I was right on time, as always. The field was bare of life, decorated with a few mounds of dirt, two outbuildings, an artillery shed, three M-1 Abrams tanks, and a mud pit that was two acres long and covered in barbed-wire fences. The sun was a blistering red-purple hue fringed in a bruised blue color. The late October day didn’t offer much wind. In fact, the evening was rather pleasant, tranquil, and perfect for two militia men to get to know each other with their clothes off.
I found Marcos behind the artillery shed, unaccompanied with the Sig 44 in his hands. Instead, his palms were empty and he wore the same smile as I had seen two days before in his classroom. “It’s nice to know that you made it, Yardling.”
“Where’s the Sig?” I inquired, looking around for the weapon. Maybe it was l
