Burned into his memory was the sight of the pistol turning toward him, and how Frankie abandoned all sense of self-preservation and slammed into the PZ. He could go an entire lifetime without seeing that again or hearing the crack of the pistol as the bastard fired. Jesus.

However, seeing her risk her life for her friend. For him? It was as if the universe had slapped him upside the head, saying, “You think women don’t have the loyalty gene? Here, meet Frankie.”

Who would’ve thought he’d fall for a city girl? A New Yorker, for fuck’s sake.

But she was his city girl, and he’d do his damnedest to talk her into staying in Rescue.

If not…?

Well, maybe he’d like New York.

The anti-Christ libtards had invaded their sacred soil. Stolen their women and children. Killed some of their men.

Put their sinner hands on him.

Fury boiled inside Nabera until he felt as if his head would explode.

Around him, his men were loading up the trucks. Patriots, every one of them. Loyal to the Prophet. To him.

He’d already handed out the directions to the homes of other members, of other properties where they could hunker down and hide until this test of their faith was over.

With a roar, one vehicle started up and moved out.

To think they’d been reduced to fleeing in the middle of the night. His lieutenants had argued with him, wanting to hold the Feds off with their guns and courage.

Fools. The Feds had them outgunned, outnumbered. And the Patriot Zealots no longer had the women or children. The only reason the sieges at Waco and Ruby Ridge were noteworthy was because the bleeding-heart libs hadn’t been willing to sacrifice what they called the “innocent”.

As if a woman with her foul nature and carnal thoughts could be considered innocent.

Nabera had ordered the evacuation. With Parrish in Texas, the compound was his to command.

They’d always been prepared for this eventuality.

He watched as the building holding their weaponry was emptied. Carrying rucksacks, men and the very few women remaining climbed into the trucks.

Luka walked out of the building. “Empty, sir.”

“No one is left, sir,” Conrad called, jogging up.

Nabera nodded. “You have done well. Go, now. I’ll be in contact after I speak to the Prophet.”

“Yes, sir,” his subordinates chorused.

“Keep your heads down, stay safe.” His mouth tightened as fresh anger burned him like hellfire. In one truck were the bodies of those who’d fallen in the forest. And Obadiah.

Nabera would say prayers over them as they were flung over the cliff to the depths below. Dust to dust, as it should be.

They’d failed him by not recovering the women and children.