Followed by the Right Fighters, buggy engines whining.

He can’t believe Kasper is doing this.

But he’s not surprised one bit, either.

“Enough of this shit,” Brock mutters to himself.

His duty is to the people who have come here for sanctuary, not to change the minds of those who are here to hurt them.

He collects Dane Brockman, Javier Frias, and Keyshawn Quadra, and eight more of his most capable Go Dogs. Eleven of them—his almost dirty dozen.

He fixes Mahina with a hard look, but she’s already slung her combat shotgun over her shoulder and she barges past him into the rain like he’s not there.

Make that twelve, he thinks: Breath of Life, get us through this hour.

He’s got them outnumbered.

Brock directs half his Go Dogs to the eastern narrows of the wash, then he and Mahina and five others lope through the rain toward the western bend.

He figures that the Right Fighters are headed for the trailer encampment that lies on the higher ground edging the wash, where they’ll shoot their pics and vids, then circle back to the church and the outbuildings, and his home.

And after that? Time for Kasper’s flamethrower?

The rain has lessened and the wind slants it sideways.

Brock can see the yellow-and-black dune buggies through the dense manzanita, and the first row of trailers huddled in the rain. There are lights on in some of them, movement behind the curtains, dogs barking from behind raised cinderblocks.

He shoulders into the sharp, stout bushes, breaking his way to the wash, Mahina and his Dogs behind him.

He sees bear-like Kasper out ahead of the others, already on the far side, the gun of his flamethrower holstered to his hip, a video camera held up, shooting the trailers.

Behind Aamon, two of his dune buggies are mired in the runoff, big tires sunk into the mud, the drivers trying to gun them back to shore, raising rooster tails of mud high into the air.

Drenched Brock watches the other three Right Fighters—two men and women—slipping and sloshing along the bank toward the trailers.

Behind them Brock sees Dane, Javier, Keyshawn, and three more Dogs in measured pursuit, weapons drawn, gaining.

Watches as Kasper lets the camera dangle around his neck, takes up the dual-gripped gun and fires a stream of orange-blue flame against the nearest trailer.

Disbelief joins fury in Brock’s combustive heart.

The flame hits the aluminum and sizzles out in the rain, so Aamon shoots another sword of fire but again, the rain drowns it to nothing.

Brock and Mahina ford the wash, feet spread, swaying with the current, guns trained on Kasper, five Go Dogs just behind them.

And, Brock sees, another six Dogs closing in on the far bank.

“Kasper!” screams Brock. “You are not allowed to do this!”

Kasper gives him an almost placid look, then fires another jet of fire against the blackened trailer from which Brock now sees the Jones family—Gloria, Burt, and two daughters—burst from the little front door and run into brush, followed by a small white pit bull, stubby legs already half covered with mud.

The rain picks up again now, heavy, windblown and warm.

Brock slogs on, into the smell of gasoline.

Aamon wheels and throws a comet of flame toward Brock, but the homemade weapon doesn’t have much range, and the fire crashes and smokes out in the rushing brown water.

“And you are not allowed to break my jaw and found a nation of filthy heathens!” roars Kasper. “I have the Constitution to enforce.”

“Drop the gun, Kasper!”

Kasper fires a weakening stream of flame toward Brock but again it falls into the water and sizzles out. Which lets Brock check his flank, where he sees Dane, Javier, and Keyshawn—guns drawn—surrounding Right Fighters, some with their arms raised and others on their knees, breathing heavily.

Kasper rounds the Jones trailer and aims the flamethrower at the door, slamming open and shut in the wind.

Brock is clambering on all fours up the collapsing bank of the wash when he sees Burt Jones crash through the brittlebush and tackle Aamon from behind.

Brock is on them fast, trying to pull skinny Burt off Aamon, but Burt holds fast to the red cylinders and together they drag Kasper out of the trailer and into the warm downpour.

Big Kasper rolls over and tries to shoot Brock in the face but the newly bent and creased barrel pours smoking orange-black lava down his arm and Kasper Aamon howls in agony that dwarfs even the roar of the storm.

Brock snatches the gun away, pulls bellowing Aamon to the bank and into the rushing flood.

Watches as the big man flails into the deeper middle current, arms clubbing away, his screams high-pitched and terrified. He’s already gulping air.

Running along the treacherous bank beside him, Brock thinks: I can do nothing but watch, and let Kasper die. Or jump in and save his sorry ass to fight his right fight another day, and another, and another.

Or maybe change?

Atone?

Forgive?

Generally just get his shit together?

He slides down the embankment, dives flat in, and breaststrokes downstream, the muddy floodwater tumbling Aamon out ahead of him.

Brock snags the backpack flamethrower with one hand, side-stroking at an angle and scissor-kicking hard. Finally rises and drags his cursed, gasping enemy toward the near bank.

SEVEN MONTHS LATER

45

This evening, Casey and Jen sit side by side at the Barrel bar, Mae napping at their feet.

They’re tracking the five wall-mounted big screens tuned to network and cable news. The summer light burnishes the room in a warm orange glow.

Their restaurant is rebuilt and remodeled and set for a gala reopening next week, on the Fourth of July.