The old man’s head begins to rock from side to side, feebly but distinctly. His eyes remain closed-he hasn’t opened them in two days-but there’s every indication that he can hear, and that he doesn’t particularly like her tone, even if he doesn’t exactly comprehend her words.

“The Rulers have come to a turning point, my darling,” she explains as she slips the pillow from beneath his frail head. “Mistakes have been made, all in a good cause, and the barbarians are at the gate. Literally, I am afraid. A convoy of black Chevy Suburban SUVs, filled with armed men. I believe they’re called a tactical rescue squad, but really they’re just ignorant slugs who do what they’re told. We’ll have to let them through, of course. But not before we get our little ducks in order. Not before we make sure that your vision will endure. Not before I make your old friend Wendy go away, and take his followers with him. It will be very tragic. And the boy? I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but the boy is going with Wendy. They’ll think it was because the old mole was so loyal to you. Hereditary bond of the boy and all that plebeian crap people love. There’s no other way. It’s sad but it’s all for the best. All for the Rule of One. And now, my darling, I’m sure you’ll understand if we hurry things along, just a little.”

Evangeline places the pillow over his face and presses with all of her strength. She’s surprised not only at how much the old man resists, but by the flush of tears that come to her after it is finally over.

She truly hadn’t expected to cry.

It’s like The Guns of Navarone without the guns. That’s the assessment from the Hostage Rescue Team Leader, reporting to Assistant Director of Counterterrorism, Monica Bevins, who shakes her head and asks him how old he is.

“Um, thirty-two, A-Dick. On my next birthday.”

“Then The Guns of Navarone was an old movie long before you were born,” she points out.

“Yes, A-Dick. An oldie but a goodie. Gregory Peck and Anthony Quinn on a suicide mission to save innocent lives. Same kind of deal we got here. A large, reinforced structure built into an inaccessible part of a mountain. Quite a challenge.”

“This will not be a suicide mission, Team Leader, is that clear?”

“Yes, A-Dick. I was referring to the movie, not us.”

“They didn’t have helicopters back then. We do.”

“Yes, A-Dick.”

“There’s also an aerial tram system, if you can figure out how to retrieve cars from the topside terminal. One car at the upper structure, one at the lower, both inoperable at the moment. Former agent Randall Shane mentioned a tunnel connecting the two buildings. We need to locate it.”

“Yes, A-Dick. Working on it.”

“Keep me posted,” she says, dismissing him.

Bevins has never seen anything quite like the situation in Conklin, Colorado. There’s been no overt resistance. Riding shotgun in the lead Suburban-strictly against protocol, but screw it, this is Shane-she had flashed the warrant at the BK Security goons and much to her surprise they’d been waved through. It soon became clear that the FBI would have full, unfettered access to the campus and the surrounding village, that the private security firm had been ordered to stand down.

The problem is the fortress the locals call the Pinnacle. The village may be open to inspection, but the entire structure of the Pinnacle has been shut up like a giant, reinforced clam, shielded with blast shutters. The landline phones have been cut off, and the aerial tramway is not responding. Nobody is responding. Getting inside will mean finding the tunnel, or, failing that, cutting through the hardened blast shutters with an acetylene torch. That will take time. Time they may not have, if the situation inside goes south.

Bevins was a rookie Special Agent when the Branch Davidian thing went down, and she watched it unfold on TV like everyone else. The disaster at Waco, in which many innocent children died, haunts the FBI to this day, and agents working a cult situation have it in mind as an example of what can go badly, horribly wrong. But the cult headquarters in that case had been a collection of ramshackle farmhouses. This is way different. The Ruler campus looks positively bucolic, the residential area could be an exclusive, gated community in Aspen. This ain’t the Bible-thumpin’ badlands of Texas, and Arthur Conklin is no David Koresh, preaching apocalypse. So maybe wiser minds will prevail. Bevins certainly hopes so.

Her own history with Shane complicates the situation. Because she is tall, over six feet, and because she and Shane have long been close, her colleagues assume they have a sexual history. To Bevins’s mild regret, that is not the case. Shane was married and faithful for most of the years when they worked together, and their friendship remains platonic, even as they quietly acknowledge a mutual attraction. Their bond transcends rank and status, and to Bevins it doesn’t matter that Shane is technically retired. So when the call came in from Maggie Drew, she had to act, had to make it happen. Normally the A.D. of Counterterrorism would not be at the scene supervising a kidnap recovery situation, but if Bevins hadn’t swung weight, given the green light, they’d still be arguing about jurisdiction.

She’s out on a limb with Shane, a civilian, relying on his word that the missing mother and child are being held against their will. Of the top ten priorities of the FBI, as approved by the Director, supporting missions like this one comes in at number nine. Just one level above “upgrading technology to successfully perform the FBI’s mission.” At some point she’s going to have to justify the operation, but right now she’s more concerned about having it conclude successfully, without loss of life.

“Team Leader? Where are we?”

“Chopper on the roof. They’ll be attempting to breach the blast shutters with a torch. A dozen agents on the ground, searching for the tunnel entrance. Sonar detectors have been deployed-if there’s a tunnel, we should be able to detect it up to a depth of fifty feet or so, depending on the density.”

“Good,” she says. Keeping in mind that an Assistant Director or ‘A-Dick’ can’t be seen to be chewing her fingernails, however much she might be tempted as a stress-reliever.

“The thing about The Guns of Navarone?” he says. “It was an impossible task but they got it done.”

“Forget the movies, Team Leader. No Hollywood heroics, please. Go by the book. Nobody dies. You are to take no unnecessary risks.”

He grins. “We’re the HRT. We eat risk for breakfast.”

“Speaking of breakfast, is there any coffee available?”

The Team Leader hands her a Thermos flask. “High-test,” he promises.

Inside the Pinnacle, in the perpetual twilight of the closed blast shutters, word spreads from Ruler to Ruler, many of whom weep inconsolably.

Their great leader, the One True Voice, is gone.

No one seems to be quite sure what will happen next. With Arthur Conklin dead, who will speak for them? Many favor the homely familiarity of Wendall Weems, the founder’s closest friend. Others prefer the fiery approach of the founder’s wife-his widow now-Evangeline Dowdy Conklin.

Eva the Diva makes the first move, speaking from her late husband’s studio. Throughout both the Pinnacle and the Bunker, flat-screens come to life, and Eva appears, dabbing at her eyes, her voice thick with sorrow.

“Arthur has taken flight,” she announces. “Early this morning his body ceased to function and he removed himself to the next level. Before he went, Arthur spoke to me at length. I am still processing his many revelations, and will share them with you in the months and years to come. But for now, hear this. Arthur’s last wish is that his transition be an occasion of reconciliation between the factions. Therefore we will gather in our respective areas to mourn his passing, and to prepare ourselves for the future. Only then will we open our doors to the outsiders who have come here in their ignorance.