“Thanks,” Hale replied neutrally, “but I think I'm in the right place. Assuming this is the Freedom First training camp that is. I'm here to volunteer.”

  The sentry frowned. “You got stink eyes … Anyone tell you that?”

  “Lots of people,” Hale replied nonchalantly. “Yellow eyes run in the family. My father had ′em, and his father before him.”

  The man looked doubtful, but nodded anyway, and he pointed to a parking lot where about two dozen vehicles were parked. Some were covered with snow, and clearly hadn't been driven for a while, while others were bare.

  “Put the truck over there, bud,” the sentry said brusquely. “If you're carrying weapons, lock them in the cab. Follow the signs to the admin building. Ask for Mr. Munger. He's in charge of recruiting, and just about everything else around here.”

  Hale thanked the man, waited for the second sentry to push down on the weighted pole-gate, and drove through. Then, having turned into the parking lot, he chose a spot between a late-model sedan and an old flatbed truck. Hale was carrying nothing more than a .45 semiautomatic pistol, which was consistent with his cover story and small enough to put in the glove box.

  He got out of the truck and crossed the lot, then followed a trail of hand-painted signs to what had once been a one-story log home, but now functioned as the “Administration Building.” Somewhere off in the distance the steady pop, pop, pop of gunfire could be heard, suggesting that some of the trainees were on the rifle range.

  At least he hoped that was what it was.

  Two more men were waiting for Hale inside the admin building. Both wore wool shirts, faded jeans, and sidearms. One was chewing on a wooden match. His eyes were nearly invisible inside a convergence of wrinkles. “Mornin',” he said conversationally. “Please turn to the left and put your weight on the wall. Lester here wants to feel you up.” It was an old joke, but still sufficient to elicit an appreciative guffaw from Lester, who ran a pair of rough hands over Hale without finding any weapons.

  Having passed that inspection, he was ordered to take a seat in what had once been a spacious living room. It was still homey, with a dark green rug, worn overstuffed furniture, and a crackling fire in the river-rock fireplace. The walls were covered with a variety of black-and-white photos. All of them were of the same man who could be seen fishing for trout, kneeling next to all manner of dead animals, and sitting atop a succession of fine-looking horses as he looked out over some vista or other. The ranch's owner then? Yes, Hale thought so, as he took a seat.

  Hale was scanning old copies of Field & Stream when a man dressed in a tweed coat, corduroy trousers, and highly polished brown cowboy boots came out to meet him. Hale recognized him as the man in the photos. “Hello,” the man said. “My name is Munger. Homer Munger. And you are?”

  “Nathan Leary,” Hale replied. “Glad to meet you.”

  Munger had a thin, somewhat ascetic countenance. “We'll see about that, Mr. Leary,” he said grimly. “Many hear the call—but few are chosen. Please follow me.”

  Hale followed Munger back into what had been the home's master bedroom but was now furnished as an office, complete with a large wooden desk, lots of bookshelves, and a military-style two-way radio that occupied most of a side table. An extremely detailed map of Montana covered most of one wall. Munger had circled the desk, and appeared ready to sit down, when he spoke. “Atten-hut!”

  After years in the Army, then SRPA, Hale very nearly snapped to. It took an act of will to frown and look confused, straighten up, and assume the sort of sloppy brace that a brand-new recruit might. Munger nodded approvingly and smiled.

  “Sorry about that, but the Grace administration doesn't approve of our activities, and they continue to send spies from time to time. Soldiers mostly, men who look the way you do, and almost always pop to attention.” With that, he took his place in the chair. “Have a seat, Mr. Leary, and tell me about yourself.”

  So Hale told Munger about losing his parents, growing up on a ranch in South Dakota, and drifting from job to job. All of which was true as far as it went. The only lie being his failure to mention his time in both the Army and SRPA.

  Munger listened intently, interrupting occasionally to ask questions, but allowing Hale to do most of the talking. Finally, as the narrative came to an end, Munger formed a steeple with his fingers.

  “So, tell me, Mr. Leary, what makes you think you have anything to offer Freedom First?”

  Hale shrugged, but when he spoke his voice carried an undercurrent of menace.

  “I grew up outdoors, and I'm a pretty good shot, and I hate the stinks.”

  “Montana is full of good shots,” Munger observed dryly. “My mother can bag a rabbit from a couple hundred feet away with a .22—and she's pushing eighty. What we need are exceptional shots. More than that, we're looking for men and women who are willing to go where the U.S. Army won't, and hunt stinks until they get themselves killed. Which is what happens to 90 percent of the people who work with us. So, tell me, Mr. Leary, are you that kind of man? And are you willing to make that kind of sacrifice?”

  Hale looked directly into Munger's eyes. “Yes,” he said unflinchingly. “I believe I am.”

  Munger was silent for a moment, as if considering what he had heard. Eventually, having reached a decision, he nodded his head. “All right, Mr. Leary, fair enough. We'll put you through the wringer and see if you can take the pain. Then, if you're still here three or four days from now, the real training will start. Take your gear over to Bunkhouse 1, find an empty bed, and make yourself to home. But get lots of sleep—you're going to need it.”

  * * *

  Bunkhouse I was empty when Hale entered, although half of the sixteen beds had been claimed, judging from the personal possessions on or around them. Were the other recruits being put through what Munger called the wringer? Yes, Hale thought so, as he put his duffel bag on a bare mattress and went about the process of making it up using the bedding piled on the foot of the bed. The result was way too Army, so he pulled the corners out, and let the covers hang civilian-style.

  Having spotted the cookhouse on the way over from the truck, Hale ambled back to see if he could get a bite to eat and, more important, to look for the Walkers. Because the whole idea was to ascertain if they were present, and then get out. Which he could do by looking incompetent the next day. Then, if the Walkers were present, a SAR team would drop in to pick them up.

  But when Hale entered the cookhouse, there was no sign of the couple. One table was occupied by three men and a woman, all of whom wore the weary look of combat veterans, and none of them offered him a smile. Having checked Hale out and filed him under “newbie,” they continued their conversation.

  A few other people were present as well, singles mostly—including an older man who was poring over some financial records, a youngster with his right leg in a cast, and a retired bird dog who welcomed Hale with a single thump of his tail.

  There was plenty of coffee, and some of the best cinnamon rolls he had ever tasted, but no sign of the people he was looking for.

  The rest of the day passed slowly, as afternoon faded into night, and the recruits arrived back at the bunk house. Some were triumphant, and some were dispirited, but all of them were exhausted. Having introduced himself, Hale listened with interest as the other men described a hellacious obstacle course, a demanding exercise called hide-and-seek, and expressed the universal hope that something really bad would happen to a man named Anthony Puzo.

  Dinner followed, but didn't last long, because everyone except Hale was bone-tired, and couldn't wait to log some rack time. So Hale lay on his bunk, listened to the chorus of snores all around him, and thought about Cassie. He hadn't seen the psychologist since the trip to Denver, yet he thought about her constantly, and was hoping for a three-day pass once his current assignment was over.

  At some point he fell asleep. And when he awoke it was to the sound of someone beating on a galvanized garbage can with a baseball bat.

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  “Drop your cocks and grab your socks!” a deep booming voice bellowed. “You have forty-five minutes to shower, dress, and eat breakfast … The last man to arrive at the obstacle course will pull rock duty. So get your collective asses in gear.”

  “What's rock duty?” Hale asked as he swung his feet over onto the cold floor.

  “It's something you don't want,” the man in the next bunk replied. “But better you than me!”

  With that the race was on as the men vied with each other to clean up, get their clothes on, and invade the cookhouse. But Army veteran that Hale was, he knew how to do everything in a hurry, and was among the first to arrive at the obstacle course where the feared Puzo stood waiting.

  Having been an NCO prior to gaining his commission, Hale knew plenty of drill instructors, but had never seen one like Puzo. He stood feet apart, with a much abused baseball bat resting on his right shoulder, and a sizable pot hanging out over his belt buckle. A fringe of black hair circled Puzo's mostly bald head, coal black eyes peered out at the world from beneath a single eyebrow, and a truly monumental nose probed the morning air as if sniffing for miscreants. “Well,” he growled, as the recruits lined up in front of him. “Look what we have here! Some new meat. What's your name, stink eyes?”

  Hale returned the hard-eyed stare. “Leary,” he replied, careful to leave off the usual “sir.”

  “Okay, Leeeery,” Puzo said, “you look like a smartass. And I don't like smart-asses. Give me twenty-five push-ups.”

  So Hale dropped down, hands buried in the slush, and was busy pumping out push-ups when the last man arrived. His name was Carty, and he was a slim lad, with the air of a librarian. He was out of breath, and obviously scared.

  “Well,” Puzo said fatalistically. “Here's our rock boy … Okay, rock boy, bring me six rocks.”

  Hale was back on his feet by then, and therefore in a position to watch as Carty went looking for rocks. It wasn't easy finding them under the blanket of snow, and by the time Carty came back with six egg-sized rocks, the rest of the recruits had already battled their way through an obstacle course that included parallel rows of tires they were required to stutter-step through, a narrow beam that spanned a half-frozen pool of muddy water, a nine-foot-tall wooden wall, a rope climb up to a tower from which a trolley arrangement carried them to a platform a hundred feet away, and a slimy crawl through a sewer pipe to the end point beyond. Which was where Puzo was stationed when Carty arrived with a double handful of wet rocks.

  The DI examined each rock as if he was sorting through the crown jewels, looking for only the best diamonds. He rejected one submission with a grunt of disapproval, and sent Carty to fetch another. Then, with the élan of a professional baseball player, Puzo proceeded to hit all the remaining rocks so hard that they disappeared into the lead gray sky, and fell for what would surely have been a series of doubles.

  Then, as Carty returned with the replacement rock, it was time for the already tired librarian to run the obstacle course. A process clearly intended to weed him out.

  “It's for his own good,” the man standing next to Hale said bleakly, as Carty fell off the beam and splashed into the pond. “Ironically enough, he's going to survive—and we're going to die.”

  Sadly, that assessment was probably true, Hale realized as the group watched Carty wade out of the freezing-cold water. Because, having been dropped into Chimera-held territory himself, he knew how long the odds were.

  Lunch was a brief but hearty affair, during which Hale had a chance to eyeball some of the more advanced recruits and members of the organization's small but dedicated staff. Munger made an appearance, but the Walkers were nowhere to be seen, and Hale felt increasingly sure that they weren't around. Chances were that both had been killed during the long trip from Indianapolis. Anything else would amount to a miracle.

  So as Puzo led the group on a one-mile hike to the makeshift firing range, Hale had already decided to miss at least half of the targets, as the first step of a plan to get himself ejected from the training camp. The sporadic sounds of gunfire could be heard as they came closer, Puzo sent Carty out looking for rocks, and the familiar smell of gunsmoke rode the otherwise clean air.

  The shooting stand was protected by a long slanted roof, supported by six-by-six posts, all set in concrete. Beyond that a long stretch of open land could be seen, with a line of six targets at what Hale estimated to be a thousand yards, all backed by a mound of snow-clad earth. Wind flags hung limply at both sides of the embankment.

  Puzo led his brood in behind the firing line—Hale saw that the person who was currently doing the shooting was armed with a Fareye. A military weapon she wasn't supposed to have. And the woman was good—very good, as became obvious when she squeezed off the final round and put the rifle down on the table next to her.

  “Good shot!” the range master said approvingly as he peered downrange through a pair of powerful binoculars. “You scored five bull's-eyes out of six shots. Number four was just a hair outside, but still in the kill zone.”

  “That isn't good enough,” the shooter responded matter-of-factly. “I need six out of six.”

  The sound of the woman's voice sent a chill down Hale's spine. “Susan?” he said. “Is that you?”

  Susan Farley turned to look. It was the same face Hale remembered growing up with. She had the same high forehead, the same spray of freckles across the bridge of her nose, and the same determined mouth. Her eyes widened in disbelief. “Nathan? They told us you were dead!”

  “This is all very touching,” Puzo said sarcastically, “but it's a waste of time. Let's clear the line … We have some shooting to do.”

  “But she's my sister!” Hale objected.

  “And he's in the Army,” Susan interjected, as her features began to harden. “Or he's supposed to be. What did he say his name was?”

  “Leary,” Puzo replied, as his eyes began to narrow.

  “He's lying,” Susan said grimly. “His real name is Hale.”

  Hale tried to turn, tried to react, but the baseball bat was already in motion by that time. Hale saw an explosion of light, fell into a bottomless hole, and suddenly ceased to exist.

  The rarely used interrogation center was located in the basement underneath the admin building, adjacent to a well-stocked armory. Hale was strapped to an X-shaped structure which was secured to a concrete wall. He had been stripped to the waist and was clearly unconscious. Two ceiling-mounted lights were angled to spotlight the prisoner, making his many scars clearly visible.

  Three other people were present: Munger, Susan, and Puzo. They stood in a semicircle, backs to the door, as Puzo lifted a bucket of water up off the floor. Munger nodded. “Let him have it.”

  Puzo grinned sadistically as the cold liquid hit Hale in the face and splashed the wall behind him. Susan felt a moment of regret as the man she had grown up with jerked convulsively and opened his strange yellow-gold eyes.

  They served to remind Susan that this Nathan was very different from the one who had gone off to join the Army. This Nathan was probably an enemy, rather than a patriot, gone over to the Chimera.

  Even if he hadn't, he was a traitor. Because, generally speaking, those who backed the Grace administration and its efforts to rob American citizens of their freedoms were little better than stinks, insofar as Susan was concerned.

  * * *

  Hale tried to move his arms, discovered that he couldn't, and blinked his eyes in order to get the water out of them. Then, his expression changing not at all, he looked from face to face.

  “So,” he croaked. “You're probably wondering why I called this meeting.”

  Puzo had an old buggy whip that looked as if it had been salvaged from the barn, and was preparing to strike when Munger raised a hand. The DI frowned, as if disappointed, but lowered the whip. Hale knew the good-cop bad-cop routine when he saw it and waited to see what Munger would say. “You lied,” Munger stated flatly. “About your name, your background, and your reason for coming here. Now you're going to tell the truth … Or Mr. Puzo will beat it out of you.”

  Except for his desire to find the Walkers, the rest of the story was pretty damned obvious. So there wasn't much to be gained by denying who he was, and Hale figured that if he played the situation correctly, he might be able to further his mission.

  “Sure,” Hale said hoarsely, as he stared into Susan's eyes. “What would you like to know?”

  “What organization do you belong to?” Munger demanded.

  “The Rangers,” Hale replied, which though not technically true, was close enough for government work. SRPA was still classified as top secret even though an increasing number of people were becoming aware of it.

  “Good,” Munger said grimly. “Now we're getting somewhere. Why did you come here? To spy on us?”

  “No,” Hale replied matter-of-factly. “We know just about everything there is to know about this facility. So, why bother?”

  “This is bullshit,” Puzo complained bitterly. “He's jacking us around. Let me work on him for a while. He'll be calling for his mommy within fifteen minutes.”

  “His mother is dead,” Susan put in bleakly. “She died defending her home with a twelve-gauge shotgun. I figure she killed ten, maybe twelve stinks before a Steelhead took her down, and I shot it with Pa's Colt Peace keeper. Let him talk.”

  Hale was impressed both by the steel in Susan's voice and the way Puzo immediately backed down. As if her authority was superior to his.

  “I came looking for Henry Walker,” Hale explained, “and his wife, Myra. Are they here?”

  Suddenly the interrogation flip-flopped and Hale was the one checking expressions. Munger looked surprised, Susan appeared to be intrigued, and Puzo was taken aback. “Henry Walker? Who the hell is he?”