time ago and were on the final stretch home, just outside of Ontario. Spanning the road ahead of us, red and blue lights flashing frenetically across the pavement and the serried trees on either side of the road, sat a couple of patrol cars. Cops in full weather gear stood waving a small line of cars forward with flashlights.

"What is it?" I asked. "Was there an accident?"

"Don't know. Maybe."

"Oh crap," said Jerry.

"Check the guns, Jerry," said Martin. "Make sure they're covered."

"Oh crap," he said again, undoing his seatbelt and reaching over the backseat. I undid my belt and leaned over to help him. The black cases of the guns were stacked on the bottom, with the coolers in front and our duffel bags tossed loosely on top. I helped him rearrange the sleeping bags until they covered everything.

"Get back in your seats, Cherries." To Martin he said, "Open the glove box."

I turned to see Grant pulling up as a cop waved us forward with a flashlight. Martin opened the glove box and pulled the .38 from its holster. He passed it to Grant, who quickly checked the barrel before burying it beneath his thigh.

"What are you doing with that?"

"Just shut up and sit down."

"It's just in case, Petey," answered Martin. "You'd better pray we don't need it."

I dropped in my seat and grabbed my lap belt, clicking it into place as Grant stopped and unrolled his window.

"Oh man," said Jerry, breathing heavily. "Oh crap."

### Eighteen

"Shut up," Grant hissed.

Jerry continued to fidget in the back as the cop aimed his flashlight beam into Grant's face. Grant shifted in his seat, but he kept his hands on the wheel. I had no doubt I'd yell to the cop the moment his hand dropped.

"Evening," said the officer, shining his light into Grant's face. "Can I see your license, please?"

Grant reached above to the visor and pulled down his license, handing it to the officer. "What's the problem?" he said.

"No problem. DUI checkpoint. How much have you been drinking, tonight?"

"Not a drop," said Grant.

"Where are you going tonight?"

"Just headed home."

"Where from?"

"Mountains."

"Mountains, huh? You boys out hunting?"

"No sir. Just camping."

"Camping? In this weather?"

"Aw man," muttered Jerry. The cop aimed his flashlight at Jerry's face. I glanced at him, too. Jerry's face had drained of color. A bead of sweat trickled down his cheek.

The cop wrinkled his nose, studying Jerry. "What's wrong with him?"

"He's not feeling well," I answered.

"You high?" he asked Jerry.

Jerry licked his lips and tried to swallow. "No sir," he choked.

The cop frowned. "Why don't you pull to the side of the road and turn off your vehicle?"

Grant's eyes flicked up at us in the rearview mirror. I shivered.

Gravel crushed beneath the tires as he pulled to the side, followed a moment later by the brief, protesting squeak of the brakes. He shifted into park and turned off the key. Then all fell silent except for the ticking of the engine and the wind whipping outside the truck.

"Aw man." Jerry's voice was tiny. He fidgeted as if he were looking for a way out of the truck.

"Jerry," said Martin, turning and holding his gaze, "you need to calm down, buddy. You're drawing attention."

"I'm..." he swallowed, "s-sorry."

"It's all right, Jer," I said. "They're just checking for alcohol and drugs, and you haven't done any of that."

"Calm down, Jerry," Martin repeated.

He pushed his palms into his eyes. "What if—I mean—"

"Jerry Knapp, you calm down right now or I'll knock you senseless, so help me God!"

Jerry's head snapped up, his eyes blinking rapidly. Martin glared at him from the front. Grant's eyes continued to burn a hole in the rearview mirror. I touched his shoulder. "It's okay," I whispered.

He ran a hand through his hair. "It's cool," he muttered. "I'm cool."

After a minute or so, I heard the sound of the officer approaching the vehicle from behind, his footfalls crunching through the frozen slush. Grant's eyes left the rearview mirror to glance out his door.

"Mr. Collins," the cop said to Grant, "would you consent to a search of your vehicle?"

"What for?"

"Well, I'm looking at your friend here, and I'm thinking he might be high, and that you might have some drugs in your vehicle."

"He's not high, he's just sick."

"All the same, I'd like to look."

"No, I can't consent to that."

"You know, I thought you might say that."

Outside, I saw two more police officers come up behind the vehicle, their hands resting on their side arms.

"Sir," said Grant, "I am in my own vehicle. I have not broken any laws, and I am not carrying any drugs. Neither is anyone else in this truck. And if they were, frankly, I'd have left them on the side of the road. But right now, it's late, it's cold, my friend is sick, and I want to get him home before he yacks all over my backseat. You feeling me?"

The cop held up a hand. "Oh, I understand all right, but I've got reasonable suspicion there might be contraband in this vehicle, and I have a responsibility—"

"You don't have probable cause."

"I have a responsibility to do due diligence—"

"You don't have probable cause to search this vehicle without a warrant!"

"Now you hold on a second. I let you talk, you let me talk. Don't keep interrupting me. You won't consent to a search of your vehicle, I'm gonna have to bring one of my dogs over here to do my searching for me. Are you sure you want that to happen?"

"You go right ahead. You could bring an elephant over here for all I care. You're not getting in this vehicle without a warrant."

The cop looked at him sideways, his mouth partway open. It turned into a grin, and he said, "All right." Turning to the cops behind us he said, "Bring him up."

A moment later, we heard the sound of a whuffing, sniffling animal probing the perimeter of our truck. The officer let the dog wend his way all around the outside for a long moment before turning to the cop at our windshield and shaking his head. The cop let out a long breath and handed Grant his license.

"All right," he said. "You boys drive safe. Hope your friend gets feeling better."

Grant put his license back in the visor. "Thank you, officer. You have a good night."

He started the truck, shifted into gear and pulled away into the blackness. I turned and watched the dwindling silhouette of the police officer, hands on his hips, staring after us as we disappeared down the road.

***

We dropped off Jerry first, and then Grant drove away after leaving us at our front door late into the evening. Our house was cold and silent, and I was relieved to turn on the lights and fire up the furnace. Hearing the rush of gas to flame in the basement felt oddly reassuring to me, as if our home had been holding its breath the whole time we were away and had finally let it out again.

Martin stayed in the kitchen, idly flipping through the mail before dropping it onto the kitchen table in disdain.

"Anything important?"

He shook his head. "Nah. Just some bills." He scratched his ear, clearly wanting to say something. I poured a glass of milk and waited, leaning against the counter.

"You—ah—you may have been right."

I stopped mid-drink, grateful I hadn't choked. Was it possible? Had Martin finally come around to reason? I swallowed and asked, "About what?"

"About Jerry."

Jerry? "What about Jerry?"

He shook his head. "Naw, forget it."

"No, tell me."

"It's nothing."

"Everything's something. Especially after this week."

He smiled. "Huh. Good point. You told me you didn't think we shoulda brought Jerry in on the plan. I didn't agree with you, but I'm starting to think you were right. Maybe Jerry doesn't have the head for this."

"What? Because of the cop?"

He snorted. "Yeah."

"He panicked."

"Yeah. Badly."

I swallowed the milk. "Okay. So what happens? You guys gonna fire him or something?"

He smiled humorously. "Not exactly."

"What's that mean?"

"It's not my decision."

"Grant's?"

He nodded.

"What happens if Grant decides to pull him out?"

Martin looked away. "It's late. We should probably get some rest."

"Don't."

"What?"

I set my glass down and squared my shoulders. My palms tingled. "Don't do that. Don't you dare unload this bomb on me and just walk away."

He shrank from me, his eyes furtive. I'd never seen him do that.

"What happens? If Grant decides to cut him loose, what happens to Jerry?"

He grimaced, his eyes red. I couldn't tell if he was upset or just dog-tired. He shook his head, his mouth open. "Ah, Petey. You're actually gonna make me say it, aren't you?"

### Nineteen

"He's our friend, Martin! We've been best friends since we were kids."

"I know that."

"Grant will kill him, won't he?"

He shook his head and spun away from the counter, away from me. I followed him into the living room.

"See, this is why you wouldn't have made it in the Corps."

"Don't give me that! The army doesn't kill its own soldiers."

"Marines. Please. And that's not the point."

I grabbed his shoulder, making him face me. "Then what is? Huh?"

He slapped my hand down. "Don't pretend you'd understand."

"Just try me."

Martin ran a hand through his hair. Then dropped into the La-Z-Boy and pulled off his shirt. The ugly scar on his shoulder puckered his skin, like some kind of alien parasite embedded in his pecs, stretching thin tentacles toward his jugular and his heart. He examined it a moment, as if checking to see that it were still there.

"We were the first in our convoy. There must've been like fifty trucks behind us. That stretch of road was an easy target for the terrorists. Everyone knew it. We couldn't send a convoy out that way without getting some casualties one way or another. They'd hit us on the way there. Sometimes on the way back. Sometimes it was IED's. Sometimes the Hajjis would get themselves an RPG to play with. Most times it was just gunfire. You never knew when it would hit. Or what they'd hit you with.

"First truck in the convoy we called the CF. Cannon Fodder. We were the tip of the spear, the first ones to get shot at. Or blown up. Nobody wants to draw the duty, but once you do," he shrugged, "you strap on your gear, grab a seat and go."

"What's your point?"

He narrowed his eyes. "The point is you do what you gotta do. Even if it means you draw a one-way ticket. Every time we climbed into the lead vehicle, we knew it might be our last."

I smirked. "So you're saying Jerry drew a one-way ticket 'cause a cop stopped us and he almost crapped his pants? Is that it?"

"No! It's about you do what you gotta do. It's about the mission."

I threw my hands up. "What is it with you and this mission? Huh? What makes the mission more important than friendship? Than a man's life?"

"How can you ask that?"

"I'm asking!"

"It's about what we're fighting for."

"And what are we fighting for if it's not for our friendship and the lives of our fellow men?"

He blew out an exasperated breath. "Peter, I am just way too tired to deal with this right now."

"Then let me just say this, just so we're clear: Jerry goes, I go. You can tell Grant I said that."

He snorted and shook his head. "Tell him yourself. I'm going to bed."

I wanted to keep arguing with him—tried to, in fact—but he wordlessly climbed the stairs and shut his door in my face when I tried to object. I stood there a long moment, staring at the hardwood barrier between us, trying to think of something to say, something that would change things. Around me, the house settled and creaked as the furnace's warmth seeped through the walls and breathed life back into its rooms, but it felt wrong to me, like I didn't belong there anymore.

I frowned, and then the sickening thought finally occurred to me. What if Martin had only told me this because Grant had already gone...?

I bolted from the house.

***

When I reached Jerry's street I finally slowed down, grateful that no cops had seen me barreling down 104 into the heart of Webster, nor blowing through the streetlight at Five Mile Road heading for the main thoroughfare through town.

The Knapps lived on a side street off Ridge Road, nestled in a tiny hamlet called West Webster. Their house was a dark green Cape Cod with white shutters and a screened in front porch. Inside, the lights from their living room played warmly against the snow coating the ground in front. Through the curtains, I could see the twitchy flicker of the television casting inconstant hues off the living room walls, and the crown of Jerry's head was clearly visible above the back of his father's recliner. If I'd wanted to, and if I'd brought a gun with a decent scope, I could've taken him out from several hundred yards back. But I wasn't here to hunt. I was here to protect.

I shut my lights off when I coasted by the front, not wanting to disturb them if I could help it. I was praying my hunch was wrong—that Grant had simply gone off to bed, leaving whatever decision he thought he should make undone until at least the morning. I didn't see his SUV anywhere, but that didn't mean a thing. I had no doubt Grant was capable of almost anything. At the end of the street, I turned around and parked, leaving the engine running for the heat, and sat there for a long time.

Above me, the sky was a black void, made further invisible by the icy glare of the surrounding streetlights. Streaks of water glinted white off the coiled wires running power, phone, and cable to their house. The wires swayed gently in the wind, like rocking cradles, and gradually I became aware of the sounds bleeding through the windows of my car, overtaking the rush of heat from my floor vents. I heard cars shushing by each other on the roads, the wind buffeting my doors and roof, and even, so I thought, the sound of Jerry's television set broadcasting a comedy's canned laugh-track through his picture window.

I glanced at the house, startled to see that the lights were out, the television set turned off. I checked my watch. It was only ten-thirty. Had Jerry really gone to bed this early?

Or had something else happened while I missed it completely, absorbed as I was in the doings of power lines and traffic? My heart thudded in my chest, and I could feel my palms aching. A light blinked on in the upstairs bathroom. I released my breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. A few minutes later the light winked out again, and the light to Jerry's bedroom came on. Inside I could see him moving about the room. He was okay.

I relaxed, leaning back in the seat. Now all I had to do was keep watch, be sure Grant didn't show up and try anything before I had the chance to talk him out of it. I could've said something to Jerry, warned him about what Martin said, but then all Grant would have to do is deny it, and I'd wind up looking like an idiot for sounding the alarm. Truth was, I didn't know if Grant intended to do anything or not, or if this wasn't just another one of Martin's sick mind games. But could I really take that chance? I nestled into the seat, breathing easier. Better to be safe than sorry.

Jerry's room went dark. It was quarter to eleven. I turned down the heat and watched the house. I'd keep vigil all night if I had to.

***

Sometime around four a.m. I heard a tapping at my window. I woke startled, realizing I'd fallen asleep on the job. The tapping persisted. I rubbed my sleeve on the window, wiping clear the fog, and saw a man standing on the street, his breath a gray vapor illumined by the street light.

Martin.

I rolled down the window.

He leaned in close, shivering in the cold. "Come home."

I glanced between him and the house. "I don't trust you."

"You're a frickin' idiot."

"Maybe."

"Jerry's Dad sees you out here, you'll freak him out. He'll probably have a heart attack."

I snorted.

"And what are you gonna do if he calls the cops on you, huh? Care to explain why you're spying on your best friend?"

I didn't answer. He stamped his feet, rubbing his arms. I noticed he was only wearing a flannel jacket. And I was the idiot?

"Come on, Petey! Look, I'm sorry I got you all riled up there. Grant's not going to do anything. I promise. Now will you just come home already?"

I shook my head. Maybe he was right after all. I was being an idiot. I reached forward and started the engine, rolling up my window and shutting out the satisfied grin on my brother's face. Heading home, I prayed Martin was right.

### Twenty

I awoke the next morning to find Grant and Martin sitting at my kitchen table, sipping coffee. Martin said little as I came in the room. He poured me a steaming mug and pulled out a chair for me at the table.

I sucked my teeth and slid into the chair. Light from the blinding snow outside the kitchen window splashed across the table's wood grain and framed Grant in a brilliant halo. I squinted my eyes to see him clearly before giving up the attempt.

Propping my elbows on the table, I turned my attention to the coffee, sipping it with a forced calm. Grant and Martin waited silently, like this was some kind of intervention for an addict, or more likely, an interrogation, with the morning sun replacing the conventional light-in-your-face. I didn't want to give them the satisfaction of seeing just how rattled I felt. As far as I was concerned, I was in the right here, and no amount of discussion would change that.

Finally, when I couldn't stand it any longer, I cleared my throat and said, "Mornin'."

A single corner of Grant's lip turned up in the barest smirk. I wondered if he thought he'd scored some kind of point. He picked up his coffee and took a sip of it. "Mornin' yerself. Heard you had a bit of a rough night."

I snorted. "Nothing I can't handle."

"Is that so?"

"Yeah." I swallowed, trying to maintain my composure.

After a moment, his gaze softened and he turned to Martin. "Well?"

Martin breathed out a deep sigh. "Petey, I need to apologize to you." My eyes flicked in his direction. This was unexpected. He splayed his hands on the table and continued. "It seems I left you with a bit of a false impression last night."

"Really."

Grant pointed his finger at me. "This is the part I don't like. Right there."

I pulled back from his finger. It was an instinctive reaction, but I wished I hadn't. I wanted to be able to stare them both down, if need be.

He pressed his attack. "See? How could you think that of me?"

"It's my fault, Grant," said Martin. "He's got this huge imagination. I forget sometimes how it gets away from him."

"So I imagined it?" I half-laughed. "Is that your line?"

"Did you really think I'd kill Jerry? I mean, whether Martin led you there or not, you believed it?"

"Grant, I think you'd do almost anything."

"What kind of animal do you think I am, anyway?"

I shook my head and took another sip of coffee. It had cooled off enough to chug it. I drank a large swallow and wiped my mouth. "There's no way to answer that question right."

"You don't trust me."

"No."

"Have I proven unreliable, in some way?"

I shook my head. "But like I said, I think you're capable of anything. I have no idea what limits you might have."

He bit his lip and cupped both hands around his mug. I was suddenly aware of just how thick his forearms were. I could picture him snapping me in half without breaking a sweat.

He stared at me, his eyes boring into my skin the way I'd seen predators stalk prey on nature shows. "All right, here's what you need to know. This operation concludes in less than two months. Do I like Jerry's response to our little traffic stop last night? No. Does it concern me? Yes. But it's also too late to find a replacement. We're stuck with him, whether we like it or not. A poor craftsman blames his tools. Even a man like Jerry has his uses, just as you do. We just need to ensure his liabilities don't jeopardize the mission."

"And what happens if they do?"

He glanced at Martin, then back at me. "Then we discuss our options. Maybe we just cut him loose. I hope he's someone you do trust."

He finished his coffee, got up from the table and left without saying anything further. Martin followed him out. I stayed at the table. When I set my cup down, my hands were shaking. I ran a hand through my hair and clenched my fists, trying to get them to calm down.

Martin came back in the room. He folded his arms and leaned against the countertop.

"Hope you're proud of yourself."

I turned and glared at him.

"I really think you hurt his feelings."

"Think he'll live?"

"Man, what is wrong with you?"

I gaped. Was he serious?

"You know, maybe this hasn't crossed that little writer's brain of yours, but Grant's gone out on a limb for you. I mean, he's really put himself on the line. And you return his trust with this?"

"Man, don't even hand me that! You're the one talking about taking a bullet and doing whatever you gotta do for the mission and all that heavy crap. And who was it who said Jerry might have drawn a one-way ticket? Huh? And what's with dropping all this in my lap first thing in the morning, anyway?" It was a helluva way to start a day. I hadn't even finished my first cup of coffee yet. Let alone breakfast. I could feel hunger gnawing at my stomach.

"First thing? It's quarter after nine! I was beginning to think I'd have to drag you outta bed. Grant waited here for two hours so you could tell him you thought he was some kind of heartless bastard."

"Grant is a heartless bastard, and I'm not taking the fall for this. I didn't ask you to bring him here."

"Like hell you didn't! You told me to tell him last night that if Jerry goes you go. After you left, I figured you were overreacting and called him up—just before I went to get you. That's why he was here this morning."

"Wait a minute. Overreacted? You're the one who told me Jerry could die. I don't call it overreacting when I go to make sure my friend is all right. It's the least I could do."

He shook his head. "You still don't get it, do you? You're so worked up over this one-way ticket, thing. We've all drawn one way tickets, dummy!"

I stared at him. His eyes narrowed.

"You didn't figure on that, didja?" he said.

I turned and scrutinized my coffee, studying the inky liquid.

"Hell's bells, Petey. We're talking about killing the leader of the free world. There's no way we won't get caught. You knew that, didn't you? You had to have known that."

"I haven't thought about it like that."

"Well, what do you think is going to happen? You gonna pull the trigger on the President, come back here and pick up your writing career where you left off?"

"You didn't talk about them catching us. I mean, even at camp, you just talked about us doing our job and then being done."

"That's cause we got to keep you outta the militia groups. You know, keep it pure. And they might not catch us on day one, but we're talking about the United States government here. They are very good at catching people. And they will catch us. It's just a question of how you want to go down. Petey, this has been a suicide mission from day one."

"Suicide."

"It's a Nathan Hale moment, buddy."

"'I only regret that I have but one life to give for my country,'" I quoted.

"That's right. We're just the first dominos to fall. The spark that lights the powder keg."

Whatever thoughts I'd had earlier of breakfast had just been banished. In all my hopes for protecting Martin, for keeping him from getting himself killed, it never dawned on me that that was precisely what he was after.

"Do you want to die?" My voice sounded thick in my ears.

He sat down in his chair and put his hand on my shoulder, giving it a comforting squeeze. "Everybody dies. The question is: are you willing to die for something? If the Marxists are willing to kill to destroy this country, I guess I'm willing to die to protect it. I'll throw my body into the gears, if that's what it takes to stop them from turning."

I pressed my lips together, wondering if Jerry thought the same. There was only one way to find out, but I didn't want to ask.

### Twenty-One

I was midway through my shower before I realized Martin lied to me. I blinked in the drizzle, droplets stinging my eyes. The water came down from the tap in uneven streams, blocked in the showerhead by twenty plus years of hard water deposits. Lime and rust had built up over time, preventing a clear flow.

Just like me and Martin.

I had history with him. Expectations. One of those was believing we could be truthful with each other. I assumed that Martin felt the same. I expected him to tell me the truth. I was as clogged from seeing his lies and manipulation as our indoor plumbing.

I stood under the water, letting the warmth trickle through my hair and down my back, feeling it run in narrow streams across my calves, and I thought about what Martin said to me the night before.

He hadn't talked about some suicide mission then. He'd boldly walked into a corner and dared me to pin him there.

"You're really gonna make me say it, aren't you?"

Those were his words. Clearly, he meant to warn me about Grant, to mentally prepare me for whatever actions our de facto team leader might take.

And maybe Grant never intended to do anything anyway, and maybe Grant told him to retract what he'd said—perhaps intuiting how I'd respond.

The bottom line was still this: Martin had thought Grant would take Jerry out, which is how this whole fiasco got started.

So why did he lie about it?

I resumed scrubbing my hair, massaging the soap bubbles into my scalp, grateful to remove four days of Adirondack grime from my head.

Was he just following Grant's orders? Was he afraid I'd blow the whistle and run to the cops, to Jerry, to someone? Or was this just another one of Martin's tests—his petty manipulations to see if I could perform as expected?

I rinsed the last of the soap out of my hair and stepped onto the bathroom floor. We really should replace that nozzle. It'd feel good to have a real shower again. I dried myself and meandered back into my bedroom to dress.

Jerry had talked about taking a bullet—the whole suicide thing. What was that all about? That was the day before yesterday, while we were still in the mountains. Long before he freaked out at the traffic stop. Which meant that Martin was up to something. Or Grant was. Or something.

What any of this had to do with what we were planning was beyond me. I had enough trouble figuring out Martin on that account alone—besides whatever psychological games he thought he needed to play.

What if this whole thing was nothing more than some kind of game he and Grant were playing—seeing how far they could push us—how far we'd go—that sort of thing?

Or what if—

"Stop it!" I said aloud, not even caring if Martin heard me. This was getting nowhere. I couldn't get straight talk from Martin or Grant, and I couldn't even think straight.

That left Jerry.

Imagine going to him for advice. I swallowed back bile. Even though talking to him about this whole thing with Martin and Grant made me sick, I didn't see how I'd get any clearer on the matter.

***

I left the house and drove to Knapp's Gun Shop. The store was little more than a pole barn on a side street off Route 250, north of the railroad tracks in Webster. This part of town was still in the village itself, but it lacked the pleasantries that made Webster such a nice place to live, like sidewalks with large trees and buildings with fresh paint. Down here there was little more than a gas station, some cheap restaurants, and a couple of rental joints, along with sundry rows of crumbling brick apartment buildings and hundred year old houses with chipped siding, mossy roofs and porches that sagged under the weight of accumulated junk. If there was a wrong side of the tracks in Webster, this was it.

I pulled into the gravel parking lot, not too surprised to see only one other car in the parking lot. Knapp's didn't exactly run what you called a brisk business, not since the big box sporting goods store in the plaza sucked most of the new customers away with promises of a wider selection and a more pleasing shopping experience. Not that their prices were better. Wal-Mart had everyone beat on that account. But Jerry's dad had a loyal customer base, and they kept their niche of the market by performing repair services the other stores couldn't offer, or had to farm out to them anyway. I walked through the door, hearing the bells above my head jangle, announcing my presence.

"Come on in, Petey," Jerry yelled from the back.

The bells were vestigial. Ever since Jerry convinced his Dad to go high tech eight years ago and install video cameras and motion sensors around the parking lot, they'd known who was coming or going long before the bells proclaimed their arrival.

I strolled through the rows of hunting gear, stacked boxes of ammo, targets, gun oil, cleaning kits, and the serried barrels of rifles and shotguns pointed heavenward from polished wooden stocks. Jerry came out of the back. He was fondling the barrel of a Luger, holding it in a white cloth. The 9 mm had been a present from his grandfather some years ago. It didn't quite work—the springs were bad, among other things—but Jerry tinkered with it now and then, hoping to coax it back to life.

"Hey Jerry," I said. "Still working on that thing?"

He set it on the counter and braced himself above it, grinning sheepishly. "Yeah. Guess it don't say much about a gunsmith that he can't fix his own gun. I ain't touched it in years, though."

I picked up the Luger, sighting in on the far wall. The weapon felt comfortable in my hands, like it was made to fit my size palm. "Nice."

"Grandpa pulled that off a dead Nazi in France," he murmured.

"Yeah." He'd told me the story before. I gave it back to him.

"So what's up?"

"I wanted to talk to you." I took a breath. "Remember how the other night you came to me and asked if Martin or Grant had said anything to me? Like about how maybe this was a suicide mission, or something like that?" He waved me off, but I shook my head and persisted. "I just had breakfast with them this morning."

Jerry stopped shaking his head and met my eyes. There was something furtive in his. "What did they say?"

"Martin says he tried to tell me that this was a suicide mission from the beginning, because once the government started investigating, there was no way we'd get away with it."

He blinked, and I had my answer.

"That's not what he told you, though. Is it?"

"Not exactly."

"What did he tell you?"

He grimaced and started fiddling with the Luger again, putting it back together. "He said only one team was really needed, and since you were the better shot, that it'd be you and Grant. I said, 'So what are we supposed to do? Sit on our thumbs?' He grabbed my shoulder and said our job was to run point. You know? Make certain that if anybody caught wind of what we were doing, that they'd come after us and not you. Make sure you got the shot."

He put the gun down and rubbed his hands on the rag. "That's when he said we might have to take a bullet, if that's what it took to keep their attention off of you."

"Really."

"That's the long and short of it."

I nodded slowly. Inside, I was debating whether to lower the boom or not. Jerry was already pretty rattled as it was. No doubt that's why he freaked out so bad at the check point. This new information might just blow the whole thing wide open. Then again, maybe that's what needed to happen.

"There's more," I said.

He pulled his hat off and ran a hand through his hair before seating it back on his head, then braced himself on the counter, rocking back and forth a bit, like he was teetering on the edge of some precipice.

"Yeah?" he said. "Like what?"

Just then, the doorbells jangled. Our heads turned as Martin and Grant strode into the store.

My heart sank.

### Twenty-Two

We said nothing as they sauntered up to the counter.

"Hey Jerry, Peter," said Grant. "What's going on?"

Jerry shook his head, and I took that as my cue to say nothing. Martin clapped me on the shoulder and propped himself on the counter. He flashed me a smile devoid of warmth. He repeated Grant's question.

"What's going on, Petey?"

"Nothing. Just having a conversation with Jerry, here."

"Well, bring us up to speed, buddy. We ain't got no secrets here."

I raised my eyebrow. "Is that a fact?"

His eyes flickered briefly in Grant's direction, and he slipped a stick of gum in his mouth, chewing vociferously. "You saying different, bro?"

I snorted. "You tell me. You're the ones holding back. Why don't you tell Jerry what you told me the other night?"

He smiled at my challenge, but I couldn't believe he was happy. Grant chuckled. "Go ahead. Tell him about our misunderstanding."

Jerry glanced from Grant to me. I opened my mouth, but Grant spoke for me. "Petey here thinks I want to kill you."

Jerry half-laughed, but looked confused. "What?"

"Go on, Peter. Tell him." He slapped my shoulder and kept talking. "See, he figured I'd want to do something 'cause of the way you reacted to the cops last night."

I kept my eyes assiduously on Jerry.

"Oh wait," said Grant. "Is that what you were telling him, Peter? I didn't spoil it for you, did I?"

Jerry looked at me. "Really?"

Grant laughed. "Ain't that something?"

I didn't respond.

Martin flipped around and clapped me on the shoulder. "You know what he did?" he said to Jerry. "He spent last night parked outside your house, just waiting for Grant to come by and try something. Didn't you, Pete?"

"What a hero," said Grant.

Jerry's eyes flitted between the three of us. Then he broke into a broad grin. "What the hell are you guys trying to pull anyway?" He picked up the Luger and began polishing it again. "I heard about this," he said, still grinning. "There was that whole movie with Jack Nicholson and Tom Cruise—you know, the Navy one?"

"A Few Good Men?" I offered.

"Yeah, that's the one. Demi Moore was in it. God, she's hot. Liked her in Ghost. She kept talking about it. Said it was a 'Code Red,' right? Hazing. That's all this is." He turned around and disappeared into the back shop, putting his gun away. "I heard they still try that kinda stuff on the down low," he called.

I dropped my gaze, knowing that both Martin and Grant were glaring at me right then. Jerry kept talking from the back, but his words were muffled. He came out a moment later, saying, "So is that what this is all about? I get it. Don't panic."

At that moment, the doorbells jangled. We turned to see a uniformed police officer stride into the room. "Morning," he said loudly, then his face broke into a curious grin. "Well, if it ain't my Adirondack campers."

We stared at him. This couldn't possibly be a coincidence, could it? The same cop who stopped us on the road the night before? I wanted to grab Jerry by the collar and scream in his face, 'What the hell did you do?' but I was too afraid to move.

"Fancy that," said Grant quietly.

The officer nodded slowly, then said to Jerry, "You know, I thought I recognized you. I must've seen you when I brought my SIG Sauer in. You're Donny's boy, right? Jerry?"

"Yessir." Jerry's voice was hoarse.

"How's yer stomach?"

"Better. Must've been something I ate."

After a moment, the officer nodded. "Uh huh."

"Y-you said you brought in a SIG Sauer?"

"Yep. Your dad said it'd be ready."

"Lemme check."

He turned around and vanished into the back shop, but not before I saw the butt of a revolver sticking up behind his belt in back, barely covered by his shirt. I wondered if he always carried it, or if he'd grabbed it when he'd gone back earlier.

The cop came forward and leaned on the counter. He raised an eyebrow to Grant. "So did he yack in your car?"

Grant said, "Nope. But I didn't want to take any chances."

"I'll bet."

A moment later, Jerry returned carrying a slender case. "Looks like they sold it to you with the old slide in place. 'Fore '96 they made 'em outta three pieces of carbon steel, but it weren't strong enough for the .40 Smith and Wesson cartridges you were using." He set the case on the counter and opened it, pulling out the SIG and handing it to the cop. "We got a new slide in from CNC the other day and popped it on for ya. It's solid stainless. You shouldn't get anymore jamming."

The cop pulled back the slide and checked the barrel, then snapped it forward again with a click of the trigger. He nodded appreciatively. "Well all right then. What do I owe ya for it?"

Jerry took him over to the cash register and settled up with him. Marty ran his hands over his head, muttering a blasphemy and walking away to look at a magazine. Presently, the police officer turned to leave with his pistol. He looked us over one last time and said, "Take care now, y'hear?" then left.

Jerry walked back over to us, shaking his head and grinning. "How d'you like that?"

Grant's eyes flickered to me. I blinked, turning away.

"Jerry," he drawled, "you care to explain that?"

He held up his hands. "I know how this looks."

Martin slammed the magazine on the floor. "It's the same frickin' cop, Jerry!"

"I know. It's a helluva coincidence."

"Coincidence," Grant dead-panned.

"Ain't nothin' more than that, I swear to God."

"Even I don't buy that," I muttered.

He grabbed a yellow sheet of paper from the counter. I saw his right hand drift to his back. "Lookey here," he stuttered, "This is the work order. Came in two weeks ago. See that? Lookit the date."

Grant took the paper and perused the date. He set it on the counter and held out his hand to Jerry. "Ain't no thing," he smiled.

Jerry took his hand to shake it. Abruptly, Grant yanked him onto the counter, twisting his arm and locking it behind his back. "A frickin' coincidence!" he hollered. "You expect me to buy that?" The glass counter cracked beneath them.

"Hey," I yelled.

Martin thrust himself into Jerry's face. "What the hell did you do, Jerry?!"

I grabbed Martin and pulled him off. Jerry groaned. "It's on the work order."

"Papers get forged all the time, you little pissant!"

"I didn't do—"

Grant yanked the revolver from Jerry's back and shoved him up and against the back wall. "Tell me!" He pointed the gun at Jerry's face, pulling back the hammer.

"No!" I launched myself at Grant and ran into his elbow with my forehead. Lights flashed in my eyes and I crumpled to the floor.

"No, please!" Jerry was sobbing. From my vantage on the floor, I could see him through the cracked glass of the display case, holding his hands out in front of Grant. "I didn't do it!"

Grant was rock still, both hands trained on the weapon, his breath seething through his nostrils. Any second now, I expected to hear the deafening bang ending Jerry's life.

### Twenty-Three

"Well, all right then." It was Martin's voice. Between Grant's stance, I could see Martin bend down and pick up the magazine he'd thrown to the floor. He smoothed it out and put it back in the rack, then strolled up to Grant's side.

Cocking his eye at Jerry, he said, "I believe you." Gently, he put his hand over the barrel of Jerry's gun. "I think we've made our point." After a moment, Grant relinquished the weapon.

I released my breath. Jerry collapsed against the back wall. Martin spun the weapon in his hand and set it down on the counter. He looked at me.

"You all right?"

I nodded.

"You staying down there for a reason?"

Grant bent forward and held out his hand. I hesitated, then let him help me to my feet. He studied my forehead. "You should get some ice on that." I took it for an apology.

Jerry ran his hands over his face, then he grabbed the gun off the counter. "Get out," he said. We looked at him. "All of you. Get out of my store."

"Jerry," I said.

"Get out!"

Grant shuffled his feet. "No."

Jerry looked confused. Hot tears stained his eyes red, threatening to run down his flushed cheeks. He gripped the gun so hard his hand shook.

"Why don't you put that down?" said Grant. "We both know you ain't gonna do nothing with it."

His face contorted, a mask of rage. "I could!"

Grant nodded. "I believe that. But you ain't. And I ain't gonna kill you, neither."

"How do I know that?"

"Because," said Martin, leaning over the counter and tracing the line of the crack with his finger, "if he'd wanted to, he'd have done so already."

He glanced between Martin and Grant. "I didn't call that cop!"

"Yeah." Grant nodded and turned around, idly perusing the products on the shelf. "But we had to be sure, didn't we? Worse thing we could all do at this point in the game is overreact."

"Ya think?" I blurted.

Martin actually laughed aloud, prompting an uncertain grin from Jerry before it evaporated from his face.

Grant snorted. "Yeah." Then he eyed me sidelong. "Yeah, I do. And don't be looking my way, 'cause you brought all this on."

"Me?"

"So did you, Jerry." He turned back around. "So did all of us. It started with you panicking at the first sign of that cop. Then it spread to Martin—knowing we'd have to do something about that."

Martin smiled grimly and examined his fingernails.

"And lastly to you, Peter. So convinced that it's all going to hell. That, gentlemen, is what fear will do to a unit. Fear takes hold in one person. It'll spread like a disease to everyone else."

"It's an infection," said Martin.

"Yep. Thing is, you gotta control it. You can't let it control you." He nodded curtly in Jerry's direction and said, "Now go put your gun away."

Jerry took a couple of breaths, then his shoulders dropped. He leaned into the back room and set the revolver on a high shelf. When he turned back around Grant said, "I will say this: you handled yourself a lot better when that cop came here. You didn't panic. You took care of business. You handled it." He smiled grimly.

Jerry sagged in relief. He reminded me of a whipped dog.

"There's just one problem," Grant said.

Jerry's relief evaporated. I rubbed my head. "The cop knows who we are now."

Grant nodded. "More or less, yeah. In fact, Peter, with your blog, it's possible they've already opened up an investigation."

"No." Martin shook his head.

"What choice do we have?" said Grant.

"You can't shut him down, Grant. We need him."

"Why?"

I stared in disbelief. How could he ask that? Was he serious about trying to shut down my blog?

Martin answered for me. "Peter's blog is our connection to the rest of the country. Without him setting the brush fires, we might be able to pull off the assassination, but there's no way we'll spark a revolt."

"Besides," I jumped in, "if I pull down the blog, they'll know for sure we're on to them. They'll close the net."

Grant regarded me coolly, his lips pressed into a thin line.

"If we're gonna go down, let's go down for a reason." The words were out of my mouth before I had a chance to think about them, much less stop myself.

"Beat 'em to the punch," Grant said. After a moment, he nodded once. "You just might have a point, Cherry." He turned around and looked at each one of us, holding our gaze a moment. "All right, gentlemen. All our cards are on the table now. No more secrets. Inauguration's less than two months away. That means we need to be on site in a month. If you need a cover story," he gazed directly at Jerry, "you'd best come up with one quick. We don't need no missing persons bulletins going out and alerting the cops to be on the look out. Till then," he nodded for Martin to follow him towards the door, "I suggest you keep your head down and stay outta trouble."

With that, they left the shop, doorbells jangling behind them. Through the window, I watched them clamber into Grant's SUV and pull out of the parking lot. I turned back to Jerry.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine, Petey," he said. "You don't have to keep mothering me, y'know?"

I opened my mouth to say something further, then thought better of it and said instead, "All right. See ya."

I left, oblivious to whether or not Jerry replied.

***

Little happened over the next few days. I brought down the Christmas decorations from the attic and made a big deal about putting them up, even to the point where I managed to convince Martin to help me. He groused a little about bothering with it all, but I think it was good for both of us to get our minds onto something else. I strung lights in our windows and in the scraggly lilac bush off the front porch that Mom had planted more than twenty years ago, frustrated that only half our lights worked. I tried to talk Martin into going in with me on a new set, but he wasn't interested. I did secure his help for a tree, though. We picked up a precut one from the local Wal-Mart and drove home with it strapped to the roof of his car. Setting it up was a two-man job, but after wrestling with the stand, getting stabbed with pine needles and covered in tree sap, we managed to get it more-or-less standing straight. Martin disappeared into the kitchen while I sat back and viewed our handiwork.

I wondered what we'd put under it. Martin had said the M107s were an early Christmas present, but I didn't want to picture them sitting under the tree, ensconced in wrapping paper and ribbons. I don't think I'd have enjoyed opening them Christmas morning if we did. Somehow, a sniper rifle just didn't seem the proper way to pay respect to the holiday or to the Christ-Child.

Peace on earth, good will toward men.

Martin came back in the room a moment later with a pair of beers and dropped into the easy chair. I pursed my lips. He was playing Dad again.

For years, all Dad did was set up the tree and string the lights. The rest of the trimming was our responsibility while he sat back and watched. After Dad passed away, Martin began stringing the lights, leaving the ornaments and garland to me. I thought of mentioning it to him once or twice, but suspected that any objection on my part would result in no tree at all, nor much of a Christmas, either.

I opened the ornament boxes and began sorting through their contents. The musty boxes were full of memories: the fragile, tiny plate from Mom and Dad's first Christmas together, tiny portraits of Martin and me as toddlers, the toy soldier Martin made out of miniature blocks of wood when he was in the third grade, one of my early attempts at an angel with lopsided wings and a crooked, crayon grin that Dad dutifully strung with ribbon and ceremoniously hung on the tree. It was all here. Our whole life was in this house.

In the base of the box I pulled out the unfinished manger scene my mother had been making before she passed away. Each year, my father had said, she'd mold another character out of clay and fire it in the kiln of a local craft shop, then painstakingly paint it and add it to the collection. It was meant as a keepsake for our families, once her children were grown up and married with kids of their own.

Of course, it was unfinished. We had a Mary, Joseph, Baby Jesus, a donkey and a wise man, but she never completed the rest of it. I was the last edition to her collection. It was just about all I knew of her. Dad had no skill in clay, and probably wouldn't have done anything with it even if he had. Martin and I were both alone and single, with no marriage prospects anywhere in sight, and no need for generational keepsakes. I wondered what she thought about how her boys turned out. Would we be any different had she lived?

"You just gonna stare at them all day, or are you gonna put 'em up?"

I glanced at Martin. He regarded me over the top of his beer, taking a long sip before setting it down and belching out his dissatisfaction.

"I was just remembering."

"Remembering what? It's not like you knew her."

I put the manger scene back in the box and picked up an ornament. "You could always give me a hand."

He snorted. "Nah. You go ahead. Decorating's your thing."

I pushed to my feet and approached the tree, selecting appropriate branches on which to hang our memories. "What do you want to do this Christmas?"

He didn't answer. I hung a few more ornaments.

"You think maybe we should have someone over?"

"Who'd you have in mind?" he asked.

I shrugged. "Dunno. Just asking."

"We're probably better off just laying low."

I nodded. It made sense, though I didn't want to admit it. Our plan had become our life, displacing everything else—even Christmas. Soon, there would be nothing left.

I had no idea just how true that was.

"There's something else we need to talk about," he said. When I looked his way, he wasn't smiling.

### Twenty-Four

"What'd you have in mind?" I said, not at all sure I wanted an answer.

"You familiar with the Conquistadors?"

I frowned. Did he mean the historical explorers, or was there some sort of modern group I should've been familiar with? "You mean the Spaniards? Hernando Cortez and company?"

"You know any other Conquistadors?"

"Guess not."

"You know what they did when they got to the New World?"

I shrugged, unsure where he was going with this, or what it had to do with Christmas.

"When Cortez landed on the mainland with his men, he scuttled the ships so that none of them would think about retreating. It was his way of saying, 'No return.' Julius Caesar did the same thing when he crossed the Rubicon and invaded Rome. There was no going back. When the Muslim commander, Tariq ibn Ziyad, set foot on the Iberian Peninsula in 711, he ordered his men to burn the ships so his men had no choice but to go forward."

"What's with the history lesson?"

"One more. The Chinese general Xiang Yu gave an order at the Battle of Julu to break the woks and sink the boats. They forded the river and destroyed all means of recrossing it. This way, the general forced his men to struggle to the death with the Qin, thus leading them to victory."

"What did you do? Read a book?"

"They encourage you to study in the service. It ain't all guns and grunts."

"Huh. Could've fooled me."

He threw his bottle cap at me.

"So what's your point?"

He grinned thinly. "I think we need to burn the ship. We gotta make it so there's no going back."

I fingered the ornament in my hands. It was one my grandmother had made–sort of a miniature Fabergé egg. The outside was blue sparkles and a gold ribbon. Inside a gently carved opening stood a tiny manger scene made out of cleverly woven paper. Mary and Joseph leaning in awe over their newborn child. Made from a real egg, it was easily the most delicate ornament we owned. I wondered how it survived this long.

"Aside from the fact we don't own a ship," I began. My voice sounded thick in my ears. I cleared my throat. "Why would we need to do something like that?"

He pressed his lips into a thin smile and grunted. "Cause what we're doing really is that final. It's not something you can alter. Not something you can back off from." He pointed at nothing with his beer, waxing philosophical. "You see, so long as you can back away, so long as you can turn around—you ain't fully committed. It's when you reach the point of no return, and you take that last step off the edge—and there's no going back—that's when you finally got what it takes to finish a job like this. You understand what I'm saying?"

I pursed my lips. "You're having doubts about going through with it?"

He looked at me like I had two heads. "No."

"So you're thinking I'm having doubts?"

He hesitated, then, "Not that you've said lately."

I hung the ornament and watched it sway on its hook. It was quite the treasure. "All right, I guess I don't understand."

That wasn't entirely true. I had an inkling where he was headed with this, but I didn't want to go there. It was something along the lines of his Nathan Hale fantasy—preparing to give up our lives for the sake of our country.

I suppose I ought to have not been surprised. If Martin was nothing else, he was consistent. Assassinating the President was indelible. He was right. There was no going back, once we did it. I wanted to believe I could use that fact to pull him away from the brink, before he dove headlong into the abyss. But here we were, peering over the edge. Soon, we wouldn't be able to see anything else. This must've been what Nietzsche meant when he said, "If you stare too long into the abyss, the abyss stares back into you." I felt swallowed by it.

Martin threw back his head and vented breath at the ceiling. "You've gotta be one of the most thick-headed people I know. Brilliant to a fault. You must be like one of them idiot servants."

"Savants. Idiot Savants."

"Whatever."

"And I'm not."

"Like I said. Whatever. I'm talking about making a major commitment here, doing something that forces us to go forward no matter what, and you're acting all 'Duh, what's he talking about?' Come on, Petey."

I felt my collar grow hot. "Come on yourself! Can't we just not talk about it for once? Huh? I mean, you're like, relentless about it. It's Christmas, for God's sake. Give it a rest."

"There's no time."

"Make some time."

He sighed and shook his head. In the kitchen, the phone rang. I rose from my crouch and started forward. As I passed him I said, "You know what? Just go and do whatever is you think needs to be done. It's not like my opinion matters anyway."

I stomped into the kitchen and tore the phone off the hook. "Hello?" I demanded, sounding a lot more forceful than I meant to.

"P-Peter?"

"Speaking."

"Don Knapp here. Have you seen Jerry?"

I swear my heart stopped. "Uh, not lately, why?" All I could think was that Grant had done something to him after all.

"Well, he didn't come home last night, and his Mom's a bit worried about him. Ah, she thinks he's been acting a bit strange lately, ever since you boys got back from your camping trip."

"Strange? How?"

"Ah, well he offered to cook dinner once or twice—and he ain't never offered that before. And he's been all kinds of moody and such. Did something happen up there?"

I lied. "No. I mean, we were all supposed to pitch in and cook. Jerry ended up doing most of it 'cause Grant thought he needed the practice."

"Uh huh."

A new thought occurred to me, though I'm not sure why. Maybe it was déjà vu. Jerry'd done this once before two years ago, when Misty Culver broke up with him.

"Mr. Knapp, is the bay froze over?"

"I expect so. You think he's fishing, do ya?"

"He might be."

Jerry and Misty had dated off and on since high school, but two years ago she broke it off with him for good—saying he was a man without a future, and she wasn't going to wait around anymore for him to grow up. Jerry's argument that he would inherit his father's business made no impression, and she hooked up with an engineering student at Rochester Institute of Technology. Last we'd heard they'd gotten married and moved out of state. That day Jerry vanished. Two days later, we found him out on the ice, huddled in his tent, his pole suspended over the empty hole he'd carved. He'd been sleeping in his car and spending his days fishing. He'd caught several salmon and steelhead, he'd said, but had thrown them all back, which I thought was just wrong. He mumbled something about making sure there were still plenty of fish in the sea, and didn't argue when we convinced him to pack it in and come home. Unless I misjudged him, he was easily just as upset now.

"If you want," I offered, "I can go check. Think I still know where his favorite spot is."

After a moment, Mr. Knapp said, "Yeah, if you wouldn't mind."

"Not at all, sir. It'll be good to get outta the house. Hell, I might even join him."

"Yeah, you just let me know if you find him."

"Will do."

I hung up and grabbed my coat. Poking my head in the living room I announced, "Going out. I'll be back later."

Martin nodded and said nothing. I shook my head and left.

### Twenty-Five

The Irondequoit Bay was a large body of water descending northward from the Irondequoit Creek and spilling out into the waters of Lake Ontario. It was a half mile across in most places, and about four miles long, providing plenty of surface area for boaters in the summer and ice fishing in the winter. A swing bridge on the north joined the towns of Webster and Irondequoit for half the year, allowing easy access to Seabreeze Amusement Park, which, of course, was closed at this time. Lake Road wound down from the east past gorgeous lakefront homes worth far more than I could ever afford, until it dropped down north of Bay Road and spilled onto a narrow isthmus that divides the waters of the lake and the bay.

I drove onto this narrow stretch of sand, home to a few restaurants, some summer cottages and a marina, and began scanning the bay for telltale signs of Jerry's ice tent. It was hard to pick out. The snow-covered icepack was speckled with five-foot and six-foot enclosures looking like canvass porta-potties all the way to the creek's mouth four miles away. Jerry's tent was bright orange, and he preferred the north end.

Just across the bridge, Lake Road became Culver. I parked in a narrow lot on the south side of the road and stared through the windshield at the line of tents scattered across the frozen bay. Snow covered most of the surface, reflecting a brilliant sun back to the deep azure vault above. Swans meandered through a narrow breach in the icepack in the center of the channel, vying with the ice-fishers for food and utterly oblivious to the cold, their long necks poking through the water before snaking back up and trembling vigorously. A brace of ducks joined them, politely keeping their distance from the elegant, larger and much more aggressive birds. The swans were endangered, probably because of their attitudes. Even the geese avoided them. Turning from them, I could see the span of the 104 Bay Bridge about a mile and a half away. I hoped Jerry was on this side of the span. It would make finding him so much easier.

I zippered my coat and climbed out of the car. Several hundred yards to the left, I could see a lonely orange tent standing aloof from the others. It was my best bet, but given the melt in the center, I'd have to take the long way around to avoid falling through. As cold as it was today, the combination of a relatively mild winter so far and the constant motion of the water kept the Bay from freezing solid all across, making the journey somewhat treacherous. I hope he appreciated the risk I was taking.

Trudging across the ice, I kept my head down and my hands thrust deep in my pockets. I should've remembered my gloves. The wind bit hard across my back. Blown in from the lake behind me and thrust into this narrow valley, it picked up speed and forced me forward, like some brutal security guard shoving a prisoner toward his cell. When I was parallel to the ice tent I turned and started to cut across the center. A sudden shove from my blustery escort took my legs out from under me, sending me sprawling to the surface. I hit the ice hard, feeling like someone had just taken a baseball bat and wailed upon my hip. Concrete would've been softer. I swore and pushed myself into a sitting position, my fingers red and stiff without my pockets to warm them. The wind pushed mercilessly behind, impatient to see me on my way. Gasping, I struggled to my feet and limped the rest of the way to Jerry's tent.

I came around the side, escaping the wind. "Hey Jerry, is that you?"

There was no immediate answer, then from inside came a muffled, "Go away, Peter."

Well, at least I had the right tent.

"Mind if I come inside?"

"Yes."

I shuffled my feet. "You're not like, naked in there, are ya?"

No answer.

"Come on, Jerry, it's freezing out here."

I heard some movement within, then the zipper lifted off the ground and sailed through its toothy line, opening a narrow flap. I pushed inside, closing the tent behind me.

Jerry sat on a small stool before a pair of round holes carved through the ice. A propane heater blazed invitingly in the corner, and I stepped over to it, warming my digits by the mandarin glow. A cooler stood on the other side. I sat on it and cupped my hands, still shivering.

"Where's your gloves?"

"Left 'em home."

He rolled his eyes.

"Got any beer?" I said.

He nodded at me. "You're sitting on it."

I rose and opened the cooler. A six-pack of Saranac Pale Ale sat on one side. The rest of the cooler was packed with salmon. I snagged a bottle and closed the lid.

"That's quite a catch. You keeping 'em?"

He bobbed his head, still staring at the lines that disappeared into each hole. "Yep. Figured I'd make me some steaks. Need enough to practice with."

"That's cool."

"What d'you want, Peter?"

"Your Dad called. Said your Mom's getting worried."

He snorted. "What for?"

"They didn't know where to find you."

"So what? You come looking for me now?"

"Something like that. They also said you offered to cook for them. Didn't know you were so inspired. I guess it has them worried."

He swore. "You know, you try something different for once, and everybody thinks you're going crazy." He looked away at nothing. "You know, I always wanted to learn how to cook."

"Did you?"

"Mom was always like, 'Get outta my kitchen.' And Dad? He just wanted me to learn the business." He sniffed. "Nobody even asked me what I wanted to do."

"So why didn't you?"

"Hmm?"

"Learn to cook? Why didn't you?"

"I dunno. Too busy playing video games, I guess. Seems kinda stupid, now. I shoulda made a bucket list."

"What?"

"You know, a bucket list. Things to do before you die?"

"Yeah, I know what a bucket list is. Why would you..." I stopped myself. I was being obtuse.

He shuffled his feet. "Thing is, I don't wanna die."

"Of course not."

"I'm not like you."

"Me?"

"Yeah. Toss me a beer."

I pulled another bottle from the cooler and passed it to him. He opened it and took a long sip, then said, "You know who you are. You wanted to be a writer, and you just went for it. You didn't sit around waiting for someone to tell you who to be. I've spent so much of my life just sitting around waiting for something to happen. Marty comes along with this whole 'Let's kill the President' thing, and I just jump at it. I ain't saying we shouldn't do something for the country. I mean, look at it. Don't take a genius to know something's wrong. This country ain't like what it was supposed to be—not like what we were taught it was when we was kids. Now it's all PC bullcrap and gay marriage, know what I mean?"

I nodded.

"I ain't saying we shouldn't do something. It's just... I feel like it's too late. Like, I was supposed to live, and I didn't." He started laughing, but it sounded like a sob. "Can I tell you something? Like something real personal?"

I shrugged.

"I ain't never... I mean... Misty and I dated awhile, but we never... and she was like the only one, and we just never... you know?"

"Are you trying to tell me you're still a virgin?"

He blushed and looked away.

"Well don't take this wrong, buddy, but I don't think I can help with that."

"Oh shut up! Knew I shouldn't have said nothing."

I apologized. "I don't mean to make fun. Honest to God."

He shook his head. "Sure would've liked to have, you know, had that experience. I don't just mean the sex thing. Not just that. I'm talking about like the whole marriage and kids thing. To know what it's like to be with someone, have a child of my own. Don't suppose I was ready to settle down. Now I never will be."

"You keep talking like it's all final, said and done. It's not too late. We don't have to go through with this."

"I know. But it's like, if I don't, then, what am I protecting? I ain't never been more alive than in these past couple of weeks. I can't just turn my back on that."

One of his rods bobbed in the water. He swore and grabbed the rod, spilling his beer. I scooted out of the way, grabbing the net while he pulled. "Sonova—we got a big one, Pete!"

The pole bent sharply forward, like it was going to snap in two. I stayed to the side, watching him wrestle with the fish. After a while, I could see something shifting in the waters below the tent.

"Get the net," he grunted. I already had it, but said nothing. A few more twists on the reel and the ugly face of a large salmon poked through the water, its lidless eyes staring uncomprehendingly at the alien world it had just entered. I braced the net at the edge of the hole, and as soon as the fish cleared the water, shoved it underneath. The salmon flopped uselessly into the net, its gills desperate for oxygen.

"Lookit that!" Jerry exclaimed. "Ain't she a beauty?"

"Those are going to be some steaks, Jerry."

He smiled brightly in return.

***

I stayed with Jerry through the rest of the afternoon, though we didn't pick up the dangling threads of our conversation again. Around four o'clock I offered to help him cook up the salmon steaks, in exchange for dinner, of course, and together we packed up the tent. After lugging everything back to his truck and retrieving my car, we drove to his house for dinner. Jerry's mom and dad were delighted to have their son back, but it took some convincing to get Momma Knapp out of her kitchen long enough for me to show Jerry how to cook up the steaks.

The Knapps didn't have a proper smoker, so we baked them with a little Worcestershire sauce and lemon juice with butter and salt and pepper. Mrs. Knapp made a point of pulling down the thyme and leaving it out on the counter for us while exclaiming, "I'm not saying a word. Just, well, you know."

We served it up with steamed asparagus and mashed potatoes, and Mr. Knapp insisted on unscrewing a bottle of Lake Niagara White. After dinner and dessert of leftover chocolate cake, I bade them goodnight and headed home. I was feeling pretty good all the way to our street.

Then I saw the fire trucks.

### Twenty-Six

Serried yellow fire trucks stood across the street from our house. Crimson and white lights flashed in staccato patterns across the frozen ground, while lengthy hoses snaked from the hydrant along the side of the street. A police officer held up his hand, motioning me to a stop before the assemblage of vehicles. Just beyond him, I could see a broad column of blackened smoke billowing into the air.

"Sir," he said when I unrolled my window, "you're gonna have to turn around and go back."

I shook my head, eyes wide. "That's my house," I muttered.

"Your house? You live here?"

"Yeah. With my brother." I tore off my seatbelt and flung open the door. "Marty!"

A few heads turned in my direction. I yelled again and tried to move in that direction, but the cop restrained me. "Calm down, sir. I need to know your name."

"Marty!"

"Sir, tell me your name."

I sagged against the car. "P-peter," I mumbled. "Peter Baird."

"Uh huh. And you own this house?"

"My brother and I. Martin."

"All right. Hang on." He spoke quickly into his shoulder mic. I barely heard him or the reply. I stared ahead at the raging inferno that had been my home for as long as I could remember.

Where was Martin?

"All right. Come on. I located your brother. He's fine. Paramedics are checking him over."

I shuddered in relief and rose shakily to my feet.

"Might wanna turn off your car."

I reached through the open window and grabbed my keys from the ignition, then followed the cop as he escorted me through the maze of trucks toward my brother. As we neared the house, I could feel the heat blasting through the cold. A window in the upstairs shattered. I whirled at the sound, staring as flames danced out through what had once been my bedroom.

What happened?

The cop nudged me along. "Your brother's this way." He pointed me toward a red paramedics' truck parked on the curb. Sitting on the back bumper, a familiar figure watched me from behind an oxygen mask. He waved weakly in my direction.

Martin.

Relief flooded through me. And then something else. Doubt. It blossomed into suspicion, and with every step grew into an ugly certainty. I moved quicker, almost running toward him. I stopped a few feet from him, my fist curled tightly, ready to fly. "What the hell did you do?!"

He lowered the oxygen mask just long enough to grin at me beneath bloodshot eyes. "Hi Peter. Good to see you're all right. I'm fine, too. Thanks for asking."

I wasn't buying it.

"You want me to think this was an accident?"

"Keep yer voice down."

It was then that I noticed his bandaged hand. I pointed at it. "What happened to your hand?"

"It's fine. It'll heal."

I sank down beside him. "What did you do, Marty?"

He eyed me from the side. "Don't worry yourself, none. I got most of our stuff out. Guns are in the barn, buried in the crawl space. They'll never find 'em." He reached behind him and brought out a familiar black notebook. "Got your computer here. It was one of the first things I grabbed. Managed to get some clothes, too."

I stared numbly at the possessions he showed me. "You burned our house down?"

He smiled wanly. "Wasn't hard. It'll even look like an accident. I put a candle in the window near one of Mom's curtains. Caught fire a lot quicker than I thought it would. 'Bout all I could do to get our stuff out in time. Damn smoky, that's for sure."

"Mom's curtains." I felt like someone had just punched my gut. I wanted to scream at him, demand that he take it back, but all that came out was, "Why?"

"What do you mean, 'why?' I told you why. Gotta burn the ship. You didn't think I meant a boat, didja? Besides, you told me to do what I thought was best."

I turned and stared as the remains of our lives vanished into ash. It was unbelievable, despite the searing evidence to the contrary. "This is what you thought was best," I muttered.

"Damn straight. Now we're committed. No going back." He clapped my shoulder, letting his hand rest there a long time. "It's just a thing, Peter. And we don't need it no more."

"It was our home."

"Everybody has to leave home someday."

***

The firefighters worked the blaze all night. Toward dawn, they finally got it under control. Two of them suffered smoke inhalation and had to be taken to the hospital. I wondered what Martin thought about that, but decided against telling him to explain to the families why their Daddies couldn't come home that night. He'd probably say they were volunteers and knew the risks or something stupid like that anyway, so what was the point?

As the morning rays first brightened the horizon, I rose from my seat, sipping from a Styrofoam cup of coffee one of the rescue workers had given me, and wandered over to the walkway that used to lead to our front porch. In front of me, the smoldering ruins lay. A blackened carcass, the ancient bones of the house lay split and charred beyond repair. A sole window frame stood upright in the fragments of a wall, its glass shattered, the shards melted on the ground. Thick, acrid wood smoke stung my nostrils and turned the coffee a bitter chicory flavor.

There was nothing left.

I felt a presence beside me, and knew Martin stood there. I wondered what he thought of his handiwork, and if he felt the same.

"I can't believe it's gone."

"Yeah." He took a deep breath. "Hell of a thing."

I threw my cup into the rubble. "It was their legacy. All we had left of them was in that house. It was all I ever knew of Mom."

"They been gone a long time, Peter."

"Not to me."

"Well, then it's time you let them go. We're their legacy now." He tugged at me, but I remained rooted to my spot.

"What was she like?"

He crossed in front of me, his brow knitted. I could barely see him through the tears.

"Mom. What she like?"

He swallowed and said nothing for a moment. Then, "She was a good person. Blue eyes. They crinkled when she smiled. She smelled like chamomile tea. I remember when Dad brought you home. He carried you wrapped in this blanket and knelt down so I could see. And he said, 'This is your little brother. His name is Peter, and I want you to take good care of him, okay?' That's the only time I seen my Daddy cry. He put his hand on my shoulder and told me my Momma wasn't coming home. That she died giving birth to you." He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "And I looked at you, and it was your fault. I hated you! God, I told him to take you back." His voice got quiet, barely a whisper. "Then he hit me. He said, 'This is your brother. You do whatever it takes to protect him. You keep him safe, 'cause he's the only piece of your Momma we got left.'"

I grabbed him then, pulling him into a tight embrace, too frightened to let go. He cried into my shoulder.

"I'm so sorry, Peter."

I held him and said nothing. It was a long time before we parted.

***

The Knapps took us in. I sorta thought they would. Fact is, they insisted, like we had no choice in the matter. Jerry made room for us on his floor and we rolled out our sleeping bags. We always stored the camping gear in the barn. Good thing. I just wish we'd have kept our pillows there. I was left with a lumpy spare I was sure would give me a crick in my neck.

That first night I had vibrant dreams of Martin burning up with the house. I could see him standing in the front hallway, fire circling his legs, torso and arms. He was pointing at me and saying something, but I couldn't hear it. I tried to rush him and put out the flames, but I caught fire, too.

When I woke up, darkness filled the room. I could still smell the smoke.

### Twenty-Seven

Next morning Jerry cornered me in the bathroom while I was brushing my teeth. He shut the door and locked it before appraising me in the mirror.

"So what really happened?"

I spat in the sink. "What do you think?" I snapped. "Sorry, that came out harder than I meant."

"S'alright. Did he do it?"

I blasted the water so no one could hear us. Bracing my arms on the sink, I tried to answer.

He shook his head. "Damn."

I didn't need to say a thing.

"Is it my fault?"

"How would it be your fault?"

"If I hadn't been ice-fishing, you wouldn't have come looking for me. You could've been home to stop him."

"You think I could've stopped him?"

"Guess not."

I stared at my reflection, not even seeing Jerry anymore. This bathroom reeked femininity. Clearly the work of Mary Knapp. No man would put a latch hook rug over his toilet tank, let alone a hot pink one. The rug on the seat cover and floor matched as well. She'd continued the theme with hot pink fairies with bulbous eyes peering down at the sink and flowers painted on the shower curtain. I half-expected to come out of there smelling like a frickin' perfume bottle.

I missed our bathroom. Even with its clogged showerhead.

"This thing's taken over. It's consumed us. Just like that fire." I snorted. "He made sure he got the guns out, you know? And my computer. All the stuff we need to finish it. But only that. Everything else is gone."

"Makes sense."

I whirled on him. "How the hell does any of this make sense?"

"I'm just saying, you know, from his perspective..."

I swore and left the room.

***

Back in the bedroom, Martin was just putting down his cell phone when I walked in. He sat on the floor and leaned back against the wall, knees bent, staring at the ceiling.

"That was Grant," he said.

"What's Grant want?" I muttered, pulling on my shirt.

"We're taking the guns down to D.C. this week, start scouting for positions."

"Why so soon?"

"Sooner we get them down there the better. Security's only going to tighten in the run up to the inauguration. Hell, it's bad enough as it is."

"You tell him about the fire?"

"Uh huh."

"What he say?"

"Good move."

I rolled my eyes. "Mary says breakfast is in ten. Wait, did you say this week?"

He nodded.

"Why?"

"Christmas is as good a time as any. In fact, it might even be better. Most folks will be too busy stuffing their faces and singing 'Jingle Bells' to care what we're up to."

"This was supposed to be our first Christmas together in four years. I can't believe you'd just blow it off."

"It's just a holiday. It's not like I believe in Santa Claus."

"What about Jesus?"

"Jesus?"

"Yeah, you know? Keeping Christ in Christmas and all that? I mean, it's His birthday."

He rolled his eyes. "Well, He'll have another. He's eternal, ain't He? Not like we can't afford to miss one. Besides, you got yer Christmas present. And don't take this wrong, but I really don't need a sweater."

I shook my head in exasperation and left the room.

***

After breakfast I grabbed my laptop and escaped into my car. I'd told them I was going to do some writing, but that was probably a lie. I think I meant to do some. Sort of. Probably not. I didn't really know what I was going to do. I just knew I had to get away from all of them.

I drove around for a while, and wound up at our old house. The ruins weren't smoldering anymore. A heavy snow had fallen in the night, and now the blackened timbers lay half-buried and askew—the inspiration of some monochromatic Jackson Pollack nightmare. I wandered around the edges of it, kicking at fragments of siding or shards of glass. Now, without the house standing here, the whole place felt small and confining. Cramped even. I wondered how it had managed to contain our lives for so long.

It wasn't fair. None of it was.

Mom should not have died, leaving Dad to raise us on his own. But even Dad shouldn't have died before we were ready to leave. I shouldn't have failed in my writing. Martin shouldn't have gotten shot, and our house shouldn't have burned down. None of this should have happened at all.

But it did.

I shoved my hands in my pockets and stamped my foot.

Losing the house was just the tip of the iceberg. It was easy to blame Martin for that. After all, he set the candle in the window. But Jerry was right. In a perverse way, Martin's actions made sense. He may have lit the candle, but something else lit him.

I supposed I could blame Dad, but what would the sense in that be? It just pushed the truth further away. Dad was lit, too. Come to think of it, so was I, after a fashion. From what I'd seen at the militia campground, and the growing page views on my blog, we weren't the only ones.

Seemed like the whole country was lit.

Something was fundamentally wrong with the world. I couldn't quite put my finger on it, but it was the same sort of thing that drove postal people over the wall, or enticed kids to bring guns to school and start blasting away. It was like something oppressive and cruel had taken over and was driving us mad.

I remembered, when all the school shootings swept through the country, that I'd been horrified and scared—wondering when some nutbag was gonna come into my classroom and start blasting away at us. But I also remembered thinking what it must've been like to be on the other side of that gun—to be the one pulling the trigger, to have each explosion punctuating the statement I was making. What that must've felt like. I envied their ecstasy, and I lied to myself about how much I hated thinking that way.

Maybe it should all burn. I'd read enough Freud to recognize this at least. All my protests to the contrary were nothing more than the program of civilization telling me what to feel, the superego rebuking the ego for the cravings of the id. Maybe what I really wanted was to pick up that gun and blow that frickin' bastard away, to keep shooting till it was all gone, and there was no one left to tell me what to feel, or who to be, or how to live.

But who the hell was I to be so free? For that matter, who did Martin think he was? Or Grant? Or even Jerry?

But then, who were we not to be?

I puffed out a breath of air into the gray sky. God, what was wrong with me? Going around killing people—blowing them away—tearing down the very fabric of society—that's what crazy people did. Sane people kept their heads down, followed the rules, obeyed orders. I wasn't crazy, was I?

I shook my head and turned toward the barn. If anyone saw me out here talking to myself, they'd think I was. Might even call the cops.

Pulling open the barn doors, I stepped into its shadows. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust. Splinters of light broke through the siding and poured through the vents in the roof. I inhaled the smell of earth and old wood, tinged now with the musk of our burnt-out home, but clean and good in its own way.

Around me, the decrepit implements of a time long gone hung on the walls. An old scythe. The remains of a spinning wheel. A couple of hand-held sickles. A broken grindstone, anvil, and forge moldered in the corner. Used to be a man lived in utter self-reliance. He sewed his own clothes, grew his own food, killed his own meat. He'd build his house with his own bare hands, and no one could come around to tell him otherwise. If it wasn't sturdy it'd fall down, and he'd have to build it over again, but he'd have no one to blame but himself.

Now other men built our homes, grew our food, killed our meat, all under the watchful eyes of bureaucrats with their rules and their formulas. Nietzsche called them the last men, people bereft of real passion and contented with cheap comforts. 'We have invented happiness' say the last men, and they blink. That's what we'd become. Even hunting wasn't survival. It was sport. Nobody really needed to do it, and it was getting damn expensive anyhow. Society had made it easy to be a man. Except that it wasn't. All you had to do was work in a box for a paycheck, and pay someone else to do what bureaucrats wouldn't let you do for yourself.

But that wasn't living. And it wasn't being a man.

Stepping around our dirt bikes, long ignored in the back, I reached the crawl space, knowing it had been my destination the whole time. Climbing up the ladder, I turned and sat on the crossbeam. The attic crawl space stretched out before me. Two eight-inch planks formed a narrow walkway no more than four feet high beneath part of the roofline. I wished I'd brought a flashlight with me. Dusty cobwebs dangled brazenly from the rafters, while the chewed-up nest of some critter collected mold in a corner.

Stepping across the gap, I ducked into the crawl space and worked my way forward. It was much darker up here, and I peered into each alcove for a while before moving on, unsure whether or not the guns were stashed within. About halfway to the front of the barn, I discerned two elongated shapes lurking in the shadows. I stepped over to one and touched it, feeling the smooth, cold finish of the rifle barrel beneath my fingertips.

Gently, I picked it up and set it in my lap, feeling the weight resting across my knees.

It had felt so good shooting this gun. Or maybe its brother. I couldn't tell them apart. Pulling the clip free, I set it to one side and opened the chamber, making certain the gun was unloaded. Satisfied, I hefted it to my shoulder, sighted down the length of the crawl space, and squeezed the trigger.

Pow.

The trigger closed with a soft click, closing on nothing.

Now that felt right.

### Twenty-Eight

I didn't tell anyone about my trip to the barn. Didn't feel like it was anybody's business but mine. Martin came with Grant later that day and packed up the guns for their trip south. I came along, too, just watching the whole thing transpire.

Grant stalked out into the snow and looked over the remains of our home, hands on his hips. He shook his head, an odd grin playing at the corners of his mouth. "Must've been some fire," was all he said. He and Martin packed everything up and hit the road with no fanfare at all. Martin said he'd call when they got to D.C., but I told him not to bother. It was a good seven-hour drive at least, minus traffic, and I had no intention of waiting up for them. I drove his truck back to Jerry's.

Christmas came and went without me having a say in the matter one way or another. I felt like I was put on hold, waiting out the holiday while other people celebrated. The Knapps made a deal about having me there. They even bought me a sweater. It was a little small, but I didn't complain. I watched them open their gifts and ooh and aah over their mutual thoughtfulness and familial love, and I tried not to hate them for it. It wasn't their fault my family was broken. They were doing me a kindness, having me over. It's not like I had anyplace else to go.

But I think that day I'd have preferred a motel room with some Chinese takeout and cable T.V.

I smiled and lied my way through the whole experience. I felt dead inside. Mary cornered me in the kitchen that evening and asked if I was feeling all right. I shrugged. She instantly assumed it was because of the house, and while I can't say she was wrong, I'm just as sure she didn't get half of what I was going through.

Frankly, I didn't either.

Something must've snapped in me, and maybe that's what Martin wanted to engineer with his 'burn the ships' philosophy. Without the house there was nothing keeping me in New York anymore. I didn't owe Martin a damn thing now. I didn't have to hold down the fort so he'd have some place to come home to. I didn't have to worry about trying to plant Mom's garden or paint the back porch or preserve the past in any shape, manner or form.

I was free.

I could go anywhere and do anything I wanted to do.

Only problem was I had no idea what that should be.

So I stayed put.

Week after Christmas, Grant and Martin returned. We made for the Knapps' gun shop and had our debriefing in the back. Jerry joined us after locking the front door and flipping the closed sign out.

The back office of the gun shop was little more than a stale workroom lit by a pair of fluorescent tubes affixed to the ceiling. Steel shelves filled with tagged guns, spare parts and an assortment of tools lined unpainted sheetrock walls. A makeshift counter top ran along the far wall, and a gray desk with an archaic computer and printer atop it stood to the left of the door. A pair of black vinyl lounge chairs sat on either side of a tall table featuring a stained Mr. Coffee maker and a tiny microwave oven. An unobtrusive teacup with pink Sweet-n-lows and brown stirring sticks occupied the top of the microwave. The liquid in the coffee maker looked thick and old. I turned the machine off.

Jerry set up a card table in the center of the room, and we crowded around it. Grant unfolded a map of D.C., laying it down before us. I noticed several streets were marked off in red, while three spots had dark circles drawn around them.

"Listen up, Cherries. This here is the lay of the land. These streets marked in red? They're restricted access. No parking but by permit only, and forget about getting across the Potomac. The three best locations to set up a shot are here," he tapped the Jefferson Memorial. "Here." The Old Post Office. "And here." A tap on the Newseum, a museum dedicated to the news media. Only in Washington.

"What about here?" I tapped the Lincoln Memorial. "It's a direct shot to the Capitol Steps."

"Couple of reasons, Cherry, thanks for asking. One, it's guarded. Heavily. The Park police will set themselves up with a nice little perch right on top of the building. That way they can keep an eye on the crowds. Second, this whole area here is packed to the gills with jumbotrons. You won't be able to shoot over them or around them."

Martin cleared his throat. "Jefferson's Memorial has a couple of advantages. It's away from the primary security checkpoints, and it's got a direct line of sight to the Capitol steps. Roads ought to be clear of vehicle traffic, so even though it ain't high ground, you should still be able to get a clear shot."

"Not to mention the great symbolism," I offered.

Martin shook his head. "It's also got one glaring disadvantage."

"It's completely exposed," said Jerry.

"Exactly. Anyone lining up a shot from the top of the Memorial has got scant seconds to set up before someone takes notice. If the Park police have got any sharpshooters looking that way, they'll take you out before you can take the shot."

Grant continued, "That leaves us with the Old Post Office and the Newseum. Advantages include clear shots to the Capitol and plenty of places to hide the guns until we need them. Disadvantages are the same as everywhere else. Heavy security. Pennsylvania Ave is the parade route the Prez is supposed to take after the inauguration. Movements are restricted to those who have tickets."

"So we get ourselves some tickets," I suggested.

He grinned. "No need. There's one other group of people that don't need tickets." Here he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a couple of security badges. "Employees. Gentlemen, welcome to your new jobs. You work security, now. Don't forget to fill out your W-2's."

"You got us jobs?" Jerry said. We picked up the badges, startled to see our faces on the identifications.

"How'd you do this?"

He smirked. "Just one of the many reasons our country's going to hell. Too much info is available on line for someone possessing the right skills. You remember Rick? Bet you'll never guess what his day job is."

"He's into computers?" I ventured.

"In a heap big, brainiac sort of way. Pulled your driver's license photos from the DMV database and got you listed as employees in the respective buildings. Seeing as you're both newbies and low men on the totem pole, you pulled duty during the Inauguration, when everyone else has it off."

"Convenient."

"Chuck Thomson?" said Jerry.

"Extra protection," Grant explained. "You're listed under aliases."

I looked at mine. "Joe Warren? Why've I heard that name?"

Grant shook his head, pulled out his wallet and handed Martin a five-dollar bill. "Shoot, Cherry. Thought you were smarter than that."

"Told you. Even Peter's got his limits."

I muttered the names to myself, unable to shake their familiarity. Finally I gave up and shrugged. "I give."

"Patriots," said Grant. "Sons of Liberty. 'Course, we couldn't pick some of the more famous ones. Martin here is Tom Young, and I'm Jim Otis. We need to practice calling each other by these names for a little while. Oh yeah, and one more thing."

We looked up, uncertain.

He smiled reassuringly. "You start Monday."

### Twenty-Nine

"Monday?" said Jerry, sinking onto the desk.

"Is that a problem?"

His jaw dropped. "Yeah. It might be. Little notice would be nice, don'tcha think?"

Martin grimaced. "Why's that? What've you got going on?"

"Don't know if you guys noticed this or not, but we've been real busy lately. I mean, everyone's afraid of what the new Prez will do 'cause he's so anti-gun, and stock's just been flying off the shelves."

"So?"

"So it's not like I can just drop everything, run down to D.C., and leave my Dad in the lurch."

"Oh, give me a break."

"I believe you about the ammo sales," intoned Grant. "People are hopping mad. Bastard ain't even done anything yet and sales are through the roof."

"Yeah, you ain't kidding. We've seen a two hundred percent increase in business since the election, and it's only picking up steam."

"Two hundred percent increase?" I said. "What, that means you gotta work four hours a week instead of two?"

Jerry swore and threw a crumpled napkin at me. "We don't all get to live off our inheritance. Some of us got real jobs."

"Now you've got another one," said Grant. "Look, it can't be helped. We told you before we left to make arrangements and get your cover story in place. I hope you've done that. If not, best get a move on."

Jerry picked up his badge, wrinkling his brow. He ran his hand through his hair. "I-I dunno."

"What don't you know?"

"Look, it ain't the same for you all. You ain't got family. I do. I gotta be around to help out."

"You backing out on us now?"

"No, I ain't—look, maybe I could make alternate arrangements or something, you know? Maybe come down just before we do the thing—that way I could still be there..."

Grant tore the map off the table. Clutching it before us, he pulled out a lighter and torched the end. Flames flashed up.

"Hey!" yelled Jerry, dropping down from the desk. "What the hell? You trying to set off the sprinklers?"

Grant dropped the map on the floor. Jerry swore and stomped on it, crushing the flames with his feet.

"Monday," Grant said once Jerry stopped his racket. "You do whatever you gotta do to make that happen," he sneered, and left the room.

Martin motioned me to follow. He put his arm around me and whispered, "Better rein him in, you know? He's got to get on board with this."

"Why me?"

"'Cause I gotta talk to Grant. Remind him this is my team."

"He sure seems to think it's his."

"In the Corps, he was my superior. This is a little different. He just forgets sometimes."

"He isn't gonna try anything stupid, is he?"

He smiled, squeezed my shoulder, and followed Grant out of the shop. I watched them go then returned to the back room. Jerry was cleaning up the soot from the floor with a paper towel.

"Alternate arrangements?" I said.

He glanced up at me, but kept sweeping. "Guess that's a 'no', huh?"

I brought the wastebasket over so he could dump the ashes and towel. "Martin wants me to help you get on board."

"Terrific." He grabbed the coffee pot. "You want some?"

"Only if you're making fresh."

He sniffed the carafe and wrinkled his nose. "Guess I'd better." He wandered off to the bathroom sink to fill the carafe. I pulled the basket, dumped the filter, and started scooping coffee into a new one. He returned a moment later.

"You want me to flip the sign?" I said as he took over the coffee making.

"I should. Yeah, go ahead. Dad finds out I closed up early he'll have my hide."

I helped him reopen the shop, and later sat on a stool at the front counter with a fresh mug of coffee steaming in front of me. The glass in the counter was still cracked, but Jerry'd wound a thick band of duct tape above and beneath the glass to support it. I wondered what he'd said about it to his Dad.

Despite Jerry's claim that stock was flying off the shelves, we didn't have more than a few stragglers wander in to paw through the ammo boxes or outdoor gear. One grizzled hunter dropped off a shotgun with a cracked stock and asked if we couldn't put a rush on it, but for all that, the shop was quiet.

"So Jerry," I finally said, "what's really going on?"

He glanced up from disassembling the shotgun with a screwdriver. "Is this the part where you help me get on board?"

"Maybe."

He set down the screwdriver. "I meant what I said. I don't feel right about leaving Dad in the lurch. He barely comes out to the shop nowadays anyway. I mean, he's left it to me, and I'm supposed to run this when he's gone. I don't feel like I can just turn my back on that."

"What about what you want?"

"This is what I want."

"This is what you're supposed to want. As long as I've known you, this is the only thing you ever talked about. Your Dad leaving you the shop when he's gone, and you taking it over and running the business for him. It's like you've had your life planned out for you. But what about you? What do you want? You just figured out a few days ago that you want to learn how to cook. Who knew?"

"I suck at that."

"Right now. But you're learning. You're trying stuff. That can't be a bad thing."

He said nothing and picked up the screwdriver again.

I tried a different tack. "What if the shop wasn't here?"

He eyed me carefully. "What are you suggesting?"

"No, I'm not suggesting anything. I'm just speaking hypothetically. What if your Dad didn't own the shop? What if he'd been a truck driver? Or a postman? What would you do?"

After a moment, he said, "I dunno. I guess I never really thought about it."

"See? That's what I'm talking about. Who is Jerry Knapp? Who are you supposed to be?"

"Do we have to do this now?"

"No. I mean, we're so obviously swamped here, it's not like we got time to talk about stuff that matters."

He didn't take the bait. Instead, he said, "You know what I don't get? You."

"Me?"

"Yeah. I mean, I might not be as gung ho as I used to be when we first started talking 'bout all this. I guess I figured it'd be sorta fun to go down there and take out a bad guy. You know," he grinned, "little cops and robbers action? Now, it's just like there's this big cloud hanging over it."

"You thought killing someone would be fun?"

"Not if you're gonna make it sound like that."

"How's it supposed to sound?"

He shook his head. "I don't know. It was just different in my head."

"We're talking about assassinating the President of the United States, and you thought it'd be fun. God help us."

"You make it sound stupid."

"No, but I do think it's a bit more serious than something you'd call fun."

He detached the stock from the shotgun and set it on the counter, examining the rest of the weapon. "You know, I am surrounded by guns all the time. Some of this stuff is used for hunting. But most of it ain't. Most of the guns we sell here are built to kill people. I don't want to think that we're selling to robbers or drug dealers. Some of what we sell is meant for home defense. But there's one main reason we sell these guns—that my Dad and I are in this business."

"What's that?"

"Second amendment."

"A well-regulated militia, being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed."

"That's the one. Know why that's in there?"

"To protect the people from tyranny."

"That's what our Dads said. I still remember them talking about it at the dinner table. When our government gets bad, like it is now, we're supposed to do something about it. That's the whole point of having guns. I guess I got excited thinking about it."

"That's what you meant by fun."

"Yeah. I don't think that makes me a bad person, do you? It's not like I want to be some kind of murderer or something. This ain't murder. This is different."

"Okay."

"But see, you're not the same. You're different now."

"I don't follow you."

"Ever since the fire. When Martin first started talking about this—and even at camp—you were all kinda half in half out about all this. Now you're trying to get me on board. I'm not the one who had a problem with it."

"I see your point."

"So what changed?"

I stared at my coffee, watching the reflected light shift about until the dark liquid swallowed it. Jerry's question was a storm cloud waiting to break. The shop doorbells jangled, and I felt reprieved from having to answer while he waited on his customer. As soon as the man left he turned to me with a raised eyebrow, the shotgun he'd been working on forgotten on the counter.

Finally, I said, "Are you asking because you're trying to figure out what you're going to do?"

"I just want to know what changed."

"I don't know. Maybe it was the fire." I swallowed the last of my coffee. It had grown cold and bitter. I considered grabbing another cup, but then thought better of it. My nerves were jumpy enough as it was.

"Why's that matter?"

"I'm not sure. Before he put the candle to my mom's curtains, Martin talked about needing to burn the ships. It was something Hernando Cortez did when the Spaniards got to the New World. His way of saying, 'There's no going back,' and making sure his men knew it. Bunch of other people did it do. Generals, throughout time. They'd burn their ships to keep their men from retreating. That way they'd fight harder."

"So now you're ready to fight?"

I pressed my lips together, studying the duct tape across Jerry's counter. My mind flashed to Grant holding Jerry down there, pressing a gun to his head. It seemed like a lifetime ago. I looked up. "Maybe I am, I don't know."

"That's not like you."

"What? Fighting?"

"Giving up on something you thought worth fighting for."

"You think I've given up?"

"You're not resisting no more, are ya?"

I tapped the empty mug on the counter, listening for an answer in its rhythmic clicking. Maybe I should get another cup. "I don't know. I guess I don't see much point. It's not made a difference. I started going along with this 'cause I wanted to talk Martin out of it."

"You went along with it to stop it? How's that working out for ya?"

I chuckled. "Not so good."

"Why would you want to stop it?"

I stopped tapping the cup and gripped it tightly. "Honestly? It scares me. The whole thing scares the crap outta me, and I don't want to do it. I don't want Martin to do it. I don't want you to do it. I don't really care what Grant does. He can go to hell."

Jerry laughed, and I joined him. Then I said, "We used to have so much fun, you know? Then Martin went into the Marines. Dad died. Martin came back wounded. It was more than just his shoulder. He was dead inside. I was trying to get on the same wavelength with him, try and pull him out somehow. Now I feel dead inside, too."

"But you're still scared."

I frowned. "No. I mean yes, but—not for the same reasons. Can I get some more coffee?"

He jerked his head toward the back room. I escaped the counter with my cup, found the coffee pot and poured a fresh shot. I stood there a moment sipping it, the liquid burning my tongue. On a nearby shelf glistened a Colt .38 Special with a black grip and a chrome finish. I picked it up, feeling its weight in my hand. Extending my arm, I stared down the barrel. The sites lined up perfectly. The gun felt like a natural extension of my hand. I shivered and put it down.

Whatever was happening to me, it had a lot more to do with this affinity for guns than any stunt Martin pulled. I'd always been a good shot before, but I'd also looked at a gun the way I'd looked at a hammer or a drill. It was just a tool. Nothing more.

Now I felt—drawn to the gun. Any gun. I wanted to squeeze the trigger. Keep firing till the clip was empty. Reload and do it again.

That's what really scared me.

### Thirty

I made up an excuse and left the shop behind then drove up to the park by the lake. I sat there in my car a moment, staring across the deep. White caps gamboled toward shore, spilling futilely across the frozen expanse that merged ground with water. On the far side, too distant to discern, the Canadian coast beckoned. Forty or fifty years ago, it promised succor from the terrors of war, isolation from the American draft and the threat of Vietnam. I snorted. It offered no such comfort to me now. Canada was more socialist than we were. Freedoms of speech, of the press, of religion even—they all faced the erosion of the P.C. police, those demagogues who believed that protecting sensitive souls from perceived slights was a high and holy calling, and God help anyone who thought differently. Somehow diversity demanded unanimity. Anyone who failed to conform to the utopian ideal should be dealt with severely. If I didn't shoot someone there, I'd have to shoot myself or lose my mind.

America was the last free place, and it was slipping away.

I sipped my coffee. It was growing cold, and did little to warm me up.

We were supposed to leave Sunday morning. Grant and Martin had found us a cheap motel to stay in while we waited and booked us a pair of rooms. I was sorta glad we'd be working. Anything to escape the interminable boredom of staring at a television for two weeks. Something like that was bound to arouse suspicion, and that was the last thing we needed.

The lake offered no answers. It didn't even know the questions, and neither did I. Three weeks left, and the world would end.

***

We sat around Mary Knapp's table that evening, pretending to enjoy the last of the spaghetti with sliced kielbasa and mushroom sauce served on her good china over burgundy placemats on white linen. The table was cramped with the six of us gathered around, and we crowded together, acting as if it was cozy and fun. The levity was faked. The laughter forced and awkward. I don't know if Don and Mary felt the same way and had the good sense to keep up appearances, or if they were oblivious to the tension that stretched and coiled around us like some invisible viper crushing the life from us.

Jerry finally put his fork down and folded his hands, resting on his elbows. "I've made a decision," he said.

The snake tightened. Don and Mary looked up, perplexed.

"I'm gonna move out."

"Move out?" they said in unison, their jaws slack.

He nodded. "Yeah. I'm—I'm thinking about going to college. You know, maybe do something different with my life. I know you want me to take over the business, Dad. Thing is, I don't know if I want to do that or not. I mean, maybe I do, but what if I don't? What if there's something else I'm supposed to do? I don't even know what's out there to do. I ain't even been outta state 'cept for that camping trip to PA. So. I think I'd like to—try that—you know? What do you think?"

Don closed his mouth. He pushed his plate to one side, took his wife's hand and folded it within his own then set them in front of himself on the table. "Ah, this is sudden," he said.

"Yeah. I've been thinking about it for a while now."

"Is that what you boys have been talking to him about?"

"Something like that," murmured Grant.

"Mm-hmm. Do you have any idea where you're going?"

"Not yet. There's some good schools down in D.C.—"

"D.C."

"Yeah. Grant and Martin were telling me about them. I thought we'd go down and take a look. You know, can't hurt to look."

"Why D.C.?"

"Grant has a place down there."

"I see. And when were you planning on doing this?"

"Monday."

"Monday!" said Mary.

"Yeah. Gotta get down before the semester starts, y'know? That'll give us time to get settled and pick a school and all that."

"Uh huh." Don glanced at Mary and patted her hand, cleared his throat and said, "Well, I guess there's only one thing to say."

We looked at him expectantly.

He broke into a wide grin. "Hallelujah!"

Jerry frowned. Don started laughing. "Son, this is the best Christmas gift you coulda ever given us."

Jerry opened his mouth to respond, but closed it again. He shook his head. Mary had tears in her eyes, and looked on the verge of sobbing. She laughed instead, and covered her mouth. The tension released, slithering away until a more opportune time.

Don grinned. "Jerry, don't take this wrong, but we've been waiting for you to leave the nest for—oh, going on six years now."

"But you wouldn't go!" Mary said, and covered her mouth again.

"You want me to leave?"

"Please do," said Don.

"But, what about the shop?"

"Oh, we'll close that albatross."

"Sell it," said Mary, "and move to Florida like we always wanted."

Don turned to her, his eyes glinting. "And then take that cruise."

"The Caribbean?"

"Cabo San Lucas."

"Our second honeymoon."

They fell into each other's arms. Grant shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. Martin and I stared, just as dumbfounded as Jerry.

Jerry pointed his finger. "I—uh—you never said anything."

"We didn't want to push you," said Don.

"But you never showed any ambition," Mary broke in. "You just come home and play those stupid video games all day. I thought when Misty broke up with you that you'd get a clue, but you just went fishing!"

Martin and I burst into giggles. Grant shook uncontrollably. Jerry's face reddened. "I-I don't believe this." He collapsed against his chair. "You're gonna sell the shop?"

"I've had a standing offer for the past two years from a very understanding fellow."

"Well, what if this doesn't work out? I thought I'd have the shop to fall back on."

Mary turned and shot daggers from her eyes. "We're going to Cabo."

"I'm sorry, Son, but you can't unring a bell."

"Burn the ship, Jerry," said Martin.

He closed his eyes, covered his face with his hands, and swore.

***

"I don't believe this," Jerry muttered.

We lay on our sleeping bags in his bedroom. Jerry was on his bunk, staring at the ceiling. A pale glow from the streetlight outside wrought abstract patterns on the walls.

"What'd you expect?" said Grant.

"It's not like your Mom and Dad are dead, you know," agreed Martin. "They probably still have sex with each other."

"Don't talk about that!" shot Jerry.

"This once, I gotta agree with the man," I intoned. "I don't want that image in my head."

"I'm just saying you oughtn't be shocked."

"Why didn't they say anything?"

Martin rolled his head over and looked at him. "Like they said, they didn't want to push you. Left all the heavy lifting for us."

"'Nuff with the fat jokes," Jerry said.

"I ain't making fat jokes. Not saying you can't lose a few pounds, either, but that's not the point. Point is, you shoulda left home a long time ago. I think your Mom and Dad made it too easy for you. Too comfortable. You needed a good kick in the backside."

"Thanks for the parenting advice. I'll be sure and pass it on to them."

"Play nice," growled Grant. After a moment he said, "There's something else you need to do."

"What's that?"

"You need to create a history. You told your Mom and Dad you've been thinking about college for a couple of weeks now, right? Is that just a line, or have you actually been looking?"

"I dunno. A line, I guess."

"So you don't have any brochures or websites you've been looking at. Your Mom or Dad asks more questions, like what colleges you been looking at, you won't have an answer, will you?"

After a moment he mumbled, "Guess not."

"That could be a problem. You comfortable with the internet?"

"Yeah, I know how to use the internet. You want me to look up the websites, right?"

"Yep. But before you do, I want you to change the date on your computer. Set it back a week or two—just not during our Adirondack trip—then do your surfing. Once you're done, reset it to the right date. That'll create a believable history in your web browser."

"Why?"

"Covers your tracks, that's why."

"Yeah, but why go through all that trouble?"

"'Cause when everything hits the fan, you want to protect those you love. You told your parents you're checking out colleges. Right now, all they got is your word on it, and all the Feds will have is their word on that. You create a history; Feds will believe them and leave them alone."

"Yeah, but why would the Feds—oh my God."

"Wondered if you'd thought of that."

There was a long silence. The shadows deepened on the walls. Outside, the snow had begun falling again. Thick clumps brushed the windowpane and veiled the pallid glow of the streetlight, entombing us in a wintry cocoon.

Jerry broke the stillness. "What's gonna happen after we do this?"

Martin took a breath. "Well, things go as expected, the government will declare martial law, suspend civil liberties, and try to root out the vast rightwing conspiracy that liberals keep mistaking the American people for. That'll spark the resistance."

"No, that's not what I meant."

"You mean about us? Three possibilities. One, they catch us and kill us on the spot. Two, they catch us right away, put us on trial then kill us. Or three, we escape. Until they catch us, put us on trial, and kill us."

"Naw, I figured that," he said.

I frowned. It felt surreal to hear them talk about our deaths so glibly.

Jerry went on. "I'm talking about what happens to my Mom and Dad."

"Once they identify us," said Grant, "the government will dispatch a team of Federal agents to investigate. Your Mom and Dad will be brought in for questioning. Computers will be seized so the forensics can be analyzed. All connections and associations will be explored. Basically, they'll autopsy your life. They'll be looking for every single connection, hoping to nail down whatever network they think is at work so they can nab all the co-conspirators. It'll take a couple of weeks at least. Maybe longer. Meanwhile, the media will begin their own anal exam. They'll interview your old teachers, fellow students, ex-girlfriends, church members. Camera crews will be parked outside your house for awhile, hoping to get your parents' reaction on T.V. Someone will probably offer them a book deal. They should take it. It'll make up for a lot."

"Great," he muttered.

"There'll be threats on their life. Parents' will have to change their phone number. Maybe get police protection. Your Dad's a known gun owner. He'll probably be safe when it comes to vandalism, though don't be surprised if someone doesn't make a half-hearted attempt.

"Once the war starts the pressure will break. Your Mom and Dad will get swept up in the action like everyone else. They survive, they'll be there to help rebuild. Put our country back right. And once everyone realizes how much good came from it all, and how their son helped rescue this country from tyranny, they'll be honored for having raised such a fine, patriotic young man. Or something like that."

"Wow. You're full of crap."

Grant chuckled. "We'll see."

"Guess they ain't going to Florida are they? Or Cabo."

"Not likely."

Jerry swore. "Wished I'd have known. I'd have left a lot sooner so they could have it."

"All things work out for good, Jerry. Now get some sleep."

"Whatever."

***

Grant left the next day for a rally at the campground, leaving us the rest of the week to ponder his take on our end of days. I had to agree. His grim assessment felt dismally accurate, and did little to lighten our mood.

That weekend we packed up our stuff and made ready for the trip. It was a lot easier for Martin and me, since we had so little left as it was, but Jerry took his time figuring out what he wanted to keep and what he should just leave behind. Martin had to remind him more than once that he was supposed to be packing for a two-week trip to check out colleges and not to bring anything that didn't fit with his cover story. Honestly, I couldn't figure out why he wanted to hang on to anything at all. It's not like we were gonna need it where we were headed.

Grant showed up a little before noon Sunday morning, and less than an hour later, we were loaded up and on the road. We grabbed Route 104 over the Bay Bridge, heading for 590 south around the city. As we passed over the still frozen bay, dotted with ice fishing tents and cutting a white swath up to the blue green waters of Lake Ontario to the north, I couldn't help but think that I'd never see it again. Then we crossed the bridge, and it was gone.

### Thirty-One

The drive south was agonizingly slow. It took us two hours to get to the Pennsylvania border, passing by endless hills of farmland blanketed by snow, and the occasional outpost of civilization pretending to be a town. The hills steepened into mountains broken by broad valleys. Narrow threads of concrete and asphalt stitched the state together, a patchwork of roads winding nowhere through the massive rock of the Appalachians.

These mountains used to mark the western edge of the thirteen colonies, a geological barrier soon breached by our ambitious forebears. With the British surrender at Yorktown and the end of the Revolutionary War, the treaties the native tribes had made with the crown no longer impeded the American citizenry. Most of the Indian tribes found themselves on the wrong side of history and never recovered from their error. It wasn't long thereafter that America's westward expansion began in earnest, and Lewis and Clark blazed a trail toward manifest destiny.

That was all but forgotten now. We plowed through those mountains without so much as a passing word to the history they'd seen—the battles fought there from the French and Indian War through the American Revolution to the Civil War. The country'd seen her share of suffering—and for her sins would see it again soon, if we had our way.

We followed the winding course of the Susquehanna River, stopping for gas outside of Harrisburg. Beneath a neon glow, the gas station offered us an assortment of over-priced junk food, magazines, maps, a wide selection of gourmet coffees, and free WI-FI.

"Look at that," I muttered, indicating a miniature Statue of Liberty saluting us from atop an old bridge abutment in the middle of the river. The others turned to stare.

"Huh," Martin snorted. He dropped his voice into an imitation of a local. "What do you'uns need to go to New York City fer? We got yer stature a liberty right here."

"They really say 'you'uns' down here?" Jerry asked.

Grant nodded. "Yessir. Had me a Major who talked that way. He'd always say, 'You'uns go on out there and catch them Hajjis, now."

Jerry broke in, "I'm getting some snackage. Anyone coming?"

"That was Major Marks, wasn't it?" said Martin. Jerry studied both of them and realized they were ignoring him. He looked to me, but I shook my head. He turned and shuffled into the convenience store.

"Yep," Grant was saying, "Marks was a big Penn State guy. He'd have looked at a statue like that and said, 'See, I done told you we Penn Staters are freedom lovers. That's why we got the Liberty Bell.'"

Martin chuckled. "I remember that. He was always going on about the Liberty Bell."

"Yeah. He was a good man."

They fell quiet, their eyes distant. "What happened to him?" I blurted. Their eyes took my measure, and I realized how little I had in common with their shared experiences.

"Killed in action," Martin said. "He was in the second vehicle in a convoy. Hajjis took them out with an RPG."

I swallowed. "Killed instantly?"

He pursed his lips, glancing at Grant. Then he shook his head. "Might as well have been," he said. "Burns covered ninety percent of his body. He lived for two days. Never regained consciousness."

I swore.

Martin tapped the roof of the truck. "I'll get us some coffees," he said to Grant.

"Check on Jerry. Make sure that boy ain't getting all sugared up. I don't need him chatting his head off for the next four hours."

He looked at me and grinned at his own joke. I turned around and studied the statue in the water. The Lady looked forlorn and bereft, dwarfed as she was by the mountains expanding around her. I wondered whether any poor huddled masses would find shelter beneath her tiny flame.

***

After Harrisburg, we parted ways with the river. Contrary to Grant's concern, Jerry remained silent most of the way. Finally, Grant popped open the glove box and handed back a stack of pamphlets and brochures.

"Here, Jerry," he said. "Take a look through these."

Jerry tore himself from the window he'd been studying for the past hour and looked at the brochures. "What's this?" he muttered.

"College brochures. These are some of the schools 'round D.C. See if'n you can't find something that sparks your interest."

He thumbed through the brochures. "Potomac College, Nyack College, Howard University, Everest College, Westwood College... Dudley Beauty College?"

Grant shrugged. "Didn't know what you were in to."

"Holy Redeemer College?"

"Like I said."

"Great. So either I'm a pastor or a beautician."

"There's business stuff in there. Just pick one."

"I think you should do the beauty school," I offered. "I mean, hell, Martin could use a makeover. Can't do much for Grant, but you could try."

Martin glanced over the seat. "Gonna make me pretty, Jerry?"

He slapped at him with the brochures. "Shut up."

"Seriously," said Grant. "You need to pick one."

"Why? It's not like I'm really going."

"It's part of your cover story. You need to make this as real as possible."

He sighed and glanced again at the pamphlets, then turned back to the window. "Don't suppose there's a cooking school down there."

"Might be," I said.

"Will you pick a damn school already?" Grant glared in the mirror. "Do one of the business ones. Your background running your Daddy's shop will fit you in real good."

Jerry shuffled the brochures and pulled one out, holding it up for Grant to see. "Happy now?"

"Good 'nuff. We'll take a spin over there later in the week and you can fill out an application."

"Aren't you taking this a little far?" I said.

"We do everything as though we're just carrying on normal lives. Nothing unusual. Nothing that stands out. Secret service is already on high alert 'cause of the inauguration, and the local cops are just as paranoid. We get stopped for any reason and they want to know why four New Yorkers are spending so much time in a motel room in D.C.? We better have an airtight story."

"Yeah, but there's got to be like a million people descending on this city."

"Plus another 5.3 million in the Washington metro."

"So won't we disappear into the crowd? Like a needle in a haystack?"

"Undoubtedly. But we're also dealing with the best needle-in-the-haystack finders in the world. We're not going to succeed in this mission by taking chances or underestimating the obstacles. Clear?"

I said nothing, and turned to stare out the window. In front of us, route 83 carved a rugged path through the rolling hills until the Maryland flag heralded our passage across the Mason-Dixon line.

We followed the 695 interchange westward around Baltimore, now dodging much heavier traffic on the eight-lane divided highway before connecting into Route 95. This final leg led us almost, but not quite, into the heart of the broken diamond that was our nation's capitol.

Grant pulled off the beltway onto Connecticut Ave, heading into the city. We drove through the idyllic neighborhoods of Chevy Chase up to the circle, at which point the private homes gave way to red brick shops, banks, and restaurants with broad, tree-lined sidewalks. Soon four and five story apartment buildings graced either side, with grassy lawns and fabric awnings over their front entrances.

In the forty-four hundred block Grant turned off into a six-story hotel, and slid into a parking garage next to a restaurant with an outside seating area. He parked in an available space and turned off the engine, then peered over the seats at us and said, "Well Cherries, welcome to Washington, D.C."

### Thirty-Two

The room Grant booked for us held two double beds over russet brown carpeting, with walls painted cream and primrose yellow. Matching Shaker end tables held wrought iron lamps and separate clocks by the beds. Across the room, a 42-inch plasma screen television invited our eyes.

"Damn," said Jerry. "Shouldda brought my X-box."

We dragged our luggage into the room, relieved to be out of the car. Seven hours on the road left us stiff, hungry, and tired. I collapsed onto the bed, feeling the cool sheets press against the nape of my neck.

"Don't get too comfortable," said Grant.

"Why not?"

"We got work to do."

"You're kidding," said Jerry.

"Naw, he's right," said Martin, laying back beside me on the bed. "We've got to scope out the city, get familiar with the routes in and around our respective nests, identify and familiarize ourselves with our fallback positions, and drill each other on our new identities."

"Nests?" said Jerry.

"Snipers' nests."

"Oh."

"You wanna do that tonight?" I gaped.

"ID's first," said Grant. "Y'all are on second shift tomorrow. That'll give us the morning to scope out the city and pick out our fallbacks."

"What do you mean by 'fallback'?" I asked.

Martin smiled at me, propped on his elbow. "In case we get made. Someone figures out our ID's are faked, or our stories ain't straight—even if security's too tight—we got to have a position to fall back to, where we can still carry out the op."

"What are the odds of that?"

"What difference does it make? Million ways an op like this goes bad. You build in contingencies for your contingencies, and be as prepared as you can be. You can't do anymore than that."

"You can do one thing," said Jerry.

Grant furrowed his brow. "What's that?"

"Eat first."

Grant chuckled. Martin said, "I'm down with that. You guys want pizza?"

I snorted. "Steak."

Their eyes lit up. "Listen to your brother, Marty," said Jerry. "That's man food."

"That'll do," he agreed, sliding off the bed. Our stomachs rumbling, we left the room.

***

We found a steak house down the street and snagged dinner, not really conversing much over the meat and potatoes. Afterward, we sipped Sam Adams Lager and quizzed each other about our identities. Outside, the snow began falling, as though we'd brought the bad weather down with us from the north.

Grant pressed us mercilessly on the remotest details of our fake I.D.'s, so much so that it began to feel like an interrogation. Every time one of us would make a mistake, he'd zero in on it, pushing away at the contradiction until we either found a way out or broke down. I could tell Jerry was having a hard time with it. It wasn't easy for any of us, but something in Jerry's eyes told me how close he was to telling Grant to go screw himself. I couldn't blame him. I was ready to do the same myself.

Finally, after two hours of relentless drilling, Grant called it a night, warning us we'd pick it all up again in the morning. We walked back to the hotel in the snow, and at the front entrance, I stopped while the others turned to go in.

Martin paused, his eyes quizzical. "You coming?"

I shook my head. "Naw. Not yet. Think I'll take a walk."

"Why?"

I shrugged. "Clear my head. Get some of the road kinks out."

"You want some company?"

"No." I smiled and started away, leaving him to explain to Grant and Jerry where I was headed.

Behind me, I could hear Grant raising an objection, but I didn't care. I had to get away from them. It wasn't just that I'd been cooped up in a car with them for the past seven hours, though that probably had a lot to do with it.

I had so many different thoughts and emotions pinging through my brain I thought my skull would explode.

The reality of what we were doing pressed down on me. I was in Washington D.C., staying overnight in a hotel with a group of lunatics bent on assassinating the new President. Somewhere in this city, Grant and Martin had hidden a pair of M107 sniper rifles and enough ammunition to disintegrate a human being. And here I was, going right along with them.

I hitched my collar against the cold, huddling into myself, and tried to pretend the chill I felt came from the elements outside. The sidewalk below me glistened in the lights from the street and storefronts, moving faster as I picked up pace. Soon it was rushing beneath my feet. I ran for a block before stopping to catch my breath, hands on my knees. Panting vaporous gasps, I stared at unfamiliar buildings that frowned on my dubious presence.

All the roads here hit the corner at an odd angle, bleeding southward toward the heart of the Capitol. The city fathers designed its streets to draw people forward to the center of power, as if unaware of its inevitable corruption. Lord Acton's warning came almost a hundred years too late: power tends to corrupt, absolute power corrupts absolutely. Like a singularity, the city sucked everything in, distorting it all in the process. I crossed the street, feeling exposed.

There was one reason I was with these men. One reason I was willing to think the unthinkable, let alone act upon it. I agreed with them about our country, about what was broken. Washington was an expanding abyss, a sinkhole sapping the foundations of everything in this nation, leading to an inevitable collapse. The compact was broken. Leaders no longer served for the good of their fellow citizens. The rise of the political class ensured it. Power was its own end, its own reward. Even its own punishment. In a sad way, the men and women who worshipped in the corridors of power were more the victims of the beast than its masters. Like the ancient servants of Krishna, they hurled themselves in adoration before the juggernaut to be crushed beneath their idol. Every broken promise spun the wheels faster, and no one had a clue where it was going, or how to grind it to a halt.

Everyone except us.

We had to stop it. If it meant we'd be crushed beneath its wheels as well, we had to try. I stopped walking and leaned against a lamppost, staring down the street toward the heart of the city. I couldn't see it right now, but I knew the Capitol, the White House—it all lay directly ahead of me. I thought of Patrick Henry, his fiery rhetoric championing our cause. "Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains or slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others may take, but as for me; give me liberty, or give me death!"

Like his, ours was no passive resistance to tyranny, the kind of civil disobedience so in vogue since Gandhi and Martin Luther King. We deigned to fight power with power. Mao was right about this at least, murderous bastard that he was. Power flowed from the barrel of a gun. In this case, our guns. So long as we allowed the rulers to remain placid and undisturbed in their regal halls, none needed fear the consequences of their ideas, especially when they could so easily exempt themselves from the same, and leave the rest of us to suffer for their hubris and vanity. Nearly two hundred and fifty years ago, King George and Parliament thought nothing of passing the Stamp Act and the Intolerable Acts, insulated as they were behind an oceanic moat. They'd have thought differently had we brought the battle to London.

Washington D.C. was just as insular, hiding behind a balustrade of bureaucrats, corporate lobbyists and special interest groups whose fawning and financing blinded the elected to the suffering of their constituencies. It would take an act of uncompromising defiance to breach that wall, the very sort of action we had in mind.

I sniffed and looked at the ground again, and felt a claw of panic grip my heart, squeezing it, making it pound in my chest. Could I really do this thing? Was I just trying to convince myself that it was right? I was sliding downhill, plunging into darkness, grasping for anything.

I had no love for the President-elect. And loyalty to country could not stop my slide. If anything, such thoughts only hastened my fall. I couldn't turn to the police for help. That would only guarantee Martin's death. I'd seen Grant reach for his thirty-eight at a routine traffic stop. There was no doubt in my mind they'd fight to the death any attempt to apprehend them, unless, of course, they never saw it coming.

I spun on my heel, heading back for the hotel, a new thought forming in my mind. There was only one way out. I had to take it. For all our sakes.

### Thirty-Three

The guys were in bed when I got back into the hotel room. Jerry had taken one of the double beds while Grant slept on the floor, leaving me no choice but to bunk with Martin or take another spot on the floor. I grimaced. Martin and I hadn't slept in the same bed since we were kids at camp, but the thought of stretching out on the floor was less than appealing.

I changed in the dark, trying hard not to wake them, and slipped beneath the sheets. Martin groaned and turned over then opened his eyes. He frowned, flopped his head over once to look at the clock, then back at me.

"What time you get in?" he whispered.

"Just now."

"Where'd you go?"

"Nowhere. Just took a walk."

He grunted softly. "You get things sorted out?"

"Yeah," I sighed. "I think I did."

"And what'd you decide?"

I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling. What could I say to him about this? "Just that we gotta do what we gotta do."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He was silent a moment, and then he said, "So what's that mean?"

I opened my mouth to answer when Grant spoke from the floor, "You two lovebirds think you can shut up and talk about this in the morning?"

Martin glanced over his shoulder. "Don't mind him, he's just jealous."

"Of who?"

"Both of us, probably. He shouldda been in the Navy."

A pillow sailed over the bed and landed on Martin's face. He tossed it back. "Don't ask, don't tell."

"Shut up!" moaned Jerry.

We snickered, and I turned away from them. Light from the city outside peeked beneath the vertical blinds, glowing ghostly on the floor. My smile faded as my thoughts turned back to the darkness of my decision, but exhaustion won out, and I fell asleep.

***

I woke the next morning to the aroma of coffee. The miniature coffee maker gurgled on the dresser. Sitting up, I swung my feet over the bed and dug my toes into the carpet. Grant came around and handed me a cup of brew.

"Mornin'," he greeted quietly.

"Thanks." I took the cup and sipped it, making a face.

"Jerry's still sleeping, but I figured we go grab ourselves a bite from the buffet."

I rubbed the sleep from my eyes. "Yeah, that'd be good."

"Besides, I want to talk to you."

"'Bout what?"

"Get dressed. I'll meet you downstairs."

I frowned but said nothing. Taking another swallow of coffee, I rose and took my bearings. Jerry still sprawled beneath the blankets on the other bed, snoring contentedly, his hair a damp mop on the pillow. Grant left the room, closing the door gently behind him. There was no sign of Martin.

I went into the bathroom and splashed water on my face, ran a toothbrush over my teeth and wet down my hair, and got dressed. I glanced in the mirror, disappointed by the puffy circles still under my eyes. Grabbing my key card off the dresser, I slipped out of the room and headed downstairs.

The buffet was little more than a continental style breakfast, with some additional fruit and a do-it-yourself waffle iron thrown in for good measure. I poured a waffle and grabbed some fruit juice, and spotted Grant sitting at one of the tables with Martin. They sat tucked into a private meeting room, just off the main dining area, which was empty anyway.

The same talons of panic that raked my insides yesterday renewed their assault. Grant waved me over. I nodded in their direction and turned around at the waffle stand, as if waiting for my breakfast to finish cooking. In truth, I stood there shaking.

Intuitively, I knew it was a panic attack. That's what I'd been having lately and now more frequently that we were actually in D.C. I even knew why I was having them, though that knowledge was little comfort. It felt like I'd stuffed some sort of horrible monster into a box, and it kept trying to pop back out, and my job was to stuff it back inside, sit on the box, and pretend nothing was wrong.

Because if I let it out, I'd have to face it.

I took a deep breath, forcing the emotions back down, burying them beneath my veneer of control.

Whatever it was Grant thought he needed to say—especially if it had to do with my walk last night or the decision I'd reached—I'd have to fake my way through it. There was plenty of reason to be frightened by what we were here to do. I wasn't lacking for convenient excuses.

The light clicked off on the waffle machine. My breakfast was ready, and I'd already lost my appetite. I'd have to force myself to eat. I flipped the iron open and dug out my waffle, burning my fingers on the hot plates. Swearing quietly, I put it on my plate. I studied my fingers as I walked to the table to join them. Oddly enough, the physical pain felt relieving.

"Morning," Grant said again as I took my seat. He rose and shut the door behind me, closing us off from the rest of the hotel and blocking an easy escape.

"Likewise," I said as he returned to the table. "You're sounding chipper."

"Nah." He grinned and put some butter on his muffin. "I just get excited this close to a mission. How about you? Excited yet?"

I tried to smile. "I dunno. I guess. I feel pretty jumpy."

"Yeah. You look it. Gotta control that." He bit into his muffin. I stabbed my waffle, grinding through it with my fork.

"I'm trying." I stuffed a bite into my mouth.

"Where'd you go last night?"

I glanced from him to Martin. Martin kept his head down, eating quietly. I cut another piece and looked back at him. His smile was gone. "Just for a walk," I answered, raising the fork to my mouth. "You know. It was a long drive." I shoved the fork in.

After a moment, he pursed his lips and nodded.

"So I wanted to ask you something."

"Shoot."

"It ain't something we trained for—and for that, I owe you an apology. We shouldda covered this."

"Can't think of everything, Grant," said Martin. I looked his way again. He still kept his head down, grazing from his plate.

"Doesn't matter. Here's the thing." He leaned over the table, motioning me closer. I moved forward to listen. "You think you could set up a shot and take it from a walking position?"

I frowned. "Explain."

"Like say we had to reposition ourselves closer, in a hurry. Say you couldn't set up from a prone or kneeling stance. You just had to dart around a corner and shoot."

"Would you be spotting?"

"Yeah, but I probably wouldn't be right next to you. We'd communicate over the phone."

I scratched my neck. "I don't know. Hardest thing would be holding the gun up. It'd be a little like firing blind."

"But could you do it?"

"There's no way I could guarantee hitting the target, you know? I guess it'd depend on how far away we were. Why?"

He shook his head. "No reason. Don't worry about it."

"Something happen?"

"Nah. We're good. Martin and I are just thinking through the contingencies."

"Basically," Martin drawled, looking up for the first time, "we just want to be sure nothing stops this op. You get that bastard in your sites, just start firing like the blazes, and don't stop until your gun is empty."

I swallowed a bit of waffle. "You could do that, I suppose. You might not hit anything, though."

"Then again, you might hit too much. Might not matter, though." He returned to his breakfast, poking about his plate. "You get enough people at an event like this and start blasting away with fifty caliber rounds—that alone would be enough to spark a war."

My fork slipped from my hand. Was he serious?

"See, it's the shock and awe that we're looking for," added Grant.

I stared at them, unsure whether or not to believe what I was hearing. My mind spun.

"Don't get me wrong. I'd still like to see the bastard put down. But starting the war takes priority over that."

"Well," I said. "I suppose if I didn't have to hit the President, I could dart and fire, like you said—"

"Keep your voice down," Grant warned.

"Sorry. I guess I could do the dart and fire thing."

"You still gotta aim," he said. "There's people up there we might not want get shot. Like the Chief Justice."

"Supposedly one of the good guys," Martin added.

"Yeah. Well. I guess I'll think about that more." I retrieved my fork and resumed eating. My heart still thudded, but the tension released. It felt palpably different.

"Why don't you see if Jerry's up yet?" suggested Grant. "Then we got some sightseeing to do."

"Yeah. Yeah, okay." I dropped my fork and scooted out of my chair, ready to hurry back to the room. As I left the dining hall, I heard Martin say to Grant, "Told you so."

### Thirty-Four

I tried not to think about what Martin meant by that. He and Grant always talked about us behind our backs—always planning and strategizing. The manipulation was so second nature, I doubted they even realized when they did it.

Martin's words teased me. They might not have been more than just words. I didn't dare grasp for the slender hope he dangled in front of me. Even if we didn't actually kill the President, he still meant to start a war, and that was sufficient cause for concern. There was no sense in getting excited about it. I slid my keycard in the lock and opened the door. Inside, Jerry was making the bed.

"Hey," I said. "You want breakfast?"

"Is that where you guys went?"

"Yeah. Grant thought you needed your sleep."

He smirked. "He did, huh?"

"It's what he said."

"Didn't know he cared."

"Don't know that he does. But he sent me up to get you. Once we finish breakfast we're going sightseeing."

"Sightseeing. You mean we're picking our sniper's nests and such."

"Yeah, well, that. Now they're saying maybe we don't have to kill the President."

Jerry stopped moving and stared at me, slack-jawed. "Excuse me?"

"You know, we still gotta set up and take shots, but, uh—the mayhem itself might be enough to—you know: spark the government into the whole martial law thing."

He continued staring at me a moment longer, and then a sly grin spread across his face. "Is that what they told you?"

"Yeah. Just now."

"They're playing you, Peter. Ain't no way they're gonna put us through all that training, drag us down here with the M107s, and have us not kill the bastard."

Martin's words to Grant as I'd left the dining hall came fluttering back to me. Jerry was right, of course. This was a ploy to test me, or calm me down, or something like that. I was being stupid to think it was anything more.

"Well," I cleared my throat. "You may be right—"

"I am right."

"Yeah, maybe. Either way, we need to get breakfast and get outta here."

"Shoot, I ain't got no problem with that. Still, it's kinda surprising."

"What is?"

"You. Knowing your own brother's trying to play with your head, and you not minding. That just don't make sense to me."

I half-smiled. "When did you get so concerned for me?"

He stared at me silently a moment, sitting against the dresser. Then he said, "Alright, I guess I'm not. Don't have to care more about it than you do. I'm just saying, if I were you, I'd want to know why they keep trying to trip my head." He walked past me into the hall, saying as he did, "But that's your business, isn't it?"

I didn't answer as the door closed behind us.

***

Martin and Grant didn't add anything further to the matter once Jerry joined us for breakfast. It may have been that things were sufficiently settled in their minds at that point, or that the crowd had grown in my absence and presented us with too many ears to talk freely. Or they'd just quieted down simply because Jerry was with us, and there were things they didn't want discussed in his presence. I had no idea where the truth lay, and no easy way to find out.

I'd begun to think Jerry was on to something, perhaps even privy to conversations about which I remained unaware. That thought alone was disquieting, and only added to my anxiety, but there was nothing else I could do with those emotions. I stuffed them into the box along with the rest of the monster in my head, sat on the lid and pretended nothing was wrong.

We finished breakfast around nine and headed out the door. The snowstorm from the previous day had vanished into a clear blue, cloudless sky, bright sunshine, and a brisk chill in the air. We drove first to the Capitol building and parked some distance away, climbing the steps to the platform already largely finished. The platform itself lay 10,000 feet square, built of wood so as not to harm the Capitol itself. Yellow construction tape and steel barricades cordoned off the surface, but we were able to get a good look at it. Seeing the podium where the President-elect would take the oath of office, we sighted down its length to the preferred positions Grant and Martin had mapped out for us back in Rochester, before flaming the map into ashes on the floor of the Knapps' gun shop. We said as little as possible during this time, hoping we looked like all the other tourists milling around on the Capitol steps. Directly in front of us, the empty lawn of the National Mall stretched away toward the thick spire of the Washington monument. In a few more days, the Mall would be filled with millions of people come to watch the Inauguration. Just to the right, the next tallest tower marked the apex of the Old Post Office building. Two hundred and seventy feet in the air, there was a clear line of sight from the bell tower through the bullet-proof panels to the podium below us. As thick as they were, I had no doubt the armor-piercing rounds Grant had procured for us would punch straight through those panels.

Just in front of the tower stood the East Building of the National Gallery of Art. It, too, provided a clear line of sight to the podium, though I suspected that access to its copper roof would be far more difficult to obtain. To the right of the post office tower, another tower provided line of sight.

On the opposite side, the rooftop of the Department of Health and Human Services looked especially promising, as did the windows and rooftops of dozens of other local buildings. The Smithsonian Castle alone provided no less than a half dozen prominent pinnacles. I began to appreciate just how difficult a job the Secret Service had. Doubtless, every one of these buildings had to be secured, and with only thirteen hundred in their uniformed division, manning every possible location would be near impossible.

Grant was right. We could get around the patrols. Especially from the distance we were considering.

"Most of their men will be close," he muttered to me, his arms folded as he surveyed the Mall. "They'll string out agents around the dignitaries, especially the Presidential party, keeping an eye on the crowd. Spotters will be eyeballing the Mall and the streets, looking for anyone with small arms."

"Large cal from a mile away?" Martin agreed, shaking his head. "You just can't prepare for that."

"See anything you like?" Grant said.

I pointed out the tower to the right of the Old Post Office. "What's that?"

He consulted his map. "Pennsylvania North. Looks like it's less than a mile away. Just offices and such. Access won't be easy." He stuffed the map back in his pocket. "But it might work as a fall back."

"Closer to the action instead of further away," said Martin. "I like it."

"What about Health and Human Services?" suggested Jerry.

"Government buildings are a bad idea," said Grant. "No access without special clearance. Security tends to be tighter than private firms. Besides, it's too close."

"You know, any one of those buildings on the far side of the Mall might work," I said.

Grant swore. "That's Arlington. Across the river. That's all three, four miles away."

"So?"

"So you can't hit your target from that far out. Longest confirmed shot in history with the .50 cal is one and a half miles."

"Canadians," said Martin. "Gotta love 'em."

"Besides," Grant continued. "At that range, even armor-piercing rounds ain't gonna penetrate these shields."

"All right," I conceded. "Just saying they got line of sight. That's all."

"Three miles," he snorted.

"Don't want to attract attention, boys," Martin growled. "Let's go."

Together, we hustled down the Capitol steps and back to the car. Grant drove us to a local McDonalds, where we grabbed lunch and took a table. I noticed he'd brought a shoulder bag with him from the back of the truck. As we sat down to eat, he opened the back and set its contents on the table.

"Christmas time," he said. "Go ahead and unwrap your presents."

In front of us lay four cell phones with Blue Tooth earpieces. Each was marked with a number one through four. Jerry picked his up and stuck it in his ear. "Feels weird," he said.

"They do," Grant agreed. "Now, let me explain the rules. Each phone is preprogrammed. You say one of our names, it dials automatically and connects. Do not use these phones for anything else. Do not use them until the day of operation. Keep all chatter down to a minimum during the operation. Don't handle them unless you're wearing gloves. Once the op concludes, I advise you to wipe them down, destroy the SIM card, and dispose of the phone. Preferably by shattering it. Good drop from a decent height ought to do the trick."

Jerry held up his, "I ain't wearing gloves."

"Yeah, and you just got your fingerprints all over it." He sighed. "You might want to wipe them off before you use it next time."

"But I ain't got any gloves."

"Daddy already bought the gloves, Cherry. Flesh-colored latex, too, so your hands won't stand out."

Jerry shook his head. "I'm allergic to latex."

Martin choked on his drink, laughing. I thumped his back for him.

"Hell's bells, what is it with you?"

"What? It ain't my fault!"

Grant looked to Martin for sympathy, but found none. "We'll find you some leather ones, okay?"

"Maybe you could knit him some mittens," I said.

"—It's not my fault. I just can't wear latex."

"I ain't knitting mittens for Jerry. Look, just put the phones away, and try to keep your paws off them for a few days."

"Ah Lord," said Martin, gazing out the window. "Good thing we found this out now."

"You got any other surprises there, Jerry?"

He shrugged. "No. Just latex, you know?"

"Thousand ways to screw up an op, and we're bound to run into each and every one of them before we get there," Martin observed. "Guess that's a good thing, huh?" He picked up his drink again.

"Question," I said. They looked at me. "Why are you so focused on not getting caught?"

"What do you mean why?" said Martin.

"Nathan Hale. This is a suicide mission, right? So why all the worries about fingerprints?"

Martin shook his head and sucked his straw, turning back to the window.

Grant said, "Listen, just 'cause death is inevitable don't mean you go looking for it."

"Isn't that what we're doing?"

"Hardly," said Martin, still looking out the window.

"We aren't asking them to come after us," said Grant. "We know that they will, but I'll be damned if I'm gonna give them my frickin' address. Let alone my fingerprints. All right?"

I shrugged.

"Let's get back to the room. You start work in three hours. Everyone go over your aliases, and let's just see if we can't get through these last couple days unscathed, 'kay?"

### Thirty-Five

We took a rest at the hotel room for a few hours, then grabbed our new ID's and headed out the door. Grant dropped Martin and Jerry off at the Newseum entrance, and drove us to the Old Post Office. We parked several blocks away and walked up the steps to the historical site, passing by a cheery statue of Ben Franklin, greeting us with a wave of his bronze hand.

The Old Post Office rose before us: a gray, Romanesque cathedral, with tall arches between rounded stairwells resembling battlements, and windows like arrow loops in a medieval castle. High above the angular peaks of the building's two wings, the clock tower stared down at us from arched windows, capped by a squat spire.

Grant took me in through the front entrance, flashing his badge to the security guards and greeting them like old friends.

"Hey Joan, Bill," he said.

"Otis! Welcome back, man," exclaimed Bill. He was a heavier set man with carefully trimmed tufts of hair surrounding an otherwise bald head and a face like a bulldog. He escorted us through the metal detectors and brought us around to the desk.

"How's your grandma doing?" he said to Grant.

Grant grinned sheepishly. I raised my eyebrows as he poured on the charm. "Better. Thanks for your prayers."

"Was it bad?" Joan rose from behind the security desk and held onto a clipboard, looking into Grant's eyes with genuine concern. She was a broad-shouldered, heavy-chested black woman who looked like she could've been a linebacker, had she desired, but she had a pleasant smile and an easy going, almost matriarchal demeanor. I wondered what lie Grant had told them to earn their faith and respect. I didn't wonder long.

"I dunno," Grant said. "When we first went into see her, she didn't know us. Took her a few minutes, y'know? Doc says she might walk again, but it's touch and go."

They nodded their heads knowingly. "Helluva thing," said Bill.

"Yeah. Hey," he motioned to me. "This is Joe Warren, the guy I told you about?"

Bill offered me his hand. I shook it. "Welcome aboard," he said.

"Hello Joe, I'm Joan Cole, shift supervisor." She offered me her hand first, followed by the clipboard. I took both in turn. "I need you to fill this out then we'll get started."

"Thanks." I stared down at the clipboard. It was a W-4. I started completing the form, and stopped. The social security boxes stared back at me. I had no idea what the number was supposed to be. I glanced up.

Joan frowned. "Problem?"

I blanched. "Yeah, uh, I'm...drawing a blank. Total mind freeze, you know?"

Grant glared at me. I was supposed to have this down cold. I swallowed.

"Thought you said this guy was smart?" she said to Grant.

He rolled his eyes, instantly back in character. "Thought he was."

Joan smirked and patted my hand. "First day jitters, right? Don't worry about it. We can take care of that later."

She took the clipboard back from me and set it down on the security desk. "Why don't you come with me?" she said. "I'll show you the ropes."

I smiled weakly at Grant and followed Joan. She led me first into the security offices and gave me my uniforms, then showed me to a dingy locker room. I sat down on a wooden bench and pulled on the trousers and shirt, storing my own clothes in a steel locker. Beside mine, another locker stood padlocked securely, the name 'Jim Otis' clearly visible on the nameplate. I wondered if this was where Grant had stored the M107. I traced my fingers along the surface, but then pulled away.

In a few more days, this would all be over, and maybe I'd be able to return to something resembling a normal life. Assuming my plan worked. Tucking my shirt in, I closed my own locker and left the room.

On the other side of the door, Joan waited, impatiently swinging her arms. "All set?"

I nodded, and she led me out onto the floor.

The Old Post Office building had a central atrium featuring numerous shops and eateries. Oriental, Indian, Cajun, Mexican and Italian restaurants effused the air with competing, even contradictory odors, generating an olfactory response in prospective customers delicately balanced between hunger and nausea. Or maybe it was just me. Bright sunlight filtered through glass panels in the ceiling, pouring past steel girders at the roof of the second floor and spilling onto the round tables and the stage on the ground level where people congregated and spoke to each other over the noise from a jazz quartet. A large staircase invited tourists to the second floor, with more tables overlooking the performance area below. Tall flags invited us to "Take Time to Tour the Tower" beside glass elevators rising to the top. I stared through the girders at the skylight above, appreciating for the first time just how large the building was.

"You've worked security before, right?"

I glanced back at Joan. "Some."

"Mm hmm. Doing what?"

I gave her the answer Grant drilled into me. "A bit of mall security. Babysat a pharmacy, that sort of thing."

"Mm hmm. This won't be all different from that. Course we gotta check bags and scan visitors, and you do have people doing shoplifting and teenagers getting rowdy and such. Speak in a firm, controlled voice, that'll defuse most situations."

I walked with her up the steps to the second floor. "Things ever get out of hand?"

"Oh sometimes. There was a bad altercation few years back. Some poor Indian kid got stabbed."

"Stabbed?"

"Mm hmm. It was in all the papers. Surprised you don't remember it. 'Course, that was all outside the building. We wouldn't have let it happen in here. This is important now, so listen up." She stopped and wagged a finger at me. "We are not law-enforcement officers. Our job is to protect the safety first, and security second, of the people and the premises. We do rounds every fifteen minutes on the first two floors, and once an hour through the whole building. Last company that was in here wasn't quite so diligent as all that, and they ain't here no more, are they?"

"No, Ma'am. Don't want that to happen to us."

"You catch on quick." She started walking again. "We'll go up to the Tower next. That's one of the places you'll be stationed. Tower's open to the air, and it gets a lot of traffic. You'll spend a lot of time up there, and I ain't gonna lie. It gets pretty dull. Main thing is just to keep people off the wires."

"Wires?"

"Yep. Got safety wires on three of the four windows. Fourth is plexiglass. Don't know why they didn't just cover 'em all that way. Anyway, tourists like to take pictures, and they're always moving the wires to get a better shot. Wires are there for a reason, y'know? Don't need nobody jumping or falling outta no windows. Not on my watch."

She led me into one of the glass elevators and took us to the top floor. I watched the shops and restaurants drop away as we ascended. At the top of the shaft, she led me out of the elevator and onto the observation deck. Large, red steps girded by thick handrails led the way down to the floor of the deck. Around us, tourists wandered from window to window, peering over the ledge to the city that sprawled out below us. Directional markers conveniently labeled each set of windows as 'North,' 'South,' 'East,' and 'West.'

She first introduced me to Terry, a younger jarhead doing his best to look stern, but succeeding only in looking annoyingly bored.

"Terry, this is Joe Warren. Otis' friend."

"Jim boy's back?"

"Yes he is."

"Good. Maybe he can pay me the fifty bucks he owes me."

She grinned. "I'll send him up on rounds next time."

"Just tell him to bring his wallet. Good to meet you, Joe."

I shook his hand and followed her down the steps.

"You into politics?" she said when I joined her at the bottom.

"Not really." Another carefully coached lie.

"Ah, you should be. Gotta vote, you know?"

"Well, yeah. I mean, I vote and stuff—"

She grinned. "That's alright. I'm just yanking your chain. You pulled duty up here on Inauguration Day. Means you won't get to watch the speeches. No, you can watch them, you just can't hear them. Gotta do it from up here, know what I'm saying? 'Course, we'll be closed, this being a national holiday and all, but we still gotta guard the tower. Secret Service don't want to repeats of Dallas."

"Yeah. Grant said I'd probably pull duty that day."

"Who?" She glanced my way, furrowing her brow

I stared at her, unsure what she meant.

"I'm sorry?"

"You said, 'Grant.' Who's Grant?"

Oh crap, I thought.

### Thirty-Six

"Grant's a friend," I explained. "He used to do this job."

She frowned.

"Probably with the other company. The one that used to work here?"

Her eyebrows rose doubtfully. "Is that so?"

The situation was not improving. "I guess."

"You ain't some sort of spy are ya?"

"A spy, ma'am?"

"Sure. Come to see how we operate, take the intel back to the other company and help them outbid our contract. Next thing you know, we're all out on the street."

"No, ma'am."

"Course if you was, you'd lie about, wouldn't ya?"

I forced a laugh. "I'm not a spy, ma'am."

"I got my eye on you now. You best watch yourself."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Mm hmm. Let me show you around." She excused herself past several tourists, scolding one preteen boy about the wires, and led me to a corner. "Two main things to keep in mind here. One, when you're stationed here, just try to keep a good, steady patrol. You can see most everything from the top step. Keep an eye on people, move around. Don't be predictable. Now when you do rounds up here, you'll need to come and check behind the displays, look and make sure ain't nothing there that ain't supposed to be there. You gots a flashlight, you use it. Go on and take a look now."

I pulled out the Mag Light and switch it on, inadvertently flashing it into my face. Stepping around to the display, I made a show of checking all around it, behind it, beneath it. I glanced back and shook my head. She pressed her lips together and looked down, swinging one foot as she balanced against the ledge. Over her shoulder, I could see the other display board. I checked it, too, with the same result.

She nodded, pleased. "All right then. Our rounds up here are done. Now we work our way down through each floor till we get to the office, then you can fill out your report."

We waved farewells to Terry, and she led me back into the elevator and took me down a floor to the row of offices on the next level. We inspecting each floor in the same way, checking the rooms that were open, and ensuring the rooms that were supposed to be locked still were, before finally returning to the ground level.

***

Around eight o'clock I took dinner with Grant, grabbing something unremarkable from the Chinese restaurant and using our ten percent employee discount. Grant was fresh out of cash, thanks to his poker debt with Terry, leaving me an opportunity to make good for not remembering my social security number. He let me have it anyway.

"You trying to blow this mission?" he asked, unwrapping his roast beef.

"I said I was sorry."

"Sorry ain't gonna cut it if you pull this down around our ears."

"I know that."

"Do you?"

I set my fork down and met his eyes. "Get off my back. You think I want to screw this up?" When he didn't answer I said, "If I wanted to shut this down, all I'd have to do is make a phone call. Same as any of us." I picked up my fork and stabbed my General Tso's.

After another moment he said, "Interesting."

"What's that?"

"One phone call. That mean you've been thinking about it?"

"Excuse me?"

He spoke in measured tones. "Have you been thinking about making a phone call?"

My eyes drifted toward the table. I looked back up again when he said, "That's what I thought." He took another bite, stuffing his cheeks with sandwich.

"What do you want, Grant?"

He waggled his finger at me. "Don't call me that."

I rolled my eyes. "Sorry, Otis. You want to know if I've been thinking about it? Yeah. 'Course I have. You and Martin? You two had months before you decided to trust each other. Lots of time to feel each other out, decide whether or not you weren't gonna make a phone call."

"Not true."

"Bull crap. You'd have placed that call in a heartbeat if you'd have thought Martin was gonna turn you in. And don't tell me different, 'cause I've seen how you operate. Do unto others before they do unto you. That's your golden rule. Just don't get on my case 'cause I've thought about doing the same thing."

I took another bite, chewing forcefully before pointing at him with my fork. "Point is: I haven't. And that ought to be worth something. At the least, it ought to keep me from being accused of deliberately trying to screw this up."

After a second, a half laugh erupted from his mouth, sending tiny particles of chewed roast beef sandwich onto the table. I wrinkled my nose and scooted my tray away from him.

"God, you're touchy."

"Keep your food in your own mouth. Or are you deliberately trying to screw with my dinner?"

He laughed again. "Sorry. So what else happened? This ain't just the social security number that's got you upset."

I swore and put down the fork.

"Come on. Out with it."

I sank back into my chair. "Up in the tower. With Joan. I called you Grant."

His silence urged me to continue. I cleared my throat. "She was telling me that I'd pulled duty in the tower on Inauguration Day, and I said how you—Grant—said that I would."

"'Kay."

"She asked who Grant was. I told her he used to work here—for the other company. Now she thinks I'm a corporate spy."

"She does, does she?"

"It's what she said."

He grabbed a French fry and stuffed it in his mouth. "A spy. That ought to keep her on her toes."

"It just slipped out."

"Practice, practice, practice."

"Yeah. I know."

"We got two weeks to get through. Then we're done. From here on out, aliases only."

"Sure."

I pushed the last of the chicken around on my plate, but then gave up. I wasn't hungry anyway. Grant finished his meal, and we went back to work.

***

Our shifted ended at midnight. We punched out at the time clock and changed in the locker room then headed out to the street. When we got to Grant's SUV we slowed. Someone had stuck a brochure-sized piece of paper beneath the windshield wiper. Grant pulled it free and swore. He crumpled it in his fist and threw it to the ground, turning on his heel and stalking toward the back of the truck.

I bent forward and picked it up. It was a parking ticket.

"I shouldda known," Grant muttered, facing away from me.

"Known what?"

He turned and came back, grabbing the ticket out of my hand. "This," he held it up so I could see, "is all it takes. Now there's proof we were here."

The import of what he was saying sank in. I swallowed. "Inauguration's still two weeks out."

"I know." He opened the car door and climbed inside. I took the passenger seat. "Makes you wonder what else can go wrong," he said.

"It's just a parking ticket."

"And McVeigh was stopped over a stupid license plate." He blew out a heavy sigh, running both hands over his head then shook it off. "S'alright. We can get through this." He started the car and pulled into the street.

I stared at him, frowning. "Nathan Hale," I said.

"Hmm?" He barely glanced at me.

"Martin keeps talking about Nathan Hale. I only regret I have but one life to give for my country. That sort of thing."

"What's your point?"

"This is a suicide mission. For Martin, and maybe us. But not for you, is it?"

He peered at me from the corner of his eye. After clenching his teeth a moment he said, "We've all got our roles to play."

"And yours isn't to die?"

"Not yet."

"So why is it ours?"

### Thirty-Seven

"You're the smart one. Why don't you tell me?"

I stared at him a minute, then blurted, "Well, it isn't because I want to."

"Okay."

"But there's no way out."

He smirked. "'Course there is."

"They will catch us."

"I don't doubt that."

"So how are you going to get away with it?"

"You got three choices, Cherry. You can surrender. You can run—"

"Or you can fight," I finished.

"Exactly."

"So, you plan on going down in a blaze of glory?"

"Hell no! I don't plan on going down at all."

I shook my head and sank into my seat. Propping my elbow on the window, I stared out the window and said, "You really think you can win."

"Yep."

"Against the United States of America?"

"Absolutely."

"You're crazy."

"Maybe. But you got to believe. If the Sons of Liberty hadn't thought they could win their independence, would they have fought the war?"

I watched the street pass by us as we sped toward Martin and Jerry. Grant's question hung in the air like Damocles' sword, filling me with dread. I clearly saw where Grant was going with this, but what did that say about Martin?

"Come on, Cherry," he said. "What do you think?"

"I guess not."

"Some would have."

"Well, yeah, I suppose."

"Fact is: they knew they could win. They believed in it. Their cause was just. Call it faith, call it confidence. Hell, call it arrogance. They believed they could win—even against overwhelming odds, even against the greatest superpower the world had ever known. The British Empire could've quashed the American rebellion like a bug, but they were divided, and that made them weak."

"So because America's divided, you think you've got a chance at winning?"

"Yes I do. I think when it comes down to it, they ain't gonna want to fight. Fact is, by the time they catch up with us, there'll be way too many brushfires to put out. Sovereign states will be in their crosshairs by then. Places like Montana and Idaho."

He fell silent. I looked up, watching the streetlights pass overhead. I still felt the sword hanging there, just waiting to fall.

Finally, I said, "Why doesn't Martin talk like this?" When he didn't answer, I looked his way. "Grant?"

"You should probably ask Martin that."

"I'm asking you."

"Well, don't."

"Why is Martin on a suicide mission, and not you?"

He swore. "You don't listen, do you, Cherry?"

"We're talking about my brother, Grant. He's the only family I got. Do you have any idea what that means?"

He fell silent.

"Come on, Grant."

After a moment, he said, "Yeah. I know what it means." He rubbed his nose. "Got me a sister down Pensacola. Ain't seen her in, like, four years. Last I knew, she was trying to support a brood of kids and her out-of-work husband. Mom's in a nursing home in Jacksonville. Alzheimer's. Don't even know her own name no more. Dad split years ago. Don't know nothing more than that. He could be dead for all I care."

I wondered why he was giving me his family history, but felt more surprised by what it revealed. "You're from Florida?"

"Born and raised."

"What are you doing in New York?"

He shrugged. "Ain't got much use for Florida. Guess I wanted to get as far away from there as I could. After I hooked up with your brother, New York just seemed like a natural choice. Like it was meant to be." He looked my way and smiled.

Wonderful.

I had to steer this conversation back on course. "I'm glad you understand where I'm coming from. Martin's all I got. We need each other. So please: why doesn't Martin want to fight?"

He pursed his lips, his eyes raised off the road somewhat. "I ain't saying he's a coward. Far from it. But you're right. He don't want to fight. He don't expect to make it out. 'Ain't no movement like this ever got started without martyrs.' Those are his words. I don't pretend to understand it. I don't go much in for psychology and stuff, but maybe its one of them Messiah complexes. I think he thinks his life won't matter unless he dies for a cause."

My voice sounded small. "That's just not true." I couldn't believe what he was saying. Wouldn't believe it.

"I've seen it before. Hardest thing about fighting the Hajjis? Every one of them's willing to die for their cause. Become Shaheed. Martyrs. Get their seventy-two virgins." He snorted. "I don't know if they really believe that stuff or not, but you got to admire their faith. Something they're willing to die for. It shakes some guys up, and they can't do it no more. Others—guys like me, I reckon—we're just more than willing to oblige them. But then there's guys like Martin. They get inspired."

"This isn't right."

"What ain't right?"

"Martin wanting to die, that's what. I mean, I've heard of suicide by cop, but suicide by country?"

"You don't get it."

"And you do? What's to get?"

He shook his head. I noticed we were slowing down, approaching the Newseum. Two figures waited for us by the curb, hidden in darkness. Just before he pulled in to pick them up, Grant said, "I probably could explain it, Cherry, but I don't think I could make it make sense to you. There's things you ain't been through. Things Martin hasn't told you about. Hell, he's barely told me. You want to know any more what's going on in his head, you're gonna have to talk to him. And you're gonna have to be real patient, and let him tell you in his own way, and in his own time."

The doors opened, and Martin and Jerry clambered into the truck. Jerry opened his mouth in a tremendous yawn as he closed the door.

"Take this boy home and put him to bed," Martin commanded. I looked at his eyes. They were lit with manic humor, punch-drunk, like he hadn't slept in days. His eyes flit about the interior of the truck then settled steadily on me.

"What?" he demanded.

"Nothing."

I turned around and stared at the murky sky punctured by streetlights that only made the darkness blacker and veiled the stars. Grant shifted into gear and took us back to the hotel.

***

Late that night, or early morning—I couldn't tell which—I climbed out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom. Around me, the men had snored fitfully while I'd tossed and turned. After several hours, I gave up. Closing the door, I flicked on the light and stared at my reflection in the mirror. The sallow light from the fluorescent tube above the sink gave my face a yellow pallor, corpse-like. Deep lines marred the corners of my eyes and forehead. I felt bone-weary, beyond exhausted, ready to cry, my heart thudding in my chest.

I ran some water and cupped my hands beneath the faucet, splashing some on my face and taking a long draught. It tasted oddly metallic.

My mind spun. Everything I wanted to do, everything I'd hope to accomplish by signing up with Martin and Grant, all of it was seeping away from me, like trying to hold water in my hands. I remembered Jerry's dry observation in his shop just a few days ago—though it felt like forever: 'You went along with it to stop it? How's that working out for ya?'

It wasn't working out at all. Martin's madness—his drive to self-destruction—he'd infected me with it, and I was inexorably losing my mind. At first, I'd thought he was drowning in his anger, and as I'd tried to help him, he'd pulled me down as well. In a way, I could live with that.

But this was different. Martin wasn't drowning in the abyss. He was diving headfirst into it, swimming deliberately for the bottom. The longer I held onto him, the deeper I plunged. I had to let him go, or the pressure alone would crush me.

I just didn't know if I could.

### Thirty-Eight

I must've fallen asleep in the toilet, because the next thing I knew, Jerry was pounding on the door, shouting to me.

"Come on, Petey! You gotta be done by now!"

Pushing sleep from my eyes, I rose unsteadily to my feet, grasping the sink for support. My leg and the side of my face were asleep, threatening to break forth into pins and needles as the blood rushed back into them. I had a distinct cross-hatch pattern on my face where I'd lain against the tile.

The door-pounding resumed, like he was ready to break it down. I undid the latch.

Jerry thrust into the room, his hands pressed against his crotch. "What the hell?" he demanded, flipping up the toilet seat.

"Sorry," I mumbled, rubbing my numb face. "Fell asleep."

"Just get out! I don't need a frickin' audience."

I turned and left as the sound of a geyser erupted behind me. I shuffled into the room, barely glancing at Martin and Grant, who were busily pulling on their clothes for breakfast.

"How long've you been up?" Martin said.

"Don't know. Didn't sleep right last night."

"You fall asleep in there?" said Grant. When I nodded numbly, they broke into laughter.

Martin grabbed the door and hollered out to Jerry, "How ya doing in there, buddy? Everything coming out okay?"

"Frickin' moron!" he called back.

"Told ya not to drink that much coffee."

I crawled onto the bed and lay there, grateful for the warmth and softness of the sheets. Daylight assaulted my eyes, pouring in from the opened vertical blinds, and I wrinkled my nose in disgust.

Presently, Jerry came out of the bathroom. "Didn't know captain potty-head would fall asleep on the toilet," he said.

I ignored him.

"You sounded like you were gonna chip the porcelain," Martin observed.

"Thought I was. We ready?"

Grant said, "Hey Cherry, you coming?"

"For what?" I answered, without turning over.

"Breakfast."

I swallowed. My stomach rumbled, but the swirl in my head held me down. "Not yet," I mumbled.

"What he say?"

Martin leaned over me. "You comin', sleeping beauty?"

"In a bit. Just go without me. I'll catch up."

"Alright. Suit yourself."

A moment later, I heard the door close behind me, and silence descended on the room. I closed my eyes, grateful for the chance to get some proper rest.

My eyes were barely closed a minute when they flashed open again, an epiphany resounding in my head, its urgency driving slumber far away.

There was no better time. The opportunity beckoned me out of bed. I dressed quickly, splashed more water on my face, and left the room. Down the hall, away from the dining room, a set of stairs led to a back door opening to the street. I took them two at a time, pressing through the crash bar on the door at a dead run. A block away, nestled beside a lamppost near the corner across the street, the object of my haste.

I hesitated only a moment. Then, like something else took over, guiding my arm, I reached forward and grabbed the phone, putting the receiver to my ear. Fishing a quarter from my pocket, I dropped it into the coin slot and dialed three simple digits that would change everything.

"9-1-1 Emergency. How may I assist you?"

I swallowed, the words I meant to say dying in my throat. I pulled the phone away, ready to hang up.

"Are you there? Can I help you?"

The voice sounded tiny, far away. My finger hesitated just above the hook switch. It would be rude to hang up. And they'd probably send someone to investigate.

"Y-yes, I'm sorry," I said. "There's going to be an attempt on the President."

"Could you repeat that, please?"

"Someone's going to try to kill the President! You have to stop them. The inauguration. Just ta-take it indoors or something."

There was a brief moment when I thought they'd already hung up. Then I wished they had. "Stay on the line please."

I hung up. Quickly. I stared at the phone, panting. Glancing both ways down the street, I didn't see anyone yet, but that didn't mean the cops weren't already on their way. I turned back to the hotel when it hit me.

I swore. "Fingerprints!"

Hastening back to the phone, I swabbed the handset, earpiece, mouthpiece, and hook switch with the end of my shirt, hoping I removed all the prints from the phone. Of course, they were still on the quarter inside the phone, but there wasn't anything I could do about that now. I turned and ran back to the hotel.

Buzzing back in through the rear entrance, I took the steps two at a time, hurling myself up the stairs. Reaching our room, I tore inside, launching myself at the toilet, where I threw up whatever remained of last night's dinner. Exhausted, I sank back against the wall.

What had I done?

I grabbed a bit of toilet paper to wipe my mouth.

What choice did I have? Maybe Martin wanted to go down in a blaze of glory, but I'd be damned if I was going to let him do it that easily. This had to stop. All of it. If the Secret Service did their jobs, they'd move the inauguration indoors, and that'd be the end of it. For a while, at least. Grant and Martin would probably have to figure out a more opportune time, but that'd give me just that much more time to try and talk him out of it, to convince them of taking a different road.

Even if they persisted, maybe the worst that would happen would be that Martin would get arrested and wind up in jail, and that had to be better than dead. Attempted murder was surely a better rap than murder or treason. Maybe in custody he'd get the help he needed.

I tossed the toilet paper into the bowl and flushed, watching it swirl and disappear down the bottom.

Maybe I was full of crap, and what I'd really done was just sign our death warrants.

I shook my head, unwilling to accept that. That was Grant talking, not me. And I didn't have to listen to him anymore.

I left the bathroom and went to leave the room when I noticed a red light pulsating on our phone, like a miniature police light.

Someone had called and left a message. Probably while I was out. I crept to the phone, picked it up, and dialed the voicemail extension.

"Peter, it's Jerry. You gonna sleep in all day or you coming down for breakfast? Or does one of us have to come up there and get you? You got five minutes, dude, and then we're coming after ya. Bye!" A second later, the voicemail gave me the timestamp. I checked my watch. That was eight minutes ago. I glanced at the door. Had they come while I was out?

Gently, I replaced the handset. If they'd come in while I was gone, they'd want to know where I'd been. My heart pounded in my chest. I felt like I was going to hurl again. I had to come up with something. Quickly.

Or... I could simply go and face the consequences.

An image of Grant flashed into mind, him grabbing Jerry's gun and pointing it at him, ready to blow him away. I shook my head. Surely not! He wouldn't try anything like that, not once the operation was blown. He drew out on Jerry to keep him quiet, to protect the mission. But if the mission was dead anyway, what would be the point? Killing me for the fun of it? Not that I wouldn't put it past him, but that somehow didn't seem like Grant's style. He killed out of necessity, not pleasure. That had to be it. If he were really that nuts, I'd have picked up on it by now.

Confident in my assessment, I grabbed my keycard and opened the door. I nearly walked into Grant.

### Thirty-Nine

"What are you doing?" he demanded.

"What?" I gulped.

He put his hands on his hips. "We got things to do, Cherry," he said. "You coming or not?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm coming right now."

I ducked past him into the hallway.

"There ain't much time for breakfast," he said, catching up to me.

I doubted I could hold anything down anyway. "S'alright. I'm not that hungry."

"You okay? You don't look good."

I stopped, staring past him at my reflection in the brass panels around the elevator. "Stomach's bothering me." I pushed the call button.

"Yeah?"

"Think it might've been dinner last night. Can't keep anything down."

He smiled sympathetically. "Probably food poisoning."

"Yeah. I thought of that."

The elevator arrived and we stepped inside. He said, "You just take it easy today. We'll play it by ear. See how you're feeling."

I nodded and pressed the button for the ground floor.

"Don't want you to miss work or nothing, but you gotta be healthy, know what I mean?"

"Sure."

The elevator doors opened and we stepped out. Just then, three Capitol police cars swept by the front entrance at a high speed, followed a moment later by a fourth.

I felt my stomach churn again.

"Look it that," Grant muttered. "Wonder what that's all about."

I followed him to the dining area, but he kept walking toward the windows. Martin and Jerry followed. Through the glass we could see a squad of police cruisers just down the street, cordoning off the phone booth I'd just used with yellow police tape. I checked my watch and swallowed. Less than six minutes had gone by. At least they were taking it seriously.

"Must be a doughnut sale," Martin snorted.

Jerry chuckled and picked up a jelly doughnut, biting into it until the crimson innards oozed out the other side. When he saw me, he wiped his mouth and said, "What happened to you? You missed breakfast."

I smiled weakly. "You don't wanna know."

"Food poisoning," Grant explained. "Comes from eating that crappy Chink food. Probably grilled rat, anyway."

"You're not helping."

"Food poisoning?" said Martin.

"You got no idea what they serve in them Chink places."

I ignored him and spoke to my brother. "I threw up this morning."

"Let's hope it ain't flu."

Grant said, "I once saw a slideshow of these Chinks taking rats, blowtorching the fur off them, carving them up. Time they threw the sauce on 'em, looked just like chicken."

"Make him stop."

"Tastes like it, too," added Jerry.

"Mm-mmm. Bon appétit!"

Martin swore. "You trying to make him sick again?"

"You wouldn't believe the kind of stuff they used to make us eat in training. Used to chew on sand flies just for the protein."

"Now that is sick." Jerry dropped his doughnut.

"He's just pulling your chain," Martin said. "We ate MRE's."

"Yeah, but the sand flies taste better."

"Well, he's got a point there."

"How much longer have we got to put up with you?" I said. Grant leaned back, studying the police activity down the street again. "Thirteen days," he said quietly. "Then it's all over."

Jerry said, "What are they doing down there, anyway?"

Our eyes turned and studied the police work. One of them leaned before the phone booth, swishing it with something resembling a feather duster.

"Dusting for prints," Grant replied. He frowned, and his eyes flickered in my direction.

"Must've been a hell of an obscene phone call," Jerry said.

"In this town?" Martin sneered. "People pay to get calls like that. This place is sicker than Vegas."

"Right," said Grant. "So if we're all done here, let's get going."

"Where we headed?" I asked.

Jerry answered. "Colleges. Grant says we gotta visit some. Build our aliases and stuff."

"Alibis."

"Whatever."

"Do we all need to go?" I said.

"We best stick together," Grant replied. "That way, nothing will happen to one of us that don't happen to all of us."

I frowned, unsure I bought his reasoning. To me, it sounded more like he wanted to keep an eye on me, but given what I'd just done, that might've just been paranoia. Still, it was out of my hands now. The feds would do what they had to do, and with the inauguration moved in doors and security ramped up, our little rebellion would collapse before any real harm was done, or any real crime was committed. Grant could do whatever he wanted at this point. As far as I was concerned, it was over, and for the first time in weeks, I began to relax.

***

Waiting, waiting, waiting. In the days ahead, we did little else. Repeatedly, the rhymes of Coleridge's Mariner echoed in my head: 'Day after day, day after day, we stuck, nor breath nor motion; as idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean.' Time ground us down, wore our spirits raw, until we snapped at each other for minor slights and paced the floors in frustration.

For Jerry's sake, we visited different colleges and spoke to a few recruiters—building our alibi. We worked our security gigs, watched television, and did some sightseeing in town for no other reason than to relieve the boredom. Martin told us it would help to build our familiarity with the locale in case we needed to move fast, but I suspected this was just an excuse.

Every night before work, I watched the news, listening for any hint of the inauguration being moved indoors. The media made no mention of my phone call to the police, but I couldn't tell if that was because the cops were keeping it on the down low while they investigated, or if it was because no one took it seriously enough to bother.

Four days away from the inauguration I received my answer. It came while I watched a local news talk show. One of the cable networks was interviewing a former member of the Joint Congressional Committee on Inaugural Ceremonies, and the question of security came up.

Martin and Jerry were playing Canasta on the bed. Grant was cleaning his .38. I was writing on my blog when the question came up, only half listening.

"Hey, turn that up," said Grant. I grabbed the remote and cranked the volume.

"...the historic nature of the event, security has been very tight. But these men are all professionals. They are all very good at their jobs. We have been inaugurating Presidents now for well over two hundred years, and not once has there been a problem."

"Well as you said, this is an historic occasion. Given that, has there been an increase in the number of threats the agency has received?" said the interviewer.

Laughter. "Of course, I cannot speak to specifics, and we do take every threat seriously. That being said—and understand: every inauguration carries with it an increase in the threat level... the nature of the threats, the number of the threats—all caveats in place, there has been an increase. However, what we have to concern ourselves with is the credibility of those threats versus the confidence we have in our own security. We simply can't shut down the government every time someone phones in a threat, we'd never get anything done."

"It's not like, say, a public school?"

"Not at all. Someone calls in a bomb threat at public school, you send the students home and investigate accordingly. But when it comes to the President, he receives anywhere from eight to ten threats per day. Roughly three thousand a year, right? You just can't shut it down. Now we have seen close to a four hundred percent increase in the number of threats made against the President-elect, and he hasn't even taken office yet!"

"Does that have you worried?"

Laughter. "Not really. Well, maybe a little, but no, I think everything will go off without a hitch. You'll be surprised how smoothly things go—or you would be if you could really see what we're up against. I am fully confident in the professionalism of the Secret Service and other law-enforcement agencies. As much danger as he is in as the next leader of the free world, in my view he is also the safest man on the planet because of the extraordinary level of protection that surrounds him."

"All right. Thank you for your time. It was great talking to you."

"You too, Andrea."

"If you'd like more information about the inaugural plans, and to read a sample chapter of Roger's forthcoming book, you can go to our website, at www—" Click! I turned off the T.V.

After a moment, Grant said, "Well, I guess that's good news then, huh?"

"Yep," said Martin, returning to his cards. "They got no idea we're coming."

I didn't sleep well that night.

### Forty

My first objective the following day was to get away from the others. Evidently, the feds filed my phone call under 'W' for 'Whack-a-doo' and summarily dismissed it. With a four hundred percent increase in threats, who could blame them? I had to get away from that label – establish my warning as credible – in order to be taken seriously. For that, I had to give them a name.

Deciding whom to turn in was beyond easy. But making it happen? That was the hard part.

For one thing, I was never alone. Grant made certain that we always stayed together, at least in pairs. We ate together, worked together, and unless we were in the hotel room, we even went to the bathroom together. It felt like we'd morphed into women – a fact I didn't hesitate to point out next time we hit the men's room.

"Hey Grant, your nuts still attached?"

"Otis, Jim. How many times do I have to tell you that?"

"Right. Sorry."

He eyed me suspiciously. "Why are you asking about my testicles?"

"Way you got us peeing together, thought I'd double check."

He grunted and flushed the toilet. "Can't be helped."

"I know. But just so we're clear? You start singing Shania Twain on me, I'm outta here."

That drew a chuckle, but I was hoping for more. Like an opportunity to sneak away to a phone. It didn't happen until three days before the inauguration, and it started with a gaggle of teenagers and a swiftly escalating fight in the lower court.

I don't know who started it. All I know is a pack of teenagers burst from their seats and flung themselves at a second group. Within seconds fists, feet, and elbows were flying as other customers screamed and fled from the melee. Even on the upper levels kids started throwing down with each other. Someone tossed a chair onto the floor below, where it broke apart and took down a pair of unwary combatants.

Immediate cries of "Hey!" erupted from Joan and Bill, but their voices barely rose above the din. I took three steps toward the melee, but stopped just short of the battle zone. Joan glanced my way, read my reticence, and gracefully ordered me to the phone.

"Call the police!"

Across the court, Grant met my eyes, and just as quickly entered the fray.

I vaulted over the security desk, tearing the phone off the hook and stabbing the numbers with my fingers.

A woman's voice answered the phone. "9-1-1 Emergency. How may I assist you?"

"This is security at the Old Post Office. We've got like a hundred kids in a major brawl in here. We need police now."

"Say again, please. You have a fight?"

"It looks like a frickin' war zone, ma'am."

"I have police on the way."

"Send several cars. Seriously. This is getting ugly." I hung up before she could say anything further. I glanced again at the food court. Someone had smashed a bottle and was using it like a knife. The floor grew red and slick. Grant swung his arms furiously, mowing down teenagers with vicious swings. He slipped in the blood and skidded two feet into the crowd, but my eyes were drawn irresistibly down again to the desk.

Bill's cell phone lay quietly on the counter. I hesitated only a moment, before slipping back to the break room and dialing 9-1-1 again. This time a man answered.

"9-1-1 emergency. How may I assist you?"

"You people don't listen. I don't know what the hell is wrong with you, but this is serious."

"I'm sorry. Whom am I speaking with?"

"Shut up! I don't have much time. They're going to try and kill the President on Inauguration Day. They're going to do it after he takes the oath of office, during the gun salute."

"Hang on please, and I'll—"

"No! Don't you dare transfer this call. Just relay the information I'm giving you. Tell them to move the inauguration indoors. His life depends on it."

"You want them to move the inauguration indoors."

"Look, I know there's no reason to believe me. I can give you one name. That's it. That's all I can risk. Grant Collins. You got that? Grant Collins. He was in the military. Pull him in for questioning, this all goes away."

"Sir, I—"

I hung up, clutching the phone to my forehead and praying they listened. I didn't know what would happen if the cops came for Grant. He might try to shoot his way out, but I was certain Martin wouldn't let him do anything to me.

Certainly I could trust my own brother for that.

I hurried back to the desk, snagging the first aid kit on the way. By the time I emerged into the main room, the police were pouring through the door and encircling the crowd. I set the towels down on the counter, quickly dropping Bill's cell phone back where I found it.

As quickly as it had begun, it was over. The police rounded up the kids, herding them out the door in a line of bruised and bloodied combatants still snarling at each other. Grant, Joan, and Bill stumbled over to the security desk, where I handed out antiseptic wipes.

"This," said Joan, "is not what I was hoping for when I came into work today."

"Your eyebrow is bleeding."

"Shouldda ducked."

"Ah hell, no!"

We looked up as Isaac, the maintenance worker, arrived with his mop and bucket. "No worries," said Grant. "Joe here will give you a hand. He's bound to be good for something. Ain'tcha, Joe?" He clapped a bloody hand on my shoulder, squeezing it viciously.

I grimaced. "Sure."

"Way to jump in and help." He grimaced and pulled up his shirt. An ugly laceration tore across his abdomen and around his side. "Ah, damn," he said.

"That looks deep."

"It is deep, genius. Gimme that needle and thread there."

"Otis," said Joan, "you'd better let the EMT's lookit that."

He shook his head. "They can't do nothing for me I can't do myself." He threaded the needle and began pushing it through his skin. Blood oozed from the wound. I felt my stomach lurch.

"Well," said Isaac. "Come on, Joe. I'll show you how to swing a mop."

I glanced his way, somewhat grateful to see he looked at least as nauseated as I felt. Joan shook her head and nodded to me. "Best get along now. You still gotta earn your keep."

"I did what you asked," I protested.

She shook her head, unwilling to meet my eyes. "Just go."

I took the bucket from Isaac and followed him onto the floor. For the next hour we swept, mopped and scrubbed the floors till the court resembled the professional place of business it had been that morning.

Periodically, I'd look up. Grant always had his eye on me. He must've kept watch on me the whole time, and I could feel talons of panic squeezing my heart.

He couldn't have seen me with the cell phone. I was sure of it. He'd been stuck in the fight with Joan and Bill the whole time. How could he possibly have known?

I was being paranoid again. That was it. This was just some kind of guilt eating away at me. I sloshed the mop onto the floor in a loud spray of water. It was so unfair! No matter what I did, I felt guilty. If I stuck with Martin and Grant, I committed treason and murder. If I turned them in, I betrayed my brother. If I did nothing, I allowed evil to triumph. There was just no frickin' way out of this!

Finally, Isaac pronounced the room clean, and recovered his mop from me. I shoved my hands in my pockets and strolled over to Grant, who sat at his table writing notes on a clipboard.

"How's your gut?" I said.

He didn't raise his head. "I'll live."

"You mad at me?"

"Do I look like mad at you?"

"Not right now, but you were. Whole time I was cleaning you had your eyes on my backside."

"We're supposed to watch each other's backs, dummy."

"Yeah, but you're taking that literally."

Now he looked up. "How are you supposed to take it, Cherry?"

I didn't answer, and after a moment he returned to his notes. "You know," he said, "if you want to make a good impression on your boss, not doing your job probably ain't the way to do it."

"Whaddya mean?"

"Means you probably should've stepped in to help us with that fight there."

"What? You mad 'cause I didn't get dirty?"

He shook his head, grinning. "Naw, I could care less about your career."

I snorted. "Less than I do?"

"See? That's the thing. You need to look like you care. How do you think I got you this job? Huh? By being the best damn employee they ever had. They took you on my recommendation. These people love me, and that's why they'll never suspect what we're here to do."

"Right."

"You, on the other hand, are acting like you're trying to get fired before we ever get to our objective."

"You think that's what I'm doing?"

He laughed. "Sure as hell hope not. But you're behaving like an utter rookie."

"I am a rookie."

"Show some imagination. Just try to pretend you know what you're doing. Now you'd best get over to Joan and find out what she wants you to do next. Might be swabbing out the locker rooms. You'll need to start now if you're gonna finish on time."

With that, he picked up his papers and walked them over to the desk.

***

Joan had me do rounds with her that evening, giving me a chance to apologize for not jumping in to help with the fight. "Mm-hmm," was all she said when I mentioned it, and I decided to let the matter drop.

At ten we finished our shift. After changing clothes, we left to pick up Martin and Jerry.

As soon as I saw Martin's face, I knew something was wrong. I couldn't imagine how their day could've been any worse than ours, but I asked anyway.

"What's wrong?"

"We've got a problem."

### Forty-One

"What sort of problem?" said Grant.

"You remember Corporal Goetz?"

Grant pursed his lips. "Scrawny little bugger? Face like a chicken?"

"That's him."

"What about him?"

Martin dropped his head, seething.

Jerry said, "He came to the museum today."

"You're kidding," I said. I had no idea who Corporal Goetz was.

"He recognize you?"

"Oh yeah," said Martin, not raising his head.

"Loud, too," said Jerry. "Called him out right when you was talking to the supervisor." Jerry raised his voice to mimic Goetz', "'Hey Martin! Martin Baird! Remember me? It's Larry. Larry Goetz. We were stationed together in Basra. Remember?'"

Martin collapsed back against the seat. "Stationed together," he muttered. "Little pissant typed reports and carried coffee to the commanders. In general, made a nuisance of himself. Marks once had him ferrying around a bunch of reporters outside the Green Zone. He said he did it in hopes they'd drive into an ambush. Get rid of them all in one tragic accident."

Grant leaned back and swore, pounding the steering wheel with his palm. "Wish he had. How'd your boss take it?"

"Not well. Looked right at me and said, 'Martin Baird'?"

"What you tell him?"

"Told him it was a long story. Made up some excuse. I wasn't brilliant."

Grant's fingers flexed around the steering wheel. Finally, he caught Martin's eye in the rearview mirror and sighed. "We're gonna have to move the gun."

"I know."

"Where?" I said.

"I mean now. Tonight."

"Yep." He looked out the window. "Service entrance off C Street. I jerry-rigged the alarm and left it unlocked."

"Well let's go," I said.

Grant looked irritated. "Not you, Cherry. You two are going back to the hotel and waiting. Fewer men on this op, the better. Besides, we gotta change, first." He shifted the car into gear and pulled onto the road.

***

Despite my objections, Grant and Martin insisted on leaving us behind at the hotel room. They changed into dark clothes and slipped silenced handguns into their shoulder harnesses, and I was suddenly glad to be staying behind. Donning long trench coats and knitted woolen hats and gloves, slipping their Blue Tooth headsets onto their ears, they looked every bit the part of mafia hit men. I wondered if they wouldn't get stopped if they were seen, just for looking suspicious. On the other hand, they might just as easily have passed for cops.

"Stay in the room," Grant ordered, before closing the door.

I stared at it a moment, wanting nothing more than to tear it back open and tell him to go screw himself, but then thought better of it. The look they wore as they'd left was unlike anything I'd ever seen before. All humor had evaporated from their eyes, replaced not by anger, but by something cold and utterly ruthless —almost mechanical in nature. They looked soulless. Was this what war did to men? I swallowed hard and turned away.

Propped on the bed, Jerry thumbed the remote. The television flickered to life.

"Think we could order room service?" I asked.

He shook his head. "Kitchen's closed." He started flipping through the channels, the screen flashing black between each station. I dropped onto the other bed, and settled in, resigned to watching television with him.

An image flashed onto the screen, and was just as quickly gone.

"Wait! Go back."

Jerry eyed me warily, but flipped the channels back again. A newscaster's face filled the screen. "...are unsure of the significance, but Captain Baird has been identified as a person of interest in the recent spate of telephone calls to 9-1-1, warning of an assassination attempt. Police have issued an all points bulletin, and are asking residents to be on the look out."

Jerry's jaw dropped, mirroring my own.

"Is that Martin?" he gaped.

"Used to be. That's his military photo."

"How the hell did they find him so quickly?"

I shook my head. This wasn't right. Couldn't be right. How could they have possibly connected the 9-1-1 calls to Martin? Unless giving them Grant's name led them to my brother, but even then...

"That little chicken-head blew this wide open," Jerry muttered. "Knew Davis didn't buy the story."

"Davis?"

"Supervisor. He must've called somebody. Ran a background check or something."

I swore. "We really are screwed."

Jerry checked his watch. "How long 'fore they get back ya think?"

"I have no idea. But if they've found one of us..."

"Aw crap. What are we gonna do?"

"I don't know, but—"

"What are we gonna do?"

"—we can't stay here."

"What are we gonna do, Peter?"

"Shut up!" I pressed my palms against my ears, less to shut out Jerry's whining than to keep the room from spinning. A new, sickening thought entered my mind. I was party to a conspiracy to assassinate the President. I'd been part of it for months now. What did the government care what my reasons were? Could they really understand that I only wanted to save Martin? More to the point, would they even care? Or wouldn't they rather just toss us all in a hole somewhere and leave us to rot in the darkness?

"We need to tell them," I said. "Right now."

"How?"

I stared at the T.V., no longer hearing the newscaster, willing away the image of my brother's face. A moment later, it vanished into a Verizon commercial.

"That's it!" I tumbled off the bed and tore open the nightstand, grabbing one of the two remaining headsets inside. Fitting it to my ear, I said, "Call Grant."

The earphone chirped twice then Grant's voice said, "What the hell, Jerry? You're not supposed to use this number."

"Grant, it's Peter. We've got a problem."

"Peter?"

"We just saw Martin's face on the evening news."

There was a momentary silence, then, "Say again?"

"I said we just saw Martin on the evening news."

He swore.

"What do we do?" I paced, waiting for the answer.

"Get out. Both of you. Get out now. Don't leave anything behind."

I swore and hung up. Turning to Jerry, I said, "We gotta go. Now."

***

It took us better than twenty minutes to pack everything up and drag it into the hallway. As an afterthought, I ran a rag over the bathroom fixtures and anything else we might have touched in the room. I couldn't be sure I got it all, but I didn't want to make it any easier all the same.

Jerry was outside with a luggage cart, throwing the bags on, when I left the room. He grabbed the handle and moved to the elevator when I stopped him.

"This way," I said, leading him to the stairs. We each grabbed two bags, loading them onto our shoulders. I ran my cloth over the luggage cart and shoved it away with my foot then followed Jerry down the steps.

At the bottom we slammed against the crash bar, spilling into the parking lot through the very same door I'd used to escape to the phone just days before. Against the side of the hotel, a red glow flashed intermittently. The Capitol Police had arrived.

Jerry swore, turned, and started running.

### Forty-Two

"Jerry, wait!" I grabbed his arm. "Don't run." I walked beside him, keeping an easy pace as we angled away from the police car.

"This way." I led him into the parking garage, heading into a maze of parked cars. Above us, the ceiling girders hung low. Massive beams brooding over our passage there. Behind us, we heard a car approaching.

"Get down!"

We ducked behind a Dodge Ram as a searchlight panned through the rows of cars, reflecting brilliantly off the chrome and glass, dazzling my eyes.

"They're looking for us!" Jerry hissed. I pressed my finger to my lips and tried to make myself as small as possible. I couldn't imagine how Jerry would manage the same. The beam of light swept over us. It lingered forever above our heads, a greedy shaft gobbling up the shadows, stealing our escape, leaving us no place to hide. Any second now, I'd hear the shout, declaring our discovery.

And then it was gone. Jerry and I read each other's eyes, both wondering if it was safe to raise our heads. A full minute passed, an endless grinding of the second hand around the watch on my wrist. I raised my head, peering through the windows of the truck. The police car waited several spaces down, an officer probing the bed of another pick-up with his flashlight. So that's why the cops stayed so long at our hiding place, I thought. They were thoroughly checking the most obvious refuge. Had we climbed into the bed of the truck, I had no doubt we'd be sitting in the back seat of their car right now, each sporting a pair of handcuffs. I held my palm up to Jerry, telling him to wait a little longer.

The police car slunk off, still searching the reclusive spaces. When it finally turned the corner, I dropped my hand. Jerry rose to his feet, breathing out a curse.

"That was close."

"We don't actually know they're looking for us."

His shoulders heaved. "I ain't taking any chances."

"Me neither."

"How the hell did they find us?"

I shook my head. "I don't know. They're on to Martin. They must be on to Grant, too."

"Yeah, but how? It's not like they had Grant's name."

I kept my eyes assiduously forward. Jerry was right. Except for my phone call, they didn't have Grant's name. How did they link him to Martin? Then it hit me. They'd done no such thing. The investigations were independent. Martin they found out about through the incident at work. Grant they'd discovered through my phone call. That's why the cops were coming to the hotel, to look for Grant and bring him in for questioning. And if Grant hadn't warned us to get out of there, we'd be talking to the authorities right now.

So why did Grant warn us to get out when the only name the media had was Martin? An uneasy pit grew in my stomach, a void opening up that threatened to swallow me from the inside.

"They must've connected the dots through their service records," I said. It was plausible enough, but was it what Grant believed? Or maybe through my info and tonight's incident, they connected the dots all on their own, in which case they would take steps to apprehend us, and barring that, would act to prevent us from fulfilling this mission.

Which meant it was over. All I had to do now was convince the others of the same conclusion.

"Come on," I said with a glance down the parking garage ramp, "let's get out of here before they come back." Picking up our bags, we stole through the rows of cars into the cool, night air.

***

We walked for hours, or at least it felt that way. The night sky above us was so black as to have no depth at all. It was utterly invisible, a void, nothing more. We kept our heads down and trudged forward beneath its velvet canopy, like two creatures in a flat universe, with no way to move upward and out. Our shoulders burned with the luggage, our calves aching with each step. We'd taken every turn offered us by the angled streets, zig-zagging further and further into the heart of the Capitol.

Finally, Jerry said, "Hang on a sec," and dropped his bags on the sidewalk. I let mine down, too, feeling a warm hurt in the muscles of my neck and shoulders.

"I think we lost them," I said.

"For now." He put his hands on his knees, blowing out a long breath. "We got to get off the street, though. These bags..."

"I know. We look homeless."

He chuckled. "We are homeless."

"Right. But all that means is we attract attention."

"There's a bus stop ahead. You want to wait there?"

I looked down the street where he was pointing. It was an enclosed stop, the kind with benches inside. "All right."

Stealing into the bus stop, we let the bags fall to the ground and collapsed onto the bench.

"We should probably call them," Jerry yawned.

I nodded. "Yeah. Just gimme a minute."

I still had Jerry's Blue Tooth tucked in my ear. My own lay buried somewhere in the bags. I had no real idea where. We'd crammed everything into the suitcases, regardless of who it belonged to or even if it was clean. I wasn't terribly keen on unpacking them, now or ever.

I sat back on the bench, my eyelids heavy. Around us, the street felt serene, peaceful.

***

I awoke to someone tapping my shoulder. Shaking off sleep, I focused on the face in front of me. Martin. I felt so relieved I almost cried. "Thank God," I muttered.

"What the hell, Petey? We've been driving around hours looking for you guys, and here you are taking a snooze out in the open? What if the cops had seen you?"

I wiped my nose on the back of my hand and sat up. "We don't know that they're looking for us."

"You wanna chance it?"

"Where is everyone?"

"In the truck." He jerked in the SUV's direction with his thumb. "Let's go." He offered me his arm and pulled me to my feet. I followed him to the truck, climbing into the backseat next to Jerry, who'd already closed his eyes again, leaning against the doorframe.

"Morning, Cherry," said Grant.

"What time is it?"

"Little past 0400 hours. I'm assuming you two got out okay?"

I nodded. "We had some cops at the hotel looking for us. They followed us into the parking garage, but we lost them."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. We'd be in cuffs, otherwise."

"True that." He turned around and pulled back onto the street.

Though it was still early, traffic had already picked up noticeably since we fled the hotel. Grant drove at a casual pace, letting other early risers speed past him toward their sundry destinations.

"First order of business is get ourselves a new place to crash," he said, glancing in the rearview mirror.

"What you have in mind?" I said.

"Someplace quiet. Nondescript. Cheap enough they don't need a credit card."

We drove in the direction of Andrews Air Force Base, and soon had a fine selection of seedy motels to pick from. Grant said the Air Force Base provided the best cover, and the motels around it asked surprisingly few questions about why four guys might need to share a room together and pay cash only. I chose not to ask why he knew that.

It was getting light on the horizon by the time we unloaded the bags and drew the blinds, but we were too tired to notice or care. Without any further discussion, we collapsed into the beds and slept.

***

Five hours of sleep was hardly sufficient, but it was all we could afford. Surprisingly, I woke before the others, about ten minutes before our agreed upon time to get up. I slipped out of the room and retrieved coffee and breakfast for us from a Dunkin Donuts down the street. When I came back to the room, the others were awake, though still a little groggy.

I passed out the coffee and doughnuts, and we gathered around the two-person table for breakfast.

"All right gentlemen," said Grant, "let's call this meeting to order."

I sat on the corner of one of the beds and sipped the coffee, wondering what he was up to now. Grant wore an expression somewhere between frustration and disappointment, in marked contrast to the wild feverishness of Martin's eyes.

"Here's our situation as I see it: the police have a bead on Martin and me, though they don't have any current descriptions. Jerry and Peter, they don't seem to know anything about you—though I suspect that'll change soon if it hasn't already."

"Wh-what do you mean?" stammered Jerry.

"Not anything you got to worry about. Peter, on the other hand, they may be looking for you."

I shrank back. "Why do you say that?" I was ready to bolt for the door if I needed to.

He just looked at me and smiled.

### Forty-Three

"Well, for one thing, you're Martin's brother. Two, you helped him write that manifesto—and you can just about guarantee they've read it. Three, you've got that damn blog y'all refused to take down, and they're probably all over that, too. By the way, I wouldn't recommend making anymore postings for a while."

"Why?"

"'Cause they'll track your IP address," drawled Martin. "That's why."

I frowned. Where had Martin learned anything about IP addresses? His computer literacy was even worse than his regular literacy, or so I'd thought. Did he really knew what he was talking about, or was he just parroting what someone else had told him?

"You oughtta get yourself one of them address scramblers. That'll make them work for it, at least," he added.

"Address scramblers?"

"Yeah, like Torpark? Scrambles your IP address so every time you log in somewhere, it looks like a different computer?"

"Yeah, I've heard about Torpark, I just—"

"You mind if I finish here?" Grant interrupted.

"Go ahead. Just surprised you'd know about Torpark."

"Well, I ain't half the dummy you think I am."

"That still ain't saying much."

"Gentlemen? Shut the hell up. Please?"

We quieted down so he could continue.

"All right, we three, at least, are persona non grata, as far as our names go. I think you and I will be all right going into work, 'cause they don't have our faces yet. Jerry, you and Martin are gonna have to lay low until the inauguration. We'll find a way to get you to the gun."

"Where is the gun?" I asked.

"Not your concern, Cherry. Ours is still in the Tower. Theirs is in a separate location. You don't need to know where it is."

"Why not?"

"'Cause if they do catch us before we take the shot, you won't be able to tell them where it is.'

"What? What are you saying? I wouldn't tell them where it is."

"Oh yes you would. Time they get done with you, you'll tell them anything they want to know. You're not trained to withstand interrogation."

"What about Jerry? He's not trained either. He knows where our gun is. What happens if he gets caught?"

"Hey, I'm tougher than you think I am."

Before I could retort, Grant said, "That's a risk we're gonna have to take. We didn't have time to move both guns. Besides, ain't nothing in your blog mentions Jerry, right?" I nodded. "Then there ain't no reason to think they know anything about him, or even that he's here. I think that's an acceptable risk. Which brings me to my real question."

"No," said Martin.

Grant stared at him. "You gonna let me ask it?"

"No." He got up from the table and paced toward the bathroom. "I ain't gonna let you ask it, either."

"Ask what?"

Grant looked from Martin to me then back to Martin. Finally, Martin said, "All right. You can ask it, but the answer's no."

"Right," he said. "That's your answer. But I think everyone else needs to weigh in on it."

"What the hell for?"

"Weigh in on what?" I said.

"Because not everyone is as hell-bent as you are. Besides, it's a logistical question, Martin. It's why you brought me in."

He stormed toward us. "And if we don't do it now, we ain't never gonna get another chance to."

"That's not necessarily true."

"Like hell it ain't! They're already on to us. You think they're gonna sit around and wait for us to try again? Every day we delay takes us further and further from our objective. We ain't gonna get another shot at this. Might as well just stick a fork in this country, 'cause it's done, otherwise."

I stared at my brother, his feral eyes flashing anger, his face red and sweaty. I tore my eyes away and turned to Grant. "You're talking about pulling the plug?"

"Regrouping and trying again another time. If the operation's blown, there ain't no sense in pressing forward with it. You're just courting disaster."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "Seriously?"

It was more than I'd hoped for. I honestly thought I'd have to make this argument. I didn't expect Grant to do it for me.

"The operation isn't blown," said Martin, retaking his seat. "Just 'cause they know we're out here doesn't mean they can do anything about it. They know who we are, and they probably know who our target is, but there ain't no way they got figured out what our plan is. I mean, what are they gonna do? Call off the inauguration? It's about all they can do. They leave him outside, he's exposed. They take him inside, might be exactly what our plan is. They don't know. They got to ask themselves these questions, and you know it's driving them nuts. Their only hope in preventing us is in catching us before we act—or in discouraging us from acting." He took a swallow of coffee and set his cup down, tracing the pink and orange logo with his finger. "And that just gives them more time to find us."

Jerry leaned back in his seat and rubbed his face. "Hell, we've come this far. It's not like any of us can just go home, you know? Especially you two. You all ain't even got a home."

"Thanks for pointing that out again, Jer," I said.

"I'm just saying we burned the ships, right? All in. Let's play the hand we're dealt, and pray we beat the house."

"The odds always favor the house."

"We knew that going in," said Martin.

"I say we do it," said Jerry.

"All right," said Grant. "Guess that makes three of us. Peter?"

All eyes at the table turned to me. When I finally spoke, my tongue felt thick, my voice sounded small. "I've never wanted to do this. I certainly don't want to go to jail. I don't know what else to say, guys. I'm out."

### Forty-Four

"What do you mean, 'Out'?" said Martin.

"What do you think it means?"

Martin smiled broadly. "Grant, Jerry, you two think I could have a moment with my brother?"

Wordlessly, they rose and left the motel room, leaving me alone with him. Martin leaned back in his seat, his hands folded on his chest. "Why, in the name of God, are you pulling out now?"

"They're on to us."

"We've been over this."

"So? I don't want to go to jail."

"You're going to jail anyway. Ain't nothing you can do about that now. You knew this the first time you told me you were in. You're party to a conspiracy to assassinate the President. That's high treason. That's what men like us get hanged for. Our only hope is in going through with it, that we can spark the war that overthrows this corrupt monstrosity we call a government, and come out as heroes on the other side."

"You really think that's going to happen?"

"Frankly, I don't care. I swore an oath to protect my country, and I'm gonna do my damndest to keep that oath. I know who my enemy is, and I know what he is."

I said nothing. He regarded me coolly.

"Why did you say yes?"

"What choice did I have?"

"I don't recall holding a gun to your head."

"No." I sat up. "You didn't hold a gun to my head. You held a gun to your own."

He furrowed his brow, like he hadn't considered this before. I felt emboldened. "What was I supposed to do, Marty? Let you go off and get killed in some stupid plan? You're all I got left. Do you know what it was like when I heard you got hurt? I found out about it. Heard you were in surgery, and that the rest of the guys in your Humvee had been killed." I could feel my face flush, but I didn't care.

"I spent hours on the phone trying to get a hold of somebody who could tell me whether or not you were still alive. And for a while there, I actually thought you were dead. That was the worst feeling in the world, you know? That was even worse than when Dad died, 'cause then I still had you. But when I thought you were gone...?" I shook my head. "What am I saying? You were gone. You're still gone. You went to war, and you never came back."

He smiled at me then, his eyes moist, but my heart nearly stopped when he said, "You got to let me go, Peter."

"Why?"

"'Cause I have to do this. I have to."

"Why?!"

"Because I'm not supposed to be alive. That's why." He spat the words at me, but then moderated his tone. "I was in command of that Humvee. Those were my men. I directed us down that road. And when that bomb blew up, it blew right underneath our feet. Felt like the earth had opened up and swallowed us whole. I got shrapnel in my shoulder. Do you know what that is?"

"Shards of metal."

"No. It ain't metal that tore into me. It's bone. Bits and pieces of Private Urban's head driven into my shoulder by the force of that explosion."

I felt my eyes widen, my heart stop as he let the weight of his wound bear into me. What had this done to my brother? How do you live, knowing you've got somebody's skull fragments embedded in your flesh?

"I shouldn't have made it," he muttered, "unless it was for a reason. Those men and women gave their lives to save my own." He shook his head, staring out the window. "That's not supposed to happen. They weren't supposed to do that. The leader gives his life to protect his followers, not the other way around." He looked back at me. "Do you see? I owe them my life. I owe my country my life. I'll be damned if I'll let that debt go unpaid."

His tone made me suspect he believed that literally. I shook my head. I couldn't begin to imagine what he went through with all that, but neither could I let it matter. "I already lost you once. I can't do it again. I can't let you do this."

"You can't stop me. No matter how hard you try."

"Marty—"

"Peter, I know about the phone call."

I stared at him. "What?"

"I know you called 9-1-1. I know you turned us in."

I felt like the walls of the motel room were going to fall in on me and bury me alive. I almost wished they did.

"How?"

"'Cause I ain't stupid. I keep telling you that, but you don't believe me. You've been trying to bring this to a stop ever since you signed up. Frankly, I wondered what took you so long."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

He shrugged. "Figured you'd bring it up when you were ready. I guess I just blew that, though, didn't I?" He chuckled, and then smiled sadly. "You can't save me, Peter. I don't want you to. Thing is, I know I survived that IED for a reason, and up until a few months ago, I thought I knew what that reason was. But then I saw you shoot. I saw your grace with that gun. You handled it like you were one. Most guys pick up a gun, they use it like a tool. With you? It looked like it belonged in your hands, like it was a part of who you were. You weren't just hitting those targets, Peter. You were bulls-eyeing every single one of them. Do you know how hard that is? To shoot so effortlessly? That's when I really knew what my purpose was."

I remembered the night after I put three shots through the mannequin. "That's what you were arguing about with Grant."

He nodded. "Yep. He didn't think you were ready for it. I had to remind him this was my operation. Like I said, though, he tends to forget. You see, Peter, you were made to do this. You have a God-given talent. My job is to show you the way, and clear the decks so you can fulfill your destiny, and save this country. I will gladly give my life to see that happen."

"I don't want the country. I want my brother."

"I know. I love you, too. That's why I'm going to do what's best for you. It's your destiny."

"Screw destiny!"

He laughed. "You have to fulfill your destiny. If you run from it, it'll overtake you just that much quicker."

"No."

He scratched his ear. "Suit yourself. But the inauguration is tomorrow, and I'm going to be in position with Jerry."

Fuming, I thrust away from the table, stalking toward the bathroom. I stopped when I remembered I had no place to go. "I can't let you do this."

He regarded me silently, the wildness gone from his eyes, replaced by an odd sadness. "Ain't nothing you can do about it."

I swallowed hard. When I spoke, my voice was hoarse. "Yeah, there is."

### Forty-Five

He raised his eyebrows. "You sure you want to do that?"

"What choice do I have?"

He grinned and stood, his eyes still sad. "You know the answer to that. You come with us. You help us do this. That's your choice, Peter. That's the one you're supposed to make."

"It's not a choice I can make. I'm not like you, Martin. I can't just kill a man in cold blood. Even if he's evil."

He pursed his lips. "All right."

"And I can't let you do it, either. I have to call them."

"You're choosing to betray me?"

"No! I'm not betraying you. My God, I'm trying to help you."

"Don't want that kind of help."

"I can't just let you betray the country. Martin, they'll kill you."

"Yeah."

"I'd rather you were in jail than dead. And I know it's not noble to say that. I know it's cowardly and unpatriotic. But it's honest."

He winked at me. "That might be the most honest you been with me in a long time. Good-bye, Peter."

With that, my brother turned around and walked out the door. "Marty!" I rushed toward it, grasping the handle, intending to drag him back inside if need be. Instead of Martin, Grant stood there, a dark look on his face. Wordlessly, he grabbed my shoulder and thrust into my gut. Something sizzled.

I felt a thrilling burn, my muscles immediately tense. I opened my mouth to yell, but all that came out was a sad gurgle. I collapsed to the ground, my body seizing uncontrollably.

The last thing I saw, Grant knelt over me, injecting something into my arm. Then everything faded into a merciful blackness.

***

I came to several hours later. Or was it days? The light was still on in the motel room, but the shades were drawn and the door locked. Groaning, I rolled onto my side, trying to climb to my feet. My muscles ached with every movement, like I'd been hit by a truck. A sharper pain stabbed my shoulder. I remembered the needle, wondering what he'd injected into me. On my abdomen, I felt a stinging burn. I pushed into a sitting position and checked my stomach. Two small marks seared the flesh. He must've used a stun gun on me.

Climbing onto the bed, I lay there for a while longer until the room stopped spinning. After a few minutes, I stopped feeling sick. I sat up, unsure whether I'd need to lie down again. I still felt a little dizzy, and very thirsty, but well enough to move.

I went into the bathroom and splashed water on my face, taking large gulps from the faucet. I noticed then the bags were gone, including my own. I wondered why they took it.

Coming back into the room, I picked up the phone. They'd disconnected it, completely removing the cord. The clock was off as well, its plug dangling uselessly beside the outlet. Turning to the television, I found they'd cut the power cord at the back of the set, leaving the tiniest nub of wires hanging off the end.

I had no watch, clock, phone, T.V., or internet. I was utterly cut off from everything. They'd taken my wallet, clothes, and computer, and hadn't even left me the time of day.

I left the motel room, stepping outside into cool, bright daylight. The sun hung low in the east in a clear blue sky. I couldn't have been out that long; it was still morning—plenty of time to stop them.

I hurried along the sidewalk to the manager's office and tugged on the glass door. Locked. I frowned. What kind of motel locked up the manager's office? A sign on the door said CLOSED.

An analogue clock hung on the office wall, but it read three twenty. That couldn't be right, not with the sun where it was. Moving around the building, I found another window and peered inside. I could see the manager slumped backward in his desk chair, out of view of the front door. The phone on the desk lay smashed to pieces.

I felt a cold knot tighten in my stomach. The manager wasn't moving. Was he dead? Or had they merely incapacitated him the way they'd disabled me? Both the clock and the phone were out of commission, probably along with every other communication device inside. They'd been thorough.

Leaving the motel behind, I started walking, heading back into D.C. along Route 5. Traffic was light, but I stuck out my thumb for every passing car, hoping I didn't look too rough to pick up. It took about forty minutes of hoofing it before the driver of a Toyota Tundra took pity on me and pulled over to the side. His name was Chris, I learned later, and he drove around doing sales calls for a medical supply company.

"Where you headed?" he said as I ran up to the side.

"D.C."

"Going to the inauguration?"

"Hope so."

"Well, you ain't got much time. Starts in three hours." He opened the door for me. I climbed in.

"Three hours?" I said as he pulled onto the road.

"Yep. Don't care much for political stuff myself, but this one will be especially historic."

I winced at the irony. "Think you can take me there?"

"I can get you close. Traffic will be bad once we get to the city. Most of the inner streets are blocked off."

"Thanks. That'll do. You don't happen to have a phone, do ya?"

He shook his head no. I shrugged it off, turned to the window, and stared at the scenery that flashed past. I prayed we'd get there soon enough.

***

Christopher dropped me off the side of the expressway just south of the Capitol Building. I still had about an hour and a half to find Martin and stop him. All around me, crowds of pedestrians surged in the direction of the National Mall, hoping to get a good seat from which to view the festivities. I passed by the Capitol Building with its inaugural deck festooned by flags and red, white, and blue ribbons, moving west along Independence Ave. About a hundred yards ahead, I glimpsed one of the Capitol Police in his bright orange vest with yellow reflective stripes directing traffic around the stream of humanity. I made a beeline for him, ready to unload the truth and let the professionals handle it.

As I closed in, I started rehearsing what I would say to him, and how they'd probably respond.

They'd want to know where I got my information, of course. And they'd want to know where Martin and Grant were. All I could give them was the Old Post Office tower, and for all I knew, they'd already abandoned it in favor of someplace else. I looked around at the various buildings rising over the streets. There were so many places. They could literally be anywhere.

Besides, this guy was in crowd control. What were the odds I'd wind up sitting uselessly in a room somewhere while they tried to decide whether I wasn't crazy? Meanwhile my brother would put a bullet through the newly minted leader of the free world. Wordlessly, I passed by him, feeling a weight lift off my shoulders as I escaped.

Shame burned my cheeks. Why didn't I say anything? Was I really this big of a coward? I kept walking along 7th Street, eventually working my way through the throng of people to escape the National Mall on the northern side.

What do I do? The President of the United States would be assassinated as soon as he was sworn in an hour from now, and I couldn't stop it. Worse yet, my own brother was about to pull the trigger.

I shook my head, utterly bewildered. Then I saw Grant.

### Forty-Six

I stared, unbelieving. He walked on the other side of the street, purposeful strides in the direction of the Old Post Office. It hit me. He must've dropped off Martin and Jerry at their new site, but with the roads closed couldn't get to the second gun, our gun, unless he walked.

Hot anger flared in my cheeks, burning past the shame and humiliation I'd just felt. Heedless of the crowds around me, I put on a burst of speed, racing in his direction.

I got to the corner and slowed, not wanting to turn the bend and get another stun gun in my chest. I made a wide turn, and saw no one.

I frowned and looked quickly behind, then on either side. He couldn't have just vanished—unless I hadn't seen him at all.

I caught sight of him moving rapidly away from me about a hundred and fifty feet ahead. He walked with his hands swinging easily by his sides, his head down a bit. He might not have seen me at all. Crowds hugged the steel barricades on either edge of the road, with nearly a solid line of grim-faced police on the opposite sides, lining the parade route all the way from the Capitol Building to the White House

I settled into a pace about fifty feet behind Grant, hoping he didn't realize he was being followed just yet. With the throng of people darting between us, I was confident he hadn't noticed. He was the only one who could tell me where Martin was, and I didn't want to give him the chance to get away. I didn't know what I would do when I caught up with him. Grant had shown himself more than capable of handling a guy like me, but I had to try.

As he neared the Old Post Office I surged forward, nearly running as I approached the door. He disappeared inside about thirty feet ahead of me, the doors closing behind him. I reached the steps and scampered up, passing through the first door and reaching for the second. I pulled it open just as Bill tried to lock it from the inside.

"What the hell?" he exclaimed as I thrust past him.

"Hey Bill, sorry I'm late," I muttered. I felt immediate relief at seeing him.

He swore. "What are you doing here, Joe?"

I stared around the atrium, looking for any sign of my quarry. "You seen Otis?"

"You can't be in here."

"What do you mean? I work this shift."

"You quit."

"What?"

"Yeah, that's what Otis said. He was all over apologizing to Joan about it, and she called me in to cover your shift."

"I didn't quit, Joe."

"Otis said—"

"Otis lied!" I faced him directly, praying he'd understand and help me. "His name isn't even Jim Otis. It's Grant Conner. He wants to assassinate the President, and he plans to do it from the tower. That's where he is, isn't it?"

He stared at me, his mouth opening and closing like it had stopped working correctly. Finally, he sputtered, "What the hell are you talking about? Have you lost your mind, 'cause that's got to be the worst bull crap I ever heard."

"It's true."

He stuck a finger in my face. "Now you listen here. Jim Otis is a fine gentleman who served his country honorably and continues to do so in this company, and I won't stand for some pip squeak like you disparaging his good name."

Pip squeak? Was he serious? I tore away from him, heading for the elevator. "James Otis was one of the Sons of Liberty in the American Revolution," I called back to him. "It's his alias. He chose it deliberately."

He followed me over. "Just hold on a second."

"We don't have time for this!"

"I said stop!"

I stopped. I needed Bill's help with Grant. "Come on," I breathed. "You've got to believe me. Please."

He studied me carefully, chewing his lower lip. Finally, he put his hands on his hips like he didn't quite know what to do with them and said, "Maybe we should talk to Otis and sort this thing out."

"Yeah," I nodded. "That's fine."

"I ain't saying I believe you."

"You don't have to. Not yet at least. Let's just get up there and stop him."

"Well, we'll see."

He closed the elevator door and pressed the button. I watched the floor drop rapidly away. Looking up, I saw the roof of the building rushing toward us as the elevator was swallowed by the darkened shaft. In less than a minute, we reached the top. Grumbling, Bill opened the door. A second later, he cried out, falling to the ground and shaking uncontrollably.

A strong hand grabbed my shoulder and hurled me into the room. I hit the railing and pitched over, crumpling painfully to the floor below.

"Hello Peter," said Grant.

I scrambled to my feet, stumbling away from him as he wedged the elevator door open. He turned around and in two strides vaulted over the railing to land hard on his feet in front of me.

"Martin said you'd show up." He took a step toward me. I backed away, glancing at Bill's body, praying he was okay.

"Where is he?"

He shook his head. "I'll never tell. I didn't think you'd show up, personally. A man with your limited talents making it all the way here? I am impressed. What do you want to do now?"

"I want to s-stop you."

He smirked. "Why do you want to do that?"

"So my brother doesn't wind up rotting in a jail cell or dead."

"You love your brother, don't you?" He laughed. It grated on me, like he thought it quaint.

"Not that you'd understand," I retorted.

"Maybe not, but you say it's true. I'll take it as that." He glanced at his watch then grinned when he saw me studying him. "Don't worry. We still got time. You love your brother. Do you love who he is?"

"What does that mean?"

"Means your brother is on a rooftop somewhere ready to shoot the President. That's who he is."

"That's not who he is!"

"Oh, I beg to differ. And so will the rest of the country when he squeezes that trigger in about twenty minutes. Will you stop backing away from me? I ain't gonna hurt you."

"How am I supposed to believe that after what you pulled?"

He shook his head, grinning. "That was just a stun gun and a sedative. If I'd have wanted to hurt you, you wouldn't be standing here right now."

I swallowed. He had a point. "All right." I stopped moving. That's when I noticed the M107 sitting on its bipod not two feet from me. I could've grabbed it and pointed it at him, but I doubted I could move fast enough.

"See?" he said. "Not so bad is it?"

"What do you want, Grant?"

"What do I want? Well, to put it simply, you."

"Me?"

"Yep. See, here's the thing. Martin's got all the right ideas, but he can't deliver on them. He can't make this shot, and he knows it. We all know it. You, of course, are a different story."

"You need me." I laughed.

He smiled gregariously. "Yeah. We do. We've been trying to find a way to get you on board with this for weeks now. You got natural talent. And you're sharp as a tack. Maybe smarter than the rest of us put together."

"Smart enough to know you're just trying to soften me up?"

"Sure. But it ain't like it's a lie, Peter. Problem is, you're a Cherry. You ain't never shed blood, and you ain't never killed a man. You probably never even had to put down an animal. So you just can't wrap your head around taking another life. You get that thinker of yours going, and you just don't stop. And that's the main problem. You think too much, and you don't obey orders."

"This is a problem?"

"I know you don't see it that way, but it is. This operation needs to happen. That country you love, the one you write about so eloquently in your blog? She's in trouble, Peter. She's been overrun with Marxists who feed on her like parasites."

"Now you appeal to my patriotism," I spat.

"Damn straight. 'Cause otherwise it's just words, and they don't mean nothing if they ain't backed up by action."

"What about persuasion? What about convincing people to do the right thing?"

"Oh we're long past that. People don't know the right thing to do anymore. Some don't think there's a right and wrong at all. 'The god of this age has blinded the minds of the unbelieving.'"

"The Apostle Paul. Second Corinthians chapter four."

He grinned. "Nice. Then you understand we got to peel away the veil. Let them see the truth in all its bright glory. Make the cockroaches scatter. McCarthy had it right, all those years ago. But no one believed him. The Marxists from the Frankfurt School. They fled the Nazis and came here. Bastards like Theodor Adorno and Herbert Marcuse. We wanted to be fair, and so we allowed those cheaters a seat at the poker table. You know what happens when you play fair with a cheater?"

"You lose."

"That's right. At what point do you stop playing, pull out your six-shooter and blow the bastard away?"

"This isn't the Old West."

"No. In the Old West, Wyatt Earp would've just shot the bastards a long time ago. Point is, unless we stop them now, there won't be a country left to save."

"You know what? I've heard all this already. All I want to do is save my brother. Now where is he?"

He heaved a heavy sigh through his nose then nodded toward the gun. "Take a look for yourself."

I stepped around to the M107 and lifted it to my shoulder. Peering through the telephotic scope, I said, "Where?"

"Look toward the Capitol then just to the right."

I peered through the scope, following the line of rooftops until I came to the East building of the National Gallery of Art. There, barely hidden on the roofline, lay my brother and Jerry. I could see the second M107 right beside them, waiting to be hoisted over the edge.

### Forty-Seven

I swore. "They're too close."

"It's the only shot they can make. Less than half a mile out."

"I got to get him out of there."

"You want to talk to him?"

I pulled away, looking up at Grant. He held out the Blue Tooth headset to me. I grabbed it and put it in my ear. "Call Martin," I said to the phone.

"Already here, Peter. Nice to talk to you."

"Marty?"

"We've had the phones on conference call the whole time. Little hard to hear you, though. How's the view up there?"

I put my eye back to the scope, looking toward Martin. He waved at me. "Not good," I said. He dropped his hand. "You gotta get out of there, Martin."

"Not gonna happen, bro. I'm doing this."

"Hate to break this up," came Jerry's voice, "but our target's moving into position. Hey, Petey."

"Jerry? You guys need to get out of there."

"Naw," said Jerry. "I already said I'm in. Guess I gotta see it through. 'It's a far better thing I do than I've ever done.'"

"Dickens. Tale of Two Cities."

"Shoot. Can't believe I remembered that."

"The rest of the quote is: 'Tis a far better place I go than I've ever been.' You need to think about that, 'cause where you guys are headed is not a far better place. Not remotely."

"I'll risk it. It's all on the line and the roulette wheel is spinning, bro."

"Jerry, Martin, come on!"

"Hanging up now, Petey. Our shot's coming up and we gotta concentrate. We ain't all expert marksmen like you."

"Marty!"

"Good bye, Peter."

Dial tone.

I stared through the scope. Adjusting it just to the left, I could see the new President-elect raising his right hand, his left on the Bible, taking the oath of office. I scanned back to Martin and Jerry.

Beside me, Grant swore. Martin and Jerry's heads turned suddenly. Jerry pulled out a gun, but his body jerked abruptly, his right hand flying backward as he slumped against the wall.

"No!" I screamed.

Grant swore again. Martin put his hands over his head, waiting as a swarm of black-clad officers swept toward them, throwing them face down, arresting them. My finger tensed on the trigger.

"Don't do it, Cherry!" warned Grant. "There's too many of them. You'll never get them all."

A sob escaped my lips.

"You want to save your brother there's only one way."

I closed my eyes, not wanting to see.

"See him? He's right there, stepping up to the podium. As long as he lives your brother is a dead man. They'll strap him to a chair, stick a needle in his arm, and press the plunger."

"No."

"You can stop them, Peter. You take the shot, they'll need him for evidence. Take the shot and disappear. They'll keep him alive."

I opened my eyes, looking through the scope again. The rifle had shifted. I was now looking directly at the President.

"Don't just talk. Take action. Save him."

Could they have been right all along? I remembered Martin sitting in our kitchen, telling me how we could take down the government by forcing their hand, rally the people against them. A horrific, beautiful thing.

The President was speaking, extolling his vision of hope for the country.

"Save him, Peter. Save us all. Now."

I felt the gun secure in my grip, so perfect, like it was made to be there.

"Now."

I squeezed the trigger.

The End.

###

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If you want more of the Jefferson's Road Saga, the story continues in:

Patriots and Tyrants

"They're shutting down the city," Grant murmured.

I stopped. "What about Martin? And Jerry?"

"Everyone knew the risks going in," he said. "Especially Jerry and Martin. They were the tip of the spear. They ran defense for you so you could carry the ball. It was a sacrifice they were prepared to make."

"You set them up!"

He stopped and glared at me. "Like hell I did. I'm not the one who called the police, am I? This whole operation could've gone down smooth as silk had you not muddied the waters, and if it was up to me, I'd have thrown you to the wolves a long time ago. But it wasn't my decision." He stabbed his finger into my chest. "Martin called the shots. He believed in you, which is more than you deserve. And from the look of how things turned out, he was mostly right. You've got a hell of an aim, Peter. Ain't maybe ten guys in the world could've made the shot you did. And that may be the only thing that's kept you alive. That, and the fact that your brother..." He shook his head. "You betrayed him. You still came through, but you betrayed him. That's all on you. The only question for you now is, what are you gonna do about it?"

I stared at him, too stunned to say anything. He clapped my shoulder. "See you around," he said, and walked off. Despite the throng of people surrounding me, I was utterly alone.

###

Other Works by Michael J. Scott

If you want more by Michael J. Scott, check out these other novels and series, available in print and online at Amazon.com

Jefferson's Road:

(These are political thrillers about the downfall of  
America and the beginnings of a second Civil War.)

The Spirit of Resistance

Patriots and Tyrants

The Tree of Liberty

God And Country

A More Perfect Union – coming soon

We the People – coming soon

Janelle Becker Books:

(These are psychothrillers about a Special Agent with the FBI's  
Behavioral Analysis Unit who specializes in religious-based crimes.)

The Coppersmith

Topheth

Puzzle – coming soon

Jonathan Munro Adventures:

(This is a Christian Action Adventure series with  
a focus on archaeology and ancient languages.)

The Lost Scrolls

The Elixir of Life

The Music of the Spheres – coming soon

New World Order:

(A Young Adult Dystopian series about escaping  
an oppressive bureaucratic system of death.)

Turning

Anarchy – coming soon

The Dragon's Eye Cycle:

(A "Sword and Sorcery" fantasy series about an ex-Sheriff who relies  
on forensics to investigate murders rather than relying on magick.)

Eye of Darkness

The Blood-Eaters' Coven – coming soon

Spilled Milk

(An anti-hero thriller about father-turned- domestic  
terrorist who battles government corruption. Badly.)

Spilled Milk

A Glass Half-Empty

A Glass Half-Full – coming soon

Descent

(A tale about alien abductions and government cover-up.)

Nicholas

(An origin story of Saint Nicholas, combining history with legend.)

The Wizard of the Sky Pirates – coming soon

(A teen story about—yup, you guessed it—wizards and sky pirates.)

The Issachar Initiative

(A series about a secretive agency that assists the government  
in addressing world events that have apocalyptic overtones.)

Rock of Ages – coming soon

Connect with Michael J. Scott online at:

Facebook

Twitter: @AuthorMichaelJS

MichaelJScottBooks.com

### Author's Note:

Announcing that you've written a book about assassinating the President is about like telling people you're a card-carrying member of the tinfoil-hat brigade. People look at you, raise an eyebrow, and politely enquire about black helicopters hovering over your house and dark Crown Victorias parked on your street. Personally, I think the Secret Service and other federal agencies have a lot better things to do with their time than fret about the motivations behind a work of fiction, but since the eyebrows do rise and the questions get asked more often than not, allow me to take this moment and set such concerns to rest.

Firstly, I do not want to kill the President. Neither do I want anyone else to do it, either. I am a patriot. I love my country, and I believe our problems should be resolved by the ballot box rather than the barrel of a gun, no matter who is elected.

Nevertheless, it is the job of a fiction writer to ask, "What if?" Given the dramatic tensions that exist in these United States today, I cannot help but wonder what would happen if someone did assassinate the President.

"Only a horizon ringed about with myths," wrote Nietzsche, "can unify a culture." The myths that once surrounded us have been worn away by time and natural pressure, as well as by a willful forgetting and a deliberate obfuscation of what makes America, America. We are divided along more fracture points today than at any time previous in our history, including the Civil War.

I don't think it would take much to push us over the edge into armed conflict. Therefore, Jefferson's Road is written as a warning about what may well happen if we don't find a way to resolve our differences peacefully. In that spirit, I offer it to you.

\- Michael J. Scott

### Acknowledgements:

Many authors have mentioned elsewhere how a novel is truly a collaborative effort, and this work is no exception.

Numerous individuals with tremendous gifts of their own and what is probably a misguided faith in me as a writer have made significant contributions to this book, and they deserve mention.

Firstly, I want to thank my fellow writers at the Wednesday Night class at Webster Public Library for their encouragement, patience, skill, and eagerness to hear what happens next. Notably, of course, is our fearless leader – Paul. But no less significant are the group members who were so encouraging to this Johnnie-come-lately who wandered into their meeting so many months ago: Bonnie, Art, Peter (thanks for the rides!), Joe, Roz, Willow, and Blanca, as well as all the others who've meandered in and out during my sojourn among you. I also want to acknowledge my good friend Linda Yezak, who edited the manuscript from afar, as well as the entire crew at ChristianWriters.com for their continual support and encouragement.

Police officer Dan Petit deserves special mention for his patience at all my odd questions about snipers, assault rifles, bullet-proof glass, interrogation techniques and how a DUI checkpoint is conducted.

I think it worth mentioning all the various talk-radio hosts and news commentators who've unwittingly contributed as well—including, of course, the great Rush Limbaugh, Glenn Beck, Laura Ingraham, Fred Thompson (who should've won the nomination, IMHO), Michael Savage, Sean Hannity, Matt Drudge, Ann Coulter, Molotov Mitchell, Joseph Farrah, and David Kupelian—as well as all the writers at the Drudge Report and World Net Daily for keeping me informed—and for standing to a man (and woman) against the idea of using violence to achieve political ends.

Thanks also to the Tea-Partiers for rising up against the statist tide. The Tea Party phenomena nearly threw a major wrench into my plotline, but I'd rather have Americans in the real world defending the Constitution the right way than see such frustration build to the point where someone, much like Martin, takes matters into his or her own hands.

My wife and children deserve special praise. It hasn't been easy living with Dad when he's wanting to write (I get grumpy), and they've been very patient.

Finally, I want to mention my friend Glen for all those nights chatting about religion, politics and other inappropriate topics for polite conversation around your kitchen table so many years ago. Thank you for your service to our country. I'm dedicating this book to you, my friend. I haven't forgotten. I hope the nightmares have ceased.

\- Michael J. Scott, 2010

### About the Author

Michael J. Scott is passionate about the Bible, the Declaration of Independence, and the United States Constitution. He is a lover of freedom and the rights of men, and is more interested in being truthful with a bias toward action than in being nice, but that does not mean he is unkind.

He writes fiction that doesn't shy away from hard questions or dicey situations. He treats his characters like real people with real flaws who sometimes do wrong and stupid things—especially when they're trying to do the right thing.

His interests range from the erosion of the American family, socio-political unrest in the U.S. that threatens to break into civil war, UFO's, adventures in Biblical and Christian archaeology, dystopias, sword and sorcery fantasy, to getting inside the mind of a serial killer.

