Free Quantico by Greg Bear

asked.
    Levine shrugged. ‘Some sort of sharing of familial power. Training his sons to be heads of households. Or, they’re just figments of the light and our imagination.’
    ‘Well, his two sons are certainly not on that bus,’ Keller said.
    ‘What if they start firing back? The kids, I mean,’ Levine said.
    ‘You think they’d do that?’ Sprockett asked. ‘You think he’s trained them all to fight?’
    Levine rubbed his forehead with two close-spaced fingers. ‘Chambers is hard core. The Big Time’s coming, and a White Christ out of the north is going to scourge the ungodly and drive the Mud People into their graves, from which they will be resurrected as the zombie slaves of true Aryans everywhere. Anybody who doesn’t defend themselves will be raped and eaten alive by the Mud People.’
    ‘No shit,’ Cap Benson said.
    ‘He’s off the main sequence, philosophically speaking.’
    Keller said, ‘Griff, you’ve tracked him for two decades. This may be the best opportunity we’ve got. We can’t afford to lose him to old age…or let him bomb a few more clinics, if he’s so inclined.’
    ‘Or worse,’ Rebecca said.
    ‘Are your seriously thinking there’s a bioterror operation going on down there?’ Levine asked. ‘I have to say, that just isn’t the Patriarch’s style. He’s classic. He loves to blow stuff up.’
    Rebecca smiled sweetly. Keller said, ‘Washington doesn’t want a raid. They’re afraid we’ll hurt some kids down there.’
    Griff rubbed his cheek stubble. ‘Obviously, I’m going to have to go in alone and reconnoiter.’
    ‘The hell you say,’ Keller commented dryly.
    ‘It’s worth a shot. We’ve never actually met. He let the deputy go in and out—offered him coffee and biscuits. I think I could go in and take a closer look, ask some questions, and come out alive.’
    ‘On what pretext?’ Keller asked.
    ‘I’d have a better chance,’ Rebecca said. ‘A social worker. Census-taker. I look less like FBI than any of you.’
    ‘The Patriarch hates social workers,’ Griff said.
    ‘She might try for the harem,’ Sprockett said. No one seemed to think that was a good idea.
    ‘Can you make me look like an aging yardbird?’ Griff said. ‘I already have a few tats.’
    Sprockett and Keller stared at him.
    ‘Time’s short,’ Griff said.
    ‘Shit,’ Sprockett said.
    Keller got on his cell phone to issue instructions. Sprockett and Rebecca, working different phones, told the agents in town to let them know when the bus arrived.
    Griff took a deep breath. He hated wearing body armor—especially the new reactive stuff. It was thin but it wriggled whenever you walked. Made him feel like he was in a living straitjacket.
    ‘You are what you eat,’ Rebecca told him as she followed Griff down the steps to the first landing. ‘What’d you have for breakfast this morning?’
    ‘Flakes,’ Griff said, grinning back at her. He then paused to look through the trees. His eyes were wide and he had difficulty taking a cleansing breath. What would it be like after they suited him up?
    Over the next few hours, they procured a beat-up Ford pickup, a pair of denim dungarees, a T-shirt, and three quick forearm tattoos, on top of the two he already had, courtesy of one of Cap Benson’s backup team who moonlighted as a makeup artist. Benson called up Monroe to find out the latest trends in jailhouse art. Ten minutes later, they sent him some scans. Skulls, ripped hearts, Jesus on the cross, scorpions, and chains were still big. For some reason, fat seated Buddhas were having a good run—wearing berets and cradling Tommy guns in their ample laps.
    As a last touch, Rebecca shaved Griff’s head down to a stubble.
    ‘You look like someone I’d boot out of town,’ Benson said.
    Rebecca was less sanguine. ‘Twenty to one he’ll still peg you as FBI.’
    ‘All right,’ Griff said. ‘Tell me what I should look for.’
    Rebecca pulled a lab catalog from her travel bag.
    The mile