“Have a seat,” Cole says.

It’s a peaceful, chilly night in the Blue Ridge Mountains, and there’s not so much as the sound of a car engine audible anywhere nearby. His breath making low growls in his throat, Donald starts for the other end of the table.

Cole says, “No, no, closer,” and waves him forward.

Donald releases the back of the chair and shuffles down the length of the table. His night clothes constitute a T-shirt with a design so laundry faded Cole can’t tell what it was in the first place and boxers that ride up his stout, hairy legs. Before he sits, he checks the chamber of his gun just to be sure Cole wasn’t bluffing. His worst fear confirmed, he sinks into the chair closest to Cole’s, sets the Glock on the table, and thrusts it across the wood as if it bit him. It thunks to the floor on the other side.

Then, just as he’s been instructed, Scott sets an open beer bottle on the table in front of Cole. When Donald sees it, he laughs.

“I guess we’re going to end up sharing a beer after all,” Cole says.

“You could have called first.”

“I did. Three days ago, remember?”

“I meant before . . . this.”

“I’m on a schedule. I needed to visit while I had time. I figured you’d understand.”

“A schedule?”

“I’ve got a lot of work to do. Your son’s made quite a mess.”

Donald nods.

“Where is he?” he asks. “I’ve been calling him for three days.”

“You two speak a lot, do you?”

“Where’s my son?”

“I just want you to know, it’s possible I’m more sympathetic to your cause than you might realize.”

“I don’t have a cause. Where’s my son?”

“I don’t know if I believe that, Donald.”

“I don’t know if I care.”

“You were so protective of Jordy when I called you the other day.”

“He’s my flesh and blood. What did you expect?”

“Some business sense, perhaps. Some sense that even family has to be stopped before it endangers profit. Our contract, it’s heavily in my favor. I can stop the project and pay you only half of what you’re owed for the work you’ve already done. But for you, this tunnel isn’t about work. It not even about getting paid. It’s about something else, and whatever that is, your son’s so in the middle of it, there was no moving him, no matter what I wanted. So you can’t blame me for thinking his cause is also yours, Donald.”

“And what cause would that be?”

“Men like you. Men like Jordy. You’re being rendered irrelevant. It’s not your fault. You’re being automated out of existence. Today it’s drones replacing fighter pilots. Tomorrow it’ll be the soldiers, true American heroes like Jordy, who are replaced by . . . something. I don’t know what. Yet. But it’s coming. Look at the drilling machines you use now. The manpower and explosives they replace. These forces are unstoppable. We all know it, but only a few of us admit it. But what does this do to men like you? Men who made their living with their hands and found ways to master brute strength. Who relied on clear, fundamental beliefs. Men like you. Jordy. Mike Frasier. Manuel Lloya. Ralph Peters. Greg Burton. Bradley Kyle. Bertrand Davis. Tommy Grover.”

With each name, a little more life seems to go out of Donald.

“Milo Simms,” he adds, saving the worst for last. “Who did I miss, Donald? Did I miss anyone?”

Cole’s never seen someone go quite as still as Donald Clements has gone in this moment. One arm’s resting on the table next to him, so it’s conceivable he might try to pick up the beer bottle and use it as a weapon if Cole doesn’t move it. But even when Donald’s not acting like a statue, the man seems to lack quick reflexes.

“Where’s my son?” Donald Clements whispers.

Cole reaches for the beer bottle, takes a slug, then sets it down a few inches closer to Donald than it was before.

“This might not make much sense to you, Donald, but I’ve learned something recently. Something important.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Incredible things happen when a predictable monster stumbles into the middle of something he doesn’t understand.”

“My son is not a monster,” Donald said quietly. “And neither am I.”

“What are you, then?”

“Faithful,” he whispers, but it’s the kind of whisper that sounds like the person’s just preserving their breath so they can spit in your face once they’re done.

“I see. Who else shares in your particular faith?”

“You think I don’t know how this ends? Why should I tell you anything?”

“It’s what comes after this ends that you should worry about. Believe it or not, you do have a choice.”

“Oh yeah? What’s that? The choice between a Glock or a Luger?”

“No, the choice between dying peacefully in your home of what will appear to be natural causes or being exposed to the world as the mastermind of a domestic terrorist network that planned persistent small-scale bomb attacks targeting places of value in communities they despised. In the first choice, you leave the world as a respected, but divorced, business and family man, distraught and perhaps stressed to the point of cardiac arrest by the car accident that killed your younger son.