"Yeah, they all wanted to identify Ortíz. No one knew who you were."

Ortíz took out a ballpoint pen and made a few notes on a steno pad sitting on the counter that separated the small kitchen from the living room. He turned back to Gastlin and leaned down. "You're certain?"

Gastlin, panting, said, "Yeah, yeah."

Ortíz set the end of the pen on one of Gastlin's stubs where his index finger had been a few minutes before. He pressed the end of the pen into the open wound.

Gastlin sucked in air and said, "I swear, I swear." He started to wail.

Ortíz let up pressure. He looked at Pelly. "Unzip his pants."

Pelly moved like a cat and had his hairy fingers in Gastlin's lap and the zipper started before the smuggler could even say, "Please, don't."

Then, after catching his breath, the dope dealer said, "I swear I won't say anything if you let me go. I swear to God."

Ortíz smiled. "Mr. Gastlin, I know you won't say anything."

Gastlin's eyes widened. "No. I meant if you let me go."

"I see. I'm sorry you cannot be accommodated. We could have used an individual like you in the U.S."

"Use me, use me."

Ortíz picked up the knife from the inside counter.

Gastlin said, "No. Think about it. You need me for the load."

"The load is already on the way."

"They'll miss me."

He chuckled. "I doubt it. Your friends at the DEA might miss you, but they'll never know what happened."

He held up the eight-inch knife. It was pointy but not sharp.

Pelly said, "Boss, I gotta clean up, would you avoid cutting anything else off? I can throw the fingers in a bag, but anything else might be messy."

Gastlin looked between the two men, obviously terrified to hear anyone discuss him like a cow ready for butchering.

Ortíz said, "You want it clean?"

"If possible."

Ortíz saw his assistant's point, but he didn't like it. This man had plenty of appendages that could be trimmed. Instead, he stepped over into the kitchen, opened a cupboard and pulled out a loop of heavy, coarse twine, the same kind they had used to bind Gastlin.

He pulled the loop until he had enough string to double between his hands. He casually stepped behind Gastlin and placed the rough twine around Gastlin's neck.

The heavyset American started to weep and shift in his seat. He had to know it was coming. What a terrifying idea, imminent death.

Gastlin said, "Wait, wait. Why?" and just babbled on.

As he tightened the string, Ortíz said, "Because we are not a colony of the United States." He rubbed the twine back and forth across the flabby flesh of Gastlin's neck as he tightened. He smiled at the erection he felt as Gastlin gulped for air that was not going to come.

Ike sat up in his bed in the little hotel room in Metairie, outside New Orleans. He had wandered through the town for three days now and felt like he had seen all he wanted to see. The place turned his stomach as far as the people who lived here. There were beggars on every corner. Drunken foreigners staggering around Bourbon Street. It seemed like every chick had some kind of colored boyfriend. But he had kept his mouth shut. It all went back to why the country needed to shut its borders and end immigration. They couldn't depend on the Minutemen to do it all. Those poor guys were wearing themselves out on the border between Arizona and Mexico. Once the country saw the problems with immigration, then maybe they could deal with the lowlifes that were already here. Send back a few Jamaicans and a trainload of Mexicans, and maybe crime would drop. He didn't feel it too much in Omaha, but he knew it was a problem in the rest of the country. They had already lost California. The Mexicans were bragging that they had won it back without a fight. Florida might be a lost cause, too. It wasn't so bad with just Cubans, but now it seemed like every form of beaner had taken up residence in the Sunshine State. Ike didn't even think they had that many Jews anymore.

After dressing and hiding his valuables from the sporadic cleaning crew, he decided he could walk to the library about six blocks from the hotel. The big U-Haul truck attracted too much attention and was difficult to navigate through the narrow Louisiana streets. With summer over, the temperatures were nice, and the sun was out. Sleeping or working during the day had given him a complexion like a vampire. The sun would give him a little color. He needed to look as mainstream as possible. His hair was already there. For the first time in several years, he had had to run a comb through it when he woke up.

Years earlier he had shaved his head so the Hammerskins would look at him more favorably. The working-class party of white people had proven to be an active, solid organization. Too bad they got an idea of some of his interests. Too much beer one night had made him show one of the longtime Hammerskin veterans the wrong website, and, after splitting his lip with a quick right hand, the man had informed him that he should not now or in the future claim membership in the Hammerskins.

Before that he had been in the National Alliance, but they were too concerned with race purity. They were looking for a holy war that Ike knew wouldn't come, and if it did he didn't really want to fight it. He'd be content to stop immigration and have the country take a serious look at people from outside the borders. Besides, the National Alliance expected a lot of work out of its members. He had a job. He didn't need a second one.

He had met up with some members of the Phineas Priesthood, but quickly realized crazy was crazy no matter what race you were. The members of the priesthood were just too extreme and expected everyone who joined to be the same way. They might really do something to make people notice one day, but he knew what it would take to change things.

He entered the small library and looked over to the round table with six computers available for library patron use. He had already used the computer to check for messages three times. The library only required him to use his first name on the log and only then if there was a waiting list. This morning, things looked pretty quiet. The reference librarian just pointed to an empty computer as he walked up. He nodded and smiled at her.

He typed in Yahoo.com and then tracked his way to Yahoo mail. He entered his user name and password. His name was a variation of World-changer, and the password was freedom. He was not the only one in possession of these phrases. Since it had been widely reported that messages passed over the Internet could be monitored, he shared the account with the president, Mr. Jessup, and the beaner, Mr. Ortíz. He would enter the account, then check messages that had been saved but not sent. That way no one ever looked at the messages, and they were absolutely secure. Only the three men knew it. The process was foolproof.

He found one message. It simply said "On the way. Ship-Flame of Panama-O."

Now things would get interesting.