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Shaw, out in front of the post office, waved in the arriving vehicles. There was a diesel engine roar as two more BearCats, another khaki one and a gleaming black one, pulled up to the loading dock. As Shaw watched, the back doors of both opened and about a dozen men in tactical gear piled out.

They were from the next two towns over. Chief Garner had finally proven quite useful after all. Once Shaw had told him what he needed, he had gotten on the horn and finagled some decent replacements.

Normally Shaw hated working with weekend warrior types, but at this point beggars couldn’t be choosers, could they? He was running out of time to get this done and get gone before sunrise, so he needed any and every Tom, Dick or Harry he could find.

“What do we got?” said the large tactical uniformed cop who had gotten out of the black truck. He was a big black-haired kid in his late twenties. He was already wearing his tactical goggles.

Shaw waited until the other SWAT chief from the khaki BearCat arrived a moment later. He was older, forty maybe, a thin almost prissy triathlete-type guy with blonde anchorman hair.

“Chief Garner said this is a national security thing?” the kiddie SWAT cop said.

Shaw assessed the young man. He was big all over, wasn’t he? Big hands, big bovine face and head. His dark eyes, which were a little too close together, had a determined look. Shaw had played football in high school in Ohio, and this boy reminded him of his teammates, big bull-like farm boys who were not too smart but plenty strong.

Perfect cannon fodder , Shaw thought. His favorite kind of soldier.

“What’s your name?” Shaw said as he put his arm around the wide back of the new arrival.

“Minton. Don Minton.”

“And you?” he said to the anchorman.

“Doug Needlemeyer.”

“I’m Special Agent Thompson,” Shaw said as he herded the men toward the loading dock steps. “Leave your men there. Let’s go inside, just the three of us. I need to talk to you both in private.”