At a desk in a corner of the garage, Ivory hunched over the computer, drinking a Mountain Dew. Her feet, planted wide beneath the desk in her black work boots, tapped in time to the jitters in her head. She read Tom Paine’s latest message. Tasia warned us. She came to the concert armed with the jackal’s gun. She raised it high. Ivory whispered the rest: “ ‘She could not have shouted a louder message: True Americans will not go quietly.’ ” The desk area was grubby, a cubbyhole stuffed with paperwork and maintenance logs. Keyes loomed beside her. Saw she was logged on at Tree of Liberty. “You want to get your ass shit-canned?” “I’ll delete my browsing history. Don’t treat me like an idiot.” But she glanced around. An armored car rumbled out of the parking lot, stinking with diesel exhaust. Keyes waved to the driver. Ivory tapped the screen. “That break- in at Tasia’s house yesterday, it was the government. The cops have beefed up street patrols, looking for this intruder.
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