Tillman smiled mildly, neither agreeing nor disagreeing with the increasingly passionate Verhoven.

“If the storm troopers ever come here trying to take our guns, though, they’ll very quickly find out that West Virginians don’t cotton to having their rights trampled on.” It sounded like Verhoven was quoting something he’d written in a pamphlet—the kind of thing that he and his crew probably dropped off in truck stop bathrooms throughout the state.

Several cars full of young men rolled by. A couple of them bore bumper stickers on the rear that read DON’T TREAD ON ME. Verhoven tossed a crisp salute to each car as it passed.

“Did you serve in the military, Colonel?” Tillman said.

“I did not have that privilege,” Verhoven said. “I did, however, serve in the sheriff’s office for ten years. Ultimately I became deputy commander of the Hertford County Sheriff’s Tactical Unit. I was offered command of the STU, but by that time I was so sickened by government service I was forced to decline and return to private life.”

Tillman had heard around town that Verhoven’s departure from law enforcement was connected to busting other meth dealers and stealing their clients and product. But he figured that splitting hairs on that point was not going to help his cause.

“My wife, Lorene,” Verhoven said, indicating an unusually tall woman with straight, unnaturally blond hair.

Something about Lorene made Tillman nervous the moment he saw her. She dressed with the sort of ostentatious plainness that Tillman associated with Nazi propaganda posters from the 1930s: sheath skirt, starched white cotton blouse, no jewelry other than her wedding ring. Everything about her seemed demure except for her eyes—one brown, one blue—which had an intent staring quality that he’d seen occasionally in a certain variety of battlefield maniac, the kind of guy who liked charging into machine-gun nests.

“I’m so pleased to finally meet you, Mr. Davis,” she said, fixing him with her freakish eyes. “We’ve heard a great deal about your tribulations.”

Tillman nodded soberly. She had the same excessively formal manner of speaking as her husband.

“I hope I’ve cooked the boar to your liking,” she said.

“I can’t begin to tell you how fine that sounds,” Tillman said.

Fifteen minutes later they were seated at a heavy wood table in a room decorated with paintings of eagles, racks of vintage firearms, and a faded reproduction of the US Constitution.

Tillman noticed that Lorene Verhoven was observing him whenever she thought he wasn’t lookinal A;t looking. He’d turn to try to catch her eye, but at that moment she would look away and busy herself with the dinner. It added to Tillman’s feeling of unsettledness.

Verhoven, meanwhile, had begun a monologue—the conversational form to which he seemed best suited. He talked about the dietary shortcomings of vegetarianism, the history of Persia, the calls of various upland game birds, certain subtle issues in the translation of the New Testament from Greek, the hidden reasons for the formation of the European Union, and the reasons why Jews could not enter the Kingdom of Heaven.

“I am tired of going to bank machines where I’m asked if I want to do business in a foreign language,” Verhoven said between forkfuls of mashed potatoes and roasted boar. “I am tired of seeing hardworking Americans put out of their jobs by illegal foreigners. I am sick of seeing rich men profit from these people. And while I bear no personal grudge against Mexicans, I don’t like seeing my friends living on welfare because nobody hires white roofers or carpenters anymore. I am tired of paying exorbitant taxes. I’m tired of liberals talking about how I’m some kind of bloodthirsty menace to society because I believe in the Second Amendment to the United States Constitution. I’m tired of being unable to turn on a television without exposing my children to a parade of filth and violence and depravity and profanity and vulgarity.”

He paused, his hands shaking slightly with emotion.

This was Lorene’s cue to excuse herself. “I know you have business to discuss,” she said. “I’ve got some cleaning to do in the kitchen. I’ll leave you to it.”

Verhoven watched her go, his gaze both feral and adoring. Then he turned to Tillman. “Feel like stretching your legs?” He did not wait for an answer but stood and led Tillman out the back door of his house onto a small patio.

Gideon's War and Hard Target

The sun had already gone down, but the clear sky still...

Verhoven sounded saddened, maybe a little chastened, as he continued. “I did not come to this conclusion without a certain amount of struggle. You accomplish something in life, you start to get invested in it. Comfortable. Complacent. But there are other minds engaged in the struggle, some of whom are bolder and more ambitious than mine . . .” His voice drifted off.

The night was coming on rapidly. The air was cold and crisp. After a moment’s silence Verhoven said, “That list I showed you in the shop earlier. Maybe we could talk about it in greater specificity in the morning?”

Perfect, Tillman thought. That would give him the opportunity to do a midnight reconnoiter. “Sureth= A8220;Sure. I’ve already made my phone calls.”

“Excellent.” Verhoven scanned the horizon. “We’ve got maneuvers at oh dark thirty,” he said. “Input from a man of your experience could be enormously valuable to my unit. Join us?”

“I’d be proud to help, sir,” Tillman said.

16

ANDERSON, WEST VIRGINIA

Gideon had laid out all of the equipment Nancy gave him on a table in Tillman’s house. He had given Tillman a radio. But it was going to be tricky to use. It went without saying that Verhoven would be more than a little suspicious if he saw Tillman chatting away into a radio transmitter. So Tillman would have to get clear of the house in order to reach Gideon.

The plan was for the brothers to join up at the Verhoven property after Tillman’s dinner and try to find evidence of Mixon’s presence there. The Verhoven property was situated about five miles away as the crow flies, but about fifteen by the circuitous mountain roads he’d have to drive. Although it was cold outside and growing colder by the minute, Gideon was looking forward to the challenge of spending the night in the woods.

After he had checked and rechecked the equipment, Gideon had nothing to do. Tillman didn’t have a stereo or a TV. A cheap banjo hung in one corner on a peg. But Gideon had never been the slightest bit musical. A small shelf of books stood in the corner. There were a few thrillers, but most of the books were military history—everything from the Punic Wars through Afghanistan.

There was no dresser. Tillman’s entire wardrobe filled two cardboard boxes. The only discordant item in the cabin was a tuxedo hanging on the wall covered in plastic wrap from the rental store. Tillman was going to be Gideon’s best man in just a matter of weeks when Gideon and Kate tied the knot.

The threadbare quality of his brother’s life saddened him. Tillman seemed to have so little: neither material possessions nor someone to share his life. And yet, if Gideon were honest, there was a part of his brother’s life he envied. The ruggedness; the immediacy; the visceral thrill of the hunt. Waiting for Tillman to radio him, Gideon felt the excitement he recognized from his time on the Obelisk, and from when he first met with Mixon. He had spent his entire adult life avoiding conflict, and now it seemed that part of him craved it.

As he was musing, his cell phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number.

He answered the phone and a female voice returned: “Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a pay phone in America today?”

“Nancy?” he said.

Gideon's War and Hard Target

“Just listen,” she said. “Ray Dahlgren knows everything....