Glenn Beck: The Eye of Moloch

Eight diagonal paces to the southeast corner and (thus far) the only door, sixteen more down a long credenza with wooden bookshelves up above—the books were bone-dry to the touch, old, leather-bound, and dusty, clearly on hand for show rather than any actual reading. What seating she encountered felt antique, handmade, almost formal, of carved wood and hammered metal with embroidered upholstery. A slick wall-mounted whiteboard and a rolltop secretary brought her to the corner.

Along the back wall her thumb was nicked by something smooth and sharp. With new care she felt around the protruding object: bared teeth in frozen jaws, stiff lacquered fur, wide glass-marble eyes. And there were more of these farther down, uneven rows and columns of them. It was like a taxidermist’s front-room showcase—animal heads large and small, their last moments preserved as trophies on mounted plaques.

When she and Cody had come almost full circle her fingertips brushed against cool glass, an arm’s length from a large varnished desk facing the chair where she’d been seated before. She walked the span of what must be a picture window, which in this direction would be looking out onto a vista of surrounding mountains to the west.

A workplace with perks like these would be reserved for the leader. That would account for the backwoods opulence of the furnishings, and for the garish wall of trophies as well.

After the walk-through she knew more than she had before, though there’d been little comfort to be found. Still, that they’d chosen to let her wait in here was the one piece of good news. They hadn’t shoved her bound and gagged into a closet or a storeroom; that at least meant she retained some respect, and maybe just enough leverage to get out of this hornet’s nest in one piece.

That tangle of fear in her gut worked loose for just an instant and a chill passed over her skin. Other things were lingering in this musty air, things quite beyond the physical. Cody must have felt them, too; by the end of the circuit he was pressed even closer by her side than he normally would be. There were ghosts of a wicked past within these walls, as present and real as any living person.

As they reached the gathered curtains she touched the bottom corner of the large windowpane. A small factory sticker was there; she couldn’t be sure but in all likelihood it would certify this as tempered glass. No easy exit this way, then; grabbing that straight chair and swinging it against the window would serve only to bring her guard bursting in to investigate the noise.

Still facing the glass, Molly stepped to the center, where she was sure she could be seen from outside. She pointed back over her shoulder, toward that oil lamp burning high on the opposite wall. What had occurred to her didn’t qualify as an actual plan of escape—more like the kind of last-resort improvisation reserved only for the soon-to-be far outnumbered and outgunned.

And then she held up a flat hand, palm near the glass.

These were signs meant for Thom Hollis, made with no reasonable expectation that he was even still alive to see them. Faith and friendship were all she had to count on, an unshakable belief that he would somehow be up there, watching.

Wait, her last gesture had said. But don’t wait too long.

• • •

Stealth, endurance, navigation, marksmanship, survival off the land—any average rifleman who’s worth his candle has mastered all those skills before the first day in combat. Deadliness, though, is the only meaningful measure of a sniper.

Hollis brought the long scope nearer to his eye. He took in a deep breath, held Molly’s distant image centered in the hairline cross of the reticle, noted her measurement on the scale, and prepared to do the math to find the range.

There was no need to interrupt his view as he dialed in the distance; the Remington 700 in his hands had been with him since the early days of Desert Storm. After all that time together he could break it down to nuts and springs and rebuild it by feel.

At 791 yards this was far from the longest shot he’d ever taken, but the present prevailing conditions left much to be desired. A moderate variable breeze would demand moment-to-moment compensation. His position provided little cover; as long as he lay still he’d blend in well enough, but the first flash of gunpowder would stand him out against the bare terrain like a new copper penny. And the low sun at his back put a harsh migrant glare on the tinted picture window, obscuring the view inside that room right where he needed most to see.

He had watched as she walked the floor, no doubt searching out her options should the coming situation begin to slide farther southward. Hope for the best, but prepare for the worst; that was her watchword, and she’d stuck by it through these recent harsh months in which all hope should have long since dwindled away.

Hollis had seen only three sentries patrolling these foothills. Against instinct he’d only noted their patterns and positions, without taking further action. They were likely in radio contact, and if that communication was interrupted it could raise an alarm. But he’d also left them alive because he was under Molly’s standing orders to avoid any violence unless absolutely necessary. His repeated objections to this policy had been overruled as usual, so if and when the fighting started on this hillside the hot lead would be arriving fast and loose from all four cardinal directions.

In the scope he saw her react to a sound behind her and hasten to the chair where she’d been seated before. A few moments later the door opened and a number of men began to file into the room. The short, skinny one in the lead he recognized, and if there’d been any remaining whim of a peaceful conclusion to this unholy summit, with this man’s arrival that glimmer was gone.

For one side or the other, this waning day wasn’t going to end well.

Chapter 3

Let us pray.”

George Lincoln Rockwell Pierce, Molly thought. That voice identified the man beyond any doubt. As bad as this was, at least now she understood what she was facing.

Molly had long been aware of Pierce’s fringe-banished clan, but even if you’d never heard of him within a handful of words his tone and manner would telegraph everything you needed to know. And he wanted it that way; his was a world divided down a clean bright line, with his brotherhood on one side and the hordes of wicked elitists and subhuman barbarians on the other, pounding at the gate. He pushed that separation into your face from the first contact; somehow even in the words “let us pray” he’d said it: This is who I am, stranger. Now, just who in the hell are you?

Around her chair the room felt packed to standing room only. While the air had been stale before, it was now thick with a humid funk of proudly unwashed humanity, an aggressive aroma somewhere between expired lunch meat and a neglected grease trap. Despite all these sweaty attendees the place was perfectly quiet except for the speaker’s sanctimonious baritone.

Most prayers contain at least a smidgen of reverence or contrition, but not this one. It was glib and conversational, peer-to-peer, less a hosanna than a manager’s to-do list organized for immediate heavenly intervention.

Molly let his words fade to a drone and returned in her mind to her own priorities.

Now she knew for sure: if the United Aryan Nations had a White House west of the Mississippi, she was seated in its godforsaken Oval Office. These outlaws were the source of the military aid she’d unknowingly accepted earlier in the day, and there would be a payment due for that brief alliance. George Pierce didn’t have a reputation for taking on risk with no thought of his own reward.