Glenn Beck - The Eye of Moloch

The dog got to his feet, stretched and shook off a magnificent spray of rainwater, and then sauntered over to sit himself down between them, as though far too much fond attention was being wasted upon others. Molly reached out to find him and stroked his unruly fur as he nuzzled closer to her.

Something arrived then on the tail end of a gentle breeze, and it was the dog who caught it first. He sat up straight, head cocked and hackles rising, sharp eyes intent and trained to the north—right along the path they’d been traveling.

Hollis motioned for the others to be still, and after a few quiet seconds he heard it, too. The rain had all but ceased, so there was nothing but distance to obscure the sound. It was the deep, steady note of a heavy engine up ahead, maybe more than one, approaching from just beyond a narrowing valley of young pine trees and tall Wyoming sage.

Chapter 6

They’d been found.

There was nothing else this could mean. In the midst of this vast open land it was all but inconceivable that they could have crossed paths with someone by random chance alone.

And they were neatly cut off, as well. At this juncture the terrain itself would allow only two ill-advised avenues of flight—either back the punishing way they’d come, or forward to confront these new arrivals. It was out of the question to just sit tight and hope to lie low. That would only delay the inevitable and forfeit their last remaining initiative, exceedingly weak though it might be.

If this was to be a surrender—and short of a miracle that was the only realistic expectation—by any civilized code of conduct it would go better for the group if they gave themselves up without resistance, completely and visibly unarmed. But so far the ruthlessness of their enemies seemed unbound by any rules of engagement. They’d already made it clear that they would show no mercy.

With that in mind he gave his handgun and its last full magazine to the man he judged most prepared to do what might have to be done.

Hollis gathered them all close and made his instructions clear. He would walk out alone to face whoever had arrived in those vehicles they’d heard. In the far-fetched event that all was well, he would come back alone to tell them so. Any other development—for example, the distant sounds of a field execution by firing squad—was to be taken as a sure sign that something was badly wrong. He wouldn’t allow himself to be used as a front for their deception. If the group didn’t soon see him returning precisely that way—alone, unharmed, and unfettered—then he wouldn’t be returning at all.

At that point they would need to quickly decide which of them, if any, wished to be taken alive. Even before their costly escape, George Pierce had made his designs quite clear: there was nothing but certain death waiting in his camp. As for their other adversaries, the government-sponsored men, indefinite detention without trial or charges appeared to be the prevailing standard of justice for those suspected of crimes against the homeland. But far worse fates had been reported at their hands, and in far better times than these.

Everyone seemed to understand the need for decision, and they took on the weight of it with courage. For his part, Hollis spoke a few private words with Molly, slung the shotgun over his shoulder, and then set off down the valley to meet whatever fate lay beyond it.

At the far edge of a thick brushwood the sapling timber thinned down toward a long grassy clearing, and he saw them, about a quarter of a mile away.

There were two massive pickup trucks, fully jacked up for all-terrain and both parked sideways to the tree line. A number of people were milling about, a pair of them wrangling three large black dogs by the leash. Four men stood in the long beds of the trucks with rifles in their hands.

These weren’t official vehicles, at least they weren’t marked as such, and the type of camouflaged clothing worn by those he could see suggested a civilian hunting party rather than an organized militia. Not that it mattered much what the look of them suggested; these days wolves in sheep’s clothing were everywhere. Regardless, he would carry on as planned and see what he would see.

With his courage fully gathered he walked out into the open at a casual pace, shotgun stowed at his back in an American carry, as though he might be just another fellow sportsman strolling on toward hearth and home.

They seemed to spot him immediately, and the quiet passage of the next few seconds was revealing.

If these men had orders to shoot on sight they would have done so by then, but they didn’t. They drew together somewhat, as if in wary conference, and then spread out and squared off to wait for him. Still at long distance, he raised a hand to acknowledge the contact. No one waved back. Some did adjust the readiness of their weapons slightly, though none had yet taken aim.

As Hollis nearly reached spitting distance a young man stepped up to the edge of the high truck bed where he stood and motioned for him to stop, which he did.

“Afternoon,” the young man said. While outwardly a simple word of greeting, it was nevertheless spoken in a way that suggested the serious hazard of making any sudden moves.

Hollis glanced upward briefly, and took a moment to gauge the present elevation of the sun.

“So it is,” he replied.

“Who are you?”

“My name’s Thom Hollis. And who might you be?”

The young man exchanged an even look with those on either side of him before answering. “If you were Thom Hollis, then I figure you should know who I might be.”

He’d thought he noticed something about this gathering as he walked up, and there had been time enough since to reinforce that first vague perception. He hadn’t imagined it; there was a family resemblance among them. Prominent in some, in others barely there, an old sturdy bloodline was clearly shared among these uncles, cousins, sons, and brothers.

This meant something, but far from everything. It was only reason enough to proceed as he’d been told. “If I was to happen upon a stranger out here,” Hollis said, “and if I judged him to be a man of merit, I was advised I should ask for Silas Deane.”

These words brought on an extended and thoughtful study of his face. Though probably only seconds in length, by the time it passed the wait had felt much longer.

“That’s a shame, friend,” the young man replied at last. “Old Silas, he’s gone on to greener pastures.”

As this other half of the pass-phrase was spoken in response, though Hollis realized he should have felt something, he didn’t. Having long since abandoned hope, he had no place in his mind to receive it. He knew what he’d heard, and he knew what it meant: rescue. But there was no rush of joy, nor any other such emotion; it seemed instead as though all the preceding sleepless, harrowing miles of toil and near starvation had caught up and come down upon his shoulders at once.

His vision went a little gray and sparkly at the edges; the horizon began to tilt and swing toward a drifting axis. He noted with a strange indifference that he was falling, but as his knees gave way strong arms on either side took on the weight he could no longer bear alone.

Chapter 7

The rotor blades were still spinning down as Warren Landers unbuckled his harness, removed and hung his headset on its hook, logged the time and coordinates, and then felt for the readiness of the submachine gun in its quick-release mount by his side.