"Page eight," Bode said. " 'Be Discreet.' Everybody understand what that means? It means you don't go blastin' away with rifles on the goddamn turnpike."

From Chub came a scornful grunt. "Blow me."

Shiner was startled. This was nothing like the army. He felt a sticky arm settle around his shoulders. Turning, he got a faceful of whiskey breath.

"Funny thing," Chub said, fingering his ponytail, "how it's fine and dandy for him to roust a couple beaners for eight lousy bucks, but I swipe four C-notes off poor 'Bob' Lopez and all of a sudden I'm a shitty soldier. You tell the colonel he can blow me, OK?"

An angry cry arose, and the next thing Shiner knew, they were locked together – Bodean Gazzer and Chub – thrashing in the dry dirt of the rooster pit. Shiner wasn't convinced it was a serious fight, since no hard punches were being struck, but he was nevertheless disturbed by the unseemly clawing and hair pulling. The two men on the ground didn't look like battle-ready officers, they looked like barroom drunks. Shiner found himself wondering, with a twinge of shame, whether the White Clarion Aryans had a snowball's chance against crack NATO troops.

Pure fatigue ended the scuffle. Bode got a torn shirt and a bloody nose, Chub lost his eye patch. The colonel announced they were all going to his apartment and cook up the steaks. Shiner was surprised the drive was so peaceful; no one mentioned the fight. Bode talked expansively about the many militias in Montana and Idaho, and said he wouldn't mind moving out there if it weren't for the winters; cold weather aggravated the gout in his elbows. Meanwhile Chub had twisted the rearview mirror to inspect his split eyelid, observing that the whole orb socket had taken on a rank and swampy appearance beneath the airtight bicycle patch. Shiner recommended antibiotics, and Bode said he had a tube of something orange and powerful in the medicine cabinet at home.

Upon arriving at the apartment building, Bode Gazzer neatly gunned the Dodge Ram into the first handicapped slot. A scolding stare from an insomniac neighbor made no impression. Bode asked his white brothers to mind the guns, while he toted the food inside.

Chub and Shiner were perched on the tailgate, finishing their beers, when they heard it – more a moan than a scream. Yet it was riven with such horror as to raise the fuzz on their necks. They scrambled toward Bode's apartment, Chub drawing the .357 as he ran.

Inside, unaware that the colonel had dropped the groceries, Shiner slipped on an onion ring and went down headfirst. Chub, stepping in cheesecake, skated hard into the television set, which toppled sideways with a crash.

Bodean Gazzer never turned to look. He remained stock-still in the living room. His pale face shone with perspiration. With both hands he clutched his camouflage cap to his belly.

The place had been taken apart from the kitchen to the john; a maliciously thorough job.

Dumbstruck, Chub stuck the Colt in his belt. "Jesus Willy," he gasped. Now he saw what Bode saw. So did Shiner, one cheek smeared with rat shit, peering up from the kitchen tiles.

The intruders had ripped down the posters of David Koresh and the other patriots. On the bare wall was a message scrawled in red, in letters three feet high. The first line said:

WE KNOW EVERYTHING

The second line said:

FEAR THE BLACK TIDE

It took only fifteen minutes for the White Clarion Aryans to load the pickup – guns, gear, bedding, water, plenty of camo clothes. Wordlessly the men piled into the front, Shiner in the middle as usual. Chub's head lolled against the side window; he was too shaken to ask Bode Gazzer for a theory.

To Shiner it seemed the colonel knew exactly where he was going. He looked determined behind the wheel, taking the truck on a beeline to Highway One, then making a sharp left.

South, by Shiner's reckoning. The Everglades, maybe. Or Key Largo.

Bode flicked on the dome light and said, "There's a map under the seat."

Shiner spread it across his lap.

"Flip it over," Bode told him.

Instead he should've been paying attention to his mirrors. Then he might have noticed the headlights of the compact car that had been following them from the apartment.

Inside the Honda, JoLayne Lucks turned down the radio and asked: "How did you know they'd run?"

Tom Krome said, "Because these are not brave guys. These are guys who beat up women. Running away is second nature."

"Especially with the 'Black Tide' on their tails." JoLayne chuckled to herself. She and Tom had arrived an hour earlier and peeked in the apartment window, to make sure it was the right place. That's when they'd seen Moffitt's menacing valentine on the wall.

Now, pointing at the truck in front of them, JoLayne said: "Think they've got my ticket on 'em?"

"Yep."

"Still no game plan?"

"Nope."

"I like an honest man," JoLayne said.

"Good. Here's more: I'm not feeling so brave myself."

"OK. When we get to Oz, we'll ask the wizard to give you some courage."

Krome said, "Toto, too?"

"Yes, dear. Toto, too."

JoLayne leaned over and put a lemon drop in his mouth. When he started to say something, she deftly popped in another one. Krome was hopelessly puckered. He didn't know where the pickup truck was leading them, but he knew he wasn't turning back. Bachelorhood in the Nineties, he thought. What a headline Sinclair could write:

DEAD MAN DOGS DANGEROUS DESPERADOS

16

The farther they got from Coconut Grove, the stronger grew Chub's conviction that he would never see his treasured Amber again. He was seized by a mournful panic, a talon-like snatch of his heart.

Neither of his companions noticed. Shiner was preoccupied with the mysterious "Black Tide," and Bodean Gazzer was brimming with theories. Both men were shaken by the scene inside the ransacked apartment, and chatting about niggers and communists seemed to steady their nerves. An even flow of conversation also preserved the illusion of a calm orderly flight, when in fact Bode had no plan beyond running like hell. They were being pursued; chased by an unknown evil. Bode's instinct was to hide someplace remote and out of reach, and to get there as fast as possible. Shiner's naive and breathless queries, which otherwise would have provoked the harshest sarcasm, now worked as a tonic by affirming for Bode his role as the militia's undisputed leader. Although he hadn't the foggiest clue who the Black Tide was, Bode gave the full weight of his authority to wild speculation. This kept his mind busy and his spirits up, and Shiner hung on every word. Chub's lack of participation was of small concern, for Bode was accustomed to his partner's nodding off.

He was therefore flabbergasted to feel the gun barrel at the base of his neck. Shiner (who'd detected Chub's arm slipping behind the seat and figured he was just stretching) jerked at a sharp noise near his left ear – the click of the hammer being cocked. He turned only enough to see the Colt Python pointed at the colonel. "Pull over," Chub said.

"What for?" Bode asked.

"Yer own good."

As soon as his partner stopped the truck, Chub eased down the hammer of the gun. "Son," he said to Shiner, "I got another mission for you. Provided you wanna stay in the brotherhood."

Shiner flinched like a spanked puppy; he'd thought his place in the White Clarion Aryans was solid.

"It's no sweat," Chub was saying. "You'll dig it." He stepped out of the pickup and motioned with the gun for Shiner to do the same.

Being half drunk and exhausted did not affect Bodean Gazzer's low threshold of annoyance. Chain of command obviously meant nothing to Chub; the goon operated on blood impulse and reckless emotion. If it continued, they'd all end up in maximum security at Raiford – not the ideal venue for a white-supremacy crusade.