“But why the hell can’t we just send them off to prison in Rawlins?” Montoya asked. “I don’t like making a spectacle of this.”

  Lauren barely glanced at him, instead focusing on the accused, but she said, “See that fellow, Newman? He and his friends killed the men, raped the women for a couple of days before he burned them to death. You really think we ought to give him a nice bed and feed him three squares a day in prison while we’ve got kids on the street starving to death?”

  Montoya quietly replied, “Ooraw.”

  Lauren’s lips pressed into a tight white line. She scanned the prisoners on the platform. “Who are the others up there?”

  “All murderers,” Montoya replied. “They’re just as bad as Newman. I know it’s good riddance, but I still hate the way this is coming down.”

  “Take it up with God,” Lauren said. “The governor’s right. We’ve got to send a message. Act like a savage? You’ll get what’s coming to you.”

  Montoya looked defeated.

  “By the way.” Tolland lowered his voice. “Most of the legislature is back in town. After the missiles went up, I guess folks scoured the mountains to find every elected official.”

  Lauren rubbed her forehead, thinking about Breeze’s grandfather, Senator Bill Tappan. He had to be in his seventies now. Last time she’d seen him he was still hard as nails, but the roads through Wyoming were a nightmare. She prayed he’d made it past the raiders. “Hope the rest get here without problems.”

  “They should. Agar sent armed escorts to every part of the state to protect the last of the representatives on the trip to Cheyenne.”

  To everyone’s surprise, the door of a police cruiser opened and Governor Peter Agar himself stepped out. Seeing him for the first time up close and in person, he was a smaller man than Lauren anticipated. Maybe five-feet-six-inches tall. He wore a dark gray suit with a blue tie. As the governor walked solemnly over to the knot of officers surrounding the prisoners, his short black hair blew in the wind.

  Vincent Pachula, the duly elected sheriff of Laramie County, met the governor and extended a sheet of paper to the him. Off to the side, the Cheyenne police chief looked nervous, his face like a pale mask.

  Agar read the paper, nodded, and folded it. Placing it in his pocket, he raised his voice to the crowd. “We all saw the missiles go up, and know our military is fighting back, but none of us really knows what’s happening out there in the rest of the country. And that includes me.”

  The governor paused to take a breath, and the crowd went still and silent.

  Agar continued, “But one thing I do know: The United States is currently governed by the articles of martial law. By order of the President of the United States, the Constitution has been suspended. Our civilization, all that we are as human beings and Americans, hangs by a thread. We cannot allow the current state of affairs to justify a descent into barbarity, cruelty and the lawlessness. It has to stop.”

  “Just get on with it, Governor!” a man yelled. “They got it coming!”

  Agar paused, gaze taking in individuals in the crowd.

  “I know you have all suffered. I know you and your families are hungry. That you are at the limits of despair. But you didn’t descend to brutality, murder, rape, and torture.” He extended one hand to the manacled people in the chairs. “These people committed unforgiveable acts of brutality.”

  A woman cried, “Do it!”

  Governor Agar raised his hands as if pleading with the crowd. “Listen, people, the collapse has knocked us flat. Laid us out. Every man, woman, and child of us. But from this moment forward, we’re starting the hard climb to get back on our feet.”

  Another shouted, “There’s got to be law!”

  Agar paused to listen to more shouts from the crowd. “Wyoming is literally rising from the dirt. I give you my solemn oath I will do everything in my power to protect the people in this state, but it’s not going to be easy.”

  “We’re starving! Where’s the food?” a man cried out.

  “Hear me! There isn’t enough to go around. Not yet. I can’t wave a magic wand and make food appear! I have to allocate resources where they will do the most good, and many of you are going to think it’s unfair. It is unfair! I could loot the farms and ranches to feed a few people today. But if I did, we’d all die come winter. I have to make hard choices. I hope you will try to understand why. Starting now.”

  Agar turned, looking back at the prisoners. Then he addressed the crowd again. “The men and woman behind me were apprehended in the acts of murder and gang rape. Beyond the requirements established for martial law, they have been represented by counsel, allowed to offer a defense, and have been found guilty beyond any shadow of a doubt.”

  Agar paused again, took a breath. “Folks, everywhere I go people shout at me to do something.”

  “Then stop prattling on about it, Governor!” a man yelled at the top of his lungs. “Give the order so we can all go home!”

  He stared out at the crowd. “You know the old saying, ‘The Buck Stops Here?’ I’m not shunting this responsibility off onto anyone else. I alone will carry out this first act of justice.”

  He took a deep breath, faced Sheriff Pachula, and said, “Please read out the sentence.”

  Lauren listened as the names, crimes, and death sentences were read out for each of the prisoners. But she could see no gallows, no wall for a firing squad. Just the prisoners, sitting in the chairs. They themselves looked slightly perplexed.

  “The sentences will now be carried out,” Pachula announced.

  To Lauren’s surprise, it was Agar himself who walked forward. Stepping around behind the prisoners, he pulled a small black pistol from his pocket. Stooping slightly, he placed the muzzle at the base of the woman’s skull, and fired.

  She jerked in the chair, flopped, and went limp. Blood began to stream from her nose and mouth, and Lauren could see her eyes had bugged out of her head.

  The man sitting beside her screamed, “Goddamn you, you son of a bitch!” and tried to flip his head back and forth, but Agar caught the right angle and discharged his pistol with lethal effect.

  “What’s he shooting?” Lauren asked.

  “That’s a Kimber.380 Auto,” Valencia Simmons said, voice devoid of all emotion. “I heard the governor practiced with a corpse to get the right angle to sever the spinal cord. A .380 has just enough energy to scramble the brain as the hollow point expands, but not enough to exit the other side of the skull.”

  The governor walked down the line, dispensing justice. When the last shot was fired, the crowd heaved a simultaneous sigh of relief that rang through the afternoon.

  Lauren prayed the ghosts of the women who’d died in fire at Johnson Ranch could see through her eyes. It was for them that she watched until the very end, until Josh Newman stopped twitching.

  Then she slowly let out the breath she’d been holding.

  She should feel something. Horror. Disgust. Four bodies slumped in chairs.

  But she just felt really tired.

  Deputy Montoya hung his head and shook it. “God Almighty.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Lauren nerved herself, slung her boogie bag over her shoulder, and walked through the Hilton lobby. No one gave her more than a glance as she crossed the polished-granite floor. As if young women in motorcycle gear—and armed with automatic weapons—were a common enough occurrence as they strolled through. Music—old Seventies hits—was playing softly through the speakers.

  Lauren passed through the double glass doors that opened to the bar. Most of the tables were occupied by people in suits or up-scale dress. The backbar, like that at The Plains, was filled with bottles that sported hand-written labels as the originals had been emptied. Local “bathtub” whiskeys, vodkas, and other spirits were the norm these days.

  In the far corner, out of most people’s sight, stood a somewhat shadowed booth. An olive-green duffle, big, could just be seen in the seat.

  Lauren’s heart began to pound. She stopped short, mouth gone dry. Figured that if she could stand seeing people being shot in the back of the head—not to mention her own nightmares—she could deal with this, too.

  Stepping up to the booth, she forced a smile.

  Breeze Tappan—a half-empty glass of stout on the table before her—was curled in the booth, her back to the wall. She looked up, fixing Lauren with those unique tan eyes ringed in brown. The pinched look to Breeze’s lips slowly relaxed into a wry smile. “What’s gone wrong now?”

  “Does the end of civilization ring any bells?”

  Breeze exhaled wearily, relief softening her features. “Sorry. Thought you were here to collect me for another run. I’m still working through...” The smile went bitter. “Never mind.”

  “Got a minute?”

  “Sure. Move the boogie bag. Take a seat.”

  Lauren did, propping Breeze’s bag on the floor next to Lauren’s and sliding into the seat.

  Breeze indicated the bags, saying, “Hope you don’t mind, but I’ve been putting together one of my own. Thought it was a pretty good idea. And two nights ago, what’s in that bag saved my life.”

  “Yeah, mine’s saved my ass a couple of times, too.” Lauren looked up when the server stepped up to the table. The woman might have been in her early thirties, her hair up. The Hilton still dressed their staff in uniforms.

  “Get you anything?”

  “Whatever Breeze is drinking.”

  “My tab, Jenn,” Breeze told the woman as she walked away.

  “Hard day, huh?” Lauren asked into the lengthening silence. Breeze had that look—the tortured one so common to people on The Line.

  “New trick,” Breeze almost bit off the words. “On I-80 coming back from Delta sector. A way to highjack vehicles. They waited until I got close enough to see it was women and kids. Then they laid down. Head to toe, stretching across the highway. So, like, either I stopped, or I’d run over them, right?”

  “Death wish?”

  Breeze snorted derisively. “Trap. Premised on the hope that no one would run over women and kids. So, I clamp on the brakes, pull the bike to a stop. And that’s when the four guys leap up from where they’re hidden by the side of the road. Figure they’re going to take me down.”

  Breeze rubbed her forehead as if to soothe a headache. Gave Lauren a knowing look. “Me or them, you know? They didn’t back off when I whipped the carbine around. Didn’t stop when I ordered them to.”

  Lauren asked, “Armed?”

  “One had an old revolver. Said he’d shoot if I didn’t get off the bike.” A pause, Breeze’s eyes going distant. “Thought he was going to bluff me. That I wouldn’t shoot.”

  “Nothing you could have done,” Lauren insisted.

  Breeze frowned into the distance in her mind. “I see them, you know. Sometimes I want to beat my head against a wall. See if I can hammer all the people I’ve killed out of my memory.”

  “Doesn’t work.” Lauren leaned back as Jenn arrived to set a glass of stout in front of Lauren and a second full one beside Breeze’s half-empty glass.

  As she walked away, Lauren said, “Can’t beat it out. Whiskey helps...for a while. Until you sober up.”

  A flicker of emotion crossed Breeze’s face. “Whiskey always gets me into more trouble than it’s worth.” She rubbed her face. “Why are you here?”

  “Because you’re the Breeze Tappan who walked on water. You’re the one who grew up shooting deer and elk, branding calves, living with life and death. You were the one who was always competent, tough, and tried. Like nothing in life could ever get to you.” Lauren chuckled. “I was just the cream puff, the clumsy military brat. I was never good at anything.”

  “Oh, bullshit. You could always outride me on a motorcycle.” Breeze’s brow knit. “Well, maybe you were a little clumsy. And there was the time out at the ranch when you bawled for days after we shot that calf with the broken leg.”

  “So why don’t I feel anything anymore?” Lauren gave Breeze a hostile look. “Where is that old me? And how do you hang on? I keep feeling like I’m going to fall into a thousand pieces.”

  Breeze pinched the bridge of her nose. “Yeah, well, Sister, if that’s the case, I’ve got nothing to give you. Not one damned thing, ’cause I’m hanging on by the fingernails myself.”

  For long agonizing minutes, they sat there, staring vacantly at their drinks. The conversations in the background rose and fell. Occasional laughter—too loud and grating—sent tendrils of irritation winding through Lauren’s gut.

  In the end, Breeze, in a sotto voce, said, “Lauren, gotta tell you. I’ve been jealous.”

  “Huh?” Lauren craned her head around to stare.

  Breeze gave a faint shake of the head. “You’re Lauren Davis, the hero of Buffalo Camp. People on The Line idolize you. I keep wondering how you can be so strong, so together, when I’m always scared and shaken. I’ve been telling myself, ‘If Lauren can do this, so can I,’ and, ‘If Lauren was here, she’d just suck it up and deal.’ I ask myself, ‘Why can’t I be more like Lauren.’ Things like that.”

  “Wow, Breeze. Is that fucked up, or what? Half the time out on The Line, I want to throw up.”

  Breeze shot her a sidelong glance. “So, not only do I not walk on water, I’m drowning in the bottom of the pond.” A pause. “If it wasn’t for you, I’d have given up long ago.”

  “You better find another role model.”

  Lauren took a swig of the stout, let it roll over her tongue, and sighed. There were only two local breweries still making stout. The good news was that both were outstanding, even if the IBUs were dropping as the hops ran out.

  “You, too.” A pause as Breeze sipped her beer. Hesitated, then added softly, “And, maybe...well, I’ve been avoiding you. Maybe I couldn’t stand the thought that you’d find out how scared I really am.”

  “And that day down at the I-25 checkpoint?”

  “Lauren, I was terrified. Just buying time. Figured I was going to die at any second.”

  “Me too, at Buffalo Camp.” Lauren vented a weary sigh. “I was just doing whatever came next. But Breeze, the only way I can keep going? I’m no hero. It’s because there’s nothing else left. I don’t have a ranch waiting for me. No family. Tyrell? Do you really think a Delta Force lieutenant has a chance of coming out of this alive?”

  Breeze took another swig of beer. “He’d have the skills to survive, that’s for sure.”

  “The mission won’t let him.” Lauren smiled bravely. “That’s what’s going to kill him in the end, Breeze. That’s what got him from the 75th Ranger Regiment to the Delta Force Combat Applications Group and an assignment to The Unit. What they call Task Force Green.” She paused. “He’ll stick to the mission until his last breath. Compared to that, how could I do any different?”

  Breeze studied Lauren thoughtfully.

  To break the awkward silence, Lauren said, “Saw Mike. He’s not doing well. Thought you should know.”

  “Thanks,” Breeze acknowledged. “Drop by tomorrow. It’s just…” She frowned, lines etching her brow. “Tough couple of days. Wasn’t into company.” She glanced up. “Heard that Agar shot that guy who got away from you out on Goose Creek Road.”

  “Yeah, I went to the execution.” Lauren rolled the beer glass on its bottom, watching the black liquid leave foam on the sides.

  “And then I drove back through Frontier Park.”

  “What happened there?”

  “Nothing. Stopped and talked to some of the people out there. Just ordinary Americans. Families. Normal moms, dads, and kids. Individuals who were traveling on business, or who were moving, or headed cross-country on family business. Groups of friends who’d been on the road for the three-day weekend. They came from all over the country, most traveling on I-80 or I-25 when their credit cards were stopped cold that Friday.”

  “Yeah? Ordinary people?” Breeze chugged down the last of the stout and set the empty at the edge of the table. “Like the ones we’re turning back on The Line. Somehow, I don’t think anyone’s ordinary any more, Lauren.”

  “That’s what’s bothering me. In the Frontier Park camp, I was talking to average Americans. Think about a cross section of your friends and neighbors. The people you work with. The ones you see at the store. Now drop them in a tent camp with nowhere to go.”

  “You ask me”—Breeze pulled the full glass her way—“they’re the lucky ones. The citizenry of Cheyenne did their best for the folks who’d been stranded. To start with, the camp was supplied by donations. All those tents and travel trailers? The food drives? Until belts started to tighten, and even now, people are doing what they can to help. Beats being south of The Line.”

  “But the reality is that there’s just not enough to go around. Lot of those people are hungry. There was a reason Agar executed those rapists and murderers out at Frontier Park. He was sending a message. And a pretty damn dark one, if you ask me.”

  Breeze’s gaze had gone distant. “It’s a society, like all others. Some of them have started business ventures. You heard about the three guys who are salvaging abandoned cars and trucks off the highway? They’re parking them outside of town, stripping them for parts, tires, and the like. Another bunch are setting up kitchens; a couple of nurses opened a tent clinic; and they’re putting together work teams who’ll do odd jobs for food.”

  “See, that’s just the thing.” Lauren fingered her beer glass. “One of the guys I talked to, Bruce Saddler, was an internet marketing consultant from Ohio. His wife designs websites. They’ve got three kids and no clue about what comes next. No skills. Like head-struck chickens, they just keep blinking, waiting for it all to be over so they could go back to Chillicothe, back to their house and normal lives.”

  “News flash: There’s no Chillicothe to go back to.”

  “That’s just it,” Lauren emphasized her point with an index finger. “How are they going to feed themselves? Or, as you found out today, are they going to be throwing those kids in front of traffic to get a handout?”