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blinking. Warning beacons atop barriers that were erected across the road, police cars behind them, officers milling about in the chill of the coming dawn, turning cars away. The way out of town was blocked.
    I turned off to a side street and pulled in behind a row of shops that had once been rustic staples, but were now trendy outlets of whatever tourists were craving. I killed the engine and thought for a moment. Thought on the situation. Just as the officer in Kalispell had warned, the way north out of Whitefish was shut down. Yet, that was where I had to go.
    A few blocks to the north were railroad tracks, and beyond that a road that followed the gentle curve of Whitefish Lake—for a short distance. Just shy of Dog Bay that road ended.
    But the railroad tracks continued.
    That was the way. I just had to hope the powers that be had thrown up just the one roadblock. But in case they hadn’t, I hopped from my truck and went to the rear, crouching at the bumper and gripping the license plate, pulling and twisting at the thin slab of metal. It would not break, but the screws that mounted it did give, slipping from their anchors. In a minute I had the only thing that outwardly identified my truck as belonging to me in hand. I tossed it in the back seat as I got in and fired up the engine, sitting for a moment, steeling myself for the run ahead as the truck idled. If an officer of the law did spot me evading the roadblock, there would be no license plate to lead them to me, and eventually to my property up the highway. Still, if they spotted me, would they chase me? And, if they chased me, would I run?
    “Yes,” I said aloud, and shifted into drive, pulling back onto the side street, then back onto Lion Mountain Road, Route 93, the main route in and out of Whitefish. The way I had to go. Past the roadblock ahead.
    I drove slowly toward it. The last of the cars preceding me turned around and headed back into town. Two State Troopers stood at the barricade, waiting for me. One held a patrol rifle, an AR-15 like the one on floor just to my right, low and ready. Ready for any trouble. For any situation.
    Like the one I was about to present him with.
    I gripped the steering wheel tight, prepared to swing it hard right. My foot eased from the brake to the accelerator, ready to mash it to the floor.
    But I did neither. The roar from my left stopped me. I pressed the brake again and looked out the side window just as an old International Harvester Scout, its top cut away, rumbled past in the lane meant for oncoming traffic. Its four seats were filled, with two more passengers crammed into the small cargo space behind. All men. All carrying long guns.
    “Oh man...”
    The Scout stopped twenty yards short of the checkpoint, Troopers lining the barricade now at the sight of the mini armada, six men climbing from the vehicle. Four took positions behind it. One slipped right, threading the space between me and the car behind. The final man walked to the front of the Scout and stood there, cradling an AK-47, eyeing the Troopers as they began to scream orders at him and the others. More Troopers maneuvered for cover. The men behind the Scout spread out, covering the movement.
    This would not be another Arlee, I realized. It would be worse. Much worse. And I was positioned perfectly to catch a fair amount of fire once it began. From the looks of the men who’d come to challenge the roadblock, fire would most certainly begin.
    Soon.
    In an instant I made the decision, flooring it and swinging hard right, off the road, tearing through a low chain link fence and onto the browning greens of the golf course. I sped across the rolling landscape, following the cart path, threading between trees at the northern border of the course. Another chain link fence shredded as I punched through it and skidded across State Park Road, blue and red lights sweeping the intersection with Lakeshore Road to the east—another roadblock.
    I had been right. The