“We’re ready to lift off,” Tompkins yelled back over her shoulder. “Put on your helmets.”

“Thank you again, Floyd!” Lou shouted out the open hatch.

“Tain’t nothin’ I did. You two are good people. Jes get him healthy. Come back and visit Rebecca and me anytime. My woods are your woods.”

The helicopter’s rotors sped up as the burly paramedic pulled the hatch closed and latched it. Through the porthole, Lou could see Floyd using his arm to cover his eyes as he backed away. The chopper wobbled a bit as it gained lift, and then settled down. Moments later, they were on an angled ascent, steadily gaining speed.

Lou watched as the couple, standing shoulder-to-shoulder, became enfolded in their world, and silently thanked the vast forest that had somehow been small enough to deliver Lou and Cap a savior.

Chapter 13

CHAPTER 13

The true means to provide sound and adequate protection against the vicissitudes of modern life may be found in self-reliance, a return to family values, embracing the pioneering spirit of our forefathers, and the shared belief that God, not government, is the determinant of life and death.

—LANCASTER R. HILL, 100 Neighbors, SAWYER RIVER BOOKS, 1939, P.50

He could not believe he was alive. As consciousness returned, Ahmed Kazimi moved his arm, expecting to find it restrained—chained to a wall, perhaps. To his surprise, he could move both his arms and legs freely, although his whole body felt stiff and achy, as if he’d been passed out in the same position for hours. Instead of his familiar work attire, he was clad in shimmery red silk pajamas.

He imagined, as he opened his eyes, that he would be awakening in a barren, concrete room, the floor covered in damp straw reeking of urine—the sort of prison he’d come to expect from television shows and movies. Instead, he sat upright on a firm, king-size mattress, underneath black silk sheets of the highest possible thread count. He was cocooned within diaphanous white draperies that hung down from a beautifully ornate mahogany canopy frame.

Massaging his throbbing temples, Kazimi tried to clear his blurred vision, but without much success. Where was he? Why had he been taken in such a way? The questions swirled in his mind like windblown sand. Who was Burke? How had he infiltrated the FBI? Kazimi had been forced to the floor beside the window of his bedroom, so his image of Burke killing the two other agents protecting him was indistinct. The rest of what happened was even more hazy. He had been shoved out his third-story window into … into what? An open-bed truck filled with foam padding. The last thing he remembered was Burke injecting him with a drug that quickly made him feel like someone had poured concrete into his ears.