Hak-Bin bit down on a corner of fabric, waited for the pain to subside, and reacted as he would to any surly subordinate. “You’ll pay for that… My life continues. The power you hunger for is my power… and will continue to be my power for forty-one more days.”

  The unborn Sauron didn’t like that, not one little bit, and did its best to punish its progenitor. But Hak-Bin had been injured many times during his long life, had withstood “the cleansing by pain,” and knew that he could take it.

  The procession had arrived at the edge of the moat by that time, and those who watched the heavily curtained sedan chair pass could not possibly have imagined the battle of wills that raged within. Most, to the extent that slaves considered such matters, imagined that a Zin lolled within, his body supported by a mountain of cushions, eating the Sauron equivalent of grapes. Would they have felt even a shred of sympathy had they known the truth? No, Hak-Bin supposed, probably not. But they should have.

  Feet thumped on raw wood as the slaves carried their burden into the temple, the sedan chair shook as Hak-Bin locked his pincers onto the interior framework, and Dr. Maria Sanchez-Jones watched from the hill high above. What the hell were the Saurons up to anyway? The sedan chair vanished, the door closed behind it, and there was no way to know.

  SALMON NATIONAL FOREST, IDAHO

  With the exception of the scouts out in the forest, and the Hammer Skins assigned to guard Racehome’s perimeter, everyone else listened as Raymond Dent, self-styled “Lion of the Airwaves,” returned to the air.

  Everyone who was anyone, and that included both Jonathan and Ella Ivory, were crammed into the underground studio as a self-important assistant delivered the cue, and Dent, still recumbent on his flower-strewn stretcher, started to speak. The radio personality had a wonderful voice, even Ivory was forced to admit that, and a delivery to match. Every word he said sounded as though it came straight from Yahweh’s mouth. “Good evening, this is Raymond Dent, the Lion of the Airwaves, speaking to you from a secret location hidden somewhere in the western part of what used to be the United States of America. But that nation perished, my friends, eaten from within by the Zionist Occupational Government, soiled by the pre-Adamite muds, and burned by the Saurons.

  “Now, even as the days grow dark, a new nation is born. A Christian nation, an Aryan nation, a new Israel. No, you cannot come here, not yet. Satan’s children, the sons of Belial, are too strong for that. But what you can do is prepare your mind, body, and spirit for the glory ahead. A time when Amerika will be pure again. When the white race will live free of miscegenation, when no trace of mosque or synagogue can be found on our fair land, when our culture, the white culture, will rise like a tower of hope and bathe the land in its light. Until then you must remain where you are, grow strong, and prepare for the final cleansing.

  “Look to those around you, even to those with whom you sleep, or to those who manifest themselves as children. Are they pure? Or are they servants of the beast? Waiting to pull the new society down?

  “Every garden has weeds my friends—and every gardener must be vigilant. If you are a Soldier of God, a true Aryan warrior, you will understand my meaning.

  “Now, even as Satan’s beasts become aware of this broadcast, and start the search for our transmitter, the final battle begins. Tell others what you heard, and monitor this frequency, especially between 9:00 P.M. and 3:00 A.M.

  “May Yahweh bless and protect you… This is Raymond Dent, the Lion of the Airwaves, signing off.”

  A switch was thrown, the onlookers started to applaud, and the self-important assistant thumbed a stopwatch. “One minute and fifty seconds,” he said proudly, “which puts us well under the two-minute mark.”

  Like everyone else in the room Ivory knew Dent and his followers were trying to keep each broadcast under two minutes in hopes that doing so would extend the period of time before their haphazard network of transmitters were located and destroyed. By sending the signal through what remained of the telephone network, and routing it to transmitters located hundreds of miles away, the Dent heads believed they could insulate Racehome from the possibility of Sauron retribution.

  Nice in theory, but hard to believe, especially given the level of technology that the aliens possessed. But, except for Ivory, the only person in the community actually to live under the whip, the Saurons were something of an abstraction. As with tuberculosis, they knew about the disease, understood how dangerous it could be, but didn’t believe that such a thing would ever happen to them. The reality of that caused Ivory to be depressed rather than elated. Ella squeezed his arm. “So, will you do it?”

  “Do what?” Ivory asked, wondering what he had missed.

  “Why, the interview of course,” his wife answered easily, “what else?”

  Ivory realized that the room had grown quiet, that all eyes were on him, and that a trap had been sprung. His opposition to the radio show was fairly well known—but most of the community thought the broadcasts were a good idea. By inviting Ivory to take part in the program, Dent was forcing the military leader publicly to oppose the show, and thereby isolate himself, or participate, and thereby add to its legitimacy. The racialist forced a smile. “An interview? Of course… Nothing would give me more pleasure.”

  There were cheers, renewed clapping, and high fives all around.

  Dent, who was more than satisfied with the evening’s work, fell back against the pillows. The wink was directed at Ella… and the smirk was for Ivory. “I won,” it seemed to say, “and you lost.”

  Ivory discovered that his hand had somehow drifted to the butt of the .9mm handgun holstered at his side. He ordered it to fall, summoned a stare, and aimed it at Dent. Eyes locked, wills clashed, and events were set into motion.

  HELL HILL

  The temple was all but complete by then, its secrets safe within thick limestone walls, its towers thrusting brazenly toward the morning sky. Manning, who still had difficulty walking after the return journey on the back of a horse, turned his back to the complex and looked out over the area below.

  Like everything else about the Sauron complex, the semicircular plaza and the spire that marked its center was huge. But then it would have to be in order to accommodate a million Saurons. Even if they were packed into tiny cells. That being the case there was more than sufficient room for the roughly one thousand slaves expected to attend Franklin’s speech. Not just any speech, but the first speech in which the politician would openly advocate rebellion, and therefore the last speech on behalf of the Saurons.

  Now, as the whips cracked, and the pathetic remainder of the once-burgeoning slave population was herded up toward the top of the hill, Manning considered the task before him. Protect the Big Dog even as he committed the equivalent of suicide, get him off the hill before the Saurons could react, and pull a world-class fade. No small task on a peninsula swarming with Kan. Manning sensed movement at his elbow and turned to find Franklin at his side. “Sir, I really must…”

  “Don’t lecture me on risks,” Franklin said good-naturedly, “not after the I-E raid. Who led that attack by the way? It wasn’t me.”

  “I didn’t lead it,” Manning replied. “I only took part in it, after you gave permission.”

  “And it’s a good thing I did,” Franklin said dryly, “since you would have gone ahead regardless of what I said.”

  “Not true,” the security chief said sheepishly, “not after Seeko said ‘no.’”

  Franklin laughed. “You’re a lucky man, Jack. Take good care of her… Women like that don’t come along every day.”

  The comment caused both men to think about Jina, which neither of them wanted to do. Manning placed his body between the president and the plaza. “Please leave the platform, sir. I’ll call you when things are ready.”

  The politician took one last look around, made a face, and complied. Kell, along with Alaweed, hustled the chief executive away. Though vulnerable to any number of things, the black SUV was a safer place to wait.

  With Franklin under wraps, Manning could turn his attention back to the task at hand. A well-conceived security zone should resemble a well-set table, having a place for everything and everything in its place. A quick check confirmed that Wimba, Dylan, Lu, and Amocar were all where they should be. Wait a minute… Amocar? On duty? And actually doing his job? Now, that was unusual…

  But wait a minute—somebody was missing. Manning pulled a piece of graph paper out of the inside pocket of his jacket and checked to ensure that he was correct. The security chief swore under his breath. The plan called for an operative to be posted on the north side of plaza. That particular slot had been assigned to Jill Ji-Hoon, and the agent was nowhere to be seen.

  Though not gifted with physical beauty, or a lightning-fast intellect, Amocar had one quality that set him apart. He was lucky. Call it ESP, intuition, or a sixth sense but whatever it was often served to warn him when danger threatened. Amocar felt a featherlike touch, looked up toward the platform, and half expected to meet Manning’s gaze. But the security chief was turned to the right and looking off toward the north side of the plaza.

  Amocar followed the other man’s gaze, saw the gap in the line, and felt ice water enter his veins. The rotten, dirty, filthy bitch was gone! There was only one possibility… Somehow, some way, Ji-Hoon knew about the hit! More than that, she was on her way to stop it!

  Manning turned to his left, started to speak into the voice-activated boom microphone, and stopped. Amocar had disappeared.

  Meanwhile, not far away, preparations were under way. Farkas had been a cop. Not an especially good one, but a cop nonetheless, which was how he came to know a state trooper named Horsky. The same Horsky who worked as a slaver. Now, having been seconded to Amocar, and given what he considered a plum assignment, Farkas was in an extremely good mood.

  For reasons known only to the Saurons, the ceremonial horns that groaned with such monotonous regularity nearly always did so from inside an enclosure called a kak. The kak consisted of colorful fabric stretched over metal frames, which were connected together via simple pin-style fasteners to create a four-foot-by-twelve-foot room. Or, as Farkas thought of it, a hide similar to the ones his uncles used for duck hunting.

  Yes, the fact that three Fon were inside with him, blowing bass notes through huge tripod-mounted animal horns was a bit distracting, but every job has its downside. Kind of like being the only cop in Guthrie, Washington. Did the aliens approve? Disapprove? There was no way to tell as the horns groaned and Farkas went about his business.

  The kak had been positioned on the third level of the temple facing west. That put the enclosure above and behind the temporary speaker’s platform from which Franklin would address the crowd.

  The task was relatively simple. Lock the .300 Winchester onto its rest, center the crosshairs on the back of the politician’s head, and squeeze the trigger. The 1I6-grain Sierra bullet would handle the rest.

  There were details to consider of course… The wind that blew in from the southwest, the deflection involved, and the persistent need to pee. But those things could be compensated for, would be compensated for, and the certainty of that made Farkas feel good. Horsky would owe him, his position within her organization would thereby be strengthened, and his rep would grow. One of the few things worth having anymore. The Fon blew air through their wide flat mouth pieces, the horns groaned, and the assassin made his final preparations.

  Jill Ji-Hoon heard the horns, knew the seconds continued to tick away, and felt completely helpless. Yes, she could have approached Manning, could have told the security officer about her suspicions, but to what end? Would he believe her? Or pooh-pooh the whole thing as he had before? There was no way to be sure—and no time in which to find out.

  Ji-Hoon knew what she had seen through her binoculars, however. While off on what he described as “a health break” Amocar had escorted a suspicious-looking man into the temple. She lost sight of them after that, and was surprised to see the twosome appear on the third-level terrace, and stroll toward the kak. That was the point when the ex–FBI agent noticed the long, cylindrical package tucked under the stranger’s arm and guessed what it might contain. Shortly thereafter, Amocar left, and the stranger entered the fabric-enclosed kak. The perfect place from which to shoot Alexander Franklin.

  Unsure of what support she might or might not receive, Ji-Hoon left her post, pushed through the steadily growing crowd, and sought one of the temple’s side entrances. Now, having arrived, the agent found herself face-to-face with a belligerent Kan. He saw that Ji-Hoon was armed and placed a pincer on his t-gun. His voice had a grating quality. “Slaves are not allowed.”

  “Master Har-Dee sent me,” Ji-Hoon extemporized. “An unauthorized human was sighted on level three, and I was sent to investigate.” It was a good bluff, or so it seemed to her, but unbeknownst to Ji-Hoon, the Zin named Har-Dee had been killed in a shuttle accident just two weeks before. On top of that, the Kan had been a member of the ceremonial guard that carried Har-Dee’s body to its final resting place and took part in the jump dance that followed.

  Convinced that the slave was lying, the warrior started to pull his weapon. It was only halfway out of its holster when Ji-Hoon fired a single shot from her .9mm Beretta. The slug passed through the lens of the alien’s left eye, nicked the bottom of his brain, and severed his spinal cord. He dropped like a sack of potatoes.

  The agent turned, weapon raised, prepared to die fighting.

  But the side entrance was hidden within heavy shadow, and the sound of the single gunshot had been lost in the groaning of the horns, the crack of the overseers’ whips, and the crowd noise.

  Her heart racing, and her breath coming in short adrenaline-fueled gasps, Ji-Hoon struggled to get a grip on the insectoid body. The Kan was heavier than he looked, and it soon became apparent that none of the carries she’d been taught was going to work on the insectoid body, so the ex–FBI agent used brute strength to drag the Sauron in through the door.

  Once inside Ji-Hoon felt the temperature drop, wondered where the strange green glow was coming from, and heard water gurgle as it flowed through channels located along the base of the sheer walls. What looked like cells lined both sides of the passageway. They were small, and there were thousands of them. Ji-Hoon managed to drag the corpse into the second cubicle on the right. The Sauron’s chitin made a grating sound as it scraped along the limestone floor.

  Ji-Hoon gave an involuntary jump as the voice boomed through her radio. “Snake One to Snake Seven… Where the hell are you? Over.”

  A lump formed in the back of the agent’s throat, and it was a struggle to swallow it. Manning was pissed… and she could hardly blame him. Should she answer, and be drawn into a lengthy explanation? Or push forward? And save the justifications for later? The decision was relatively easy. The radio was clipped to her left shoulder strap. Ji-Hoon squashed the “transmit” button and spoke into her boom mike. “This is Seven. Condition red, I repeat red, man with a gun. I’m on it. Over.”

  “You’re on it?” Manning demanded. “On what? On where? Report damn you.”

  But Ji-Hoon was on the move by then, satisfied that she had given the security chief enough information to work with and determined to reach the assassin located above.

  Amocar heard the transmission, swore, and hurried up the steps that led to the main entrance. The words came in hasty spurts. “This is Snake Two… Ji-Hoon deserted her post. I’ll take care of it. Cancel condition red. Over.”

  Ji-Hoon started to reply, thought better of it, and sprinted for the other end of the corridor. Manning was smarter than that—she hoped so anyway—and would take appropriate steps.

  Meanwhile, down on the plaza, the last of the slaves were poked, prodded, and pushed into position. Kell, who had responsibility for the agents around the president, listened to the transmissions, and turned toward the SUV’s open window. Sandi Taglio, a cigarette drooping from the corner of her mouth, raised an eyebrow. “So what’s it gonna be, Kell? Shit? Or get off the pot?”

  “Get off the pot,” the ex-Ranger replied, “and I mean now. Get the Big Dog outta here.”

  Franklin, who continued to monitor developments with a rising sense of apprehension, chose to intervene. He opened the door and jumped to the ground. “Sorry, Vilo, I know you mean well, but I have a speech to give… Not just any speech, but the most important speech of my life.”

  Kell made as if to move forward, as if to remove the politician by force, but Franklin raised a hand. “Hold it right there, Vilo… Am I your president? Your real president? Or a way to avoid hauling stone? If I’m the real president, then you will respect both my judgment and my wishes. This speech is more important than my life.”

  Kell could have pointed out that Franklin wouldn’t be able to give the speech, not if he were dead, but thought better of it.

  A Kan chose that particular moment to land not ten feet away. He pointed a pincer at Franklin. “The slaves are ready. You will speak now.”

  Franklin allowed himself a grin. “See what I mean? Even the Kan want to hear my speech.”

  Like Manning, Kell had once harbored doubts about Franklin’s motives and sincerity. But that was then, and this was now. The two men locked eyes. “I don’t have a president, sir, but our country does, and I’ll do whatever he asks.”

  Those few words, coming as they did from a man like Kell, were like an infusion of strength, hope, and courage. The president extended his hand, the soldier shook it, and they walked out onto the platform together.

  Farkas saw the target enter the killing zone, licked his lips, and removed the safety. Questions flickered through his mind. Why go to all this trouble when the bugs could off Franklin anytime they chose? Why were the Fon blowing into those goddamned horns? What would happen if he missed?

  The crowd, many of whom had a burgeoning respect for Franklin, produced a reedy cheer, the crows cawed from corpse-hung crosses, and the assassin’s questions went forever unanswered.