Branson took a moment before he replied. Only when he was finished searching every nook and cranny of the seemingly deserted ranch did he honor Millner with an answer. Even then he did so without taking his eyes away from his binoculars. “Kyle, if those ‘patriots’ had a sense of humor, do you think we’d be here?”

“Oh, be real, Ben,” Marshal Kyle Millner scuffed. “Just’cause they believe in something as strongly as they do doesn’t mean they’re not human.”

This time, Branson did lower his binoculars and turn to face his companion. His gaze was hard and uncompromising, the sort that made it clear that Branson would brook no disagreement, no response. “You forget, Kyle, I saw what these people did. I was there, sifting through the rubble, looking for clues while rescue teams were still poking about right next to me collecting body parts in plastic bags.” Narrowing his eyes until they were but slits, Branson nodded his head toward the old house and sorry collections of structures. “They’re murderers, Marshal Millner. Criminals and murderers. They threw away whatever claim they had to being regarded as members of the human race the day they bombed the Robert Dole building. And even if they did try to do something funny,” Branson added as he went back to his nightly inventory of the ranch before him, “I don’t think I’d notice. No sir, I doubt if I’d be able to find even a shred of humor in anything they did.”

“You’re a hard man.” Millner snorted. “Hard and stubborn.”

This time, the fading light fell upon a wicked little smile. “Well, Kyle,” Branson responded as he pushed himself away from the stack of sand bags, “that’s why I’m here.”

Behind a rise not far from the militia compound sat a cluster of trailers, tents, armored personnel carriers, and four-wheel drives of every description. Except for the hum of generators or the purr of an idling diesel engine, or the federal agents shuffling from the mess tent to the trailer that served as the command post and briefing area, the place was silent. Not much needed to be said. The men and women of the night shift knew what was expected of them. The team leaders from the day shift had no new developments to pass on to them. Even their stock of jokes, stories, and good-natured banter had been exhausted. All that remained for the FBI agents and U.S. marshals to do was check their weapons and night vision devices, grab one last cup of coffee, and head out into the gathering darkness for another long, chilly night on the perimeter.

Pausing outside, Ben Branson watched the night shift go by without comment. A tough and dedicated professional, Branson didn’t feel there was any need for him to play cheerleader. Each and every man and woman under his command was a professional as well. He maintained his focus on the task at hand and expected each of his people to do likewise. Single-minded devotion to his duty guided every action and every decision Branson made. “If a man knows what he’s about,” he told a friend once back in Washington, “and has confidence in his training, equipment, and his teammates, what’s the point of wasting my time with pep talks and morale building sessions. We go in,” Branson explained, “do our job, and bask in whatever glory there is to be gained in this job after the bad guys are locked up or in the coroner’s loving care.”