"I'll never understand you people."

"Yes, your people are ever so superior, Anthony. Like that lovely Borgia family that just moved in down the block. The sister, Lucrezia, brought by the most marvelous-looking raspberry tart cake yesterday, you'll have to try it."

The two-seat helicopter caught the sunset as it angled across Perdue Airbase outside of Atlanta, skimmed over the trees and set down gently not far from a small private jet idling nearby. "Go!" shouted the military pilot.

Rakkim darted out of the chopper, keeping low as he ran.

"In!" barked the military aide in the gray uniform, a machine gun slung over his shoulder. He half lifted, half threw Rakkim into the open hatch of the jet, then jumped in after him, secured the door. The jet was already taxiing down the runway before Rakkim got seated.

Rakkim's belt snaked across his lap as the jet took off at a steep angle, pressing him back into his seat, the noise so high his ears hurt. The jet penetrated the reddish-orange cloud cover, still climbing, still accelerating, tiny pretzel-wheel snacks rolling down the aisle.

Rakkim had gotten lucky after he left Baby at the motel. The storm had kept most traffic off the road and he made good time. It took a dozen phone calls but he finally got through to the Colonel, who had sent a helicopter for him.

"Pilgrim!" said Malcolm Crews, grabbing Rakkim by the shoulder, so tall he had to incline his head to avoid bumping the ceiling of the plane. "Glad you could make it. I was starting to fret." He beckoned. "Come on back and sit with me in the luxury suite."

Rakkim followed him to the back of the plane, past an inner door guarded by a couple of young soldiers reading the Bible. "Where's the Colonel?"

"Sit down," said Crews, indicating a sofa that filled the small suite. "Get you a drink?"

"Just water. I was supposed to meet the Colonel."

"Water for our guest, bourbon and a splash for me, James," Crews said to the aide that had lifted Rakkim into the jet. "The Colonel's in Texas, which is where I'm heading. He said you wanted to get to Seattle. I can't help you with that, but I can drop you off in Las Vegas. The Belt's still sealed off from the Republic, but you can hop a flight home from there."

"Good enough."

The aide brought their drinks and left them alone.

Rakkim hefted the cut crystal glassware, turned it so it sparkled. "You've moved up in the world, Malcolm."

"I've been washed in the blood of the Lamb." Crews peered at him. "You look tired."

"A little."

Crews took a long swallow of bourbon. "The Colonel's disappointed you're not going to spend more time with us, help us out with this war about to start."

"I appreciate the lift. You get me to Vegas, I'll find my way home."

"Of course." Crews sprawled on the sofa, legs crossed. The Man in White, they called him, but lately Rakkim had heard him called another name: "our new Lincoln." It seemed ridiculous the first few times he heard it, but seeing him like this, close up, long arms and legs, that bony horse face and thatch of black hair…well, there was a physical resemblance. Crews bobbed his head as though reading Rakkim's thoughts. "Never know what life has in store for us, do we? A year ago you and I were at each other's throats…now here we are, couple of civilized men enjoying a drink at ten thousand feet."

The jet bumped along on turbulence, ice cubes tinkling in their glasses.

"How's the mobilization going?" said Rakkim. "The Colonel have some plan to deal with Aztlan's air superiority?"

"I'm no military man," said Crews, "but the Colonel thinks it's best to disperse the men across the whole front, then wait for the inevitable air assault and then counterattack in small, hit-and-run raids. Strike fast and retreat, wear them down. Whether or not it works…" He shrugged, took a fat, hand-rolled joint out of his jacket pocket, fired it up.

"I thought you were clean as a newborn lamb or something," said Rakkim.

"You have to learn to forgive people their trespasses, pilgrim." Crews puffed away on the joint. "Colonel got a call about an hour after you reached him." He exhaled a plume of smoke. "Baby. She didn't have nice things to say about you."

"Oh, darn."

"The Colonel called me right after talking with her-might have placed some stock in the things she had to say…and pilgrim, really, you should be ashamed of yourself, she is a married woman."

"Nothing happened."

"That's too bad. A waste of quality pussy." Crews stretched out his legs, eyes shiny, enjoying himself. "Don't worry, I set the Colonel straight. Told him Baby was working for the Old One."

"How did you know that?"

Crews offered the joint, and Rakkim declined. "I know because the two of them showed up at my place in the country a few months ago, them and Lester. Let me tell you, that redheaded bastard is everything they say about him and more. Went through my boys like shit through a goose."

"What did the Old One want?"

"Always in a hurry." Crews shook his head. "It was the Old One and Baby that helped me become the man I am today. They were the ones wanted me to talk up the Colonel in my sermons, keep the waters boiling." He took another hit off the joint. "Crazy world, ain't it. Most preachers say the nature of God is unknowable, but I'm certain of one thing at least." He leaned toward Rakkim. "God Almighty has a sense of humor."

"Yeah, and unfortunately for us, it's mostly slapstick and irony."

Crews laughed and so did Rakkim.

"I missed you, pilgrim," said Crews. "Most folks are safe as milk, but you got an edge to you."

"You going to ask me to the prom, Malcolm?"

"See, that's just what I'm talking about."

"Why did the Old One want you to support the Colonel?" said Rakkim.

"Best way to cause trouble, I suppose," said Crews. "Baby said they were bringing hard times and fever dreams to the world." Smoke trickled from his nostrils. "They said me standing by the Colonel, riling up the rest of the country, would bring the hard times on faster."

"Sounds like she had your number."

"I suspect she's got all our numbers," said Crews. "I'll admit, I was always a great believer in burning down the village to save the village, whether it needed saving or not." He took a last pull on the joint, tossed it in his mouth.

"So why are you telling me about the Old One and Baby? Why tell the Colonel?"

"It's a funny thing…" Crews smoothed his pearly white jacket. "Baby was the one who told me to dress like this…that whole Man in White thing, said it would make folks think I was part of the anointed…but it had the same effect on me. I started thinking maybe I wasn't the evil fuck I always thought I was." He clutched Rakkim's sleeve. "It's not so bad being one of the good guys, is it? Long as we can still have fun." He pulled Rakkim closer. "The Old One was right about me…he saw straight to my dark heart. I am always listening for the trumpet blast announcing Armageddon, but shit and shinola, pilgrim, as long as we're having us a war, I might as well be on the side of the angels."

The sunset poured in the window, their faces like burnished bronze.

Rakkim turned toward the window, felt the warmth on his face. The Old One favored anything that destabilized the established order, and if it didn't happen naturally, he was happy to help, whether it was nuking D.C. or poisoning the Moscow water supply. Stirring up a war between the Belt and Aztlan was just the sort of thing he would do…but there had to be more. Brandt's speech supporting the Belt…did that help or hurt the Old One's plan? He looked at Crews. "The Colonel have any idea when Aztlan's going to launch their attack?"

"He's surprised they haven't already attacked." Crews leaned closer. "I hear you went into D.C. looking for something. You find it?"