The Eye of Moloch by Glenn Beck Read Free Book Online Page B

about a quarter of a mile away.
    There were two massive pickup trucks, fully jacked up for all-terrain and both parked sideways to the tree line. A number of people were milling about, a pair of them wrangling three large black dogs by the leash. Four men stood in the long beds of the trucks with rifles in their hands.
    These weren’t official vehicles, at least they weren’t marked as such, and the type of camouflaged clothing worn by those he could see suggested a civilian hunting party rather than an organized militia. Not thatit mattered much what the look of them suggested; these days wolves in sheep’s clothing were everywhere. Regardless, he would carry on as planned and see what he would see.
    With his courage fully gathered he walked out into the open at a casual pace, shotgun stowed at his back in an American carry, as though he might be just another fellow sportsman strolling on toward hearth and home.
    They seemed to spot him immediately, and the quiet passage of the next few seconds was revealing.
    If these men had orders to shoot on sight they would have done so by then, but they didn’t. They drew together somewhat, as if in wary conference, and then spread out and squared off to wait for him. Still at long distance, he raised a hand to acknowledge the contact. No one waved back. Some did adjust the readiness of their weapons slightly, though none had yet taken aim.
    As Hollis nearly reached spitting distance a young man stepped up to the edge of the high truck bed where he stood and motioned for him to stop, which he did.
    “Afternoon,” the young man said. While outwardly a simple word of greeting, it was nevertheless spoken in a way that suggested the serious hazard of making any sudden moves.
    Hollis glanced upward briefly, and took a moment to gauge the present elevation of the sun.
    “So it is,” he replied.
    “Who are you?”
    “My name’s Thom Hollis. And who might you be?”
    The young man exchanged an even look with those on either side of him before answering. “If you were Thom Hollis, then I figure you should know who I might be.”
    He’d thought he noticed something about this gathering as he walked up, and there had been time enough since to reinforce that first vague perception. He hadn’t imagined it; there was a family resemblanceamong them. Prominent in some, in others barely there, an old sturdy bloodline was clearly shared among these uncles, cousins, sons, and brothers.
    This meant something, but far from everything. It was only reason enough to proceed as he’d been told. “If I was to happen upon a stranger out here,” Hollis said, “and if I judged him to be a man of merit, I was advised I should ask for Silas Deane.”
    These words brought on an extended and thoughtful study of his face. Though probably only seconds in length, by the time it passed the wait had felt much longer.
    “That’s a shame, friend,” the young man replied at last. “Old Silas, he’s gone on to greener pastures.”
    As this other half of the pass-phrase was spoken in response, though Hollis realized he should have felt something, he didn’t. Having long since abandoned hope, he had no place in his mind to receive it. He knew what he’d heard, and he knew what it meant: rescue. But there was no rush of joy, nor any other such emotion; it seemed instead as though all the preceding sleepless, harrowing miles of toil and near starvation had caught up and come down upon his shoulders at once.
    His vision went a little gray and sparkly at the edges; the horizon began to tilt and swing toward a drifting axis. He noted with a strange indifference that he was falling, but as his knees gave way strong arms on either side took on the weight he could no longer bear alone.

Chapter 7

    T he rotor blades were still spinning down as Warren Landers unbuckled his harness, removed and hung his headset on its hook, logged the time and coordinates, and then felt for the readiness of the submachine gun in