now shaking her head. “Don’t you think these messages sound strange? Hey, Cait. What’s up? Can’t talk right now, but I want you to know I’m thinking of you. Sent when? April thirtieth? The one from May first is a real winner. Can’t wait to see you again. Sounds like an April Fool’s joke. And this last message… Yo, Cait. Got to see you some time, girl. When can we see each other? I don’t speak like that.” Wendy cleared her throat. “Well, at least you didn’t answer them.” Wendy stared from the display. “Tell me you didn’t answer these emails.”
Caitlin shrugged.
Wendy threw her head back. “Dammit, Cait! What the hell is the matter with you?”
“I didn’t see the header. Who looks at email headers?”
“Didn’t you at least find it odd that I was emailing you instead of sending my standard text? As you well know, we only text each other fifty times a day.” Wendy Adams held up her hand. “Never mind that. Just tell me what you wrote back.”
Caitlin had to think about that one. “I think I answered back with information on my upcoming trip to Orlando.”
The iPad was chiming.
Wendy exhaled. “Let me guess, it’s Lisa Wong.”
“I have to go. Sorry.”
“I didn’t know you were suddenly into chicks.”
“Goodnight, Wen.”
Caitlin answered the call from Wong. The teacher seemed harried. Not herself.
“I was able to trace the three emails, Caitlin, and the news isn’t good. Whoever sent these three didn’t bother to cover his tracks like he did with tonight’s messages. I traced the X-Originating Email and Received headers with no problem.”
That was odd. So, the sender was careless with the initial three messages, and then he suddenly got careful with tonight’s lot? Did that make any sense? Then again, he could have simply improved his technique with each attempt. But what if—
“I’m going to float this one out there, Caitlin. I think the sender from tonight and the sender from a week-and-a-half ago are not the same person.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Gut.” Wong exhaled. “Here’s the bad news. The emails you just sent me to analyze originated from a group of people who aren’t so nice.”
“Not so nice. You mean dangerous?”
“That’s an understatement. They’re a militia. One of the most dangerous out there.”
“Militia? Is that military?”
“Hardly, Caitlin. Try paranoid, fringe-radical assholes that don’t trust the government or military. All they do, day in and day out, is prepare to rebel against our government.”
“Why?”
“Because they expect the government will eventually take away everyone’s rights and freedoms. Mostly their guns. They stockpile weapons anticipating a day of civil war. They’re slavishly dedicated to their cause. So much so, that many of these militias resemble cults. But most disturbing of all, Cait, is that Maestro the assassin is rumored to be associated with this particular group in some way. ‘Course, there’s really no way to prove any of this.”
A cold wave shot down the first daughter’s legs. It took her a moment to digest what Wong had just said. Did she really mention the name Maestro?
“Are you sure? I mean it is just a rumor, right?”
“Look, Caitlin, it’s getting late. Teachers aren’t supposed to be talking to students at this hour. Even though we’re friends, I’m still violating six major provisions of my contract as it is. What I want you to do is run up to my classroom and see me first thing tomorrow morning. In the meantime, I’m forwarding a few links for you to read. I’ll have several more in the morning.” Wong leaned forward. “Now, listen to me. Do not even think about messing with these people. Trust me. You are in way over your head. We’ll decide how to break this to the Secret Service tomorrow.”
Chapter 8 Southern Nevada 6:58 PM Pacific Standard Time
Team Alpha- Bravo, the militia’s most trusted two-man recon unit, hunkered down in a rocky bluff seven miles west of Highway 93. Save for the roar of an occasional military jet and the sighting of a stray cow or two, there was very little activity in the semi-remote desert. In fact, they hadn’t seen so much as a car or another human being in the past three days. The scorching sun was relentless. Even more relentless was the dry heat. Who, in their right mind, would be out in conditions like this?
In its heyday, which would be the mid-Nineties, the Badger Valley/Tikaboo Peak region of Southern Nevada was a Mecca for UFO and conspiracy aficionados. The famous Groom Lake base, otherwise known as Area 51, was rumored to be the home of secret, government aircraft, as well as alien saucers that had supposedly been captured and reverse-engineered by U.S. military personnel. Conspiracy buffs flocked to the area with scanners, cameras, telescopes and cases of bottled water. Enterprising locals conducted hiking expeditions, UFO sightseeing excursions and camping events from a ridge only twelve miles from the famous Groom Lake Base. Eventually, the Clinton Administration got wise and ordered a massive Southern Nevada land annex. It included the ridge. Suddenly, the nearest viewing location was twenty-five miles from Groom. Viewing condions were poor. Few were interested in making the hike, and the excursions dwindled to a trickle. The gawkers went back to their buffet lines and slot machines on The Strip. The region lost its glamour.
But not with the militia. Badger Valley remained prime training ground.
The hand-held scanner emitted a low beep. The militia private glanced suspiciously at the device with its blinking red light. “What do you think, another cow?”
The unit leader shook his head. “Not sure.”
There was a second beep, this time much longer in duration.
“Okay, that’s no cow.”
“I think you’re right,” said the unit leader. He unclipped the walkie-talkie from his utility belt. This could be what they were waiting for.
He scanned the horizon. “Alpha-Bravo to base.”
The radio hissed back. “Go ahead.”
“Sensor just picked up something. Vehicle of some kind.”
“It’s probably him,” said the voice. “Radio back when you have visual.”
The militia had staggered magnetic sensors along the dirt road leading west from 93. The sensors, considered rather primitive but still effective, consisted of two plastic capsules buried in the sand beside the road. They were connected by a long wire, which ended at a gray-colored battery-operated transmitter, about the size of a gallon paint can. The militia concealed the transmitters behind the clumps of scrub brush dotting the landscape. They were next-to-impossible to spot unless a person hopped out of his car and rooted around the brush.
Again the scanner lit up and beeped. Something was definitely advancing toward their position
