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twenty-one-year-old student who was deadly at six hundred yards with a scoped, bolt-action rifle.
    He let his hand slip out of Makala’s grasp as they drove on. If anything happened, she’d have to maneuver quickly with both hands on the wheel. Makala slowed for a moment, pointing out someone on the overpass for the old parkway, and then speeding up, John watching carefully for any threatening move. The location was a good one for an ambush since the road narrowed as it went through a defile, with a blind corner just beyond where a barrier line could be hastily erected. The person on the bridge wisely held up both hands as a peaceful gesture that at least he had no weapon, and then he actually waved. It seemed friendly, but it could also be a signal to an ambush waiting around the bend.
    Ed and Grace were tense in the backseat. John chambered a round into his Glock and now had a reserve clip out and on the car seat beside him. Makala was ready with both hands on the wheel. They cleared the bridge and continued on to the turnoff into Asheville where the road widened. All four gave inward sighs of relief as they slowed for the entry barrier to Asheville set up at the intersection of Interstates 40 and 240. They showed identification at the city barrier line and then were waved through. John recognized one of the men guarding the approach: it was the friendly cop he had met long ago on his first visit to Asheville after the Day. There was even an exchange of pleasantries, and then Makala drove on, exiting at Charlotte Street and finally arriving in front of the old courthouse complex.
    The complex was made up of three buildings—the county office, a rather ugly and imposing fifteen-story structure; a smaller city office to the south side of the complex, which was an elegant building of art deco design; and a fortresslike, foreboding county prison downslope and behind the two buildings.
    John felt an instinctive chill even as they parked and got out. When the army occupied this place, the sight of young men and women in traditional U.S. Army uniforms had been a comforting sight for him. That had once been his world. The uniforms were different now.
    On the steps of the county office were two guards wearing flak jackets, and one of them stepped forward, an M4 carbine half raised. “Identification. And no weapons allowed in the building.”
    John had cleared the chambered round out of his Glock and holstered his weapon before getting out of the car. The sharp command uttered by the guard made him hesitate. Carrying in the open had become very much the norm in the two years after the Day, and the tone of the guard set him off. Ed and Grace were falling in behind him, their weapons slung casually over their shoulders.
    Makala stepped forward in front of John.
    “Here’s my ID.” She held up her old North Carolina driver’s license. “John, why don’t you put your pistol back in the car? Ed and Grace, how about waiting for us there?”
    She handled it smoothly, as she always did, and rather than react as tempted, John carefully pulled his pistol out, handed it over to Ed, and reached for his own wallet.
    “Ma’am, this ID has lapsed and is therefore not valid.”
    John actually started to chuckle at the absurdity of the guard’s comment. “Should we go down to the North Carolina DMV and get a new one right now? We definitely don’t want her to get a ticket for driving.”
    He meant it as a joke, but the officious guard did not take it that way. It was the type of response that had always set John off.
    “I’d prefer to see some current federal identification, such as your ration card.”
    “Didn’t think to bring it,” she replied smoothly, stepping a bit closer to cut John off from a far angrier response. She then gave an innocent smile. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t aware that was now required.”
    “I’m John Matherson of Black Mountain, here to see Dale Fredericks,” John announced coldly, coming up to his