By then even Tim Werner was convinced that their suspect had somehow managed to elude them. Yet, he dare not take any chances. With the history of members of militia units displaying behavior that was both irrational and unpredictable, Special Agent Werner could not risk that John Doherty was still in there, ready to die for his beliefs. Having already made too many miscalculations that night, Tim Werner was unprepared to make any more. Leaving one man to cover each of the exits, he quickly mustered the bulk of his task force on the main street well away from the front of the shop. There, they waved down the approaching fire engines and, to the surprise and shock of the firefighters, held them back.

While local officials bitterly argued with Werner and his agents, the gun shop erupted into flames. Above the poppop-pop of small arms ammunition going off, bystanders, drawn to the scene, could hear oaths and curses being exchanged between local officials hell bent on doing their jobs and federal officials equally determined to keep them at arm’s length until they were sure that there was no longer any danger to them.

Among this growing crowd of on lookers stood two men. Both wore dark glasses and baseball caps pulled down low. “I’m going to miss that place,” John Doherty stated dryly as he watched the flames from his store leap over the space between it and the building next to it.

Sporting a grin, his companion slapped him on the back. “I’ve got the feeling our friends in the Justice Department aren’t going to give you the chance to miss it.”

Looking over at Thomas Jefferson Osborn, Doherty nodded. “No, I guess not. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll take you up on your offer of a beer. Odds are, it will be the last one I’ll be enjoying for a while.”

Osborn shook his head as the light of the flames lit his toothy grin. “Why of course, John, of course. Anything,” he added, “for a patriot.”

CHAPTER 7

BOISE, IDAHO • SEPTEMBER 12TH

Each day started pretty much the same way. George Oliver Thomas would awaken from his slumber long before the NPR hourly news began to blare from the clock radio that sat on his nightstand. No one rushed into his room to deliver his morning paper or coffee. No one crept about while he slept to lay out his wardrobe for the day. As he had since he was a child of five, he got out of bed, staggered into the bathroom, washed his face, brushed his teeth, and dressed himself.

Even when he emerged from his bedroom suite, his staff kept their distance. Only when he was entertaining an idea that wouldn’t keep or had heard something on the radio show he wanted more information on would he summon an assistant. Even then, GO Thomas suffered the presence of this person only long enough to pass on whatever information he wished to be acted upon while he was exercising.