“My client is an authority on Classic Roman law.”
The sergeant lit the last cigarette in the pack. “But soldiers were different,” he stated, searching the pale man’s face. “The suicide of a soldier was considered desertion. I am a soldier.”
Point. Counter point.
“You are much more than a soldier. Besides, I assume you’re familiar with the notion of patriotic suicide.”
“As an alternative to dishonor, yes. Am I a dishonor to our organization?”
No, but you have knowledge of the operation. You’re a possible risk. “Sergeant, let’s look at the positive. Your heroic act will provide our leader with peace of mind. He will move ahead with this mission knowing that you did your part and did it well. You are a patriot.”
He could see the doubt in the sergeant’s eyes. The hesitation.
The phone in his pocket vibrated. The pale man recognized the number, answered the call without saying a word and handed the phone to the sergeant. “Yes, sir,” said the sergeant, closing his eyes. He listened for over a minute, then nodded. “Thank you very much, sir. It’s been an honor for me as well. I wish you every success.” He gave back the phone.
The pale man extended his Glock 23, but the 40 caliber hand piece didn’t even register in the sergeant’s dull eyes. Instead, he took a deep breath, and unsheathed the large knife bound to his right calf. He unbuckled and unzipped his pants, letting them drop to the floor. Next he removed his underwear. The pale man looked away, wondering if that was totally necessary. His eyes finally settled on the man’s muscular legs and stubby penis. He winced when he saw that the sergeant was actually a eunuch. He wasn’t expecting that. It was like the militiaman was a part of the Skoptsy sect or even Heaven’s Gate. He’d heard rumors about the militia’s cult-like qualities, but he was never sure what that meant. Now he knew. Some fanatics submitted to castration in order to cleanse themselves of evil and carnal thoughts that would keep them from achieving enlightenment. Some became beholden to the notion that to achieve purity, the physical cause of their mental anguish must be eliminated.
“I am a soldier but I am also a stoic,” said the sergeant, easing down on the chair behind him. He spread his legs. “To the ancient stoics death, even suicide, was considered a guarantee of personal freedom.” He examined the knife’s blade. “I will, therefore, abide—”
“It might be easier in a hot bath.” My god, he’s really going to do it. “The heat stimulates circulation. Quickens the—”
Without warning, the sergeant quickly and violently sliced deep into the inside of his upper right thigh. At first, the man stared dumbly at his leg. Then, red and frothy blood rhythmically pulsed over his calves and boots in a gaudy shower. He shuttered and grunted. The pale man stumbled backwards.
A growing puddle spread rapidly toward the pale man. By the time he reached the door to the field trailer, the sergeant had dropped the knife and was now muttering something to himself—something about a final cleansing. The pale man staggered back outside. As the door to the trailer shut behind him, he heard one, final grunt and moan coming from inside. And the expected thud moments later.
Then nothing else.
Outside, the desert winds had picked up. A definite chill was in the air. And the machine guns—they had stopped all together. The pale man staggered out into the sand. He lurched forward, dry-heaving twice. After a couple of minutes he was able to pull himself together, and climb back into the Navigator.
Chapter 11 Badger Valley 7:43 PM Pacific Standard Time
The pale man sped south on US 93 as the last vestiges of sunlight reflected a deep orange hue on the majestic Sheep Range to his left. He hadn’t passed another car for the last ten miles. Traffic was so exceptionally sparse, he wondered if he was still on an inhabited planet. He rubbed his chin and frowned. The sight of the blood, endless blood, clung to him. Like a dampness.
His cellular rang.
He felt the small microphone taped to his chest. “Good evening, sir. The timing of your call was nothing short of perfect. I assume you heard everything.”
“I did,” answered the even, refined voice.
“I’m on Ninety-Three, approximately one hour northeast of Vegas,” he said, realizing he was also being tracked by GPS. His client left very little to chance.
The calm, even voice responded, “I see you.” There was a pause. “He choose the femoral artery, did he?”
“Yes.”
“And you want to know why. You wonder about his fanatical devotion. You see, like me, he’s a romantic.” There was a short pause. “Now, then. Time grows short. We have a narrow window,” said the calm voice. “I need you back as quickly as possible.”
The pale man studied the rise and fall in the road ahead, then consulted his Rolex. “I should be in Orlando in six, seven hours, depending on delays.”
“That will be fine.”
The pale man exhaled and re-gripped the wheel. “There’s something that’s bothering me. Is there a chance Caitlin Prescott will recognize the suspicious email headers?”
“She already has.”
Really. “But the sergeant assured me—”
“Let’s just leave it at that for the time being.”
This certainly wasn’t the usual M.O. He shook his head. Nothing made sense anymore. He had one more question.
“When would you like the package delivered?”
The package. That sounded contrived. It wasn’t really a package, was it?
“I will see you in six hours.”
The call ended.
The pale man drove in deep thought for the next ten minutes. Eventually he lowered the window, and tossed out the cellular. He accelerated the Navigator, focusing on the pulsing glow of Las Vegas, in the night sky, several miles to the southwest.
Monday
Chapter 12 White House Second Floor 5:57 AM
The following morning, Lisa Wong was waiting for Caitlin at the entrance to the upper school. She did not look pleased. “Have you told the Secret Service yet?” asked the young teacher, tapping Caitlin’s shoulder. Wong waited for her to answer. “Well?” Again, Wong tapped her on the shoulder. “What’s the matter? Can’t speak?”
Knock it off, Lisa.
Caitlin. CAITLIN.
The first daughter awoke with a start, blinking into the dull light of the Center Hall. She was slumped in the gold wing chair, and shivered as she sat up. She had a pretty good crick in her neck, and her legs tingled from being crossed for so long.
“Caitlin,” said that annoying voice she knew too well.
“What?” she groaned, squinting up at her mother.
“Don’t what me. You slept here all night, didn’t you?”
She rose and surveyed the damage. The iPad was resting on the coffee table next to the chair, and papers were scattered in literally every direction. Her mother bent down, grabbed one of the piles and began shuffling through it.
“Militias,”