‘My good friends,’ Birch said to a new round of cheers. The microphone broadcast his voice around the park. The tower shimmered a hundred yards away. The floodlights illuminated the stage, but the crowd was lost in shadows, and beyond them, on the fringe of the lawn, the world was black. The park disappeared into the surrounding jungle.

Tarla eyed Diane, who had a peculiar expression on her face. Her friend watched Birch with pride, fear, and hatred.

‘My good friends,’ Birch repeated.

More cheers.

‘In less than two months, we will show America that we can choose something other than divisive rhetoric and empty slogans,’ he continued, diving into his stump speech. ‘That we can find consensus among our differences. That we can rely on good sense, not nonsense. That there really is a common way for all of us.’

Tarla saw Birch’s photo on signs thrust into the air and waved by volunteers. The caption above his face read: The Common Man. She shook her head at the hubris of it all. Birch was many things, but he was not common. He was a businessman worth a hundred million dollars. Definitely not common.

‘I need you with me!’ Birch shouted.

He waited for an elevated energy in the voices of the crowd. That was how you built people into a frenzy of full-throated excitement, with each applause line louder than the one before. Instead, he got no reaction, except a low burst of uncomfortable clapping that died as quickly as it started.

Unsettled, Birch tried again.

‘I need every one of you to be part of the common way!’

Heads turned, but no one cheered. Low voices murmured in an uneasy ripple. Birch was visibly annoyed. He looked over his shoulder at Lyle and mouthed: What the hell?

Like the rest of the crowd, Lyle’s attention was focused elsewhere. He and everyone else had become aware of a man on the corner of the dais. He’d come from nowhere out of the shroud of the night. He was dressed completely in black: black long-sleeved nylon shirt, black tight jeans, black gloves over his hands, and – like a Dickens ghost – a black hood over his head. His presence froze them all into motionless silence. Tarla sucked in her breath as she saw him. She knew. Everyone knew.

Something bad was about to happen.

One person took action. She recognized him; he was the director of one of the largest corporate citrus farms in the area. Married. Father of three. He was on the dais in the second row, and he stood up and pushed to the front and marched toward the man in black. He got within ten feet before the man reached behind his belt with a gloved hand, which re-emerged holding a semi-automatic pistol. He lifted his right hand and calmly fired one shot into the head of the citrus farmer, who crumpled and slipped off the dais to the thick lawn.