“That phase is over.”
He tapped one image. A compound carved deep into woods. Watch towers. Trenches.
“We’re looking at groups numbering in the dozens, sometimes over a hundred. Multiple sites. Shared training cadres. Some running like light infantry units.”
Another photo. Crates. Ammo. Explosives laid out for inventory.
“These aren’t collections. They’re stockpiles. Automatic weapons. Stolen detonators. Fertilizer-based explosives refined well past accident level.”
He glanced at Reacher. “They’re clearly gearing up for something.”
The FBI woman said nothing. Let him go.
“In the early eighties, we underestimated the danger,” the ATF man continued. “Then cameThe Order.”
He let the name land.
“They weren’t hypothetical. They robbed armored cars to finance themselves. They assassinated people.”
He paused. “You remember Alan Berg.”
Reacher did. Everyone did.
“Denver radio host,” the agent said. “Shot down in his driveway in 1984. They killed him for talking. Other murders followed. Bank robberies. Shootouts with federal agents. Multiple deaths before we shut them down.”
He leaned back. “They had ideology along with discipline.”
Agent Winthrow nodded once and turned to her left.
The Army Intelligence officer sat straight-backed, late thirties, pale eyes, precise haircut that had never fully relaxed into civilian life. No rank displayed. His suit was plain, almost intentionally forgettable.
Joe had never seen the man before, but he looked exactly like everyone Reacher had worked with in Army Intelligence.
“There’s a reason these groups have evolved,” he said. “Leadership.”
He looked briefly at Reacher.
“Many of these militias are now run by former service members. Combat veterans. Engineers. Intelligence officers. People trained to plan, train others, and operate quietly.”
He clasped his hands. “They bring structure. And grievance.”
Simmons muttered something under his breath. The Army man ignored it.
“Another escalation happened in 1985,” the Army officer continued. “Arkansas. The CSA compound.”
Reacher listened.
“They had automatic weapons. Explosives, training grounds and defensive positions. Plans for bombings targeting federal buildings and urban infrastructure.”
He said it clinically.
“That standoff didn’t end in mass casualties,” he said. “But it showed what was possible. And it scared people who were paying attention.”
The CIA man still hadn’t spoken. He was in his mid-fifties. Brown suit. Conservative tie. Face that could disappear into an airport crowd forever. He just watched.
Silence settled again.
Then the man at the back of the room stepped forward.
