Pomp’s voice was down low, growly. He got up and ran out of the taco place. Star ran out after him, then Sayan went out too. “Yeah, it’s Pete. How long can you drive until you run out of gas, or, wait, have enough gas to turn back?” Pomp went toward his bike in long strides.

Star texted inside, and Sayan said to Gregory, “Road trip.”

“Fully authorized.” He handed over a corporate credit card. “Take a plane if you need.” Sayan got up and ran out.

Thandie gave her boss a long look. He waved his fingers. She threw money on the table, drained the last of her Coke, and ran out.

Wraith stared at Gregory. “I’ll keep track of this op.” She finished her last taco, and licked her fingers. “Once I understand what it’s all about.”

Specialist “Rooster” Barch looked at their Spider and their Gunny. “I have no doubt you will. I’ll work doubles until further notice.”

“Me too,” said Yuki.

“Why didn’t you go?” asked Wraith.

“I can’t do what they do,” said Rooster Barch.

“What he said,” said Yuki. “Besides, you’ll need us.”

“And a lot of clones of us,” said Rooster.

“Clones would be good here,” said Wraith. They all clinked glasses.

* * *

Thandie flashed the credit card. Pomp took it. “Buddy,” he said. “Jerry. Suicidal. On the list. I got him moved up to third, but they’ve just got a new group in, and that’s…”

“Six weeks, maybe two months,” finished Wild Bill. “We get it. Suicidal, for how long?”

“Since he got back, but he’s talked about it for three days straight.” Pomp looked out of his mind with worry.

Thandie got it going on. “Plane. Where?”

“Alabama,” he said.

“We lose six a day there to suicide,” said Wild Bill. “We’ll ride, take the fastest route.”

“Buy a bike there, and ride it back,” said Thandie. “Fully authorized.” She stared at him as he threw himself on his bike. “Go go go!” she said. He roared out, and they roared out after him.

Thandie had the route planned out. She’d been planning to visit her pregnant sister in Birmingham, Alabama. “Follow me. I-40.” They got on the road, and went out in a Harley roar.

The company card bought a business-class trip for Pomp. He sent a text to Frank, I’m coming. He waited until the plane took off, and bought a Harley-Davidson Road Glide touring bike. It had some miles, but it looked to be in perfect working order. He put it on the card. He figured he could sell it when he got back, help Jerry learn to build another one, and give it to him. Once he got a handle on that sweet ride, he’d want one of his own. Or he would work for Desert and hire someone else to build one. He sent a pic of the bike, in gold and black, to Jerry’s brother Frank, a sometimes-working fireman who was also trained as a paramedic. Jobs were scarce, budgets cut. The library closed, the kids had to bus nearly an hour to the elementary school.

Frank was terrified. His brother used to be huge, a mountain of a man. But money for food was spare, and Frank had three kids. Food went for them first. Now his brother had gray skin, his hair was turning white but he was only twenty-six years old. Jerry had worked in the lumber store, right up until it closed. He’d walked miles to the diner, washing dishes, until it closed, too. Jerry had stopped eating, and he still had a service weapon.

Frank now sat with Jerry, and showed him the bike on his phone, and said, “Pete’s coming. And he’s bringing a bike for you.” Jerry moaned, and said nothing.

The riders on the road took it fast. Thandie led them, and they followed behind. She got her headset running, and Wraith barked out, “Report.”

“Pomp has his good friend Jerry ready to commit suicide. He’s on our list.” Thandie led them around a truck, and got them safe in the middle lane on the 515 to Boulder City. They let the throttle out, letting the Harleys roar. “He’s third, but they just got a class in, and Jerry can’t wait six weeks.”

“Understood,” said Wraith.

“Pomp’s on a plane. Send someone to get his bike out of short term parking.”

“Done,” said Wraith. “I’ll find out where he parked.”

“Good,” said Thandie.

They rode all night. They stopped at a rest stop in Kingman, Arizona, and bought waters and sodas. They merged onto the I-40.

Pomp texted Wraith, giving her the exact space number at the airport. He got off the plane at Charlotte, and he took a cab to find a coffee shop where he could have coffee and a meal. He had two cups, and took a cab back to catch his commuter flight to Birmingham.

He took a cab to the dealer, just outside Birmingham in Jasper on the I-22. He checked it out with his mechanic’s eye, and it was incredible to ride. He quailed at paying five figures for a bike, but he knew it could sell for more in Vegas. He headed out for the wide place in the road, Rudon, Alabama, where an exhausted Frank was still talking, trying to keep his brother Jerry alive.

Thandie and the guys got a few hours in a hotel room just outside Albuquerque, New Mexico, and then they hit the road again. They had breakfast in a coffee shop outside Amarillo, Texas.

Jerry was pacing, gun in hand. Frank heard the bike come up, and opened the window onto the dusty, hammer-bright day. Pomp got off the bike, and hung the brand-new helmet on the handlebar. The other one was in the seat storage. He pulled out a six-pack of Cokes and a mess of tacos, and carried them in. He handed one bag and four of the Cokes to a dispirited Frank, and padded his shoulder.

Pomp pointed his head toward the house. “Go in, be with the family,” he said.

Frank stared at the food and the plastic ring with Cokes hanging from it, as if he’d never seen anything like it before. Pomp gave him a tiny shove, and sent him out the door.

Pomp stared at his friend, and tried not to let the shock show on his face. Jerry had lost fifty pounds. He looked like a cancer survivor. A shy skin hung loosely down from around his middle. All those muscles were gone, attacked and eaten by a body on a starvation diet.

“I brought tacos,” said Pomp. Jerry stared dully at him. Tacos take two hands, thought Pomp. He popped the top on each can, and put them on the floor. There was nothing but an ancient, stained futon with a blue sheet haphazardly spread on it. Pomp stood in the corner where he could watch the door of the shed. The floor had been swept.

Jerry wore an ancient blue shirt, with “Running” on it, with a dog pacing a man in silhouette, and black shorts that had faded to gray. He was in the corner where he could see the door and the window. Pomp unwrapped the end of a taco and handed it to Jerry. Jerry took it. Pomp reached down and unwrapped a taco for himself, stuffed with chicken, tomato, salsa, lettuce, and sour cream. He handed Jerry a napkin. Jerry put the gun in his sagging waistband, and took the napkin. They ate. Pomp handed over the Coke after Jerry inhaled two tacos, and he drained it. Pomp only drank half his Coke and ate one taco. He gave a third taco to Jerry, and Jerry ate it all. It was like watching a starving wolf eat. It was horrible to think he had lost so much weight.

“You talked about tacos nearly every day in Kandehar,” said Pomp. “It’s Taco Hell, but it works.” He took one last sip of Coke, and handed it to Jerry. Jerry drained it. “You got anything you wanna take with you, ‘cept your ID and social security card and birth certificate?” Jerry slowly swiped his head back and forth. “Got an opening. On a farm, with Robert.” He hadn’t said a word to Robert, but he knew the kind man would do what he needed to, and that Vi would feed him in the farm kitchen.

“You can live with Mike, but that’s fucking loud. New baby in the house.” Jerry shrugged. “So, you’re bunking with us. We live in a three-bedroom. Fuckin’ company owns the whole apartment building. We’re full up, but you’ll get your own room later.” Jerry tilted his head, as if he heard the “wah wah” of Charlie Brown’s teacher. “Where’s your birth certificate?”

Jerry pointed to the futon. Under the futon was a blue accordion folder, battered and torn. Pomp opened up the folder, and found the birth certificate, the social security card, Jerry’s discharge papers, his diagnoses, and a pathetic pile of letters. From Jerry, then an attorney, then Jerry’s brother, Frank. A letter to get the medical and psychological attention that Jerry needed. He scanned but didn’t read. He’d give it to Thandie to take to Wraith, and Jerry’s frightening weight would be thrown onto the problem. He felt something in the bottom, and quailed when he realized it was a Purple Heart for bravery in battle, out of its box, sliding around in the bottom of a plastic accordion file.

He closed it up, and put the band back on the accordion file. “Let’s go. You want to say goodbye to Frank?” Jerry gave Pomp the side-eye, so Pomp just nodded as if Jerry had already spoken. Pomp walked over and took the detritus of the tacos and the cans from Jerry. He crushed the cans, and put all the trash in the bag. “Let’s go,” he said, and walked out the door. Pomp threw the bag away in the trash by the street, and he then walked back to the bike. He took a deep breath when he realized Jerry had entered the sunlight, blinking slowly like a sloth in the sun. Pomp walked back, and took the second helmet out of the storage. “Gun here,” he said, and passed over the helmet.

Jerry shuffled forward, and put the gun in the helmet storage. Pomp used a single finger to engage the safety, but he was terrified to have a loaded weapon in between his legs. But, in reality, he had to get Jerry on the bike before Jerry changed his mind. Jerry fumbled with the strap, but got the helmet on. Pomp made sure the helmet was on (after he put on his own) by poking it. Jerry backed off, but realized Pomp was only checking the helmet, and let Pomp poke his helmet. The helmet stayed put. Pomp stepped back, got on the bike, and stood it up. He turned the key, and revved the engine. Jerry stumbled forward, but got his leg over without burning his calf on the exhaust. He straightened, and Pomp nearly lost it. Jerry used to make entire Jeeps dip upon getting in them. Now, this was a shell, a cancer patient, but the cancer was in his nervous system, his functionality.

Jerry got his feet on the pegs, those still-large feet, in (badly abused) gray jogging shoes, scuffed and battered. Pomp got the bike backed up, turned around, and made his way back to the I-22. He got on, and headed to the 269. They got on the 40, and he pulled off at a rest stop just past Memphis.

He took the helmet from Jerry, and put it in the seat. Jerry lumbered toward the rest stop at a fast clip, giving Pomp enough time to get the bullets out of the gun. He put the bullets into his saddlebag, and replaced the gun under the helmet. He went in; himself, and gave Jerry some dollars to purchase candy and soda from a machine. He came back out to find Jerry consuming a Baby Ruth bar and finishing off a Coke. They got back on the highway, and they rode for a while.

“He’s on the I-40 heading toward you,” said Wraith in Thandie’s ear. “They’ll be in Little Rock in a few hours. I suspect they’ll stop for lunch at (or before) there.” She sighed. “He’s on a used, and expensive, Harley-Davidson Road Glide, gold and black.” She rattled off the license plate.

“That should be easy to spot,” said Thandie. “We’ll stop before Oklahoma City for food, and maybe crash.” She snorted. “Tell us when our pings start to merge so we can get turned around.”

“Will do,” said Wraith.

Pomp tried to get Jerry to talk, but his eyes remained closed, stony. He used rest stops to send texts to Jerry’s brother Frank. Jerry didn’t have anything on him but a battered wallet containing his old military ID, no driver’s license, and an entire dollar. Pomp took him to a used clothing store and got him shorts, jeans, T-shirts, work boots, motorcycle boots, and tennis shoes. He bought another pair of jeans and two more T-shirts as well. He bought a package of underwear at the dollar store, and duffel bags for each of them. Pomp threw out Jerry’s old clothes. Jerry had absolutely no reaction to being dressed like a doll. Pomp was terrified; Jerry used to talk, a lot, about food and jazz, and everything else under the sun.

Thandie, Star, and Sayan found a red-roofed hotel, right next to a Denny’s coffee shop. They ate pancakes and bacon, completely mechanically, like cows chewing cud. Thandie received a text, with an ATM photo of Jerry.

The next was his military file. Thandie cringed at the difference. It was like a linebacker became a pencil-pusher. “He’s a signal support systems specialist. Army. Took a lot of information system courses, has certificates, was five classes away from a bachelor’s degree in information systems. Then he got blown up. The communications tent was bombed. Six died. He singlehandedly saved two, pulled them out of a burning tent and put out the fires with his own clothing. His hands are scarred, but usable. He has burns on his chest, and he conducted first aid. He has a chunk missing out of the muscle of his left arm, and is in perpetual pain because of it. He watched people he’d worked with and trained with, die horribly. He got a purple heart.”

“Fuck,” said Sayan. “We gotta help this guy.”

“We can’t help him by falling on our faces,” said Thandie. “Let’s sleep, and meet them. Six hours?” Everyone nodded. They finished, paid, and went next door to crash.

They met the next day on the other side of Oklahoma City. They stopped at another coffee shop, and they all ate like pigs, with plates of biscuits, bacon, eggs, and hash browns. Pomp looked exhausted. Jerry looked like a shell, a people-sized robot. He ate mechanically, like he didn’t even taste the food.

“We’re going to take it slower on the way back,” said Thandie. “Get enough sleep.”

“Yes, Boss,” said Pomp. He called her that in the field. “Wraith check in?”

“She’s delighted we’ve joined up. She says she hopes you’re not too in love with the bike.”

Jerry showed the first stirrings of interest. “It’s mine,” he said. “Pete has one.”

“Good to know,” said Thandie. “It’ll be a perk if you get picked up by High Desert. You’ll learn every single millimeter of it.”

Pomp, aka Pete, sighed with relief. Jerry had been speaking in grunt language. He was beginning to wonder if Jerry had become a zombie. “Cool,” he said.

“Let’s reverse,” said Thandie. “Where’s Jerry going to sleep?”

“My room,” he said. “I’ll take the couch.”

“We can hang a pod, but then you’d have to take it down,” said Star.

“Naw,” said Pomp. “Jerry’s gonna get bigger, fit into his shoes again. He’ll end up on a king-sized bed again.” He grinned. “He’ll need his own room.”

“Gotta get ya trained first,” said Sayan, smiling at Jerry.

“That’s gonna happen,” said Pomp.

“Word,” said Star. “So, we can do it in shifts.”

“Robert,” said Pomp. Everyone nodded.

“I’ll text him,” said Thandie. “And, a little piece of Damia sunshine will do him some good.”

“He’ll learn how to build bikes, paint Zuni designs, and learn how to clean tack,” said Sayan. “Takes me back to my peoples’ roots.”

Thandie grinned. “Arabian horses?” she said. “Don’t they have mostly painted ponies on Henry’s farm?”

“Be happy for the moment. Your moment is your life,” said Sayan.

“Omar Khayyam was Persian, not Arabian,” said Thandie.

“I’m eating the last of the bacon, and getting out of here,” said Star. She took it and headed out to the parking lot. “Getting too deep in here.”

Pomp used the company card, and they hit the road again. They retraced their trip, heading through the grasslands of Oklahoma to the badlands of Texas. They ate a fast food lunch. They slept in an inn just past Amarillo, after a huge barbecue meal. Sayan had the chicken; the rest of them ate pulled pork, fries, and sodas.

“We need to get you a Nevada bike license for you to keep the bike,” said Pomp. Jerry grunted. “We can give you a rundown, get you started.” Jerry grunted again.

The gun and ammo were gone; Thandie had them. But there were cars, trucks, even just leaning the wrong way on the highway. Jerry could still kill himself, quite easily. Pomp didn’t know what to do with the shell of a man in front of him. This man was a zombie. The man he knew who loved music, who always had a foot tapping or a finger moving. The music didn’t make him move anymore. Did he have to bring Jerry to a dance club? He pulled up his cell phone, and found a jazz club in Amarillo.

“I’ve got a side trip,” he said.

“We’ll come with,” said Star. “Where?”

He passed her the cell phone. She passed it back. “Drummer?”

“Saxophone and trumpet,” said Jerry. Pomp nearly fell out of his chair. Jerry actually spoke. “Where are we going?” Jerry asked.

“To hear some trumpet,” said Pomp. Jerry held out his fist, and they bumped fists. Thandie let out the breath she’d been holding in for two days.

They entered into blue and purple lights, a bar along one side, with tables along the other. The blues were smoky. A man in a white hat sang Sting’s Moon Over Bourbon Street, in an achy growl. They ordered Cokes. Thandie slipped out, and waved her fingers. Pomp gave her the company card. She vanished out the back.

The song ended with a wolf howl, and people clapped. A stunning African-American woman in a golden dress that barely came to her knees sang the torch song Fever, in a growling way. She went into a jazz version of Meghan Trainor’s All About That Bass, then Snarky Puppy and Lalah Hathaway’s Something, including the nonsense scat, minus Lalah’s amazing ability to sing chords. The band swung into Daft Punk’s Lucky. Then, together, the man in the porkpie hat, black suit, and white string tie and the gorgeous woman sang such a smoky version of the song, and the audience danced in their seats, and on the tiny floor in front of the band.

Thandie bounced her way back in on the heels of the song. She handed over a battered black trumpet case, complete with a mute. She handed it to Jerry, and slid past Star to get into the booth on the other side of Sayan. Jerry ran his fingers over the case, and then opened it. He stroked it, felt the golden metal under his fingertips. He opened the case, and while the band drank water, and the bassist played a few chords, he stood, trumpet in one hand, the mute in the other. He played a few notes, stopped, and then played again.

A man came up with a Spanish guitar, the band settled, and somehow Jerry knew what to do. He walked forward, and took his place. The female singer moved away from her mic, and gave it to him. He played some notes, and then the cellist came up, moved the bassist over, and played a gorgeous coda. The Spanish guitarist played the opening bars to Sting’s Fragile. The female singer got another mic, and sang with a beautiful, haunting voice. The cellist, guitarist, and Jerry came in at different times. It was beautiful, and truly haunting. Pomp found himself crying. He’d been annoyed when Jerry went on and on about the YouTube video with YoYo Ma, the famous cellist; Sting on a lute; Chris Botti on trumpet, and Dominic Miller on guitar.

The singer slipped into Joss Stone’s Right to Be Wrong, followed by About a Boy, then Miz Independent. The audience bopped in their seats.

Then, Jerry started playing a song everybody knew. The woman stepped aside, the man got up and sang, in full Louis Armstrong mode, about their beautiful world. Now everyone else was tearing up in their desert group. They’d all been blown up, scarred, damaged, in places both seen and unseen. He hit the notes beautifully, growling and loving at the same time. The cellist and bassist played together, and the song finished. The band stood back, and the woman came up. She sang a perfect acapella version of Somewhere Over the Rainbow. The notes died out, and they all sat in silence. Then, the standing ovation came.

Jerry came back, and drained his Coke. “We can go now.” And they did.

The next morning, the road back was a smooth ribbon of road. The sun beat down like a hammer. They wore full-face helmets to keep from eating dust. They listened to a bizarre mix of shit-kicker country music, Tom Petty, AC/DC, and torch songs. They screamed the lyrics out on the highway, especially the Live 1985 version of Tom Petty’s Breakdown, AC/DC’s Highway to Hell, Big & Rich’s Save A Horse (Ride a Cowboy), and a very slinky version of Marvin Gaye’s Let’s Get It On.

They taught Jerry the parts of the bike at truck stops, rest stops, and diners, and Star took it upon herself to quiz him in the middle of conversations about the farm and High Desert. They ended up teaching Jerry how to ride on a wide stretch of open road off the I-4o somewhere in New Mexico. He was more awake, more alive. The bike pleased him, excited him. It woke Jerry up. They let him take flat stretches of road every few hours, getting him warmed up, inside and out.

They found a jazz club just outside Albuquerque, and they spent time hearing songs like I’ll Be There and In the Still of the Night, Unchained Melody, and a very upbeat and jazzified Stop Dragging My Heart Around. The musicians let Jerry play, and he did them proud, despite missing a chunk of his arm and still being far too thin for his frame. They crashed there that night.

They made it into town at three in the morning. Pomp parked the bike right next to his own. In the apartment, Wild Bill was waiting up, and he gave Jerry his room. “Got someone in town,” he said, and took off, duffel on his back.

“That was weird,” said Jerry. “Who was that guy?”

“One of our brothers,” said Pomp. “I get the shower first.”

“Fuck you,” said Jerry. “I’m dirtier, and I ain’t sharing.”

“Fine,” said Pomp. He went into his room and dropped his duffel. He put Jerry’s open duffel into his room; Jerry had gotten more clothes out. And the toothbrush from a hotel. Soon, both men were showered and sleeping.

They got Jerry to the motorcycle course, and he got his license eight hours later. Pomp picked him up, and took him out to the farm. They got there in time for steak, potatoes, biscuits with honey and butter, and salad. Both men had limeade, welcome after a hot day.

Henry put his hand on Jerry’s shoulder. “Welcome,” he said. “Sit next to Robert.” Robert grinned, pulled out a chair, and said, “I bought some tools,” he said. “They’re old, but they still work. We need to clean them after dinner.”

Jerry nodded. He buttered the biscuit and poured on honey from a pot. Robert introduced everyone. He was stunned at the noise. The baby, Tarak, who screamed bloody murder, passed from mother to mother, to Henry, to Nantan, his father.

He instantly stilled, and looked into his father’s eyes. “Now there,” said Nantan. “My little warrior. Is that any way to act?” The baby burped loudly, making everyone laugh, and grinned at his father. Chayton looked over Nantan’s shoulder, and grinned down at his son.

A trio of girls came in, sat down, and began speaking over each other in Mandarin. Ivy came in, kissed each one’s head, and made sure they ate their vegetables. Callie came in behind her, kissed her wife, and sat down across from the girls. David brought in the raw green beans, put them down, and kissed Henry’s cheek. He sat down, kissed Tarak’s head, and grinned.

Four boys ran in, and Henry gave them a look. They sat down, and began speaking in a mix of Paiute, which Henry and David answered, and Apache, which Nantan and Chayton answered.

Next, a little girl with blonde hair came in, and Ivy moved to let her sit in between her and Callie. Mike came in, and took the last chair. David stood and sang, and they fell on the food like wolves. Everyone talked, ate, laughed. Jerry felt like his head was in a blender. He got through the food part, and slipped out onto the porch.

The little girl followed him out. She took his hand, and led him to the pasture. “This is a good place to be quiet in your head,” she said. She climbed up on the fence, and he leaned on it.

After a time, Robert came out with several cans of Coke in his hand. He put the cans on a little table, and then he dragged out a rolling toolbox, a small basket of rags, and metal cleaner. Damia took Jerry’s hand, and led him to Robert. She sat him down in a plastic chair, put a tool in his hand, poured metal cleaner on a rag, and put the rag in his hand. She dragged over her own chair, poured metal cleaner onto a rag, selected a tool, and sat down.

“We have to be quiet,” said Damia. “We might hear the owls.” They sat there, cleaning tools, sipping Coke, in the encroaching dusk, listening for the owls. A peaceful time that was worth its weight in gold.

Arizona Ragnarok

Rachael Mayes, otherwise known as Gramer, or “Fierce” in Old Norse shot a 9 into the corner pocket. Message received, was the code sent to Arlen Thanh, otherwise known as Saber, who was shooting the strangest game of pool ever seen. Instead of a triangle and break, he put balls all over the table and used straightforward shots and various tricks to shoot the balls in. Saber called it his “warmup.” He then took on comers, to earn beer money only, nothing that would piss off anybody except the truly drunk —or stupid.

Saber’s current undercover persona was Ran Tran, a nasty little arms dealer. He’d traced the line from the ancient weapons traded for drugs all the way back to Ruden Wang, a “collector.” Ruden collected and sold weapons, most of them highly illegal. He had a turned and twisted procurement officer deep within the US Army, and there was a military officer deep inside ready to take that man down with extreme prejudice. That little major was going to be doing major time in Leavenworth. Saber was deep in, as the major’s go-between.

Saber’s message had been, Fortress involved. Rabbit warren. Women and children. This was every federal organization’s fear. Insane people often surrounded themselves with innocents. Big sale happening in two days.

U.S. Marshall Mayes didn’t mind spending an hour or two a few times a week in a pool hall on a widened part of the road, basically a roadhouse for the beer-and-pool set, in Arizona, near the Nevada-Arizona border. It didn’t interfere with her day job; even the afternoon meets like this one, spinning people from Los Angeles and Las Vegas into the system that would hide them. It was popularly called the Witness Protection Program, or WITSEC. She had four she was watching in the little Arizona town just outside Flagstaff. One was an ex-mobster, the improbably-named Mookie, now running a thrift shop. The second was a doctor fleeing, from being forced to give a Russian mobster a new face. She delivered babies, and ran a side business of getting women out of violent situations, which made her far happier than she had been in Boston. The last two were sisters who had seen a murder while driving home from college. They had gotten teaching certificates online, and were now working to teach bilingual Spanish/English classes at a private school.

She sent the 6 ball into a pocket. We’re on. She grinned at the shot, something she would have been expected to do. She also felt the thrill, the little push that said, Operation on. WITSEC had numbed her butt. She needed to move. She’d taken climbing classes from Rota, and Skuld had thrown her around on mats until she was bruised, but she needed more.

She turned, and the skinheads and survivalists (Saber’s mark was hiding behind) stood. Something had spooked them. They abandoned their beers, and stared around them.

Saber made another shot, the 8 ball. That one meant, Danger. She grinned, and they both had a pool cue in one hand, and the other on hidden weapons. Gramer slipped a hand in her pocket, and her .22 (not her normal service weapon) was hidden there. She centered her body weight, bent her knees, and made herself ready.

Gramer wasn’t ready for a shot from behind. It hit her shoulder, spun her forward, and she let herself fall, using the cue to hold her weight while looking as if she was falling uncontrollably. She had enough time to sight and shoot. The shooter fell, a man with dark hair, eyes, and a HATE tattoo over the knuckles of his shooting arm. Saber was at her side, digging into her pockets while slipping something into her left pocket. He pulled out her phone, and sent a coded text. He pretended to smash the phone with his boot, and she let herself roll onto it, gurgling as if it were her last breath. He turned, made a motion, and the two at the bar were running, with Saber hot on their heels.

Well, then. She slipped her hand into her left pocket, pulled out the pressure bandage, and grinned. She slipped out her hidden phone; a tiny one, and read the code. She laughed as the shit-kicker boots of a cowboy walked up to her. He was on the phone, calling Eduardo, whoever the fuck that was.

He knelt, avoiding the blood, and helped her to apply the pressure bandage to her neck at the shoulder on the left side. “I’m a county supervisor,” he said. “I think you’re more than some woman in a bar. I’m Regis.”

“Gramer,” she said. She remembered that was her Valkyrie name. But, that was okay, because they would be there soon. “US Marshal,” she sighed and said. “Get everyone off the street. Ragnarok… coming. Good… kind.”

“Death for the bad guys?” he said, rolling her onto her side in a bid to help gravity keep her blood inside her. He put his own shirt underneath her head, then pressed down, making her moan out in pain. She slipped under.

Sigrun had a herd of kids at the massive table, War, who now called himself Warren, bashing his way through coding class. Dina and Sondra, the munchers, munching their way through a bowl of fruit and nuts. They were working on a project to make a warren —a rabbit kind, in the central courtyard. Dina couldn’t hold tools yet, but she was getting stronger. They had to design and implement it, including electrical with a solar panel to keep the rabbits from roasting in summer and freezing in the Vegas winter winds. Wraith was in the back, her murmured voice bending its way out of the office.

Sigrun’s phone vibrated. She looked at the text, and she heard Wraith’s voice suddenly get clear and calm. She grabbed the traveling food, including homemade fruit, nuts, granola bars, and cans of soda. She slipped them in the pack. She ran to her own bedroom, slid into her leathers, and slipped weapons into her boots, sleeves, and a gun in the small of her back. She grabbed the same weapons and clothes from the main bedroom, with its enormous king-sized bed occupied by a cat, and dumped them in the office on Wraith’s desk.

She stepped out, her earbud in her ear. She was ready.

* * *

Yancey strode into the front office. She swung behind Jaime Choi’s desk, waited until he put someone on hold, took his earpiece out of his ear, and shoved it into her own. She took his arm, and hauled him out of his chair. She shoved him toward the door, and he found himself running as Gregory ran past him. He made it into the elevator to their private garage.

“Where are we going, boss?” he asked. The door opened, and he ran with Gregory toward Gregory’s bike. “And why?”

Gregory handed him a helmet and a built-in headset, and put one on his own head. Choi put it on, and hopped on behind Gregory. Gregory drove in the Evade manner, which meant he made the Harley growl as he used backstreets to get where he was going, fast.

“Valkyrie down, just over the Arizona border, US Marshal, Saber’s takedown is jeopardized. He sent the code out without having any idea that he now had three kids.”

Jaime leaned with a turn. He understood now. He had a foster parent license. He could be at the house when the Valkyries took care of emergency Valkyrie business. “I’ll text my husband later.”

“Bring Kat over, along with Sarah,” Gregory said. “It’s a huge house. One dog, one cat, and they get along.” Gregory took a curve smoothly.

“Is Saber okay?” asked Jaime.

“Maybe, maybe not,” said Gregory. “You’ll have to stay indefinitely. You’ll have full service and protection.”

“Good.”

Jaime did calculations. His almost-adoptive daughter, Sarah, was already under protection from her accountant that oversaw, and had been attempting to steal from, her trust, from after her mother died. The accountant was under indictment, and they were attempting to get legal control of the trust, and to allow Jaime to legally adopt his daughter.

Gregory spoke. He said, “Daughters are your daughter’s age, she’ll love them. One severely malnourished, getting her weight back.”

“Pizza and caramel popcorn night,” said Jaime. He composed the texts he would send in his mind.

“Good,” said Gregory. They were in front of a huge house, with a lawn that sported a doggy-doodoo bag, trash receptacle, with blue bags ready to go above it. There were spiky plants and rocks, in shades of silver and green. Jaime slipped off, gave back the helmet, and then sent his two fast texts. One was, Bring over Sarah, and clothes and food for three days. He typed out the address. The second was, Two girls, one boy, all Sarah’s age, one recovering from malnutrition.

He didn’t have to knock. Wraith nearly dragged him inside. “Younger ones, this is Jaime Choi,” said Wraith. “Mama and I have to go. We have a sudden Valkyries thing. Jaime is awesome and has a girl your age, and the most amazing spouse.” She kissed his cheek. The dog sniffed his feet, and the kids all waved.

“Carry on,” he said, as more Valkyries slipped out the door to the garage, and the Harleys ripped to life.

“Someone’s in trouble,” observed Warren.

“Yes, and the law is on our side,” said Jaime, crossing to the kitchen. A cat attacked his feet, and then ran away. He laughed. “Our people will fix it.” He entered, and started opening cabinets. “So, make-your-own pizzas?” He narrowed his eyes. “After homework.” Three pairs of eyes looked at him, then he could feel the concentration resume onto their screens. He washed his hands, took out the flour, and got started.

* * *

Saber traveled in the back of a car. Rat was murmuring, spreading hate under his breath. “Fucking cunt killed Spike,” he said, then described the things he planned on doing to her corpse.

Saber kept his voice calm. “Neck shot. She’s dead.” He took a breath, let it out. He hoped she wasn’t. She was Valkyrie-tough.

“Gonna…” Rat let the ugliest words flow out of him, each word uglier than the last.

“Anybody know why Train shot her?” asked Saber, adding a frisson of steel to his voice.

“He saw her talking to a cop,” said Bullseye. “She’s one of them.”

“He’s gone too,” said Saber. “We’ve got to do our deal. This isn’t my thing.”

“Fuck-fuck-fuck,” said Rat.

Saber sucked in air through his teeth. These guys were spinning out, and that wasn’t good. Not at all.

* * *

Rota and Skuld met up with them just past Kingman, at a truck stop lit up like they were trying to personally prevent darkness throughout the planet. They were met by Sokn, which meant “attack,” a Valkyrie with charcoal skin, snapping black eyes, and the muscles of a rock climber.

“I’m the sheriff for this county,” she said. “Saber informed me about the compound. Hear it’s got tunnels, a rabbit warren. A standard hate group, with survivalists. Truck drivers, warehouse workers, bartenders in shit-kicker bars, rodeo workers, cashiers. If they even have jobs. Clean-shaven, lots of muscles on the guys. The women don’t wear prairie dresses, but they are covered. Jeans, T-shirts, like the men. Hard drinkers, drink a lot of beer. They police their brass, make their own ammo, and have lots of guns, using a shooting range on the back forty. Hear rumors of an urban fighting range inside the compound, for the race war.”

Wraith snorted. “Lovely people.”

“It gets worse,” said Sokn. “They decided they needed more and bigger guns. Rocket launchers, stuff like that. They are harboring Ruden Wang. Ruden doesn’t look Asian. He’s had some eye surgery. Anyway, he’s nasty, had an in to get army weapons. The military removed this after Saber gave them a heads-up about the weapons he was supposed to supply, and how to get them. Now, Saber is posing as Ran Tran, a nasty little arms dealer, their conduit to US Army weapons. They’re anarchist, and are willing to work with one of the yellow races —that would be Saber, to steal from the government they hate. They’re planning on killing Saber, as if they were planning on sneezing.”

Wraith’s face got stony. “Not gonna happen. You know we’re under High Desert’s license. We’re here for our principal, Saber, to keep him alive. We want to leave lots of people in these.” She held up a plastic bag filled up with plastic ties. The Valkyries each held up their own ties.

“Arrests,” said Sokn. “That’s my sister those bastards took down. She’s still breathing. The US Marshals are pissed. They’ll be here come morning, but we don’t have time to wait. They’ll push up the date.”

“And Saber will be dead,” said Sigrun. “Recon?”

“Drone,” said Sokn. “Nailed down tight, perimeter patrol, twice the normal guards. Dogs, too, German shepherds.”

Rota grinned. “Got sleepy snacks,” she said. “Like Scooby snacks, but the dogs will wake up happy and relaxed in a few hours.”

“I love you very much,” Sigrun said to Rota, accepting a tube of the snacks. Everyone else got their tubes, too.

“The problem with stun guns is one shot and you’re done,” said Skuld. “I’ve got two specials; scientists in a trailer in the desert came up with them. Six shots, the wires just fall out.”

“Awesome,” said Wraith. “I’ll take one.” She took it. “Great feel.”

“Tiny wires,” said Skuld. “Bring it back and I’ll get more wires for you.”

“So, fast, silent,” said Sigrun.

“Duh,” said Wraith.

“Have fun storming the castle,” said Sokn. Everyone snorted at the line from The Princess Bride. “The van will be on the south side, the bikes the southwest side, the raiders the north side.” The raiders were Iron Knights and the Valkyries who were still on their way. They would be called in, either by cell phone code or by a certain number of shots fired into the air. “We’ll be expecting for you to get the women and children out, or for us to come in and get them.”

“Need more vans,” said Wraith.

“And, a lot of the women firmly believe in the crap they’re spouting,” said Sokn. “Be ready for resistance.”

“Resistance…” said Sigrun.

“Is futile,” said Wraith.

“Go,” said Skuld.” They melted into the dark, their jangly bits tied or taped down, and they melted into the hot desert night.

Jakob Rantry (Jack) walked his dog back and forth. It used German commands. He’d learned them. Sit, stay, attack. He was confident in his skills, learned from the man who became his father. Shoot, hide, move, then shoot again. They had killed a bad woman tonight, and the yellow man had crushed her phone so she could not call for help. He said he sent a message to his own people to bring the guns. Jack had seen a bunch of numbers, nothing that made sense. Jack was always right. So, no one knew if they would receive guns by dawn or not.

He heard a tiny scratch. The dog whined, and jaws snapped shut, twice. He strained, looking for the one who was throwing things at his dog. He was hit in the back of the head, and fell soundlessly to the ground. “Sitzen,’ said a voice behind him. The dog sat, and received a normal dog treat from Sigrun. Sigrun put the boy in plastic straps, on his wrists and ankles. He smelled okay, so the dog was not concerned. “Kommen.” The dog followed her. It had been undernourished; their new masters didn’t understand how much food a German shepherd actually needed, and their voices were rough. This new one smelled like food and sunlight, and so he followed.

Rota slid up the watchtower on the right. The watcher got an elbow to the face, and a smack to the back of the head. He went down, and was put into plastic ties. She took the radio off his belt, and slithered back down. She made her way to the watchtower on the right.

Skuld moved quietly to the left. She took out two at once with her knife handles. She got them in twist ties. She went along the wall.

Wraith was furious. Saber had asked for help, without even knowing that he was the father of three children. He’d been in the deep dark for a while, in shark-infested waters. He’d be pissed if he went to Valhalla without meeting his children, and even upon meeting him there, she would be hard pressed to explain her being unable to get to him.

She found the kitchen; the ancient plates and silverware were put away, dented and blackened pots scrubbed to within an inch of their lives. There was a large electric pot of coffee. Wraith slipped past.

Women bunked in a room nearby; Wraith could hear them breathing. She slipped past the storeroom, and avoided the room with the sleeping sounds. She slid left; right; left, the rabbit warren heading deep. She found a door down, and took it. She slipped the door closed, and heard a sentry walking through the halls. She waited, waited, and slammed the door open. He fell, and before he could scream, she cracked his head into the floor. She slipped him in behind the door, put on the plastic ties, and slipped him down the wooden stairs and left him in a storeroom underneath. Blonde hair, clean-shaven.

She went down a twisty hallway, until she heard the scrabbling of dog claws on concrete. She threw out the sleeper snacks, and the dog snuffled, and then ate. It breathed gently. She crept around, and found a German shepherd, undernourished.

She scratched the dog behind the ears, and said, gently, “Bliebe,” the command to stay. The dog laid quietly. She slipped forward, and found doors. She popped one open and found guns; black and gleaming, on racks. Grenades were on special holey shelves, their pins sticking out. She grinned, shut the door, twisted the bolt, and superglued it shut.

Rota took out the guy in the other tower. She hadn’t heard a peep from anyone on the radio yet, so they didn’t yet know they’d been infiltrated.

Sigrun now had two dogs. She kept them fed, and tied up their handlers. And handlers they were, as they hadn’t done anything to bond with their dogs.

Skuld tied up two more sentries. She took a radio, and heard nothing. She had the outside shell down, and worked her way inside, in concentric circles.

Wraith hinted, slunk, got closer. The bars were her first clue. She circled back, found the jailer with a buddy sleeping on cots. She shot one with the special gun, and choked out the other one until he passed out. She pocketed the gun and the keys, and slipped forward. She unlocked the bars, and quailed. She had no idea how she would get both Saber and the dog out.

Rota crept back down, and slipped to the right. That was her side now. She went toward the back of the compound, looking for the door or the tunnel out the back. They would have at least one.

Herja and April arrived late to the party. They first got all the bikes around to the right spot, then the van. Sokn drove up with a huge people-mover that sat twelve. They hopped out, grabbed each other’s necks, and said, “With your shield, or on it.” April and Sokn stayed with the larger vehicles, and Herja went to find the exit.

Rota found an exit blocked by a barrel of beer, designed to squeak if moved. She lifted it onto one plastic tie, then another, and slid it out of the way. The trap door was lovely to behold. She opened it, snapped a glow stick, and threw it down. She went looking for more exits. She left a glow stick under the barrel too.

Sigrun now had a third dog. She found another exit, a door that led to a ladder, and then into a tunnel. She threw down a glow stick. She then raided a storeroom and lowered boxes down, and, using a rope wrapped around her waist, she threaded it up her spine and over her shoulder. She piled them in as best she could, and sent the dogs down. They went willingly. She told them to go, and they took off at a run.

She heard a “Kommen,” and grinned at Herja’s voice. She heard the dogs scrabble out, and ran her line back up. She waited, and soon Herja was up the ladder. They clasped each others’ necks, and went to the left.

Wraith used her rope to tie Saber’s lollying body to her back, and the twist ties to keep him there. She ran, and found the dog still awake. She found some regular dog treats, and said, “Kommen.” She got them up the stairs before the dog fell with an umph at her feet. She knelt there, getting her breath back, and then she got the door closed, her husband still on her back. She found a tarp two storerooms down, and slid it under the dog. She nearly shot Rota as Rota soundlessly rounded a corner. Each woman sewed an end of her rope to a grommet on a corner of the dog’s tarp. They went as fast as they could.

Skuld superglued some doors locked. Including the entry to the men’s dorm, where she heard lots of snoring, and the outer door to that hallway. She lifted some boxes, and laid them before each door, absolutely silently.

The ladder made Wraith quail. They got the dog down first, and then Rota stood up top and got Wraith down the ladder, with Herja underneath. They scrambled down, and they left the dog as they half-carried Wraith with her man on her back out of the tunnel. They left her at the exit, and ran back for the dog. They got them all into the van. Next Wraith gave Rota the special gun, and ran back in as Wraith worked to save her husband as April drove like the wind.

They followed the screaming at a run. Sigrun and Skuld had a woman on the floor, bleeding, and screaming her head off. Rota shot her with the special gun, popped the wires, and shot the next woman through the door.

Herja set her feet and said, “Your men go to jail. Most will get “conspiracy too, which will get them out in less time. They decided to…”

A shot rang out. Sigrun eeled off to take care of it.

“…get guns from a nasty man,” finished Herja. “That’s the one they want. Anyone says anything terrible about him, they get less time. Help us get you and your children out, they won’t get caught up in this mess, or get shot. They don’t want you, so get out now. We’ve got transport. Leave you alive to set up for when your honeys come home.”

Two sharp shots and a thunk sounded out. Skuld grinned. “That’s how she rolls,” she said.

“Wait,” said a woman in a red T-shirt and shorts. She had two girls at her feet with her blonde hair, with her wide-eyed, thin face showing twelve kinds of terror. “No one wants us, we don’t have to testify?”

“Nope,” said Herja. “We get you out; you can do whatever excites your pretty little hearts.”

“Okay,” she said. “But we take Rina and Donna with us.”

“Okay,” said Sigrun. “But, we’ve got to move fast.”

“Can we bring our stuff?” asked another woman.

“Like they have room,” said the first woman. “We go. It’s what Todd and Wren would want. Get us out of the way, and let them take care of their business.” She grabbed her daughters. “Let’s go.”

Rota took the lead and ran toward the exit with the ladder. The other women grabbed kids and babies, and the occasional backpack, and ran. Herja took Donna, the brown-haired woman, and Skuld took Rina, another blonde with kinky hair. They were almost to the ladder when the grenades went off. The noise was deafening.

“If someone wants to die, keep talking, and listen with all your heart.”