With our windows up and the air-conditioning on, most of the sounds were drowned out, giving the scene a slightly apocalyptic feeling. An occasional muffled scream and the shattering of glass provided a terrifying reality. Laura and I avoided looking at anything with more than a cursory glance, no matter how compelling it was, being careful to avoid attracting attention. Just a guy and a gal in their pickup.

And then we were on the next block and the next block. We kept our voices very low when we discussed our plan, even though we were alone in the cab. Laura gathered the paperwork we’d need when we got to customs. The GPS indicated we were eleven minutes from the bridge. “I always wanted to see Niagara Falls,” she said.

Marty Shaw later filled me in. Just as we were getting ready to make our run, he received a text message reading: “Hi, Marty, the plan is in action. The turnout is stronger than we expected. Will keep you informed.” He replied with a question: How many? The answer was more than three hundred men, women, and some children, an incredible and unexpectedly large number given such brief notice in the middle of the night. Organizations had rallied their members who were racing, okay, progressing steadily, toward the border. They had not been given specifics, they were told they were needed, then told where to assemble.

“I couldn’t believe it really was happening,” Shaw told me. “It was pretty incredible.”

The F-150 carried us around a long bend, and as we reached the summit, the beautifully lit Peace Bridge appeared in front of us. It sat like a jewel against the black sky, its LED lights programmed to create a green and lavender necklace across the Niagara River. The river itself was relatively still, the reflection of the bridge rippled only slightly by a small boat easing gently upstream.

Laura took a deep calming breath, filling her cheeks, then slowly blowing out a long stream of air. The next few minutes were going to determine the next few years of our lives. At least. She took my hand and held it.

“We’re okay,” I said, staring straight ahead at our future. She could not hear me thinking, I hope.

22

It was late, almost midnight, but traffic was backed up leading onto the Peace Bridge. That didn’t surprise or concern me. Long-haul truckers prefer driving at night and there had to be a sprinkling of Canadians returning from the Paisley concert. But the real problem was created by the orange cones set up to funnel every vehicle into the maze of checkpoints. Law enforcement was putting on a full-bridge press. Border patrol agents supplemented, I guessed, with Homeland Security and local cops were stopping and talking to every driver. Other officers, some of them holding bomb-sniffing and drug-detecting dogs on long leashes, were circulating among cars and trucks.

It was a loud mess. A few exasperated drivers had begun banging on their horns; they were quickly joined by many more, creating a cacophony of noise that must have irritated the already harried officers. A BMW and a Mercedes racing to fill a vacated space had banged bumpers and the drivers had gotten out and were literally bumping chests. Officers were trying to pull them apart. Two other cars had overheated and were cooling on the side.