Free Myrmidon by David Wellington

“Why?”
    â€œBecause you came along.” Belcher laughed. “I had them train and drill for the day the government would come and raid our little town. I bought all those guns and told my soldiers it was for their defense. I always expected a massed force of ATF and maybe FBI agents. You showing up like you did, just one guy—­that I wasn’t really ready for. But I saw I could use it anyway. You’re my excuse, Agent. You’re my justification for why we have to go to war today. And you’re also going to be my witness.”

 
    CHAPTER SIXTEEN
    T he convoy of cars, pickups, and SUVs roared through a residential part of Pueblo, unhindered by traffic lights or stop signs. Chapel saw ­people out on their porches catching an evening breeze. They watched the vehicles race past with looks of mild disapproval at most—­they could have no idea what they were seeing.
    Chapel wished he knew himself. Belcher still hadn’t revealed his plan, and there was nothing Chapel could do without knowing where they were even headed. The convoy blasted through town and didn’t stop, and he racked his brain, trying to think of some target, some opportunity for mayhem just north of Pueblo . . .
    â€œWe’ve been training for this for years,” Belcher told him. “Running constant drills. Going over and over the plan, fine-­tuning every element. Hatred can fuel you through long nights and so many setbacks.”
    â€œI understand,” Chapel said.
    â€œOh?”
    â€œI understand your problem, now.” Chapel peered forward through the windshield, looking for any sign of their destination. It was useless—­all he could see was a pickup with a bed full of ex-­skinheads loosing a chorus of rebel yells. “You were raised on hate. Nobody ever gave you anything to believe in.”
    â€œI believe in my ability to send a message,” Belcher told him. “The world is going to hear this one.”
    Chapel nodded. “I’m sure. I even understand, a little. When I was in the seventh grade—­well, it wasn’t a great time for me. I’d discovered girls, but they had yet to notice me. All the kids I’d thought were my friends turned out to be jerks. My grades suffered, and I didn’t want to do anything but lie on my bed in my bedroom and listen to my heavy-­metal tapes. I used to think about blowing up my school. I mean, I really fantasized about it, about how I would do it, about all the teachers running away on fire. I never thought about how to get away with it without being caught—­I wanted the world to know who had done it. But I had good reasons not to do it, too. My family. The one friend I could actually count on, even if sometimes I wasn’t a great friend to him. The history teacher who actually took the time to work with me, to figure out why my test scores were slipping. I figured blowing him up would be kind of, you know, ungrateful.”
    â€œYou’re wasting your time, Agent. You’re not going to psychoanalyze me out of doing this.”
    â€œI know,” Chapel told him. “I just hope you’ll have one moment of doubt, somewhere down the line. That you’ll pause for half a second and wonder if you did the right thing, devoting your whole adult life to one colossally stupid act. By the way, when are you going to tell me . . .”
    â€œAgent? You just kind of trailed off there.”
    Chapel shook his head. No. It couldn’t be.
    A high-­value target north of Pueblo. The airport didn’t count, it was too small to make a big splash in the news even if it were demolished by terrorists. There was an army depot north of the town, but it had barely been used in decades, except as storage for one thing. One leftover from World War I that nobody wanted around anymore, which had been scheduled for destruction for years . . .
    â€œBelcher,” he