“Which in both cases never should have existed in the first place.”
“We’re at war, Brother Kendig,” Copley bellowed.
“On two fronts,” Neen bellowed back, matching the tone exactly. “One of which should never have been opened.”
“That is not for you to decide! The Board of Elders decided that now was the time-”
“I’m on the Board of Elders, remember?” Neen said. He’d modulated his voice back to the late-night-DJ tone that suited him so well. “And with few yet notable exceptions, the elders are your lapdogs. If you asked them to stick needles in their eyes, three quarters of them would do it without questioning the wisdom of blindness.”
Brother Michael took a deep breath to yell, but settled himself. Spiking his blood pressure would help no one and change nothing. “We’ve had this discussion before, Brother Kendig. That you disagree with the opinion of the majority does not grant you authority to disregard their decision.”
“Which is why I established a prison room on the compound and why I trained a contingent of guards.”
“Yet their performance was abysmal.”
“I don’t know that that’s true,” Neen said. “I mean, clearly, something went wrong if the boy was able to get away, but I have no idea yet what that something might have been. I’m told that the guard who was supposed to be on duty-Brother Stephen-is in fact missing.”
“Where-”
“I don’t know where. But Brother Michael, you have to understand that this is yet another case where you refuse to acknowledge that actions have consequences.”
Copley scoffed, “Certainly it’s plain that investing in guard training has the consequence of incompetence.”
“And what about the panic you instilled in that family by making them read a statement to the world that they would be executed? Do you think maybe that increased their desire to get out, and therefore made them take chances that they otherwise never would?”
“We needed symbols-”
“To hell with the symbols, Michael,” Neen blurted.
The words hit Copley like a hammer. “How dare you?”
Neen laughed. “How dare you? Don’t you think that the trail of dead bodies across the country is enough of a symbol? Do you really think that we need the image of a mother and her child to make people any more frightened than they already are?”
“You pretend to know the entire plan, Brother Kendig,” Copley said. “You do not. All of this plays an important role.”
“I know more than you think I do. I know that the importance of the GSA contract for your company reaches far beyond the revenue that it will generate. We’re this close, Brother Michael, to accomplishing all that we’ve fought so long to achieve. We can bring the disunited states of America back to its roots. We can tear it away from the money grubbers and the Users.”
“It’s not that we can, Brother Kendig. It’s that we will.”
Neen gave a little wave to concede the point. “Fine. Absolutely. We will succeed. Just as you said. But we can do it without the grandstanding for the cameras.”
Copley eased himself into the chair opposite the one occupied by Neen. “I heard the recording, Brother Kendig,” he said. “I know who this boy’s father is. He’s one of the very people who is bringing so much misery to the world.” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his ankles as he interlaced his fingers across his chest. “His father is a U.S. soldier. Special Forces.”
Neen became suspicious, cocking his head to the side. “What’s your point?”
“He is the point on the sword,” Copley said. “He leads the fighting that creates all the evil. We have an opportunity to show the world that no one is safe. Not even their most elite warriors.”
Neen waited for the rest.
“Think of the spectacle. We can hold a public trial and stream it to the world.”
“No,” Neen said. “God, no, Michael, you can’t go there. You can’t even think that way.”
Was that weakness he saw in the sheriff’s face? Fear on the countenance of Kendig Neen?
“This is what I was talking about,” Neen said. His voice grew louder. “This is the hubris that will be our undoing.”
“You’re out of your mind,” Copley fired back. “This is what will make the Movement famous throughout the world.”
“As the stupidest thing done in a generation. Have you forgotten nine-eleven?”
“Don’t patronize me, Brother Kendig. That was a botched effort by a bunch of amateur-”
“It rallied three hundred million people to go to war!” Neen boomed. “The greatest mistake those jihadists made was to deliver a symbol to the media. The symbol becomes manipulated and what is righteous becomes evil.”
Copley smiled. “And that is exactly the point, is it not? They think that we are those very jihadists.”
“But sooner or later, you’re going to have to reveal the truth. After the world rallies behind us-once the government is exposed in all its weakness, and they realize that it is safe to rise up against the true evildoers in Washington-this business of harming a soldier’s family will be all that people remember.”
Copley sighed. How could a man so smart be so naive? “What you’re missing, Kendig, is that-”
A knock on the door interrupted them. It was louder than it should have been and more rapid than normal. That spoke of a problem, Copley thought. “Come,” he said.
The door opened to reveal Brother Duane-one of the elders-towering in the frame next to Sister Colleen, whose red eyes betrayed the fact that she had been crying.
“What is it?” Copley asked.
“I’m afraid we have some terrible news,” Brother Duane said.
A door slammed down the hall, and Ryan heard the sound of heavy feet in the hallway. They were coming toward him, and they were many. His heart rate spiked as he did his best to straighten himself in his seat, but his arms remained pinioned behind him and threaded through the chair.
They appeared in the archway as a group-Ryan counted seven of them-and all but the sheriff who’d brought him here wore the same heavy black boots as the men who stormed their prison room. This time, though, there were no masks. Among them, he recognized the bitch they’d picked up in the car a hundred years ago. Or maybe it was only a day.
They formed a kind of wedge in the space that separated the dining room from the hallway, anchored in the middle by a thirtysomething blond man who looked angrier than anyone Ryan had ever seen. If the wedge were an arrowhead, the angry man would have been the point. The others were angry, too; but that anchor guy was scary.
If Ryan wasn’t mistaken, the only girl in the group-her name was Cathleen, wasn’t it? No, but something like that-looked less angry than the others. In fact, she mostly looked scared.
The man said, “You’re a murderer.”
“I’m not,” Ryan said. “That asshole attacked my mother.”
The man closed the distance that separated them in four long strides. He was still moving when he unleashed a wicked open-handed smack across Ryan’s face. He smelled blood instantly, and within seconds, streams were flowing from both nostrils.
“You will not use that language in my house!” the man bellowed.
“That’s what he is,” Ryan said. He wanted to sound defiant, but he ended up having to cough blood from his throat. He needed to spit, but he knew that would be trouble. If you’re not allowed to say “asshole,” then spitting blood on the carpet was a non-starter. “He was trying to rape her,” he said.
Maybe the next slap hurt more because it landed with more force. Or maybe it just landed in exactly the same spot. Either way, it made a purple strobe flash behind his eyes as something bounced around inside his head.
Maybe it knocked him out, because the next thing Ryan knew, he was sideways on the floor, carpet against his face. He was vaguely aware that the carpet was for sure stained now.
“… kill him,” someone said. Ryan thought it was the sheriff, and his tone sounded more like a warning than a suggestion. Anyway, it didn’t scare him.
“No one fouls the name of a brave warrior in my presence.”
“Get him up, for heaven’s sake,” the sheriff said.
