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spared, and shipped to a rental agency up in Billings that sometimes did business with the Posse.
    In its original C2 configuration the Newell had three major spaces starting at the front in the salon with seating and dining space for ten people just aft of the driver’s position, with its state-of-the-art GPS receiver, and collision avoidance radar automatically linked to the braking system, as was the FLIR system, or Forward Looking Infrared detector. Behind that was the galley and head plus another small lounge. And at the rear what in the original model was called the Special Villa Section was a large space of pull-down bunks and a long conference table.
    All of the interior was done up in marble and thick carpets and stainless steel appliances and expensive leather upholstery with Tempur-Pedic mattresses and wide-screen HD plasma TVs, everything top-shelf. And everything apparently legitimate for seven well-heeled elk hunters.
    Egan, Moose, Widell, Dr. Mohammed al-Kassem Kemal, the Sudanese-born Pakastani who was on just about every terrorist watch list in the world, and the two girls, just as batshit crazy as the rest of them.
    Brenda Ackerman, short, dumpy-looking, except for her oval face with wide-open, innocent-looking brown eyes, who’d served on a small-town Mississippi police force until she was eased out when it was suspected but never proven that she had organized an old-fashioned KKK lynching of an elderly black farmer. For a time afterward she had worked as a truck driver and then a roustabout on Alaska’s Prudhoe Bay oil fields, until she’d killed a man who’d called her a dyke in a bar fight and ran to Upper Peninsula Michigan to be with Ada Norman whom she’d met on the Internet.
    Ada was a raging skinhead neo-Nazi who believed that Hitler’s grandson was alive and ready to rise up for the cause. At forty-two she was almost eight years older than Brenda, but she’d been trained well by her militia group and could put a respectable pattern on a pistol range target at two hundred fifty inches, firing a Glock 17 at better than one round per second. She was Brenda’s backup driver.
    â€œWe go at eighteen hundred,” Egan told them.
    The girls at the front of the rig looked up as did Widell from his computer. Dr. Kemal, who hated everything Western because the CIA had killed his parents who’d fought alongside Uncle Osama, had come from the back with a book in his hand and he blinked rapidly behind his spectacles. Like the rest of them he was a very good shot, especially with the Kalashnikov, the rifle he’d been raised with.
    â€œAre we quite alone, Sergeant?” he asked.
    â€œYes,” Egan said. “Everyone check your weapons and munitions, and get something to eat, could be a long night.”
    Widell went back into the galley and released a number of latches that moved the built-in refrigerator, range, and dishwasher aside, revealing banks of computers, radars, satellite receivers, and radio signal detectors that covered everything from high frequency to VHF, UHF, and above into the C and Ku bands used for uplinks. The compact microwave and satellite dishes were concealed in the air-conditioning units on the roof, and everything else was disguised as normal AM/FM broadcast, Sirius radio service, CB, or television dish antennas.
    The equipment on board could not only detect signals to and from the Dakota District Initiative headquarters and the Donna Marie experimental coal-seam electrical-generating station, but security alerts from within that would bring help within minutes.
    Standing there, Egan thought about his stepbrother Peter who’d been born eight months after the old man had been shot to death in Texas. He’d been the only one of them who’d had the possibility of a normal life. And just shy of his second birthday he’d wandered out of the trailer and had fallen into the creek at the bottom of the hill and drowned. Dead