was going to run Hertz out of business. The guy who provided the cars
had been covered in what looked like Maori tattoos, including his face,
and the deal had been done in cash.
The drive from there had turned into a ride in the country, about
forty-five minutes' worth to this place.
Morrison put two and two together: Idaho, men with guns in paramilitary
gear, razor wire.
'Some kind of militia group,' he said.
'Neo Nazis or white supremacists?'
'Let's just say if you were black, it would be a lot harder to call in
the favor.'
'Jesus.'
'These people speak very highly of him, yes, but I doubt he spends much
time here.'
Morrison shook his head.
'Then again, it is unlikely in the extreme that anybody will sneak in
here and kidnap you,' Ventura said.
'Certainly not anybody of the Oriental persuasion.'
'I thought you said the Chinese wouldn't send somebody who looked
Chinese.'
They passed another trio of armed men in jungle camo sitting on or
standing next to a military vehicle, a Hummer or Humvee or whatever.
The three silently watched the cars go past, and when Morrison looked
back, he saw one of the men hold up a com and speak into it.
'That's only if they want to sneak up on you. The Chinese don't like
to delegate certain functions--they don't trust each other, much less
round-eyes. If you arrange a meeting with them for something they
want, they'll send someone who looks and acts the part. They won't
want you to doubt their sincerity.'
The narrow dirt road curved through another thick patch of woods, then
into a cleared space maybe three or four acres big, with several prefab
metal and wooden buildings centered in the clearing, all painted a drab
olive green. A big air-conditioner rumbled in the background, spewing
vapor into the hot afternoon.
There were more military-style vehicles, more armed men--as well as
several armed women--and a pair of flags flying from a tall wooden pole
in front of the largest of the structures. There was Old Glory, and
under it, a shining white flag with what looked like a pair of crossed
yellow lightning bolts over a line drawing of a hand.
'Sons of Pure Man,' Ventura said, watching Morrison as he looked at the
flags.
'Empowered by God Almighty to smite the wicked, scourge the impure, and
kick the asses of anybody else who would mongrelize the true race.'
'These people are friends of yours?' Morrison said.
'These people will help me keep the wily Chinese from grabbing you,
draining you dry, and then smiling politely as they hand your widow
your head with an apple stuffed into its mouth, on a platter. We
aren't family here, but allies are where you find them--sometimes you
have to overlook a few little cultural or philosophical differences.'
