At least a dozen armed men in full armor and tactical gear were in view, and he didn’t know how many others were in the trees or how many guns they had sighted on him. An MCB agent’s salary was on the standard GS federal employee scale, and Franks was worth a quarter billion dead, so he hoped that they all remembered that MCB employees were not allowed to collect PUFF. He looked in the rearview mirror and was not surprised to see that Gutterres had continued along the main road and not turned off after him. The Hunter might have talked a big game about his Lord working in mysterious ways, but he wasn’t stupid enough to follow Franks in until he saw whether the MCB riddled him with bullets or not.

There were a lot of apprehensive agents watching him as he got out of the car. Jefferson intercepted him first and hissed, “Before you say anything, this is all Myers’ plan.”

Franks raised an eyebrow.

“To prove Stricken has committed treason. Just roll with it.”

Whatever works . . . Franks followed Jefferson toward the armored truck. He recognized most of these men and women. Some agents met Franks’ gaze and gave him confident nods, like they’d always known he was innocent. Others looked at their boots as he passed. Those were the ones who’d thought he might have been guilty. They were probably here now because of their trust in Myers. Franks didn’t care what any of them had thought before, he was more worried about a potential third category, as in the ones that didn’t care about guilt or innocence, but who would just follow orders, no matter how stupid they might be.

It did not immediately dawn on him that that thought might have been a little hypocritical.

Archer was in the back of the armored truck, working on a computer. The shaved-headed, muscular, grizzled-looking warrior next to him was Special Agent Cueto, one of the Strike Team trigger-pullers who’d worked his way up to unit commander. He was one of the handful of humans Franks actually liked a small bit. “Afternoon, Franks. I suppose I should be placing you in custody now.”

“Don’t.”

“Believe me, I’d rather not. You care to explain what the fuck I’m doing out here?”

“Hang on.” Franks took out the St. Hubert’s Key. It spun rapidly in his hand until it was pointing northeast. The agents made no comment. They’d all seen that sort of oddness before. “Archer. Note the direction.” They were close enough now that Franks could estimate the distance based upon the strength of the pull. “See whatever is approximately seventy clicks that way.”

“What’s the deal, Franks?”

Franks glanced around the crowd of curious, potentially dangerous, federal gunmen. “Walk with me,” he told their commander.