I found a spot and parked the truck, killed the engine, and opened one of the cases. From it, I took a nylon shoulder holster and snugged the gas dart pistol into it, then clipped a Sig Sauer to my belt. There was a jacket with lots of pockets padded to hide the magazines I was shoving into slots. As promised, there was a tidy little Wilson Rapid Response folding combat knife there, and I clipped it to the inside of my right pants pocket. It has a three-and-a-half-inch blade that locks into place with the flick of a thumb. It’s short, but the weapon weighs so little that it puts no drag on the hand, allowing for top speed and dexterity.

There were several sets of IDs in the bag, all nicely built around identities Bug had set up for me. I picked one that said that I was a special agent of the Secret Service. Anyone running that ID would discover it was rock solid, because that’s how Bug rolls. And Church would have made a few calls to ensure that I was allowed total access.

I was about to pop the door when I decided what the hell and stuffed a few of Doc Holliday’s electronic goodies into my pocket because—no apologies—I am a pessimistic sumbitch on my best days.

Then I got out and jogged through the rain to the building. There was a big banner strung across the front of the convention center, welcoming the United States governors. It occurred to me that I doubted I could name five of them, let alone all fifty. I am, by nature and inclination, apolitical. I kind of despise the people on both sides of the aisle because they are typically self-serving con men and opportunists. Sure, I vote, even with absentee ballots sent from Greece, but more than half the time, it was a coin toss. Or me edging toward the lesser of two evils. If it were up to me, I’d replace the system with a roomful of wombats, and I think history would validate my decision.

A hell of a lot of umbrellas created a decorative river flowing into the convention center. Texas was an open-carry state, but even so, I was amazed that anyone was being admitted with a sidearm to a rally with all these political figures.

I bypassed the lane and walked right to the door, where a guard tried to wave me back into the press until he saw the ID wallet I held up. The door guards did their due diligence and checked me out, then gave me a snazzy clip-on badge and waved me through.

“You get hung up in traffic?” asked the guard. “You almost missed the show.”

“Wouldn’t want to do that,” I said and gave him a quick professional smile. The kind that only reaches the mouth and means nothing. He reciprocated in kind.