Pelly shrugged. Maybe the boss would forget.

As if on cue, the boss started to wander off, engrossed in the call. Pelly drew a heavy Benchmade knife from his front pocket, thumbed open the blade and cut the woman loose. She immediately sprang upright and crossed her arms to cover her breasts. He nodded, and she scampered back into the house, one of several buildings owned and operated by their corporation. She had been in charge of ensuring the workers got enough food and occasional medical attention.

Pelly waited as the boss settled onto a patio chair, still on his cell phone. There were only a few people out behind the buildings. They all worked for the corporation, and most had seen a beating like this. Some of the men seemed to enjoy it.

He knew he had a few free minutes, and there was a book in the car about an Englishman who had become an artist using only his left foot. He was fascinated by stories of people who overcame handicaps. For some reason it seemed like all these people were from England, at least the really interesting ones. His favorite was Robert Merrick, who was called the Elephant Man. He knew what it felt like to be compared to an animal.

Instead of grabbing his book, though, Pelly arched his back, then bent to stretch his legs. After a moment, he started practicing a kata, then threw a few kicks into the air. Most of the men knew he had a black belt in Shotokan karate-he rarely needed it in his job, that's what guns were for-but he had cracked a few heads and knocked out some teeth for inappropriate comments, and these guys knew it.

The boss walked back to him, folding the phone as he approached. He smiled, his Spanish as elegant as his English. "Pelly, my friend, we may have the right man to ship our special load to the U.S."

"Was that Gastlin?"

"It was, and he seemed open to a load of pot. A big one. We can stick our package in the container, and he'll never even know it."

Pelly frowned.

"What's wrong, my friend?"

"Boss, I just don't see the value in shipping this thing to the U.S. It'll make it much harder for us to ship in our drugs."

His employer's face darkened. "You know how important this could be for the country. You know how I feel."

"I do, boss. I just don't know if you're thinking this through."

The boss folded his arms and tried to act calm. He looked at the loose rope across the picnic table.

"Where is Maricella?"

"I thought you were done."

The boss thought about it and said, "I was going to throw a few more on her, but she got the message. I doubt she'll make any more personal calls from the office." He looked off over the open field with the low, brick wall around it. "Pelly, I know you're a little young to understand my hatred. You were up in the mountains when the Americans rolled into the country, crushing any hope of national pride, but this is important. This is why I went into this business. This is the one load that does mean something to us. Can't you see it?"

"I understand what happened. I learned it in history class. But I don't see how antagonizing the U.S. will help anything."

His boss smiled. "If nothing else, it'll help me sleep at night."

"You're risking a fortune to sleep a little better."

"What else do I have to spend my money on?"

William "Ike" Floyd strained under the weight of the two hundred twenty-five pounds he had just bench-pressed for the tenth time. He knew his close-cropped hair, which had been growing out only for the past few weeks, would not cover the bulging vein on his temple, as he grunted then let his spotter take the weight and guide it onto the supports. He liked working on his "beach muscles"-his chest and biceps-even though the nearest beach was over a thousand miles away.

Ike lay still, enjoying the few seconds to look up the shorts of his training partner. The twenty-year-old man knew that Ike stole peeks at his legs occasionally, but he had been careful not to be alone with the larger man. Ike knew it was only a matter of time. But he had to be discreet. A man in his position couldn't be caught with another man. He had learned that lesson in another group and still had a scar under his new hair as a result.

He didn't want people to look at him and know his politics, which was why he had grown his hair out, so he'd look more respectable to the uninformed public. He knew that the things that had been set in motion were too important to risk his being recognized or having the cops follow him around. That was why he had put out the word to the others to keep a low profile, especially here in Omaha. No fights, no protests, nothing at all. It hadn't gone over big with the members, but they knew he was still dedicated, and if he said to keep things cool it was for a good reason.

Ike sat up on the bench, the blood rushing slightly to his head. The wide-open gym was generally slow this time of day, while most poor slobs were off at work. His job at the telemarketing office had him coming in tonight at six. Soon he hoped to not have to bother with a job. He'd either be a hero or dead.

"How you feel, Ike?" asked the younger man.

"Good, Sean, good." He took a couple of deep breaths to clear his head. He liked the way his nickname sounded in the young man's voice.

"You look like you can't concentrate today. Everything all right?"

He hesitated. So far no one knew who he had met through the president of the National Army of White Americans. No one knew of his plans. He was anxious to tell someone, but he knew that operational security was vital. If he blabbed, he might not go down in history. But he looked into Sean's dark eyes, and he just knew the young man was trustworthy. As well as hot.

"Yeah, I got a lot going on," started Ike. "But if I tell you anything, you gotta swear that you'll never breathe a word about it."

"I swear, I swear."

Ike looked at him, feeling the sincerity as well as seeing it in the twenty-year-old's earnest face.

"We have a chance to make one hell of a statement. We just need to focus and keep our heads down."

"What are you gonna do?"

"I met someone through President Jessup. He's a foreign man, a beaner to be exact. From Panama, but this guy can help us more than any good white man ever will. We can get attention to our cause, force the federal government to close the borders and go down in history all in one afternoon."

"How's that?"

William "Ike" Floyd smiled and said, "You know anything about the Ukraine?"

Alex Duarte watched her bound into the gym inside the Palm Beach County Sheriff's Office main building.

Alice Brainard smiled, looking like she'd just come from an Old Navy commercial, then popped onto the treadmill next to Duarte and immediately had it cranked up to seven miles an hour. Without even breathing hard, she said, "In before dark. I'm impressed."

"Busy few days. Needed the break."

"I heard about the crash."

"TV news?"

"Yeah, but the vice guys love it. Any time the DEA or FBI does something like that, they all razz each other. Having the ATF along is just gravy." Her blond ponytail bounced behind her.

Duarte nodded, knowing the police tendency to ridicule. He'd yet to pick up the habit. He thought some stuff was funny, just like anyone else, but he didn't have time to set up the elaborate practical jokes the other cops seemed to pull all the time.

"The case is rolling. We turned the dealer, and he made a call to his supplier in Panama. Looks like there's a gun angle, too. Might get a trip out of it."

She cut her blue eyes toward him. "Not bad there, Alex. Just be careful."