Domestic Enemies: The Reconquista by Matthew Bracken Page B

the mention of “law enforcement sources,” but Mark Fowler kept a poker face. 
    The old man continued.  “The police report says it was from the Federal Transit Center at Oklahoma City, but I suppose we can’t expect them to blow the cover on your secret D-Camp.  Your story holds up, what we can check of it. I’m real sorry about your father, and Mr. Fallon, and of course about what happened to your baby son.”
    Fowler said, “It just amazes me that I know Leo Swarovski personally, and that he told me years ago how he was tipped off about the ATF raid.  It never made any sense, not until now.  He never knew who tipped him off, or why.  It’s just the damnedest thing, and now it all fits, it fits right into your story.  I suppose it’s one of those ‘six degrees of separation’ things: me, Swarovski, your father, and you.”
    “So here we are now, Miss Bardiwell,” said the white-haired Caylen Barlow.  “We believe you.  It’s one hell of a story, but we believe you. We’ll have a doctor carve that chip out of your shoulder tomorrow morning.  That’s no problem.  In fact, we know some folks who would love to study it; we’ll send it on to them.  But I still don’t understand what you want to do.  Nobody in their right mind would drive straight through to Albuquerque from here! No gringos anyway.  Say, how’s your Spanish?”
    “Pretty good.  Más que bastante ; more than good enough.  I had a lot of practice in the camps—I always figured it would come in handy, eventually.  Like when we were in Colombia.  I can’t pass for a native speaker, but I speak ‘Spanglish’ about as well as millions of American Hispanics can.  I’m not afraid to go into New Mexico, if that’s what you mean.  Mr. Barlow, I intend to find my son, no matter what it takes.  I’ll walk to Albuquerque, if I have to.”
    “I’ll bet you would, too. Hmm...”  Barlow looked at his two friends. “Mark, Sam…you wouldn’t mind going inside for another round of beers, would you? I’d like to talk to Miss Bardiwell for a little while, please.”
    When they had left, he paused, stared up at the ceiling fan, and then quietly spoke.  “I can get you a ride in.  Not all the way to Albuquerque, but close.  Close enough.  Close enough to get past most of the checkpoints and roadblocks, at least all of the ones we know about.  The permanent ones.  We can get you close enough for you to rendezvous with somebody we trust, somebody who can drive you the rest of the way into the city.”
    “How will I get through the checkpoints? I don’t have any ID.”
    “Not through the checkpoints.  Over them.  In an airplane, a light airplane.  You’re game to fly, aren’t you? If you can ride motorcycles, a little hop in an airplane shouldn’t be a problem, right?”
    “Oh no, no problem!  No problem at all.”
    “Okay then, it’s settled. You’ll take off tomorrow night, at dusk. We’ll have until then to get you ready.  There’s some folks in the camp from near Albuquerque; they got thrown off their land.  Got ‘land reformed,’ you might say.  They can fill you in on what to expect in the city. If we’re lucky, we’ll get an address for your son. We still have some good law enforcement sources in New Mexico, but I don’t know about finding an FBI agent’s home address…”
    “That’s all I really need: an address for Special Agent Alexandro Garabanda.”
    “We’ll do our best.  And we might be able to find you an ID card. I’m not sure, I’ll have to ask around, see what’s available on short notice. Nothing that’ll stand up for very long, mind you.  Not if they scan your thumbprint or your eyes.  From what we’re hearing, there’s not too much of that.  Just something to get you past a regular Milicia checkpoint.  If you’re lucky, if they don’t have a print scanner. If they scan your prints into the wireless network, well…after that, you’ll be on your own.”
    “Mr.