Their parents and their parents’ parents have opened our borders and left us at the mercy of an ideology that would enslave our women and emasculate our men. And thus we target this new generation of traitors. Thus shall we dismantle tomorrow’s treacherous elite, for they are lost to the ways of God and of our people.

I felt bile rising in my throat.

Our civilization must survive. The unthinkable must be thought. Children are both our greatest threat, and our most underused resource. Great men must step forward to prevent indoctrination, and when it is too late, when the child is too far gone, great men must eliminate that child as we crush the tiny flies that infest the fruit in our kitchens.

My brother and I face a stark choice—Killer or victim: which is it to be? The question is horrific to us in its cruelty, yet we ask it with love in our hearts and an easy spirit, for the answer is clear. And so it is that today we fire the first shots in a war for the emancipation of our people.

This is our gift to the nation, and to the entire European race.

Commanders John and Paul Andersen

Tactical Brigades of the Knights Templar

I looked up. Vee was watching me intently.

“Brilliant, right?” she said.

“Brilliant?”

“Everybody here trusts the police. These guys are first on the scene. I mean, you see the cleverness, don’t you, Dad? It’s using people’s naïveté against them. And literally no one is discussing that.”

“How did you find this?”

“Not BBC or CNN or NRK, that’s for sure.”

“Cal. A word?” Elsa’s voice from the doorway, flat and affectless. How long had she been standing, arms around Franklin, watching us?

“Sure.” I got up. Vee looked at me. “Dad, they killed ninety people. And not one of the mainstream channels is telling us why. It’s like someone deleted Licia.”

I stood, staring at my daughter. Did she really believe there was some sort of cover-up?

“Now would be good, Cal.” Elsa’s voice again.

“Coming,” I said.

I turned toward Vee.

The intensity of her stare. “So go,” she said.

Elsa waited in the middle of the kitchen floor, arms still folded around our son, who began kicking excitedly as I approached.

“The police window for finding Licia alive is closing,” said Elsa, “and you’re trading conspiracy theories with Vee?”

“That’s not—”

“They should be camped out here, asking us everything we know. And you should be as worried as I am.” Every line in Elsa’s face was etched a little deeper today.

“I want to be sure Vee’s okay,” I said.