Greg also knew: The truth was, he was FBI Field Agent Rich Torres’ informant forever. Torres would always have a hold on him. They would. Because Greg could never really know what Torres knew about him and had on him, until it was probably too late. If anything ever came of Cascadia and it threatened the Feds’ interests, they could come to him, make him do what they wanted. Torres could even come acting on his own, the solo operator with leverage. Greg knew this was wild speculation, but it didn’t hurt to consider the scenarios. The dead had failed at less and the victors had succeeded at worse. If they ever did ever come for him, he was the best mole they could ever wish for: The true believer.
His doorbell rang.
He went to the front door, checked the peephole, and, shrugging, cracked open the door.
There stood a guy in his twenties in black garb. He had a tough look with a crooked jaw, but Greg wasn’t sure how much was for show. He looked familiar to Greg somehow.
“Can you let me in?” the guy said before Greg could get a word out.
“Who are you?” Greg said. “How did you get in the building?”
The guy turned to run.
“Wait,” Greg whispered—why he was whispering, he wasn’t sure. He had swung his door open wide. The guy turned back.
Minutes later, the two of them were sitting on Greg’s sofa in near darkness. The guy had asked Greg to keep his lights off. The guy’s name was Luke. Greg had a beer going. Luke had a water. At first Greg had thought this Luke was some kind of anarchist or street kid but he didn’t have the smell they often carried, like wet dogs that smoked. Though Luke had once been a street kid, he explained.
“That was, until your book changed my life,” Luke said.
“My book?”
“Yes, your book, sir. Rescuing Cascadia. You gave me a copy once, outside the Cascadia Congress last year.”
Now Greg did remember. This Luke and a girl had been coming to his talks. He had taken them for the usual street anarchists, never serious about anything except nothing. Now this Luke looked ten years older. “Thanks for reading it,” Greg said.
“I’ve done way more than read it,” Luke said. “Maybe you don’t want to believe this, but …”
“What? What is it?”
Luke beamed. “You? You are, to us, the father of the Cascadia movement.”
“Us?”
“That’s right, us. They are many more of us than you know about. And, we are ready. We are so freaking ready, man. There are more of us every day. We’re counting on your support, because the shit’s getting serious. It’s way past time to fight back, and hard.”
Greg could only stare. He moved to speak but nothing, truly nothing, could come out.
Acknowledgments
Special thanks to my brother Dave, a veteran police detective who’s always a huge help with those details only cops know, and to Portland State University professor and urban studies and planning expert Ethan Seltzer for clarifying regional land and water use issues. Any missteps made are my own.
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