The Blood of Patriots by William W. Johnstone

can.”
    Dickson’s face was pale. “Get out.”
    â€œMr. Dickson, call me the worst father in the world but I can’t live with the idea of handing my daughter a broken America, one where women have no rights and liberty is just a street name. I’m betting that you and the other townspeople will stand shoulder to shoulder and stop this before it’s too late.”
    The banker did not reply. Ward waited. The man didn’t even move. Ward sighed and wrote his cell number on a foreclosure notice. He pushed the document in front of the bank manager.
    â€œIf you change your mind, call. I’d also like to know what your friendly neighborhood Muslim outreach liaison has to say, if you care to share that.”
    He left Dickson standing stiffly behind his desk, the two men uncertain what would happen next but only one of them eager for it. Ward passed the darker-skinned man on his way out. He was about five-eleven in a well-tailored beige suit and neat beard stubble, cleared away under the chin. Except for the facial hair, he reminded Ward of the muscle he saw in mob stakeouts. The man’s fingers were thick as carrots, his eyes dark, his mouth an unforgiving line. There was nothing in the man’s body or posture that said “compromise.”
    Ward passed without exchanging a glance, though he did look at the man’s feet. They were large—larger than the mush-prints he had seen at the farm. Ward suspected that this man had nothing to do with the attack. He didn’t look the hell-raising sort. This mule was probably just what he seemed to be: the dumb eyes and ears of whoever was unwilling to leave the Al Huda Center, albeit one who could take care of himself if he had to. Defense only. His brain probably wasn’t built for tactics.
    Ward was sure his picture was being taken by the cell phone. It would be sent to whoever did do the actual ass-kicking. That was fine. He’d be happy to have the bad guys come to him. He only needed to make sure Megan was out of the line of fire. He was betting these guys didn’t want to kill anyone yet: if they had, Scott Randolph would be in a box instead of the hospital. Still, now that he’d declared himself, Ward couldn’t afford to put anything past them. He would pick up Megan after school, take her home, and tell Joanne to keep her there except for classes or any other activity where she was in a crowd. Joanne wouldn’t like it and Megan might be frightened, but it had to be.
    Ward couldn’t wait for that conversation. But he believed what he told Dickson. His brother had died for that ideal. This was not a poker game with a fold option.
    The detective got in his car, checked the rearview mirror, saw the man taking a picture of the Prius. He wasn’t even being subtle about it. Ward wasn’t surprised. Part of their job was to try and make people paranoid. That was why they call it terror . Ward considered going over and calling him out but decided against it. He had a feeling where this was going and wanted to let it play out.
    Ward pulled from the spot and headed toward the inn. As he drove up the road he found himself smiling. He had faced down a Russian gunrunner. With guns. Let this guy and his handlers think that Ward could be frightened. The greatest strength of a man, of a people, is when the enemy underestimates them. Ward realized that what he was doing here, what Randolph and Chief Brennan and he were all doing, was erasing the destructive hyphenates. They weren’t a New York–American or Basalt-American. They weren’t a Farmer-American or Cop-American. They weren’t a Male-American or Female-American.
    They were, simply, American.

C HAPTER T HIRTEEN
    Immediately after Ward drove off, Earl Dickson went to a back room where the safe deposit boxes were kept. He moved in an unhurried fashion, forcing himself to smile at the tellers as he went behind the counter, affecting composure he