His stomach was churning as he presented his fake ID card to the sentry at the outer sector. Carl waited nervously while the guard checked him over, but then the man gave the clearance, saluted, and waved him through the checkpoint. Carl jammed his machine into gear and set out into no man’s land. He didn’t know if he had gotten through because his disguise was perfect or because a lone cyclist was not a very grave threat. Or because of John Edwards’s prayers. In any event, he knew he had to move fast if he was going to get the job done.

Carl traveled steadily, straight through the night. It was a grueling twelve-hour trip, and he was exhausted by the time he reached Dallas. More than anything, he wanted to stop and rest, but he could not afford the luxury. His money was no good anymore, so he couldn’t even stop for breakfast.

What he saw in Dallas amazed him. Everywhere he looked there were life-sized pictures of Mark Beaulieu. Across the streets were banners proclaiming the slogan of the Union for Peace, “Strength Through Unity.” Personnel carriers with armed troops were positioned at strategic street corners. Pairs of uniformed troops patrolled each city block.

Worse than that, however, was the general dinginess and drabness of the city. It was as if Dallas had been turned into a black-and-white movie. People walked along with their heads and shoulders drooping, their faces toward the ground. The icy breath of a satanic dictator had chilled the heart of this once-great city.

Carl checked his watch and saw that it was exactly the time he had agreed to meet his contact. He drove along side streets until he reached the prearranged point on Mockingbird, just a block off the Central Expressway where his contact would be waiting. Carl pulled up at a combination gas station and convenience store. Someone wearing a helmet with a visor and a bulky motorcycle jacket stepped from behind a trash dumpster. Carl presumed it was his friend, Larry. He walked toward a gasoline pump and motioned for Carl to come over. Signaling for Carl to be silent, his contact proceeded to pump enough fuel to fill all three tanks of Carl’s bike, then hopped on the back and yelled, “Step on it, man. Let’s get out of here!”

At that moment Carl realized the voice was not that of his friend, Larry. But there was no time to think or speak. I’m just going to have to trust this guy, he thought. What surprised him was that his contact apparently had no intention of paying for the gas. The clerk inside the store hit a red button, which notified a nearby UP motorcycle patrolman, who immediately took off in hot pursuit.