Die Trying Part 21

They've taken all the power away from us. Given our country away. You know where the government of this country really is?"

Reacher shrugged.

"DC, right?" he said.

"Wrong," Ray said. "It's in New York. The United Nations building.

Ever asked yourself why the UN is so near Wall Street? Because that's the government. The United Nations and the banks. They run the world. America's just a small part of it. The president is just one voice on a d.a.m.n committee. That's why voting is no d.a.m.n good.

You think the United Nations and the world banks care what we vote?"

"You sure about all this?" Reacher asked.

Ray nodded, vigorously.

"Sure I'm sure," he said. "I've seen it at work. Why do you think we send billions of dollars to the Russians when we got poverty here in America? You think that's the free choice of an American government?

We send it because the world government tells us to send it. You know we got camps here? Hundreds of camps all over the country? Most of them are for United Nations troops. Foreign troops, waiting to move in when we start any trouble. But forty-three of them are concentration camps. That's where they're going to put us when we start speaking out."

"You sure?" Reacher said again.

"Sure I'm sure," Ray said again. "Beau's got the doc.u.ments. We've got the proof. There are things going on you wouldn't believe. You know it's a secret federal law that all babies born in the hospital get a microchip implanted just under their skin? When they take them away, they're not weighing them and cleaning them up. They're implanting a microchip. Pretty soon the whole population is going to be visible to secret satellites. You think the s.p.a.ce shuttle gets used for science experiments? You think the world government would authorize expenditure for stuff like that? You got to be kidding. The s.p.a.ce shuttle is there to launch surveillance satellites."

"You're joking, right?" Reacher said.

Ray shook his head.

"No way," he said. "Beau's got the doc.u.ments. There's another secret law, guy in Detroit sent Beau the stuff. Every car built in America since 1985 has a secret radio transmitter box in it, so the satellites can see where it's going. You buy a car, the radar screens in the UN Building know where you are, every minute of the day and night. They've got foreign forces training in America, right now, ready for the official takeover. You know why we-send so much money to Israel? Not because we care what happens to the Israelis. Why should we care? We send the money because that's where the UN is training the secret world army. It's like an experimental place. Why do you think the UN never stops the Israelis from invading people? Because the UN has told them what to do in the first place. Training them for the world takeover.

There are three thousand helicopters right now, at air bases round the US, all ready for them to use. Helicopters, painted flat black, no markings."

"You sure?" Reacher said again. He was keeping his voice somewhere between worried and skeptical. "I never heard about any of this stuff."

That proves it, right?" Ray said.

"Why?" Reacher asked.

"Obvious, right?" Ray said. "You think the world government is going to allow media access to that stuff? World government controls the media, right? They own it. So it's logical that whatever doesn't appear in the media is what is really happening, right? They tell you the safe stuff, and they keep the secrets away from you. It's all true, believe me. I told you, Beau's got the doc.u.ments. Did you know every US highway sign has a secret mark on the back? You drive out and take a look. A secret sign, to direct the world troops around the country. They're getting ready to take over. That's why we need a place of our own."

"You think they're going to attack you?" Reacher asked.

"No doubt about it," Ray said. "They're going to come right after us."

"And you figure you can defend yourselves?" Reacher said. "A few guys in some little town in Montana?"

Joe Ray shook his head.

"Not a few guys," he said. There are a hundred of us."

"A hundred guys?" Reacher said. "Against the world government?"

Ray shook his head again.

"We can defend ourselves," he said. "Beau's a smart leader. This territory is good. We're in a valley here. Sixty miles north to south, sixty miles east to west. Canadian border along the northern edge."

He swept his hand through the air, above eye level, left to right like a karate chop, to demonstrate the geography. Reacher nodded. He was familiar with the Canadian border. Ray used his other hand, up and down the left edge of his invisible map.

"Rapid River," he said. That's our western border. It's a big river, completely wild. No way to cross it."

He moved the Canadian border hand across and rubbed a small circle in the air, like he was cleaning a pane of gla.s.s.

"National forest," he said. "You seen it? Fifty miles, east to west.

Thick virgin forest, no way through. You want an eastern border, that forest is as good as you're going to get."

"What about the south?" Reacher asked.

Ray chopped his hand sideways at chest level.

"Ravine," he said. "Natural-born tank trap. Believe me, I know tanks.

No way through, except one road and one track. Wooden bridge takes the track over the ravine."

Reacher nodded. He remembered the white truck pattering over a wooden structure.

That bridge gets blown," Ray said. "No way through."

"What about the road?" Reacher asked.

"Same thing," Ray said. "We blow the bridge and we're safe. Charges are set right now."

Reacher nodded slowly. He was thinking about air attack, artillery, missiles, smart bombs, infiltration of special forces, airborne troops, parachutes. He was thinking about navy SEALs bridging the river or Marines bridging the ravine. He was thinking about NATO units rumbling straight down from Canada.

"What about Holly?" he asked. "What do you want with her?"

Ray smiled. His beard parted and his teeth shone out as bright as his eyes.

"Beau's secret weapon," he said. Think about it. The world government is going to use her old man to lead the attack. That's why they appointed him. You think the president appoints those guys? You got to be joking. Old man Johnson's a world government guy, just waiting for the secret command to move. But when he gets here, what's he going to find?"

"What?" Reacher asked.

"He comes up from the south, right?" Ray said. "First building he sees is that old courthouse, southeast corner of town. You were just there. She's up on the second floor, right? You notice the new construction? Special room, double walls, twenty-two inches apart. The s.p.a.ce is packed with dynamite and blasting caps from the old mine stores. The first stray sh.e.l.l will blow old man Johnson's little girl to kingdom come."

Reacher nodded again, slowly. Ray looked at him.

"We're not asking much," he said. "Sixty miles by sixty miles, what is that? Thirty-six hundred square miles of territory."

"But why now?" Reacher asked. "What's the big hurry?"

"What's the date?" Ray asked back.

Reacher shrugged.

"July something?" he said.

"July second," Ray said. Two days to go."

To what?" Reacher said.

"Independence Day," Ray said. "July fourth."

"So?" Reacher asked.

"We're declaring independence," Ray said. "Day after tomorrow. The birth of a brand-new nation. That's when they'll come for us, right?

Freedom for the little guys? That's not in their plan."

TWENTY-FOUR

THE BUREAU LEAR REFUELED AT FARGO IN AND FLEW STRAIGHT southwest to California. McGrath had argued again in favor of heading straight for Montana, but Webster had overruled him. One step at a time was Webster's patient way, so they were going to check out the Beau Borken story in California and then they were going to Peterson Air Force Base in Colorado to meet with General Johnson. McGrath was about the only Bureau guy alive capable of shouting at Webster, and he had, but arguing is not the same thing as winning, so they were all in the air heading first for Mojave, McGrath and Webster and Brogan and Milosevic, all overtired, overanxious and morose in the hot noisy cabin.

"I need all the background I can get," Webster said. They put me in personal charge and these are not the type of guys I can be vague with, right?"

McGrath glared at him and thought: don't play your stupid Beltway games with Holly's life, Webster. But he said nothing. Just sat tight until the tiny plane started arrowing down toward the airfield on the edge of the desert.

They were on the ground just after two o'clock in the morning, West Coast time. The Mojave agent-in-charge met them on the deserted tarmac in his own car. Drove them south through the sleeping town.

The Borkens were a Kendall family," he said. "Small town, fifty miles from here. Fanning place, mostly citrus. One-man police department.

The sheriff is waiting for us down there."

"He know anything?" McGrath asked.

The guy at the wheel shrugged.

"Maybe," he said. "Small town, right?"

Fifty miles through the desert night at eighty-five took them just thirty-six minutes. Kendall was a small knot of buildings adrift in a sea of groves. There was a gas station, a general store, a grower's operation and a low cement building with whip antennas spearing upward from the roof. A smart black-and-white was parked up on the ap.r.o.n outside. It was marked: Kendall County Sheriff. There was a single light in the office window behind the car.

The five agents stretched and yawned in the dry night air and trooped single file into the cement building. The Kendall County sheriff was a guy about sixty, solid, gray. He looked reliable. Webster waved him back into his seat and McGrath laid the four glossy mug shots on his desk in front of him.

"You know these guys?" he asked.

The sheriff slid the photographs nearer and looked at each of them in turn. He picked them up and shuffled them into a new order. Laid them back down on the desk like he was dealing a hand of giant playing cards. Then he nodded and reached down to his desk pedestal. Rolled open a drawer. Lifted out three buff files. He placed the files underneath three of the photographs. Laid a stubby finger on the first face.

"Peter Wayne Bell," he said. "Mojave kid, but he was down here a lot.

Not a very nice boy, as I believe you know."

He nodded across to his monitor screen on a computer cart at the end of the desk. A page from the National Crime Center Database was glowing green. It was the report from the North Dakota cops about the ident.i.ty of the body they had found in a ditch. The ident.i.ty, and the history.

The sheriff moved his wrist and laid a finger on the next photograph.

It was the gunman who had pushed Holly Johnson into the back of the Lexus.

"Steven Stewart," he said. "Called Stevie, or Little Stevie. Farmboy, a couple of bushels short of a wagonload, know what I mean? Jumpy, jittery sort of a boy."

"What's in his file?" Webster asked.

The sheriff shrugged.

"Nothing too serious," he said. The boy was just too plain dumb for his own good. Group of kids would go out and mess around, and guess who'd be the one still stood there when I roll up? Little Stevie, that's who. I locked him up a dozen times, I guess, but he never did much of what you would want to call serious s.h.i.+t."

McGrath nodded and pointed to the photograph of the gunman who had gotten into the front seat of the Lexus.

This guy?" he asked.

The sheriff moved his finger and laid it on the guy's glossy throat.

Tony Loder," he said. This is a fairly bad guy. Smarter than Stevie, dumber than you or me. I'll give you the file. Maybe it won't keep you Bureau guys awake nights, but it sure won't help you sleep any better than you were going to anyhow."

"What about the big guy?" Webster asked.

The sheriff jumped his finger along the row and shook his grizzled head.

"Never saw this guy before," he said. That's for d.a.m.n sure. I'd remember him if I had."

"We think maybe he's a foreigner," Webster said. "Maybe European.

Maybe had an accent. That ring any bells with you?"

The sheriff just kept on shaking his head.

"Never saw him before," he said again. "I'd remember."

"OK," McGrath said. "Bell, Little Stevie Stewart, Tony Loder and the mystery man. Where do these Borken guys fit in?"

The sheriff shrugged.

"Old Dutch Borken never fit in nowhere," he said. That was his problem. He was in Nam, infantry grunt, moved out here when he got out of the service. Brought a pretty wife and a little fat ten-year-old boy with him, started growing citrus, did pretty well for a long while.