Resist: or Serve: Book 2 of Amen Trilogy

By J F Reeves

Everybody has a secret!

When it comes to ugly little secrets, Pine Gap, in the heart of Australia, would be the prime candidate for keeping the best of them.

John Sampras is a computer genius sent to Pine Gap to install a new update on one of the worlds best kept secrets. What he finds, challenges every known ethic he was taught to believe in. Sampras knows the decision he makes could very well be the catalyst to destroy not only the New World Order - but all of humanity.

Sampras escapes from Pine Gap, armed only with a small flash drive. He is running for his life in the heart of Australias most venomous desert, no water and no survival skills.

He is not running for his life - he is running for the sake of humanity. If Sampras cant stay alive long enough to upload the contents of his flash drive and get this information out to the public

he will take that secret to the grave. And mankinds future with it.

Resist:or serve is the End Game. The time where politics, religion and survival all grapple for centre stage. It is the Time of the End of this system of things - Armageddon is on our doorstep.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press AU
• Release date: Dec 22, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504300575

J F Reeves

Jennifer Reeves has spent more than thirty years as a novelist and screenwriter, using words to create new worlds. Originally from Durham, England, she now lives in Whyalla, South Australia, with her husband George, two sons, and their families.

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Copyright © 2016 J F Reeves.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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ISBN: 978-1-5043-0056-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5043-0057-5 (e)

Balboa Press rev. date: 12/19/2015

My love and

thanks go to my wonderful parents, Catharina and Arthur Foster, who were a constant reminder that I am my own person and responsible for my own words and actions - and for their hopes that I would always have the freedom to express them.

Introduction

The Government is ready to introduce the VeriChip into the population whether you want it or not. The VeriChip will be implanted either in the forehead or back of the hand.

The implant consists of a microchip - an RFID or Radio Frequency Identification integrated circuit - a capacitor and an antenna wrapped around a ferrite core.

These components are sealed in a capsule of medical-grade glass which is then partially coated in a porous polypropylene substance called Biobond.

Biobond encourages the formation of tissue within the body to prevent the implant from migrating or shifting location in the flesh.

The implant is injected into the flesh, using a large-gauge hypodermic syringe known as a cannula. It is designed to remain permanently embedded under the skin.

The chip itself will contain every detail of the person into which it is implanted. It will include all health records, criminal affiliations, habits and phobias, religious convictions, financial commitments, personal and business data etc., all, will be recorded onto this chip.

You will have no freedom.

They will know where you are at every given moment of every given day.

If the Government even suspects you of being a dissenter, a patriot, guilty of a crime, or a threat to their New World Order, the number on your chip will be activated and you will die.

The lithium crystal will leak into your blood stream and your blood will boil.

There will be no relief, no second chance.

If you have an MRI, x-ray - your chip will burn from inside your body.

Once you have been implanted with this chip, God’s words are very clear - you are lost to Him.

This chip is the blueprint of your life. It is a human barcode, controlled by Satan. It is the mark of the beast. (Rev 13:16)

The Government told us they stopped implanting this experimental chip in 2010.

They lied …

Previously …

When it comes to ugly little secrets, Pine Gap, in the red heart of Australia, would be the prime candidate for keeping the best of them.

John Sampras was a marked man, running for his life in the heart of Australia’s most venomous desert, no water and no survival skills, armed only with a small flash drive.

Rescued by two of the unlikeliest of heroes, Sampras was able to forward the contents of the flash drive to a friend in the United States. A controversial anchorman at NYI News, Rod Foster.

Only Foster had problems of his own.

Collecting damning evidence on a state senator, Rod Foster and his cameraman, Mike Bodine, were suddenly persons of interest to the FBI, CIA, NSA and Homeland Security.

A warrant was posted for their immediate arrest, in relation to charges of treason.

What Rod Foster hadn’t expected, was that his two good friends, Tribal Navajo police officers Joe Mist and Cyril Lightfoot, would be manning a roadblock in Shiprock, New Mexico.

It was there, everything went to hell.

NEW MEXICO

Navajo tribal police officer Joe Mist, felt he had hit the brick wall running. He clenched his eyes shut and prayed that he was hallucinating.

Please, God, let this be a nightmare.

Joe opened his eyes to take in the arid New Mexico desert, two tribal police officers standing beside him and the body of his friend lying in the dirt, haloed by an expanding pool of blood.

No nightmare, Joe. No sir. This is as real as it gets. Your good friend Rod Foster is dying in front of you, and you did this to him. You, Joe. You did this!

Joe’s partner, Cyril Lightfoot, hunkered down quietly beside him. He was pretty concerned about the Blackhawk helicopter that had landed one hundred yards away, and his agitation showed.

Joe, listen to me. Cyril cast a look back at the Hopi deputy sheriff trying to eavesdrop. You need to sort this out and stop them from taking our friend.

You mean the friend you screamed at me to shoot?

We can’t undo this, Joe. What we can do is maybe change the situation to our advantage. Come on. You were always the one with answers when we got in shit with the captain. You can do this.

Cyril’s eyes held an intensity that Joe reluctantly responded to. He desperately needed to find some inner strength if they were to have any hope of getting out of this mess.

In truth, what he needed to do, was get as far away from Cyril as he could get before he did something both of them would regret.

Joe made an immediate beeline for the Blackhawk.

The helicopter contained only two people: the pilot, and Maxwell Banks, a young, blonde, gung-ho FBI agent who wanted to impress on the agency that he was better off in Washington, than the armpit of the state of New Mexico they had posted him to.

Once, a lifetime ago, Banks had made a simple mistake that had compounded exponentially due to other agents’ mishandling of a situation that required a scapegoat. Maxwell Banks was it.

Now he was marking time in hell.

Joe approached the chopper, head down and holding onto his hat against the wind generated from the whirring blades.

Officer Mist, what have we got? Agent Banks asked.

False alarm on them two men you are after. This one’s a Hopi. He’d been drinking and was about to get caught for transporting illegal booze onto the rez. He panicked at the roadblock, grabbed the deputy for some leverage and took off.

What happened to him? Banks asked, sliding one foot out of the chopper.

I thought he shot the deputy, so I shot the son of a bitch in the shoulder. Turns out Deputy Bowman fell over some saltbush. The driver’s okay. Cyril and I are going to book him after we get him checked out at the hospital.

Agent Banks was clearly at two minds over what to do. If this was the man the FBI had been looking for and Banks let him slip through his fingers, he would never get out of this hell.

You know, Agent Banks, when this artillery, Joe said, referring to the helicopter, and those other agents have left this place, you are still stationed here. Trusting the Navajo and Hopi are what you need to do to survive out here. Let us do our job. I’m sure you have more important things to do.

Agent Banks liked Joe. He was a good negotiator. There had been several times Banks had needed a backup, and Joe Mist had been by his side. He might have to let this one speak for itself.

I’ll come by the hospital later and check on him, he told Joe, realising there still had to be that arrogance and stronger presence of the FBI to show the tribal police they were under the authority of the big boys. A classic case of playground bullies holding the upper hand.

Joe was past caring. He consciously prayed that Banks would hurry up and get the hell out of there.

I’ve got a better idea, Banks suggested. We’ll drop him off at the hospital for you. Save you some time.

Joe laughed. He’s not that badly hurt. The bumpy ride in the truck will serve him right. Besides, the top brass might not look favourably on having blood all over their fine upholstery. Appreciate the offer though, Agent Banks.

Banks appeared to mull this over. After what seemed like an eternity, he gave Joe a brief nod, then flicked his hand at the pilot to take off.

Joe’s legs felt like rubber. That had been too damn close.

Not appearing too eager, Joe waited for the helicopter to become airborne, and then he sauntered back to the others.

Cyril rose to his feet and surrendered a relieved grin. The bleeding’s stopped. What happened with the chopper? He knew full well that Joe could talk his way out of any situation and had saved their butts on too many occasions to count.

Told them he was a drunken Hopi, trafficking hooch back to the rez! Joe grunted.

Is that so?

The voice came from a red faced Hopi deputy, who was standing directly behind them. A Hopi criminal, ay? Not Navajos? Let’s blame the Hopis!

I’m sure in my place you would have credited the Navajo. Trust me Bowie there are bigger issues at stake here. First we have to get our friend to the hospital. If we have ever needed a favour, it’s now.

A favour? Your so-called friend pulled me from a roadblock that I was responsible for, not being trusted to do any real police work by the higher ups, and then you ask me to forget I even saw the belagana’s the feeb’s are after and totally leave them out of the loop.

Reluctantly, Joe nodded. That’s about it, yeah!

Let me help you get him into the truck. You can’t let him lie in the dirt like that. Next thing, Deputy Bowman was helping both Cyril and Joe get an unconscious Rod Foster up onto the back seat.

What the three police officers had failed to notice, was Rod’s silent passenger, Mike Bodine, had exited the old Ford and taken refuge behind a nearby outcrop of rock.

Deputy Bowman’s sudden change of heart caused the young officers to pass a look of What’s wrong with this picture?

Why are you so helpful, Bowie?

Once Rod was settled on the back seat, Bowman picked up his hat from the dirt, and dusted it off on his thigh.

If these two belaganas can make the FBI look like total dickheads, I will personally make them honorary Hopi’s. By the way, where’s Mike? He was here a moment ago!

Who’s Mike? the Navajo boys asked simultaneously.

I assume it’s the other man on the wanted poster. Mike Bodine.

Wherever the hell he is, I’m sure you two will find him. Joe jumped up into the driver’s seat and was relieved to see the key still in the ignition. I’ll get Rod to the hospital, Cyril. You take Bowie back to the roadblock.

Bowie was stunned. What for? There is no purpose now, is there? Considering the two men they were after are here with us.

Maybe not, but they don’t know that. Find out what you can, Bowie. We’ll come by and see you as soon as we get our friend to a safe place.

Which is not the hospital. Bowie smirked. Pretty stupid taking him to the first place the feeb’s are going to look, if they want to check out your dumb story.

Do you have a better plan? I’ve got all the time in the world to listen to it. He’s only bleeding to death as we speak.

Stop being dramatic, and yeah, I might know where you can take him.

Cyril eyed him evenly. For Pete’s sake, Bowie, out with it.

The old trading post at Lukachukai. Tell Abe I sent you. He’ll know what to do.

Joe started up the engine. He nodded his thanks to the Hopi deputy, and then he was out of there.

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NATIONAL SECURITY AGENCY

The director of the NSA was seated at a boardroom table surrounded by eight key people in the National Security Agency hierarchy. Six men and two women, each with their own strengths to bring to the table.

Sharples was midway through discussing the fallout they had been receiving involving Pine Gap and the deployment of the new drones, when the door burst open and Senator Barshou entered.

Out! he barked, as arrogant as ever.

Instantly, they all turned eyes on the director, who surrendered a bare nod.

Unimpressed, the heads of the department picked up folders and iPads and then departed silently in single file.

Barshou looked like an unexploded bomb.

Sharples held his cool and poured the senator a coffee from the elegant pot in front of him.

At each meeting there were always three trays, each supporting a coffee pot, sugar and cream, to be evenly spaced along the elongated table, to tone down the atmosphere and bring a more settled mood to the table. The director found that coffee was a great defuser when figureheads were about to clash over NSA policy.

Barshou ignored the coffee.

He pulled out a seat and sat directly opposite the NSA Director. His eyes were cold and piercing. Almost reptilian. Senator Mendele is missing, Barshou said. If you know anything…

It’s been almost a week since he was in my office, Sharples replied. I haven’t heard a word from him in that time.

What were his instructions to you?

About what?

Don’t play me, Sharples. You are not a stupid man, and my anger needs an outlet.

Something in Barshou’s demeanour prompted Sharples to take this cretin more seriously.

Senator Mendele ordered me to find two people. Sharples confided. Rodd Foster and Mike Bodine. He was obsessive. I would go so far as to say he was fanatical in getting what he wanted, and to hell with the consequences.

Ah, yes. Rod Foster. The man whose mouth services a nation! And this Bodine fellow is …?

The cameraman who televised the interview. Even an uneducated guess would make me suspect that something very serious happened on that night, to cause the senator to target both of these men. Which is confusing. He clearly had the best of Foster, and the interview favoured Mendele.

What was he thinking? Why did he make these men his personal vendetta?

The Senator was many things. Honest and open were not two of those things. Sharples looked directly into Barshou’s eyes. He was insane. He made ridiculous demands on all the security agencies, while making it into a covert operation, and strictly need to know.

Did you find these people?

No sir, we did not. We have a new satellite at our disposal that can pinpoint the picture on a drivers license, or the barcode on the can of soup you are eating ... yet even so, the Senator and these two people do not register at all. They are literally off every radar and all surveillance camera outlets at our disposal. Sharples leant forward in his seat. I have to say, I’m relieved he hasn’t shown up. Nothing was good enough for Mendele. He threatened to take down the agency if these people weren’t delivered to him by the end of the day.

Which day?

That would be Thursday. The day it all went to hell!

Later that morning, the director stood on the second level walkway of the Pentagon’s control centre, and looked down at a bank of screens tuned in to various locations, instrumental to capturing the elusive Rod Foster and Mike Bodine.

These included, Satellite Resonance Imaging - Satellite Sensory Recognition - Global GPS Navigation, and Security Alert camera’s that had been installed on telegraph poles outside of Jake Paskerville’s Marina, Mike Bodine’s home, friends and relatives residences, acquaintances, the television studio Foster worked at, and any and all social and sports fitness centres the two men had frequented.

There was nothing about these two that the NSA, CIA, FBI or Homeland Security, did not know, or have access to.

Sharples believed the whole exercise was futile. As far as Rod Foster was concerned, there had been nothing to show that he was even alive.

What the director had not expected, was a security camera that had been placed at Jake Paskerville’s Marina, had picked up two people answering Foster and Bodine’s descriptions. Later they were seen driving away in Paskerville’s SUV.

It hadn’t been hard to do the math.

Sharples’ team had been fast, but not fast enough. Foster and Bodine had switched cars at a fast food outlet and now they could be anywhere.

Sharples had lost them.

Six hours later, a bonus came in the guise of Mike Bodine’s fellow cameraman Alex Bendall, who was quick to share the secret of Bodine taping the extra footage of Senator Mendele.

Bendall’s excitement had him share this newfound information with the show’s stand-in Producer, Bill Davies, who thought to include Senator Mendele in the secret - which quickly changed the ground rules.

Senator Mendele was not a forgiving man.

He needed to stop that footage from going public at all costs.

His instructions to Sharples had been brutally clear. They had to apprehend Rod Foster ASAP and relieve him of the damning evidence.

What that evidence was about, was not imparted to the NSA Director.

His orders were simple. Get Foster by any means possible.

Only now the net had widened to include Kira Ireson and Mike Bodine.

How on earth was Sharples going to tell the man who could make or break him, that the two same clumsy imbeciles that lost Foster and Bodine in Manassa, had also lost them just shy of New Mexico.

The only excuse he could offer was, at least they knew in what direction they were headed - and hopefully work from there.

The longer Senator Mendele postponed his arrival at the NSA agency, the more time it allowed Sharples to pinpoint where the two men were headed.

They would start with Jake Paskerville, Foster’s long time friend: and owner of the marina that Rod Foster had called home.

Sharples would ensure that interview would be stamped, Get information by any means necessary.

With such an instruction in play, Director Sharples would not want to be Jake Paskerville for all the money in the free world.

A sharp rap on the door was followed by Jules Martinez poking his head in. Angered by Martinez’s blatant intrusion, Sharples was about to snap.

We got him, Chief. Mike Bodine. We located him in New Mexico.

How? was all he asked.

Martinez grinned. SATAN just kicked in. SATAN of course, was the new much anticipated Satellite Advanced Tracking Automated Navigation system they had been anxious to get on line.

His driver’s license sang like a bird and we pinpointed him in less than four minutes.

Yes! he whispered.

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NEW MEXICO

Cyril Lightfoot was beside himself. Rod Foster, who they all believed dead, turned out to be very much alive. That is, until Joe shot him.

If that wasn’t a horror story on its own, Kira Ireson, Rod’s ex-fiance, suddenly goes missing on Cyril’s watch. She wasn’t in the back seat of Cyril’s old jeep, which is where she needed to be: considering all the security forces with their FBI and NSA choppers, were trying to track her down.

Kira Ireson, Rod Foster and Mike Bodine were presently at the top of the countries most wanted list. The reason for this hunt was ‘need to know’, and no-one in any of the security fields dared to ask why these three individuals were classified, extremely dangerous.

Their orders were clear. Hunt them down and bring them in alive. Which begged the question: if they were so dangerous, why weren’t they shot on sight?

Cyril remembered the irony in meeting Kira Ireson and Rod Foster for the first time. It had been at a roadblock.

As Cyril thought back, the roadblock had been an embarrassing affair.

Two Navajo tribal policemen, Joe Mist and Cyril Lightfoot, sat in their antiquated Ford with the paintwork and artsy police decal screaming out for attention.

They were used to the useless piddling jobs the FBI dished out from Shiprock, and like it or not, they had to appease the Full-Blown Idiots.

This time, things had been a little different.

This time, their instructions had come from the military. Although why it took two of them to watch one little road was a puzzlement to any intelligent species.

Cyril was from the Salt River clan, Joe from the Bitter Waters clan. And this had made it easy for Cyril to seek Joe’s sister, Angela’s hand in marriage.

If their mother’s or father’s clan were related, the union would have been regarded as incest and the marriage would be impossible. Obeying tribal law was something the Navajos held in greatest respect.

I cannot believe you are asking for a dowry for your sister. If, and I use the word loosely, there would be a dowry, and I’m pretty sure Navajo’s have no such custom, it would go to your father, who is no longer with us, and not to you. Cyril laughed. Besides, what would your father have done with an iPad Pro and top of the range iPhone 6L?

Join the human race for a start. New technology is what our rez brothers need to bring them into the twenty-first century, Joe smirked, a point I have been trying to push home for the four years we’ve been working together.

Keeping our heritage is more important, Joe. We’re losing the vitals, the heartbeat that once belonged to a great nation. We’ve grown lazy, fat, and ignorant on progress.

"You can’t stop progress, Cyril. No more than you can keep the old ways alive. Why not ease back and enjoy the changes! Live in the now.

Angela sure as hell wants to be liberated from herding sheep and making rugs to appease the tourist trade. She wants to move to town and get a life, which by the way, she thinks you will provide.

If and when we don’t die of boredom first."

Speaking of which, why would the wonders at the FBI be working through the military to guard one piddlin’ little side track?

Heard Geordy Begay tell Hosteen Chee that the caves along the Chevals are talking again. He got it from a very reliable source. If the media get hold of it, they could come out here investigating. And then we’re up to our armpits in lost whities.

Before Cyril could answer, a silver reflection caught him off guard. Company!

Flashy car to be driving on this backwash road.

Tourists, most probably. Or media. Now, what were you saying about the caves?

I thought that would get your interest. Been a while since we went spelunking in the caverns.

After the last time, Cyril snorted, not too sure about pushing our luck.

Joe got out of the car and put on his hat. We’re still here, aren’t we?

Kira Ireson and Rod Foster pulled up to the police barricade and cut the engine. The two young Navajo police officers, judging from the arid, rock-infested terrain, appeared to be guarding the gates to hell—and determined to stop all and sundry from passing into that accursed place.

Rod rolled down the window. Good afternoon, officers. He smiled. Trouble?

No, sir, just a little maintenance up ahead. Road’s closed until further notice.

Which is when?

Whenever they decide to open it. Joe smirked. Did you have any business here?

As a matter of fact—

Hey. I know you. The voice came from the other officer. You’re that reporter fella on that late breaking news thingy.

Rod raised his eyebrows. Thingy? So, what can you tell me about what’s really going on around here?

Nothing, the other one said, eye bolting his partner in a look that said keep your mouth closed: we were warned. Road’s closed. I’m afraid you’re going to have to go back the way you came, until further notice.

Back off, Joe. Cyril chuckled. Since when did we start taking orders off the military?

Rod was suddenly interested. The military is involved in roadworks?

Wish it was that simple. Something’s going down, and we get stuck on the barricade. The military thinks it’s the only one with brains to figure anything out.

Rod and Kira got out of the car. Rod took off his sunglasses.

You know, in all my years as an investigative reporter, the only true facts I ever got straight was from good folks like yourselves. I’m not trying to butter you up, simply telling it as it is. Something people don’t seem to do anymore. He made strict eye contact with both men.

How about I be straight with you. You do the same with me. If you want to remain anonymous, so be it. I will respect your privacy.

Joe got fiddly. I don’t know.

Cyril smiled. You first! He nodded at Rod Foster.

Kira here found a body near the Carlsbad Caverns. It was savaged beyond recognition. She emailed me a picture taken at the scene and then, right after, her partner disappeared. What she saw was… let’s just say, alien to these parts.

The two officers seemed to throw this around, and surprisingly, it was Joe who took the initiative.

The military arrived around ten yesterday morning. Right after that tour group disappeared from the Carlsbad caves. They’ve got the delta teams all suited up, and more helicopters are buzzing around the place than blowies on a carcass. It’s our turf, yet we aren’t allowed anywhere near the cave systems.

I can see where that would be quite insulting, Rod agreed.

Would be, Cyril sniffed, if n they were looking in the right places."

Kira noticed the glint in his eye. And you think they’re not!

That’s right, ma’am. Joe and me, we’re locals. As kids, we used to comb the hills around the caves, know many passages and entrances that don’t appear on any maps.

Rod said, Can you show us?

What, you mean on a map?

No. It was Joe who spoke. We would physically have to show you. Trust me, you would never find them.

Joe’s right. Cyril nodded. Place is a rabbit warren. And let’s not forget the military poking around. You could wind up trophies on a brigadier’s wall.

How about tonight, when you finish your guard duty? I’ll make it worth your while.

Cyril and Joe exchange glances. May be arranged. Cyril smiled.

It took longer for Joe, who reluctantly nodded.

And from then on - the game was on.

Since that night, their friendship had grown, got stronger, and they would all be there for each other if circumstances dictated it. Like now.

A nightmare of their own making: considering things were going sidewards with Rod getting shot and Kira disappearing from their 4x4.

Where she was now, was anyones guess.

Kira must have panicked when she saw the Blackhawk helicopter landing and figured she was a sitting duck where she was. Carrying horrifying secrets on her small flash drive, from a guy in Australia, John Sampras, clearly made her the world’s biggest target.

And who in blazes was this Mike Bodine that Deputy Bowman had mentioned, travelling in the truck with Rod? This was getting weirder and weirder.

Right now, Cyril had Joe off on a rescue mission with the man the FBI are after, Rod Foster, while the other two the Fed’s were chasing down, Kira Ireson and Mike Bodine, were quite possibly hiding out in the crevices and niches of the canyon walls, looming down on them from all sides.

Question was: was this Mike Bodine a threat to Kira?

Hard to believe all of this madness started two days ago with an email to Rod Foster, with some extremely highly classified stuff on it.

The man, John Sampras, had managed to escape Pine Gap, send the damning email to Foster, only to have it accidentally intercepted by Kira Ireson, and Jake Paskerville, both believing Rod was dead.

Jake was in charge of the Marina, where Rod has his mail delivered. The brown envelope, addressed to Mr Mosley, spiked Jake’s interest, and he showed the envelope to Kira.

Mr Mosley was the pelican that resided on Rod’s boat.

Curious, Kira opened the envelope, to find Mike Bodine’s disk. What was on it blew them both away. But not as much as the email Kira accessed, from a man called John Sampras.

What Kira and Jake read, freaked them right out.

On Kira’s instruction, Jake made a copy of the email and disk contents, saving them to a small flash drive: but he willfully drew the line at any further commitment.

Simply put, the contents terrified him. He wanted that email off his computer and out of his house ASAP. Jake adamantly washed his hands of all knowledge that the information on the flash drive ever existed.

Kira was now running with it: terrified, but she knew if Rod had seen John Sampras’s email, he would have done everything in his power to get it out to the Public.

A good reason the NSA, FBI, Homeland Security and quite possibly Charlie’s Angels were all trying to get their hands on it before whatever was in that email, went public.

Someone sure as hell didn’t want that information to get out.

Bowie accompanied Cyril back to the Cherokee. What now?

Now we get back to the roadblock and look busy. If we’re gone for too long we look suspicious and our respective Captains would want to know what the hell we’re playing at.

You can’t leave Mike Bodine out here to fend for himself, Bowie said sympathetically. He’s a city boy, pure and true. Could be awfully dangerous.

Cyril stopped, his hand on the driver’s side door handle. "No offence Bowie, our past record does not have us exactly on the same side. There will always be Hopi and Navajo differences with competitive agendas.

Suddenly you’re helping us, big time: why now?"

Bowie let out a held breath. He gazed around at the surrounding canyons and looked like a man weighed down with a heavy problem.

After they kidnapped me, this Mike guy, he showed me something on his laptop. Something that made the world of difference.

Cyril stared at him, not understanding.

Bowie continued, My wife and I follow the Jesus road, he said. "And we believe we are living in the days of Revelation –the end days!

Anyway, this Mike was a cameraman on that controversial News Show, and the night of an interview with Senator Mendele, he left the camera running after the interview was over.

What he got, was the senator threatening the man Joe shot, Rod Foster, and admitting to murdering that Producer fella. But here’s the thing. Right before that, Senator Mendele sat down in front of them TV cameras and told us all the enlightening benefits of having the VeriChip implant.

Made it sound like it was for our own good, whether we wanted it or not, and we didn’t have a choice in the matter. Was too damn cocky for my liking. Bowie looked dispirited. He is a horse of a different colour, that one."

At least we agree on something.

Cyril and Bowie returned to the roadblock.

It was best that Cyril remain there for a couple of hours at least, to make things appear normal and hopefully divert any undue attention away from him or Joe. Especially now, with the FBI landing on their doorsteps and breathing down their necks.

Joe was not answering his cell phone, so that could place him out near the lava fields where transmissions were either spasmodic or not available.

Nothing left to do but wait for Joe to make contact.

The young officer couldn’t grasp the fact that Joe had shot their friend. Not Joe’s fault, admittedly, but hell … he shot Rod.

To compound the situation, he lost Kira.

Some support team.

And Bowman acting like he was a friend. That was freaky. For years they were constantly bickering over Hopi and Navajo jurisdiction, and neither of them gave an inch to the other.

Now they had this secret bond thing, against the Federal Government and the Bureau.

What a crazy day.

After putting in four hours on the roadblock another team showed up to relieve them.

Bowman offered Cyril his help in finding Mike, volunteering his services and his time. He was genuine. So was the help he offered.

Under the circumstances, Cyril decided to fill Bowman in on the fact there were two people out there, not one.

While he was explaining the