man grabbed the stack of papers and searched the heading of the last message. “You sent this a week-and-a-half ago.”
“We were training in Utah at the time.”
“So, what’s happened in the interim?”
“Why don’t you ask your client? After the Orlando invitation, Maestro showed a sudden interest in fake mail. He had me walk him through the process, then forbade me to send Caitlin Prescott another message.” The sergeant exhaled and moved to light another cigarette. “Let me help you with these drives.”
They loaded the drives into the Navigator, then stepped back into the trailer.
“There is,” said the pale man, “one more hard drive that needs to be disposed of.”
“That box has everything. I packed it myself. There’s nothing else.”
“The most significant hard drive in the entire trailer.”
The two men locked eyes. Neither blinked. At length, the sergeant folded his arms and glanced down at his boots.
“Are you sure?”
“You knew there was a chance it could come to this.”
“I find your answer far too glib,” he began, moving over to the nearby window. “Philosophically, how does Maestro support his position?”
“He’s our leader. Does he need to support anything?”
“If there is a human life involved, then I would say yes.”
Maestro was right, thought the pale man. He’s resisting. This was not going to be easy. In Ancient Rome, what he was proposing seldom ran counter to the state’s philosophy. He thought of Titus of Livy. Those wishing to commit the ultimate act only had to apply to the Senate. If there was nothing unsound in their reasoning, the state provided the hemlock at no fee. The sergeant was a student of Ancient Rome. He would know all about Titus of Livy.
“My client is an authority on Classic Roman law.”
The sergeant lit the last cigarette in the pack. “But soldiers were different,” he stated, searching the pale man’s face. “The suicide of a soldier was considered desertion. I am a soldier.”
Point. Counter point.
“You are much more than a soldier. Besides, I assume you’re familiar with the notion of patriotic suicide.”
“As an alternative to dishonor, yes. Am I a dishonor to our organization?”
No, but you have knowledge of the operation. You’re a possible risk. “Sergeant, let’s look at the positive. Your heroic act will provide our leader with peace of mind. He will move ahead with this mission knowing that you did your part and did it well. You are a patriot.”
He could see the doubt in the sergeant’s eyes. The hesitation.
The phone in his pocket vibrated. The pale man recognized the number, answered the call without saying a word and handed the phone to the sergeant. “Yes, sir,” said the sergeant, closing his eyes. He listened for over a minute, then nodded. “Thank you very much, sir. It’s been an honor for me as well. I wish you every success.” He gave back the phone.
The pale man extended his Glock 23, but the 40 caliber hand piece didn’t even register in the sergeant’s dull eyes. Instead, he took a deep breath, and unsheathed the large knife bound to his right calf. He unbuckled and unzipped his pants, letting them drop to the floor. Next he removed his underwear. The pale man looked away, wondering if that was totally necessary. His eyes finally settled on the man’s muscular legs and stubby penis. He winced when he saw that the sergeant was actually a eunuch. He wasn’t expecting that. It was like the militiaman was a part of the Skoptsy sect or even Heaven’s Gate. He’d heard rumors about the militia’s cult-like qualities, but he was never sure what that meant. Now he knew. Some fanatics submitted to castration in order to cleanse themselves of evil and carnal thoughts that would keep them from achieving enlightenment. Some became beholden to the notion that to achieve purity, the physical cause of their mental anguish must be eliminated.
“I am a soldier but I am also a stoic,” said the sergeant, easing down on the chair behind him. He spread his legs. “To the ancient stoics death, even suicide, was considered a guarantee of personal freedom.” He examined the knife’s blade. “I will, therefore, abide—”
“It might be easier in a hot bath.” My god, he’s really going to do it. “The heat stimulates circulation. Quickens the—”
Without warning, the sergeant quickly and violently sliced deep into the inside of his upper right thigh. At first, the man stared dumbly at his leg. Then, red and frothy blood rhythmically pulsed over his calves and boots in a gaudy shower. He shuttered and grunted. The pale man stumbled backwards.
A growing puddle spread rapidly toward the pale man. By the time he reached the door to the field trailer, the sergeant had dropped the knife and was now muttering something to himself—something about a final cleansing. The pale man staggered back outside. As the door to the trailer shut behind him, he heard one, final grunt and moan coming from inside. And the expected thud moments later.
Then nothing else.
Outside, the desert winds had picked up. A definite chill was in the air. And the machine guns—they had stopped all together. The pale man staggered out into the sand. He lurched forward, dry-heaving twice. After a couple of minutes he was able to pull himself together, and climb back into the Navigator.
Chapter 11 Badger Valley 7:43 PM Pacific Standard Time
The pale man sped south on US 93 as the last vestiges of sunlight reflected a deep orange hue on the majestic Sheep Range to his left. He hadn’t passed another car for the last ten miles. Traffic was so exceptionally sparse, he wondered if he was still on an inhabited planet. He rubbed his chin and frowned. The sight of the blood, endless blood, clung to him. Like a dampness.
His cellular rang.
He felt the small microphone taped to his chest. “Good evening, sir. The timing of your call was nothing short of perfect. I assume you heard everything.”
“I did,” answered the even, refined voice.
“I’m on Ninety-Three, approximately one hour northeast of Vegas,” he said, realizing he was also being tracked by GPS. His client left very little to chance.
The calm, even voice responded, “I see you.” There was a pause. “He choose the femoral artery, did he?”
“Yes.”
“And you want to know why. You wonder about his fanatical devotion. You see, like me, he’s a romantic.” There was a short pause. “Now, then. Time grows short. We have a narrow window,” said the calm voice. “I need you back as quickly as possible.”
The pale man studied the rise and fall in the road ahead, then consulted his Rolex. “I should be in Orlando in six, seven hours, depending on delays.”
“That will be fine.”
The
