A group of young Louisiana National Guardsmen emerged from a tattoo parlor, fleshette rifles slung casually over their shoulders, rolled sleeves showing off their new ink. The usual gung-ho tats: flags and screaming eagles, the stone rolled away from the tomb, and Mecca’s Kaaba with a mushroom cloud. A muscular Guardsman launched a toy helicopter, guided it around a corn dog stand, then lost control, the helicopter swooping low, knocking the white Ranger’s hat askew before cartwheeling into the dirt. The Guardsmen laughed, and the muscular one ambled over, mumbled an apology. As the Guardsman bent to retrieve the helicopter, the Ranger drew his stainless-steel revolver in one quick, fluid movement and whipped the barrel across the Guardsman’s head, laid him out. The others shouted, hands sliding along the slings of their rifles. The white Ranger slowly crushed the chopper under his boot while the black Ranger watched the Guardsmen, a toothpick migrating across his mouth.

The crowd gave the Rangers and Guardsmen room, but Rakkim stayed put.

The Guardsmen hesitated, then quickly dragged their comrade away.

“I…I don’t like it here,” Leo whispered to Rakkim.

“I do,” said Rakkim, the words escaping him before he was even aware of the thought.

Stevenson’s store was in the same spot as the last time Rakkim had seen it, but it was even bigger now, the cross on top state-of-the-art, shimmering with color and so realistic you could see the grain in the wood. SOUVENIRS, ARCANA, RELICS flashed from the wallscreens. A steady stream of dusty pilgrims flowed in and out of the line of revolving doors, air-conditioning leaking out into the heat. A Crusader stood outside in full mock-armor, visor up, sweat streaming down his face, handing out lollypops to the children.

Rakkim pushed Leo ahead of him, into the revolving door. The interior of the shop smelled faintly of frankincense, the smoldering incense barely covering the scent of spilled soda and popcorn. Portraits of David Koresh stared from every wall, including a black velvet painting of Koresh facing Elvis priced at $1,999. Steer horns laser-etched with Bible verses, a bargain at $159.99. Miniatures of the Mount Carmel compound made of everything from cooked macaroni to beaten silver. A Janet Reno voodoo doll with her fangs painted red. Rocks and bits of charred wood from the original compound in bulletproof glass cases with certificates of authenticity. A little girl tugged at her mother’s dress, pointed at one of the many kites dangling from the ceiling: Jesus in the clouds overlooking the firestorm, reaching out to welcome Koresh into the heavens, the clouds around them bloodred in the glow.

Leo fingered a display of toy U.S. Army tanks, ignoring the PLEASE, NO TOUCHING sign. He tapped a command into the underside, the tank clanking noisily, treads spinning as hot sparks flashed from the pivoting barrel of the tank cannon. Smoke wafted through the cool air, rippling the small devil’s pentagram flag atop the tank.

Stevenson himself barreled over in faded jeans, spangled cowboy shirt, and cowboy boots, scrawny as ever, a hand-rolled cigarette between his lips. “You buying that, melonhead?” He noticed Rakkim. Stared. “That you?”

Rakkim looked back at him. Leo still hung on to the tank.

“It is you.” A bit of ash fell from the tip of Stevenson’s cigarette, drifted toward the floor. “You look different.” He peered at Rakkim, his tiny eyes hard as river rock.

“Must be the new Swedish night cream I’ve been using,” said Rakkim. “Tightens the pores.”

Stevenson waved back an approaching security guard. He flicked the photo button on Rakkim’s chest. “You could have bought that cheaper here. Three ninety-nine apiece and half off a grandstand ticket to the reenactment. You got taken, son.”

“That’s what vacation is all about,” said Rakkim.

Stevenson snorted. “You ain’t never been on vacation your whole life. Same as me.” He watched Leo tapping commands into the tank. “Let’s adjourn to my office,” he said, starting down the aisle. A press of his hand against the wall plate and the heavy door slid open. A tattered American flag was mounted on one wall, its edges singed. Stevenson sat in an over-stuffed leather command chair behind a heavy oak desk. He was creased and cracked from the sun, somewhere around fifty, his gray hair buzzed short, a tough, ugly banty rooster, more gristle than meat.

Rakkim sat opposite Stevenson, stretched out his legs while Leo lumbered around the room, touching everything.

Stevenson poured whiskey into a couple of cut crystal glasses, handed one to Rakkim. A glance at Leo. “You want a soda pop, junior?”

Leo ignored him, stood before the flag. He put a hand over his heart. The wrong hand.

Stevenson clinked glasses with Rakkim. “Sorry about Redbeard. Damn shame.”

“Yeah.” Rakkim took a swallow from his glass, felt fire slide down his throat. He saw Leo slip the tank’s remote into his pocket. “You’re doing well.”

“A man can’t make money off tourists, he’s too stupid to breathe, but it ain’t all gravy.” Stevenson sucked his teeth, his incisors as yellow as his nicotine-stained knuckles. “Got ten thousand acres outside of San Antonio about to dry up and blow away, and a car dealership with more salesmen than customers. I’m thinking about buying into a savings and loan in Houston. Banking’s near as good as the tourist trade when it comes to easy money.” He took another long swallow, his bony Adam’s apple bobbing. “Muslims ever get past their stupidity about charging interest, they’ll really take over the world.”

Rakkim sipped his whiskey. “Quran forbids it, that settles it.”

“Adapt or die, that’s as true for religion as it is for people.” Stevenson shook out a cigarette from a pack of Virginia broadleaf. The hand-rolled ones must be for the benefit of the tourists. He watched Rakkim from behind a veil of fragrant smoke.

Stevenson had been State Security during the early days of the republic, one of the few non-Muslims in a position of authority, testament to the respect Redbeard had for him. Stevenson had disappeared around twenty years ago, after a problem with the imam of the largest mosque in Seattle. It wasn’t a religious dispute. Stevenson didn’t believe in Christ on the cross or virgins waiting in Paradise. Stevenson didn’t believe in anything he couldn’t taste or touch. The imam had ordered a young woman picked up by the Black Robes. Jewish woman. Esther. Maybe she caught the imam’s eye, or maybe someone turned her in. Whatever, she died before Stevenson could spring her. The next day the imam and his two bodyguards were found dead and Stevenson was gone.

Rakkim had run into Stevenson on one of his first reconnaissance missions into the Belt, saw him working a small stand at Mount Carmel. They kept each other’s secrets without ever discussing the matter. The Belt paid a million dollars for a captured shadow warrior, and even after all this time, the Black Robes still offered a man’s weight in gold and the blessing of the grand mullah himself for the return of Stevenson. Maybe Rakkim and Stevenson both thought they had enough money and enough blessings. The second time they met, Rakkim brought Stevenson a microphoto of Esther’s grave. The Black Robes had intended to shove her into one of their mass graves, but Redbeard had intervened, had her placed in a non-Muslim cemetery and paid for a small marble stone. They continued their contact after Rakkim retired from the Fedayeen, after he had turned renegade, helping moral criminals escape from the republic: accused witches and Jews, apostates and homosexuals. Rakkim slipped them over the border and into the Belt. Stevenson passed them along, out of harm’s way. Neither of them charged for their services.

Stevenson nodded at Leo. “The Ident collar is a nice touch.”

“I’ve got a businessman up the way needs a Brainiac,” said Rakkim.