THE ORACLE

CHAPTER 1

Dusk, June 21st, the waning hours of the summer solstice. At a remote ranch in East Texas, across a treacherous stretch of mud-filled swampland, an annual ritual was about to take place. Lights glowed on flowering magnolia trees; kerosene torches flickered around a makeshift dance floor. Two boys, ages eight and nine, sat on a haystack, watching the night's events.

"This is boring," eight-year-old Scott McBride said, hands on cheeks, watching his mother dance with Grandpa McBride.

"Yeah, they're mostly women and grandpas," his cousin Mikey agreed, the colored lights throwing a purple cast on his doughy face. "Say, where's everybody anyways?"

Scott shrugged. Who cares? He just wanted to do something fun.

"Hey, I know what," Mikey blurted. "Let's sneak out to the woods and look for Mr. Ahern's secret trailer!"

Scott frowned at his cousin. Their parents had warned them not to go to the woods, especially near the Ahern trailer. He'd heard awful stories about it from the older kids in camp. But he put on a brave face. He wasn't about to be the scaredy cat. "I'll go if you go."

"Okay, let's," Mikey challenged, pushing him on the shoulder.

Scott pushed back. Soon, the two of them were jostling around the barn, slapping each other on the back, daring each other. They found themselves in the woods taking the trail their parents warned them to steer clear of.

The air was sticky hot. Crickets chirped around them. Up above, a swollen moon glowed like a scoop of vanilla ice cream. A passing cloud made a mottled pattern on its face.

The trail took them deep into the woods, past gullies and trenches and wet sloppy bogs. Twigs crunched under their feet. Ten minutes into the trail, they passed an abandoned shack with dark empty sockets where the windows used to be. Beyond it was a creek and an even denser thicket.

A murmur of voices reached their ears. They halted, straining their eyes in the dark. Scott pointed to a fallen log and clambered on top of it. With only the moon to guide them, the two boys crept forward, avoiding the twigs and branches that stuck out from the trunk.

The voices drew near. "Bring them out!" someone shouted, followed by the sound of rapid gunfire. Through the leaves, they made out flickers of light. Shadows danced and swayed, creating long twisted shapes on the trees.

Crawling behind a fallen log, the boys peered into the clearing. The grown ups who had been missing from the dance were all there, twenty or thirty of them. They were circled around the trailer with torches held high over their heads. They carried rifles in their arms. In the dancing light, Scott made out his dad with Mr. Taggart and Jaggy Ahern. Except his dad's face was mean, angry, not like the dad he knew. Behind him stood Mikey's father, Garr.

The trailer door opened and everyone started yelling all at once. Scott swallowed hard, afraid of what was coming next. Then he saw them: two men in chains being pushed to the middle by Mr. Taggart and Jaggy Ahern. Scott's dad had joined them in the circle. "Move it! Move it!" his father yelled, poking the men with a rifle.

The two boys watched in awe as the prisoners took little pigeon steps and tripped over their shackles. One of them was black, tall as a young tree, with a head of spongy hair and hands the size of baseball mitts. His eyes were wide, frightened.

The other man was a Mexican; shorter, stockier, like the "wetback punks" Scott's father pointed out to him in the streets of Cedar Hill. He had straight black hair, brown skin, and arms bulging with muscles. Mikey nudged Scott, wanting to leave, but Scott grabbed him by the arm. "We can't go just yet," he whispered fiercely. He couldn't bring himself to leave. It was as if his feet had taken root on the ground, holding him down. Scott watched the men while his cousin trembled beside him.

"Okay, the winner goes free!" Jaggy Ahern yelled. Taggart took the chains off the prisoners.

The tall man began to beg, his face wet with tears. Scott stared at him, transfixed. Jaggy forced a knife into his hand and the man jerked back shrieking. The knife fell to the ground.

Jaggy cursed, mouth spewing spit. He swung the rifle, butt-end out. There was a twack and the man staggered sideways, dropping to one knee. Jaggy cocked the rifle. "Pick it up, nigger, or I'll blow your fucking head off."

Bleeding through the right ear, the black man took the knife. He stood up to face the other. Whimpering, he pleaded around for help. None came.

The circle egged them on, nudging them with rifles. There was a frenzy in the air, a lusting for blood. While both men looked terrified, the shorter one seemed more willing to fight. He swung his knife without warning. The tall man jumped back yelping, trying to avoid the arcing blade. The sharp point grazed his chest, gouging into his biceps. He screamed in pain. Blood spurted from the gaping wound. He stumbled away, crying, moaning, trying to escape. "Oh please, oh please. Somebody stop him," he cried. But the Mexican chased after him with the knife. He swung a second time. The blade glinted against the light as it swooped out towards the neck. Screeching in fright, the tall man tottered back. The knife whipped past his face, missing him by inches.

Out of balance and exposed, the shorter man tried to straighten up. Fear washed over his face as the tall man brought his knife up. There was a thud, followed by a wailing scream. The shorter man was now reeling on his feet, staring down at the handle of the knife sticking out of his chest.

From their hiding place, the two boys gaped in horror. Blood hosed out of the wounded man's mouth, bubbling down his chin. He tried to say something, but words wouldn't come. A final anguished cry gurgled out of his throat and he crumpled to the ground. There was a moment of silence, then a wild cheer erupted from the circle. The boys cowered behind the log. Scott found himself with fisted hands. He became aware of Mikey's sobs and he put an arm around his cousin's shoulders. He himself began to tremble. You're one of them, a voice inside him said. You're one of them.

The tall man was now being herded to the woods, his face etched in horror. Someone started a count and everyone began chanting, "Run! Run! Run!" They fired their guns at his feet forcing him to flee. A bullet nicked his ankle as he made a stumbling run across the stream. On hands and knees, he clawed his way up a steep bank and staggered into the darkness. The count continued. "...Eighty-nine, ninety, ninety-one...ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred!"

"Everybody spread out," Jack McBride yelled. Someone brought out the snarling Dobermans.

That was when Scott turned away. Taking his cousin's hand, he stumbled off into the night haunted by what he had witnessed. He saw his father's face in the dark. Sweet and gentle in one instant like the hero he thought him to be, mean and ugly in the next. Why? Scott cried in his mind. Why were they hurting those men? He didn't understand.

vvv

Eighteen Years Later

The room was shadowed, illuminated by the halo of a reading lamp. A Revolutionary War painting of the Battle of Bunker Hill hung on the cherry wood wall. Next to it was an American flag. Light reflected on the polished desk, onto the face of a man with metallic silver hair. His face was grave, his lips pressed into a line. The aroma of pipe tobacco hung in the study as the man pored over the final pages of the report: "...The threat is real. The porous borders, the lax port security, and the inability of a divided Congress to pass tough immigration measures will increase this risk by thirty percent in the coming decade. America is facing a crucial test. The rapidly changing demographics in states such as Arizona, New Mexico, and Texas will not only polarize the government, but result in significant legislative paralysis, citizen discontent, and eventual chaos, exacerbating an already dangerous..."

He laid down his pipe on top of a brass holder and finished the conclusion of the report. The gravity of his decision pressed upon his chest. His face showed it: the deep etches on the forehead, the slight sag on the jawline, the bags under the eyes. They hinted of a man under great strain. He knew he had to do it. There was no better time.

With a key, he unlocked the top drawer of his desk, reached underneath it, and pressed a hidden button. A loud hum vibrated in the room. With trembling hand, he picked up his telephone receiver and dialed a number. He waited, twirling the waxed ends of his mustache between thumb and forefinger. What he was about to do was irreversible. Once started, it could not be stopped.

The phone rang twice and produced a second dial tone. Firming his resolve, he punched a second set of numbers.

"Yes?" the man on the other end said.

"Boenecker. Proceed with Operation Oracle."

He heard a click and the line went dead. He stared into space, sucking on the pipe for a moment. Then, report in hand, he padded to the fireplace and turned on the gas. Tongues of flame burst out of the burner, licking at the lava rocks.

vvv

Rudesheim, Germany - Five Months Afterward

The woman trembled in the phone booth, her eyes shifting from side-to-side. Her face was pale. A drizzly fog swirled around the cobblestoned plaza of Drosselgasse. The woman swore as the glass pane fogged up around her. Uttering a cry, she wiped off the moisture with her sleeves and peered through the unobstructed pane. She held her breath, expecting a blond man with steel gray eyes to be standing outside the booth. All she saw were the blurred outlines of old buildings. A smattering of lights shone on misted windows.

A woman in a nurse's uniform sauntered by, huddled low under a black umbrella. The patter of her heels faded into the alley. Somewhere in the square, the tinkle of a Chopin waltz broke into the morning fog. She turned to the phone and continued talking.

"...they found out about me Hugo. Please hurry. Yes, that's what I said--McBride. Scott McBride. Volkker is to meet him in America. Yes, yes, in about four weeks. August 6." She pulled out a piece of napkin and read him an address in Long Beach. "Write it down please." She waited a few seconds then began talking rapidly. The man on the other end interrupted her and she gestured impatiently. "Granton--that's G-r-a-n-t-o-n. Granton. It's going to happen in New York. No--no, I can't talk now but meet me at this address. I'll explain later." She fumbled around in her purse. "1250 Schaffhausen, Apartment 5. Did you get that? Please repeat." The woman nodded as the man at the other end read it aloud. "Don't forget, Hugo. Noon today. Please hurry. "

She hung up and stepped out into the fog. An icy breeze whipped at her face. Instinctively, she hugged herself against the cold. Where is everybody, she thought. Eight o'clock and hardly anyone around. The oompah bars whose loud music kept Drosselgasse awake through dawn were now closed, leaving only an offending silence. She turned to see if someone was behind her and let out a frightened cry. On the east end of the plaza, scarcely visible in the swirling mist, stood a man. He was blond, of medium build, made nondescript by a beige trench coat. Volkker! she gasped in horror.

The man glided towards her like a vampire descending on its prey. With a moan, the woman took off running, taking the downward slope of an alley. Her heels rattled on the cobblestoned walk. If she could make it to the boulevard, flag a cab, she might have a chance.

She looked back and saw him gaining ground, not running, but walking with quick deliberate strides. She reached the main boulevard and was greeted by a rush of morning commuters. For some reason, the town of Rudesheim seemed to have plotted against her. They congregated at the main walk, blocking her escape. Cursing, she waded through the river of bodies trying to get to the other end of the block. She could see the Rhine steadily flowing downriver. A barge chugged by and let out a bellow. She didn't know where to go. She couldn't go to her hotel. They'd be there waiting for her. Nor could she go to the police. No, not in this city; not with what she had learned about them. With luck, Hugo should make it to town by twelve. Then everything would be all right. In the meantime, she had to stay alive.

She clutched her purse and scurried down the sidewalk looking back every now and then. Volkker hadn't made it to the corner but she knew he would do so at any second. A bus approached and she lengthened her stride. It was two stops away on the other side of the street. To her dismay, the bus skipped a stop and was now slowing down towards the next one. She bolted after it in panic, sprinting past the bakery, past the butcher shop, past the perfumery. She shouldered through the crowd, jaywalked across the busy avenue. Tires squealed. Horns blared at her in protest. She made it into the bus just as its doors began to close.

Her knees wobbled. She dropped the coins into the slot and made her way to the back. Sinking into a seat, she looked out the window. She saw him across the avenue, staring straight at her. To her horror, he chased after the bus, crossing the street with amazing quickness. Oh God, she thought. The bus began to move as he came abreast of it. He made it to the rear door, banged on it with his fist. She saw his waving arms. The bus accelerated and the distance grew between them. Letting out an exhausted sigh, she leaned back on the seat, eyes shut tight. Beads of perspiration shone on her forehead.

The bus took her through town, up a winding road along the Rhine, past sloping vineyards and pastures leading to the next town. She began to shake. The significance of her discovery began to sink into her. Oh God. I don't have any place to hide.

vvv

Cedar Hill, Texas

It was his coming of age, the moment he was to be sworn in as an officer of The Patriots. Scott McBride stepped into the chamber and squinted in the half-light. He trembled slightly. The stench of kerosene hung in the air. This is it, he thought. After tonight, there was no turning back. As if to confirm his thoughts, the chamber's steel door thudded heavily behind him.

He saw familiar faces, none of them smiling. Taggart, Uncle Garr, Jaggy Ahern. He wondered what lay behind their stern faces, how they saw him in their eyes. His eyes settled on Rafe Logan standing guard on the other side of the room. Rafe gave him a taunting smirk. In his face, Scott saw hatred. Ignore him, Scott told himself. He's messing with your mind. Instead, he focused his thoughts on his father, imagining how proud the man would have been tonight. If only his father were here, Scott sighed. He was doing it all for him.

Resolutely, he stepped forward, steeling himself for what was to come. Twelve men in army fatigues stood behind a wooden table. They carried assault rifles in their arms. Behind them, an American flag covered the entire wall.

They watched him cross the cavernous room where the leader of the cabal, dressed in black fatigue waited, legs spread apart, gripping a glinting saber. Scott stared at the sword, remembering the mystique that surrounded it. Rumor had it that it once belonged to Stonewall Jackson, that he took it from a dead colonel in the Battle of Bull Run. The symbol of the Patriot Brotherhood, it represented the instrument with which to impose its unique rule of law.

A cold draft seeped through the cracks in the walls. The torches flickered. Shadows made eerie elongated shapes on the floor. Scott stopped in front of the Grand Patriot, head bowed in reverence. The hair along his back stood on end as the flat edge of the saber settled on his shoulder. Reciting the incantation that had been repeated for over the centuries, the Grand Patriot began the solemn ritual: the blessing by the saber, the bloodletting on the arm, the swearing in on the Bible, and lastly, the symbolic drinking of the wine.

Taggart handed him a glass. "To God, Country, The Patriots," Taggart said. "Let this pact be sealed in blood."

Scott bowed. He was now truly one of them.

With the ceremony over, they turned on the lights and broke out the keg. They passed drinks to everyone. The atmosphere shifted into a more relaxed banter. They became their old selves again; average Texas home boys behaving the way normal folks do, talking about things normal folks talk about: their jobs, their kids, their families. They loved guns so they talked about those too, showing off their exotic finds from the underground gun shops of Austin and San Marcos.

Scott glanced at Taggart who with Uncle Garr was talking with Jaggy Ahern. The men raised their mugs to him. Scott raised his own glass, feeling a warmth in his heart. With his mother and father dead, Garr and Max Taggart had been his only guardians.

In the peak of the celebration, Taggart pulled him aside, out of earshot of everyone. "Follow me to the bunker."

Scott nodded, feeling a sudden chill. The initiation, he thought.

They left the chamber, clattered down three flights of stairs, though a concrete passage, into a windowless steel bunker that served as the Grand Patriot's private quarters. An annoying hum sounded insistently in the room. A row of photographs, each one framed in gold, hung on the wall. Scott recognized one of them, a photo of his father and Taggart dressed in hunting outfits, holding up a dead deer. It had been taken near the swamps of the Angelina National Preserve. Both flashed their teeth at the camera.

Taggart stood next to Scott looking at the photograph.

"Not a day passes when I don't think of him," Taggart said. "Man, how long has it been?"

"A couple of years," Scott said, still gazing at the picture.

Taggart nodded. "We were like brothers, your dad and I. Ever since our tour in 'Nam. Went through a lot together. Hell, Jack was the one who talked me into moving my company to Texas."

Taggart smiled at the memory. "We had dreams, you know. Big dreams. We wanted to turn this country to the way it was. A powerful America. A patriotic one. Just like it was in World War II. We had a plan too. A big plan. Now that it's about to come true--" Taggart's voice trailed off.

When he spoke again, his voice had an edge to it. "Anyway, you've now taken his place with us. We've been preparing you for this ever since you were a kid. That's why we invested so much in you, sent you to good schools. Pepperdine University. Stanford.

"Those wild days at unity camp are over, Scott. Your dad and I saw the writing on the wall. The country has changed. So have the people. We had to adjust our mission. People are destroying our country, Scott. There's a war within and it's being fought right there in Washington. If we don't act now, our voice will no longer be heard." Taggart put down his drink. "We have to compete in Washington, son. Get our own people elected. In order for that to come true, certain things must happen. There are others like you around the country being polished for that special role. You, me--the Patriots--we're only a small part of a bigger master plan."

Scott remained silent. He didn't know what to think. It was the first time he had heard of the "Master Plan."

Taggart picked up a picture frame from his desk and handed it to Scott. It wasn't even a photograph, just a newspaper clipping cut out with scissors. It showed a man in military uniform beside an armored humvee with a blazing desert in the background.

"Colonel Frank Burnett, my stepson," Taggart said with a hint of pride. "From my first wife. He was before your time. She took him away when he was a little kid. I still see him once in a while. He's doing well in the army. Served in the Gulf War and Iraq. He's on his way to becoming a general."

Taggart sighed. "The reason I'm telling you this is that I've always regarded you as my own. Hell, you knew that. I remember being jealous of your dad for having a boy like you."

His face took on a far away look. "Remember the unity camp in Colorado when I let you shoot the Beretta? Ho, you should have seen the look on those hillbillies from Louisiana. They couldn't believe their eyes."

Scott smiled. He remembered it well. It was his second time at unity camp where Patriots from all over the country gathered to celebrate being in the brotherhood. He was only nine years old then. He and his cousin Mikey were coming back from catching garter snakes in the woods when he saw men in camouflage outfits shooting their guns across the field. His dad stood tall among them. Like a handsome super hero. Scott could spot him in a crowd. Mr. Taggart was with him, fooling around with a thirty-two.

"Where have you kids been?" his dad called above the noise as he ejected spent shells from the Mauser.

"Oh, just in the woods," Scott said, looking across the field at the row of darkly-painted dummies dangling from the posts.

Taggart finished loading the thirty-two. "Well step up here, son." He patted the bale of hay at the fence. "Let's give you a try at this."

Scott shrugged and clambered over the hay on hands and knees. He wondered what 'Uncle' Tag was up to. Mikey looked up at them curiously.

"Do you know what this is?" Taggart asked, showing him the gun.

"It's my dad's thirty-two Beretta," Scott said.

"Yes. That's right, a Beretta. Have you ever fired it?"

"No."

"Well, young man, it's about time you learned. Here." He pushed the gun into Scott's hands. The people standing next to them had stopped shooting and began to watch with mild interest. Scott felt a swell of importance. All eyes were on him! Hefting the gun in his hands, he sensed its power. It was warm. Heavy.

"Good, good. You're not afraid of it. Now, see that target over there?" he asked, pointing at a dummy hanging from a tree.

Scott nodded.

"Okay, that's a wetback, son. You hate wetbacks don't you?"

Scott nodded uncertainly. He didn't think he hated them. He wondered if Jose, his classmate in school, was a wetback. Scott and he sometimes played ball together.

"Fine then, point the gun at it. Pretend it's a drug dealer. The trick is to kill it before it kills you." There was a gleam in his eyes as he watched Scott aim the weapon. "No, Scott. You have to use both hands--yes, that's it--both hands. Now take a deep breath."

Scott did.

"Steady. Now, let your breath out slowly and squeeze the trigger."

Scott exhaled and squeezed. He heard a loud bang and the gun bucked in his hand. The bullet went wide.

"Don't close your eyes now. It won't bite you. Just look straight ahead and keep your eyes wide open," Taggart said.

Scott tried again. Inhale, exhale, and squeeze. He kept his eyes open. The dummy spun around.

"That's damned good. You got him on the shoulders," Taggart said. Scott looked at his dad who smiled at him proudly. Scott felt a surge of pride.

"Try it again, son," his father encouraged.

Scott did. Inhale, exhale, and squeeze. The doll staggered, a direct hit to the chest.

"Man oh man, you're a natural," Taggart said animatedly. "Try again."

Scott shot clip after clip. By the time he was done, he could hit any part of the dummy at will. Everyone had stopped shooting to witness the phenomenon.

After the exercise was over, Taggart announced to everyone, "Listen up, folks. This here is my godson, Scott. He's from my neck of the woods. He'll take over from me one of these days."

That night his dad visited him in the bedroom. He was holding a necklace made of thong leather with a dented slug dangling from it.

"This here's the same one you fired today, son," his father said, slipping the thong around Scott's neck. "I'm mighty proud. Thought I'd give it to you as a memento."

Gently, his father stroked Scott's hair. "Never forget who you are, Scott. Family is important. Our way of life. It's what makes our country great. There are people out there who want to change things. Take all these away from us." His father looked at him gravely. "We won't let them do that, will we, son?"

Scott shook his head vehemently. He wanted so bad to please him.

"Promise me."

"I promise, Dad."

Taggart's voice brought him back to the present. "Okay, let's get down to business." Taggart opened a drawer and pulled out two manila envelopes, each one about two inches thick, wrapped in plastic, and protected by a tamper-proof seal.

"These," Taggart said, "are our future. I'm making you their guardian. Whatever happens, don't let them fall into the wrong hands. I know all this mystery may sound strange to you, but you'll know about it in good time. We chose you for this assignment because you're the most trusted man we've got that's under the radar. How long have you been gone?"

"Six years. Four at Pepperdine, two at Stanford."

Taggart nodded. "The likelihood is no one knows you exist. Not that anyone is watching us. No one probably is. But I can't take a chance. Do you know what I am saying?"

"Yes, that the package is important and requires discretion."

"That's right," Taggart said. "Here, let's go over these." He picked up the first package, which was labeled Houston Superior Court. "This goes to Lex Willard," he said.

Scott frowned, but took the envelope anyway. Lex Willard worked for the Superior Court no more than he did working as a nurse in a hospital. Scott had seen the man only twice in his life but had heard crazy stories about him. The Exterminator of San Antonio, people called him. Rumor had it that his border militia had a habit of shooting down illegal aliens crossing the river from Mexico--faceless and nameless people who were never seen again.

"I want you to personally hand it to Willard," Taggard said "No go-fers, no nothing. Just Willard."

Scott had so many questions he wanted to ask, but knew it wasn't the time.

"The second package is for a man named Volkker. Guard it with your life. You don't know him, you've never met him. He'll be at a bar in Long Beach on August 6, seven in the evening. That's about three weeks from now. Remember that date. You've got plenty of time. I won't bother to give you a picture of him. The less you see of him, the better. But he'll find you. When he comes, don't talk to him and forget you ever saw him. Just hand him the package and get out of there." Taggart gave him a piece of paper containing the dates, the times, and the exact addresses of the meeting. "That's where you'll make your deliveries. Burn it before you leave this place tonight." He hesitated, as if trying to decide how best to phrase his next instruction. "Scott, you know the Brotherhood takes care of its own. When your father needed money to start a ranch, the Brotherhood came up with it. Additional capital afterwards. Same thing with your Uncle Garr. It's what we do."

Scott nodded. His father had often talked about it. How "Uncle" Taggart took care of the loans when the McBride ranch had fallen on hard times. The man not only came up with the cash, he also made sure Jack McBride's family had food on the table.

"There's a man in Tucson who needs our help," Taggart said. "A close friend of your dad's and mine. I don't know if you remember him. Cole Henderson. He heads our chapter out there.

"There's a reporter in Arizona who's been making a lot of trouble for him. A newspaper editor for the Tucson Trib. He's doing an expose' on Cole's activities. He hasn't done a lot of damage yet, but we want to nip it in the bud. Trouble is, Cole can't use his men. He wants all his people accounted for. That way, he's completely clean. I offered to help."

Scott felt sick to his stomach.

Taggart took a photograph from under the paperweight and handed it to him. "That's your man. Do it after you make your deliveries." Taggart stared at him. His eyes measured Scott, trying to find any sign of weakness. "We have to seal our loyalties, son. Everyone does."

Scott kept a blank face. Inside, his world was spinning.

Taggart nodded, seemingly satisfied. From the drawer, he pulled out a Browning nine millimeter pistol. He slid the blue steel toward Scott. "It's clean. Get rid of it when you're done. There's a car waiting for you at your place. Ditch it after Tucson and take the plane back here."

Scott picked up the gun, balancing it in his hand. He felt Taggart's eyes on him. Nonchalantly, he slipped the piece in his waistband.

Taggart smiled. "Make your father proud, son. It will take time to fill his shoes. But be patient. You've got what it takes."

Scott felt lightheaded. In a span of one night, his world had irrevocably changed.

vvv

New York City

The people of New York loved him; the Republicans in Washington hated him. According to the latest polls, he was leading the pack in the run for the presidency. The esteemed governor, Edward F. Granton of Richmond, Virginia finished his impassioned speech to the thundering applause of supporters at the New York City Chamber of Commerce. He had them under his spell. To Washington insiders, Granton made an ideal statesman, a one-of-a-kind icon who could whip up a following with his bombastic rhetoric and renegade actions. His broad physique and stature made him all the more attractive to people. A gentleman of means and high birth, something about him projected strength, stability, and he had learned early on to use it to his advantage, appearing on television every chance he got, giving press conferences whenever he could, shaking hands with constituents whenever the opportunity presented itself. He did these especially well when the cameras were rolling. He would have been perfect except for one serious flaw: he was far too liberal. A pro choice, pro gun control, and pro gay marriage politician, he ran on the left side of most social issues. He was against fencing the border with Mexico, Homeland Security wiretapping and surveillance, and any kind of pre-emptive war in the Middle East. And in a country fed up with more than six years of war and trillions of dollars in waste, it was not a politically bad thing. Foes vilified him for being a dove. They labeled him a "cut and run candidate." Granton didn't care. What mattered were the war-weary voters, the people with the ballot, the same ones who, for the time being, chose to overlook his faults.

Jaunting down from the podium, he began to work the crowd. A word here, a greeting there, a hug every now and then. They were the ones who kept the coffers full. Only after the last table had been visited and the last businessman stroked did he march out of the Poughkeepsie Ballroom flanked by a swarm of secret service agents. He crossed the cavernous lobby, pushed through Hotel Cromwell's revolving doors, and stood dramatically under its porticoed entrance as if frozen in time. It was a pose for the paparazzi. Flashbulbs attacked his face, making him blink under their intense flashes. Then he was whisked away by his bodyguards into a waiting limousine. With a final wave to supporters, he nodded to his chauffeur, smiling at him conspiratorially. Tonight's itinerary: his mistress's condo at Long Island.

vvv

At a sports bar across the street, in front of a giant plasma television, a blond man surreptitiously eyed the entrance of the Cromwell Hotel under the brim of his New York Yankee cap. He made a colorless figure. Only five foot ten and pale of face, he was dwarfed by the big-gutted jocks, swilling beer at the bar. But behind the drab overcoat was a man hewn with muscles. People seemed unaware of him, too absorbed as they were with the Yankee relief pitcher, attempting to dig himself out of a loaded base.

Volkker watched Granton get into the limousine. He had no opinion of the man. He neither hated him or felt sorry for his fate. It was business, that's all it was. His hand went into his coat pocket and clasped the square edges of the device. Any minute now. The limousine pulled out of the curb and made its way along East 52nd Street, heading towards 5th Avenue. Its black contour glinted in the moonlight. The blinker flickered and the limo slowed for a turn.

Easing the safety switch, Volkker began his count, timing the cadence with the speed of the limo. Ten, nine, eight--he pressed the safety button. The device vibrated. Seven, six, five--the limo began to turn. Four, three, two--he pressed the second button. A bright flash lit the night sky, followed by a huge explosion. One moment the limousine was there, the next moment it wasn't. Shards of metal sprayed like buckshot, traveling at killing speed, felling pedestrians in their wake. Storefront windows shattered, creating ugly gaping holes. A piece of the hood propelled itself upwards, banged into a concrete wall, and plunged toward the panicked crowd. A fender shot out like a javelin and pierced into a Cadillac half a block away.

By the time the explosion died down, only a charred skeleton was left of the limo. Big tongues of flame swallowed its burnt remains, sending yellow streaks prancing across the road where the gasoline had leaked.

For a brief second, everything stood still. Then bedlam erupted. People scrambled every which way. There were screams and groans and shrieks of pain as the wounded tried to crawl away from the wreckage. Splashes of blood coated the pavement. Volkker turned away. He had a few more jobs to do before meeting his man in Long Beach.

vvv

Scott knelt by his mother's grave. In his hand was a bouquet of daisies. The headstone read: Martha McBride, Loving Wife of Jack McBride, Cedar Hill, Texas, 1958 -2001. For years, his father had lavished flowers on the grave, every Thursday at 10 o'clock, as sure as the sun rises. On this knoll under the refuge of a magnolia tree, he had seen his father grieve and weep and talk to Scott's mother as though she were still alive. He had been touched by the loyalty, the devotion one human being gave to another. Now, Scott found himself doing the same.

"For you, Mom," Scott whispered. He blinked back the tears. "From me and Dad."

He made a silent prayer and turned to the adjacent mound. Jack McBride. 1956 - 2005. Even in his grave, his father's influence loomed over him. It was almost tangible, as if the man were standing over him.

Scott sighed. How could a man so strong have felt so threatened? How could a man so gentle have held so much anger? He was like the two sides of the moon. There were so many things Scott wanted to tell him, so many things he wanted to ask. Did his father have the same doubts when he was first initiated into the Brotherhood? Did he feel the same anguish at being asked to kill a man? Did he feel as confused?

Scott ran his fingers along the leather necklace his father had given him in camp. He fondled the dented slug, remembering his father's words, about family, about country, about their way of life. Right or wrong, and for as long as Scott could remember, his father's actions had been guided by this code.

"I made you a promise, Dad," Scott said. "I'm going to keep it." Bowing his head, he whispered another prayer. No sooner had he finished mouthing the words when a footstep sounded behind him. Slowly, he stood up to face the man.

Garr leaned against the trunk of a tree a short distance away. He was wearing a plaid shirt and faded blue jeans. His chestnut hair made an unruly mass around his face.

"Thought I'd find you here," Garr said with a sympathetic tone.

Scott glanced at the headstone. "Dad always came Thursdays."

"I know." Garr pushed himself off the tree. "I've watched him from this spot many times." He strolled over to Scott. "I know you have to go, Scotty. Just reckon you may want to talk."

Scott remained silent. He studied his uncle who was a spitting image of his dad. The man had been like a father to him.

"Rafe didn't like it last night," Scott said.

"No. He wants to be an officer."

"And?"

He shrugged. "Too undisciplined. Don't worry about him. Everyone has his place in the Brotherhood."

"Did you have to pull the trigger too, Uncle Garr?"

Garr thought about the question, nodded. "Everyone did, son. Your daddy, your Uncle Bobby, Andy, Max. Everyone. It seals the pact." He hastened to add. "It's okay to get the jitters. I sure as hell did. And it's okay to ask questions. Anyway, you'll be doing the right thing. The man who has been assigned to you--he's a traitor to everything our country stands for. You're doing it for the greater good. Make us proud, Scott. I know you will."

vvv

Scott began to pack. Just a change of clothes and some toiletries in a duffel bag. A couple of shirts went in, a pair of jeans, some socks, underwear. He tried to keep a cold heart and not think of what lay ahead. He had only one thought in mind. His promise to his father. From the closet, he took the aluminum briefcase he had used as an intern at the Conservative Institute at Stanford. It was battered and dented but still functional. He crammed Taggart's envelopes in it.

From the bedside drawer, he took the money Taggart had given him. Three thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills. "For your expenses," Taggart had said. "Don't use any credit card on this trip."

Scott took half of the stack, put it in an envelope, and shoved it in his pocket. The rest went into his briefcase. Lastly, he picked up the Browning and checked its load. A full clip with an additional clip in his briefcase. Taggart's words echoed in his mind. Whatever happens, don't let the package fall into the wrong hands. Scott glanced at his watch. Three o'clock. He'd better get started.

A strong sun greeted him on the porch. It caressed his skin and he let it bathe him for a second. A warm glow spread all over his face. Oddly, his hands felt cold. So very cold.

He sighed. It would have been nice to just sit on the steps and soak in the sun without having to worry about going somewhere to kill somebody. He wondered what would happen if he just disappeared, lose himself in the heartland. Scott pushed the thought away. He wouldn't be able to live with himself. He would soil his father's memory, bring shame to his uncle and everyone around him. The Brotherhood wouldn't be merciful. They'd look at him as a traitor, no different than that man in Tucson. Worse, his cousins, uncles, anyone remotely associated with him would be suspect.

The car Taggart had arranged for him sat at the curb, a black Mustang with a convertible top and a nasty scrape on the driver's side. Taggart said it was clean. He opened the trunk and loaded the duffel bag inside. The aluminum briefcase he dumped on the front seat. The gun went into the glove compartment. He gazed at the house one last time and had the strange feeling that he might not be back.

Firming his resolve, he took the freeway to Austin, drove twenty miles west on Highway 79, and exited in the Warehouse District. He had some unfinished business to take care of; something he should have done a long time ago.

At an empty slot at West 6^th Street, he pulled up at the curb and switched off the engine. He debated whether to leave the briefcase in the trunk, but Taggart's instruction was clear: Guard the package with your life. Swearing under his breath, he grabbed the briefcase. He skimmed the street, his radars alert. A woman ambled up to an antique store, unlocked the door, and went in. A man walked a poodle across the street.

Scott took a perpendicular street off Sixth, glancing back every so often to make sure he wasn't followed. It was a cracked and rutted strip with lots of bars and false-fronted buildings. He passed a row of newspaper stands. Some explosion had just happened in New York. There was a picture of a charred car and a few collapsed structures. He gave it a brief glance, skimmed the street one more time, and continued down the passage.

Rosa Del Rio lived on the corner of Rio Grande, a street lined with bars and cafes. It was a peach apartment building three stories high with floor-to-ceiling windows and roll-up shades. For the fifth or sixth time, Scott took stock of his surroundings. He felt watched. The hairs along his arms stood on end. But all he saw was the gaggle of dirty runaways in the cater-corner park, panhandling coins from passing tourists. A taxi roared by and disappeared around the corner.

Scott pressed the buzzer.

"Who is it?" A voice cackled through the intercom.

"Rose, it's me. Open up." There was a short buzz, followed by a click.

Scott pushed through the door. He was so engrossed with his thoughts he didn't notice his nemesis, Rafe Logan, standing behind the corner with a camera.