The youngster was sitting in the passenger seat of the van when Sam returned to the vehicle, and it should have come as no surprise.

Neither Lydia nor her sister had insisted on coming with Sam on his trip to Rantoul, not even once, not even a whisper. That should have been the clue. The night before, the girls had helped Sam with planning his trip. They'd assisted in mapping the path he'd travel, in researching properties and businesses located at the former Chanute Air Force Base, and in helping him arrange the logistics of it all. Their planning had been so meticulous that it hadn't occurred to Sam why the girls had insisted he stop for fuel and food at that precise location.

Lydia slouched now in the vehicle, a bulky 12-passenger van Sam had borrowed from a friend, and she did so as if she'd been traveling with him all along.

He didn't need to speculate how Lydia had arrived there. The durable shorts and running togs Tommy had obtained for her still had telltale flecks of mud, and her shoes and ankles were heavy with dust. Like as not, she'd left the seminary in Chicago right after Sam had departed in the wee hours of the morning, and she'd run the whole way—all 130 miles, from Chicago to Rantoul, in four hours or less.

"Did anyone see you?" he queried through the driver's side window. Most of her trip would have been under cover of darkness in the countryside, and the lass knew to stick to back roads and open fields—but he had to ask.

She merely shook her head.

"When is your sister showing up?" he asked as he got in and took his place behind the wheel. The clock read just past 6:00 am.

"Her and Christy should be on the road soon," said the young woman, still not bothering to raise her eyes above the phone. From the sound of the device and the intensity of her concentration, she was playing her and Celia's new favorite, some game that required players to crush flying ducks between levitating blocks of ice.

"How did you get Christy to go along with this scheme?"

"Meh. We haven't, yet. Celia will get her in the truck somehow."

"You were never going to let me come here alone, were you?" He sighed, contemplating the utility of further interrogation.

"Nah," she replied, the first hint of a smile now showing on her face.

Sam had reached Rantoul an hour earlier and, in accordance with the plan they'd drafted, had spent most of that time scouting the former airbase. Based on that initial look and the research they'd already done, it was clear that a large building that once had served as a maintenance shop and airplane hangar, still marked as Hangar 3, was the place at which Hollirich now secretly maintained a facility.

There were no signs or banners identifying the building as such, but their research had indicated the property was owned by a Constantine Avionics, Inc., a Delaware company that had no other presence on the Internet beyond its corporate filings and property records. Such paper fronts were easily erected.

Likewise, every other building of any size at Chanute seemed to have been put to some other clear and legitimate purpose, or to have fallen too far into disrepair to be used for anything at all. No. If Summerall and his people were at Chanute, it would be at that location.

"I saw some people going into Hangar 3 about 15 minutes ago," said Lydia, looking up from the game for the first time. "They went in through a door on the north side."

"How many?" asked Sam as he started the van.

"Two ... I think one was a woman. She had some big 'ol shoulders on her."

It took the two about 30 minutes to return to Hangar 3, after stopping for a dozen boxes of donuts, some coffee, and for a short pee break for Lydia. Along the way, a call from an exasperated Christy let Sam know she and Celia were in the pickup truck and on their way south.

Once at the airfield, Sam parked the vehicle on what formerly had been a taxiway in front of the enormous doors of Hangar 3. The doors were closed, but one car that earlier had not been there was parked outside. The conversation between Sam and Lydia turned to whether she would stay in the van.

"You keep saying you only want to talk to these people," she insisted finally, "so why do I need to stay in the car?"

"Because I've got no idea how these folks might react ... or how many of them there are. Until I do, I want you to stay outside."

"So, after they've finished kicking your ass," she said, staring defiantly, "what's to stop them from coming out and killing the pretty girl in the van?"

Sam knew it was futile. The young woman had refused to be left behind from the first day he'd met her, and she would follow him no matter what he said or did. He relented and spent a few minutes reminding her of the many lessons she'd been given on confrontations with people like them.

"You do as I tell you, let me do the talking, and if I say 'run,' you run—no matter what. Am I understood?"

She nodded solemnly. "And call Tommy the second I do."

"Okay," he said with a heavy sigh, "let's go."

Lydia gathered up the donuts they'd acquired, and Sam handled the coffee and fixings. 'Never show up early without breakfast in hand' was his motto. To his surprise, the metal hatch built into the broad hangar doors was slightly ajar, and he and Lydia let themselves in.

It took just a moment for their eyes to adjust, and to Sam's surprise, the enormous hangar bay was filled, not with aircraft and aviation parts, but with all variety and size of boxes, crates, cases, and machinery. The contents of what was clearly being used as a warehouse did not go nearly so high as the lofty roof, but save for a few modest pathways, the material covered every foot of space, front and back, left and right, and in places, the cargo was stacked 10 and 12 feet high.

Sam let out a quiet and surprised breath before some faint noises emanating from the back of the hangar bay caught his attention. The two followed the noise down a narrow pathway to where a slight young man in jeans and a t-shirt was fiddling with some large stainless-steel barrels that gave off a slight hum. Several larger tanks were situated nearby. Though unmarked, they looked very much like devices for storing liquid oxygen or nitrogen.

"Hey, brother," Sam said in his friendliest voice, "is Wayne around?"

The young man gave a slight start. There was nothing about him that gave him away as being Gifted.

"What? ... Summerall? He isn't in yet. I saw ... whatshername ... Nan and a couple others back toward the dayroom earlier. Are those for anybody?"

"You know it, my friend." Sam motioned the man to where Lydia held the boxes. "Where should we put them?"

"Oh, dayroom," the youngster said matter-of-factly. He took a jelly donut from the top box and turned back to his work.

"It's our first time. Where is that?"

"Just keep going the way you're going, second room on the right. You can't miss it."

"Just be nice and act like you belong," Sam tutored Lydia quietly as they continued walking. "Notice the wooden crates?"

"What?" The young woman slowed for a few steps before resuming her pace.

"Look what's written on them," whispered Sam as he slowed his own pace slightly.

"What language is that?"

"On the top is French," he said. "I think it's Arabic on the bottom."

As they resumed walking, Lydia gave an almost imperceptible gasp. "Morocco?" she whispered.

"Let's talk about it later," he said with much less calm than he felt. "But I'm glad you're paying attention in geography."

The place was more than just an ordinary warehouse, and a slight tremor ran through Sam. The fact Hollirich had maintained this place under a fictitious name should've told him something important was afoot.

Stick to the plan, he reminded himself.

They encountered no one else on their way to the dayroom, but when they reached their destination, they saw a woman reading a tablet at a long and sturdy-looking banquet table in the middle of a large room. The woman's physique was remarkable, and a quick look at Lydia told Sam this was the same woman she'd spotted earlier. That she was Gifted was without a doubt.

"Had your breakfast yet, miss?" Sam said as he laid the coffee on the table. Without prompting, Lydia popped open the top three boxes from her stack and laid them on the table.

"I never say, 'no,'" she replied with lightly accented English. She was a nice-looking woman with olive skin, fine features, and shoulder-length dark reddish hair. "But who are you?" There was a hint of cockiness and suspicion in her eyes as they sized up Sam and Lydia.

"I'm Sam, this is Lydia. You must be Nan." Sam extended his hand. "We came down hoping to find Wayne Summerall but would love to talk to any of you folks about starting a new life somewhere."

The woman gave a queer look as she took his hand in hers. "What do you mean 'new life'? You're not selling Bibles, are you?"

"You looking to settle here in lovely Rantoul, miss?" Sam gave one of his famous smiles. "I like this area ... and Lord knows after life at The Farm, it must look palatial."

His last statement appeared to get the woman's attention.

"I don't remember you from there," she said cautiously. "And what does where I live have to do with you?"

Before Sam could respond, two men entered the room.

"Night geek said there's donuts," bellowed the first, before catching sight of Lydia. "Ooh ... hello."

His companion, who was two steps behind, broke into a laugh, but before the man could say a word, he laid eyes on Sam, blanched, and came to a halt. "Shit," was all he said.

"Come on in and have a seat, son," Sam said with his usual warmth. He stood, and as he did, he reached out his hand in friendship to both men. "You must be Feist," he said to the second, now speechless, man. "I'm Sam. Nan and I were just talking about the future."

The first man took Sam's hand and gave a short, firm shake before glancing over to his comrade. The look on Feist's face put the man on his guard.

"How is it you two know each other?" asked Nan, looking back and forth between Sam and Feist. There now was even greater wariness in her voice.

Sam's hand was still extended in friendship, but now his attention was focused on Feist, one of the men he and Tommy Haas had faced in combat a year before. "I come in peace, my friend," he said in his warmest voice. "I only want to help you folks."

It took a few seconds for Feist to steady himself, and the man carefully reached out and shook Sam's hand.

"We have bear claws," piped Lydia. She slid a box toward the men and, as she did, stood and extended her hand. "I'm Sam's daughter Lydia."

It was the first time the woman child had used that word to describe herself, and it caused something to catch in the old man's throat. For just a moment he had to fight back a tear. But he reminded himself that all of this could still go south. As Sam braced himself and formed his next words, Feist spoke.

"This is the guy who killed Morse."

"Nah," Sam corrected. "That was a buddy of mine, but I've got him on speed dial if you want to talk."

There were no takers in the suddenly quiet room.

"I was there that day," Sam continued, conscious that all eyes were on him, "and I'm sorry about your friends ... but that was an ugly day, and no one there was in the mood to talk. Today, I come holding an olive branch—look, is there anybody else here? It'd be easiest if I made my pitch to all of you."

"Feist," said Nan, with the barest of hesitation, "go fetch Barret. She's down in her hooch." The woman called after, as the man began to move. "And don't forget to knock first, or she'll wear your ass out."

It was clear who the boss was in Summerall's absence. The woman turned to Sam and regarded him for a few moments before speaking. "You said you know Wayne ...."

"Nah, never met him. Brian Severance said I might find him here. I'm helping a couple of Brian's friends relocate. I'm hoping to do the same for you folks ... unless you can't tear yourselves away from all of this splendor," Sam said, raising his arms in a majestic flourish to their spartan surroundings.

"Getting out of the country right now is not as easy as it used to be," said the first man, who, as if catching something in Sam's eyes added, "I'm Sokol, Bart Sokol." In the man's pronunciation of his name there was, for the first time, the slightest hint of what might have been a German or Polish accent.

Both Feist and Sokol were of a type, tall and lean with dark hair and heavy brows. Sokol, who was about 30, was maybe five years older than Feist. Nan had that timeless look that occasionally came with great physical Gifts, but Sam reckoned her to be somewhere short of 40 years. All of them radiated great physical strength.

"Does it have to be out of the country?" Sam asked. "Look, I don't guess you folks knew what was going on in the dungeons and laboratories at The Farm. I know that I used to not believe those kinds of things were possible, the kind of things Hollirich was doing to people like us ...." He shook his head sadly.

"I was there," said Lydia, her voice heavy with emotion, "if you ever want to hear about it."

Sam put his arm around the girl's shoulder. "But I do know about the things you've been doing the last year, buying and selling people like they're cattle ... no," he said sternly to Sokol, who appeared ready to protest, "hear me out ...."

By that time, Feist had returned with a tall and lean young woman who might have been Lydia's older cousin. Both helped themselves to donuts and coffee and took a place against the wall opposite Sam.

"I have no doubt you felt you had good reason to do the things you did, and the truth is that me and my friends don't care about the past. The police are looking for all of you, but we've decided to go out on a limb and help you relocate ... anywhere you wanna go, here or abroad, and to help you with new identities. The only condition is that you get out, and stay out, of the people-trading business. Take whatever money you've earned from that nasty trade, but we're not gonna help you or Hollirich peddle human suffering."

"Why would you do this?" asked Nan in a tone so blunt it was nearly harsh.

"Because I've been around long enough to know that you folks would not have done any of the things you did if you hadn't run into Morse and the assholes at Hollirich."

Sam took up a cinnamon raisin roll and had a bite. The others were quiet.

"Ladies, gentlemen," he continued quietly, "I've got a van outside. I'm willing to take you all with me right now. We'll help you with new ID's, relocate you anywhere you want, and to the best of our abilities help keep the police off your tails. You fly right and keep on the straight and narrow, and you can live your lives as you please. But get in trouble with the authorities in your new lives, then you're on your own ... just like anybody else. This is a onetime, take-it or leave-it, offer, but I'm willing to sit here as long as it takes for you folks to make up your minds, yes or no."

As Sam had talked, the faces of the four former Morse acolytes had bounded back and forth emotionally. He could see it in them: Fear, guilt, and doubt made people edgy and volatile, especially people who'd otherwise been through terrible torments, as these had. He felt he was winning them but needed to tread lightly—these four still could turn against him.

So, Sam was patient. After he finished his pitch, there were a few moments of silence. And then the mercenaries began asking questions, which Sam fielded to the best of his ability. Their enquires were, for the most part, the same three or four questions over and again: What where his motives, who else was involved, why should they trust him, and what would be required of them. It was all quite simple, and everyone present seemed to weigh Sam's words carefully. After about 40 minutes of this back-and-forth, Sokol began shaking his head.

"You're not offering us anything we don't have already," the man said dismissively.

"Oh, the top-cover you've gotten from your federal buddies, especially those crooks at Homeland?" Sam shot back. "A lot of those guys are under investigation by the FBI right now and, like as not, they'll be under indictment soon. And I suspect you know that. Otherwise, why are you holed-up here in lovely Rantoul, looking for a way out of the country?"

Sokol pursed his lips, and Nan seemed uncomfortable in her chair. The other two had spoken little, and by that point Barret had disappeared back down the hallway from which she'd come. Sam rose, took up a yeast donut, and leaned against the door frame. As he weighed his next words, a racket sounded without, and two men appeared just outside the dayroom.

"What the fuck is going on?" said a man who could only be Wayne Summerall. "And who the fuck are you?" he shouted at Sam when the old Chicagoan caught his eye.