Good bet that Orly does his business—er, more to the point, his really nasty business—out of the gun club, since doing it at his house or his company would put him at risk. That, then, must be where the recordings come from.

Where the recordings live. Recorded there. And stored there.

Easy-peasy, George-and-Weezy.

“So you’re gonna hack a computer in there,” she says.

“Huh?” Shane looks up. “Oh. No. Just the network.” His computer boops. “There. Wireless network. And . . .” He taps on the touchscreen. “Like I figured, not very well protected. No WPA or WEP, just a straight username and password. I looked at the gun club’s website, and it’s pretty much a big old piece of crap—like, GeoCities-era terrible,” he says, continuing with words that Atlanta only barely comprehends. “I figured they didn’t exactly have a robust network, and I was right. Still. We need to figure out the password. Maybe they use the default . . .” More typing. “Admin, no. Administrator, no. Password, no, 1234, no, Comcast, no. Damnit.”

“What’s the problem?”

He gives her a durrr look. “I don’t know the password.”

They start going through possible passwords. Mitchell, since it’s his son. TNC Biologics, since it’s his company. Gun club. Gunclub. Wife’s name takes a bit of Googling: Mary. No, not that, either. Shane frowns. “I wish he had a Facebook profile. Could find out his birthday, maybe.”

“I don’t think Orly’s the type to be on Facebook.” She almost laughs. “Is there a racist white asshole version of Facebook? Hitlerbook or Bigotface or something?”

That’s when it hits her.

She says, “Wait. These racist pricks are pretty much shoved up Hitler’s ass every hour of every day. They’re Nazi fetishists, it’s got to be tied to that.” And so they start firing off Nazi-themed stuff—everything from Hitler to Himmler, Adolf to Eva, Panzer to Jew-Biter. Wehrmacht. Warshed. Blitzkrieg. The names of concentration camps. The names of high-ranking officers. Shane’s pretty good with this stuff, because he studies and knows his history—but then Atlanta snaps her fingers.

“It’s not old Nazi stuff. It’s new Nazi stuff. I saw a license plate at Bill Coyne’s and in the gun club on the wall behind Orly’s desk: 14WORDS, it said. It’s a neo-Nazi thing, counting the words in one of their mottos—something about securing the world and future for white children. Try that. All one word.”

The little computer bings.

Shane’s eyes light up brighter than his netbook monitor. “Bingo was his name-o.”

Atlanta starts biting another nail—this time, her thumb. Guy looks impatient. “So what now? You, like, take over their computers and shit? Hack the files?”