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lights started flashing.
    “Slow us down a little more,” Eli said, tracking their approach to the roadblock.
    “I don’t know about this,” said his driver nervously.
    “We’ll be fine, Griz. I may ask you to vouch for me.”
    “I can do that.”
    John Barry, aka “Grizzly,” had eagerly joined his organization after the town hall meeting in Limerick. He’d led Eli to Ken Haskell, who’d been more than happy to play a role in keeping Limerick safe from government assassination teams. Haskell had identified one of the young women riding in Nathan Russell’s silver BMW SUV. “One of the Fletcher kids or something like that. They live out on Gelder Pond.” Less than an hour later, “Deputy” Eli Russell and Jeffrey Brown had paid the Fletchers a little visit, scoping out their compound.
    Grizzly followed the police officer’s hand signals, easing the car to a stop about twenty feet in front of the blockade. Two men dressed in civilian clothes and tactical gear shuffled between the vehicles, approaching Eli’s SUV with rifles aimed into the cabin. The police officer trailed them by several feet, keeping his pistol pointed at Eli through the windshield. A fourth shooter stood behind the pickup truck’s hood, aiming a bipod-supported, optics-equipped assault rifle at them. Eli hated feeling this helpless, but it was the only way to gain enough trust to talk his way into town. The riflemen split up, drawing even with the front doors and covering the men in the SUV.
    “No sudden movements,” whispered Eli.
    The police officer approached Eli from an oblique angle, partially obscured from his sight by the doorframe.
    “Shut the car down! Hands out of the vehicle!”
    “Boys. Hands out the windows. Slowly,” said Eli.
    He nodded at Grizzly before turning his body far enough to rest his hands, palms up, on the top of the doorframe.
    “This is a no-fucking-around situation, gentlemen. If you move your hands, you’re dead. Understand?”
    “Yes, sir,” said Eli.
    Once the men in the SUV settled, the riflemen closed the distance, peering deeper into the vehicle.
    “I have four military-style rifles in the cargo compartment. I see at least one shoulder holster!” yelled the rifleman on the driver’s side of the vehicle.
    “You have about five seconds to explain why you were driving into town with this shit,” said the police officer.
    “My name is Eli Russell, and I’m the founder of the Maine Liberty Militia.”
    “Never heard of it,” replied the officer.
    “We’re based out of York County.”
    “You’re coming from the wrong direction.”
    “We were just up in Lovell, warning them about the government takeover down south.”
    “Why do you need military-style hardware to spread the word?” asked the rifleman, waving his AR at the back of the SUV.
    “In case we’re attacked. The government has been killing local law enforcement and militia members down south, softening the area for whatever they have planned. We’ve lost over forty men since the supposed EMP. I put the rifles in back because I didn’t want to alarm you.”
    “We haven’t heard about any attacks down south,” said the officer.
    “It doesn’t surprise me. York County sheriff’s deputies started to disappear right after the EMP. Mostly the ones under contract with the small townships. The state police and regular departments seem fine, but something fishy is definitely happening in the rural areas. Checkpoints like this along the border have been wiped out. I was personally asked by the state police to send my people to one of the more obscure border crossings. None of them returned.”
    “What happened?” asked the rifleman.
    “They were killed in Milton Mills, right on the New Hampshire border. I lost twelve men, including my brother. I recognized the tactics from my time as a military advisor in Central America in the ’80s. We tracked down the government black ops team to a small lakeside property in Limerick. I