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Miller had argued for more men, but Luke wanted to keep the squad small. Epstein might be out of bombs, but there were no doubt eyes in the sky tracking every motion of the army. “We’ll look like deserters. You know there will be plenty of them. It’s one thing to chant slogans and another to suffer drone fire. Epstein can’t track every group.”

“No,” General Miller had said. “But this is critical to our success. Will a dozen men be able to control the situation?”

“Yes,” Luke had replied. “Our targets are used to following orders.”

His team wasn’t the kind of elite unit he was used to, but people who drove across the country to join a militia tended to be of a breed, and he’d selected men with significant combat experience. The nature of it varied dramatically: Gorecki was an ex-marine who worked as a bodyguard for hip-hop superstars, Decker was the master-at-arms for a San Diego motorcycle club, Reynolds had commanded a police rapid response team in Tennessee.

“I’ll take the guard outside,” Luke whispered. “There are probably a couple more awake in the dorms. Reynolds, that’s your team. Do it quietly. Gorecki, take your three and secure the perimeter. Staff will be in the trailers; Decker and I will go door to door. Understood?”

His unit leaders gave him the thumbs-up. Luke started to rise, then paused. “Remember to check your targets. Nobody hurts a kid.” He waited to see nods from all eleven men, took one last look through the binos—the guard was still leaning against the hood of a car, his back to them—and handed them to Gorecki.

Luke stayed low, duckwalking toward the parking lot. It felt good to be moving after half an hour on cold ground. The on-mission clarity bloomed, that heightened awareness and sharpened focus. How many times had he done something like this? Dozens? Scores? He’d lost count of the nations he’d fought in. There had been times in his life when he felt that he was only alive when he was operating.

At least, he’d felt that way until he had sons.

The noise of the generators would cover any sound he might make, but he stepped lightly anyway. When he reached the nearest bus, he dropped to his belly, peered under the vehicle. All he could see of the guard were the back of his legs. Luke considered circling, decided to take the less expected route, and army-crawled beneath the bus. More of the guard was revealed with each careful movement. Judging by the number of butts at his feet, he’d been here awhile. The graveyard shift was boring, and it was easy for the mind to wander.

Luke rose, a ghost in shadows. He left his sidearm in its holster and slid a length of cord from his pocket, wrapping it around each gloved palm four times. One step, two, three, and then he was behind the man, close enough to smell the acrid tobacco reek and hear the raspy sound of his breath. Luke waited for him to take a last drag on the cigarette and exhale. Then he crossed his arms to make a loop, snapped it over the guard’s head and jerked back and out with both arms at the same moment he kicked out his knee.

In less than a second, the man’s entire body weight and all of Luke’s strength came to bear on the slender cord against his throat, shutting his windpipe and the carotid artery. His hands flew to his neck, scratching futilely as his legs kicked spasms in the dirt. His strength was gone in three seconds; after eight, he stopped moving entirely. Luke counted another twenty, unwound the cord, and confirmed the job with his knife.

Then he rose and waved his team forward.

They came quickly, automatic weapons ready. Led by Reynolds, six of them moved to the inflatable dome. Gorecki’s team spread out to surround the compound. Decker was of the amphetamine-thin variety of biker, a tattooed scarecrow with long hair bound back by his hat. His eyes didn’t widen as he took in the dead guard and the blood steaming against the cold ground.

Luke pointed to the nearest trailer. He’d hoped the door might not be locked—they were miles from the nearest town—but a gentle twist gave nothing. The fourth key on the guard’s ring did the trick. Luke opened the door and slid inside, Decker behind.

Night glow through the windows revealed a tiny living area. The kitchen was to the left, and on the wall to the right an open door led to what had to be the bedroom. Luke slid to it, footfalls silent on the carpet, then peered in. Pitch-black. He took the flashlight from his pocket, covered it with his palm, and let the blood-warm light trickle in. A desk, the door to a bathroom, a twin mattress with one figure in it. Six steps brought him alongside the bed.

In one move, Luke straddled the sleeper, covering his mouth with his right hand and using the left to aim the flashlight in his eyes. The man woke with a jerk and a gasp against Luke’s palm.

“Don’t fight.”

The man froze, his face pale and eyes wide, pupils constricting visibly in the sudden light.

“I’m going to take my hand off your mouth. Try to scream, you die. Understand?”

A trembling nod.