Mr. Sunday had a somewhat larger group of buyers online today. So many that he had his team bring in two mobile racks of monitors so that he was able to give a sales pitch to faces on eighty-four screens. The key was to make sure none of them could see the others, and all mics were muted.

It was a rare day when there were no women among the potential clients. He found that disappointing. He was an equal-opportunity vendor.

“Gentlemen, so delighted that you could join us. And … so many. You can’t see all the smiling faces, but I can. Well … maybe not smiling yet, but I can guar-un-teee that I’ll have you all grinning by the time I’m done.”

A few of the faces were smiling. Most were a mix of first-time buyers who were either scowling, frowning in uncertainty, or wearing their best poker faces. Sunday was not fooled. He could read their eyes and none of them would have accepted his invitation had it not been for the teasers in the auto-deleted sales prospectus he’d sent along with the invitation.

That had been a fun piece of work, and Sunday used a top music video editor to make the blink-or-you-miss-it peeks at the exosuits and other goodies that were fast and sexy. He wondered what most of these men would say if they knew that film editor was Black. Sunday loved his little jokes.

Not that every face on the screens was white. There were Black and brown faces, too. Not as many, but they were every bit as radicalized, every bit as committed to their causes. When viewed from any objective distance all these men were cut from the same essential cloth. Us, not them. Our way, not anyone else’s.

Zealotry was Sunday’s oldest friend.

“I’m here to offer you a chance to get in on the ground floor of what will—without any chance of a doubt—be the biggest damned thing that’s ever happened in the U.S. of A. Something that will change the political landscape and return power to the people—to your people. Now, my fellow patriots,” he said, “let’s talk about how to take back America.”

CHAPTER 52

BLUE DIAMOND TRAINING CAMP

CADDO MILLS, TEXAS

The window in HK’s office looked out on green trees standing like a wall around a training area. Men and women wearing full gear and backpacks filled with rocks jogged by. Some puffed and sweated and lagged, but most moved with the oiled efficiency of machines. Even among those, there were a handful who seemed to be untouched by the exertions of a ten-mile run with over a hundred pounds of weight, and over uneven and treacherous terrain.