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was the greatest American patriot since Ethan Allen. His message seems to appeal to a certain kind of man—­typically, ­people who belonged to groups that have already been wiped out by the ATF or other federal agencies. The best report we have suggests that Terry Belcher commands a group of nearly two thousand white supremacists, almost all of them living and working on his compound.”
    â€œAnd now he has enough guns to arm them all,” Hollingshead said.
    Chapel nodded. “We need to get me inside that compound. The original plan,” he said, being careful—­it had been Hollingshead’s plan, after all—­“was for me to pose as a disaffected white supremacist looking for something new to believe in. I was supposed to sneak in there, find the guns, and blow them up. But I don’t think I could have done that successfully, sir. Terry Belcher would have had to approve my joining the group. And I believe he would see right through me.”
    â€œSo what is your solution—­if I may be so bold as to ask?”
    Chapel took a deep breath. “Sir, you know I was taught by the best instructors the Army Rangers had. They told me one thing I’ve always held to be axiomatic—­if the enemy is attacking from the left, strike from the right. If they believe you can only hurt them one way, show them you can think outside the box. Do the opposite of what they expect.”
    Hollingshead raised an eyebrow.
    â€œTerry Belcher expects his organization to be infiltrated by an undercover agent. He’s been working at preventing that for years, and he’s built an exceptional defense against that kind of attack. He’s also expecting an ATF raid at some point. I think he stockpiled all those guns to be ready when a massive force of agents shows up at his front door. He’s ready to fight that kind of war, too. So I needed to find the one method of attack he’s not ready for, the one thing he would never expect.”
    â€œLet me guess,” Hollingshead said. “You’re going to walk up, ring his doorbell, and ask if you can have all of his guns.”
    Chapel had to remind himself to breathe.
    â€œWell . . .” he began.

 
    CHAPTER FOUR
    C hapel set down in Pueblo, Colorado, first thing in the morning, but when the door of his plane—­Hollingshead’s private jet—­popped open, it was already as if he’d opened the door of an oven. It had to be ninety degrees outside, but it was a dry heat that made the skin of his face shrivel. He’d been expecting mountain weather—­Pueblo was nestled in the foothills of the Rockies, a mile above sea level—­but the first thing he did was shed the fleece he’d brought.
    In his ear, Angel was there with an explanation, as if she’d read his mind. “Pueblo’s in what is called a banana belt, sugar. But don’t expect to find any palm trees. That just means that because of a fluke of geography, it’s warmer than the surrounding region. Drier, too—­the mountains over there scrape off all the clouds, so moisture from the Pacific never makes it this far.”
    Chapel could believe the mountains could scrape the sky clean. As he stepped off the plane, he felt like he could reach out and touch them—­a wall of rock and trees that stuck up almost straight out of the ground. It was an optical illusion but one hard to dismiss. They towered over him until he could see almost nothing else. Yet if he turned around and looked east, the world seemed as flat as a pancake.
    Overhead, the sky was a pure and unbroken blue, and it looked about twice as big as the sky he’d left behind in Virginia. The ground was a sandy brown, dominated by scrub grass and stands of wildflowers and, off in the distance, a single tree. It wasn’t exactly high desert, but it was close. “Cowboy country,” Chapel said. “This all looks like