Randy and his wife were herded into the back of the camper by the woman as the male agent lowered the hood and got in the driver's seat of the truck. Randy Weaver smiled grimly at his wife and settled in for the drive to the federal magistrate in Coeur d'Alene.

Because neither he nor Vicki had criminal records, Vicki would be released immediately and Randy would spend one night in jail. The judge allowed Randy to go home after signing a $10,000 property bond. Throughout the proceeding, Randy Weaver silently vowed that the feds would never fool him again.

February 19,1991 "Looks like Weaver's not going to show up, your honor." The federal judge slammed his gavel on the bench in reply.

"Issue a warrant for his arrest. Order the federal marshals to bring him in. Next case." Neither of the men realized that the date on the summons they had sent Randy Weaver had been the wrong one. The stakes had just been raised for the entire Weaver family.

December 16,1991 John Lawmaster wondered what his wife was up to as he hung up the telephone. He shook his head as he reached into his pocket for his car keys and headed for the garage. In the tradition of divorced men everywhere, he reminded himself that he was lucky not to have a real crazy psycho hate relationship with his ex. That was something to be grateful for. Lawmaster got in his car and pulled out of the garage.

Ted Royster smiled as he watched John Lawmaster drive away. Lawmaster's ex-wife had done her job perfectly. He picked up the microphone to his mobile radio.

"Okay, we're all set," he announced. "Lets do it."

Royster was the head of the regional office of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms, located in Dallas. The Dallas office controlled all ATF operations in Texas, New Mexico, and Oklahoma. Royster liked to participate in ATF's high-profile raids, and that was why he was now sitting in his government car with blacked-out windows on a Tulsa street, waiting for his agents and the news crew to arrive.

It did not take long. In a few minutes a several large vans with their sirens screaming pulled up in front of John Lawmaster's house. Thirty black-clothed agents carrying machine guns, cutting tools, and a battering ram emerged from the vehicles. Patrons of the Sonic fast-food restaurant across the street stared as eighteen of the men prepared to smash the front door while the rest ran around to the back of the house.

"On three," Agent Ward commanded. "One, two, three!" The dry wood of the front door made a sound like several small-caliber gunshots as it splintered under the onslaught of the 300-pound ram. Neighbors watched in horrified fascination as John Lawmaster's front door was torn off its hinges and the black-clad invaders streamed into the empty house.

The ATF agents pulled out or tore open every drawer, shelf, and cabinet in every room in the house, and dumped the contents in the center of the floor. They broke through walls looking for potential hiding spots. They tore tiles out of the ceiling. Finally, they cut the locks off Lawmaster's gun safes and threw every firearm in the safes out on the floor.

One of the guns was a Colt AR-15, a lightweight rifle Eugene Stoner had designed for the ArmaLite division of.Fairchild Aircraft 35 years earlier, now made by Colt Industries in Hartford, Connecticut. Supervisory Agent Ward picked up the rifle, opened it, and inspected the mechanism carefully. Shit, no M16 parts he said to himself, and tossed the weapon back on the floor.

"Check the shed out back, and then that motor home," Ward commanded, in spite of the fact that neither was listed on the search warrant. Two agents, one with a pair of bolt cutters, ran out the door. They were met by a Channel 7 news crew that had arrived on the scene. The cameraman got some quick footage of the destruction inside the house before he filmed the agents breaking into John Lawmaster's tool shed and throwing the man's tools and fishing equipment out in the yard.

"Nothing here," the first agent said. Undeterred, he examined the lock on the motor home. "Bring that sledge over," he asked of his companion.

"Hang on, that's mine," Lawmaster's neighbor said quickly. He had been watching the proceedings with undisguised astonishment. "I got the key right here," he added helpfully. He did not mention that he was also the owner of the house, and that Lawmaster was renting it from him.

"You his neighbor?" the agent demanded.

"Yeah, my name's-"

"Has Lawmaster got an AR-15?" the agent interrupted.

"Uh, yeah," the neighbor answered, momentarily taken aback by the unexpected question. "Unless he sold it."

The agent grinned. He knew John Lawmaster owned an AR-15, for he had seen Ward inspect it. "And he has an auto sear and M16 parts for it, doesn't he?" the agent demanded.

An auto sear was a machined piece of steel about the size of two sugar cubes. When combined with five

M16-specific Colt parts, an auto sear enabled an AR-15 to fire full auto. ATF had banned the manufacture of unregistered auto sears in 1981 by ruling that any of these half-ounce chunks of steel made after that date would by themselves be classified as machine guns. ATF had banned the manufacture of registered ones five years later, except of course for government agencies.

ATF had further ruled that if one of these six pieces of steel (i.e. a loose M16 trigger) were possessed by a person who also owned an AR-15, it was a felony, regardless of whether the part was installed in the gun and despite the fact that all six items had to be present to make the gun function.

"I don't know," his neighbor shot back as he glared at the fed. The agent stared at the cap the man wore, which was imprinted with the logo of a local pistol range.

"Lapse of memory, huh?" He nodded at the cap. "You're one of them, and you don't know what an auto sear is?"

"I know exactly what an auto sear is," the man said irritably. "I don't know if John Lawmaster owns one or not." The agent turned on his heel and joined the other ATF men.

The thirty agents systematically destroyed almost everything inside John Lawmaster's home. They searched in vain for any NFA-regulated article on which Lawmaster owed but had not paid the $200 NFA-mandated tax. Royster, Ward, and the other ATF agents did not find one single such weapon, because John Lawmaster did not own any NFA-regulated weapons, taxed or otherwise.

"Sorry there was no story," Ward said to the film crew. His voice carried more than a trace of irritation. He had promised the news people that his men would find 'illegal guns' in the home of the federally-licensed Tulsa dealer, but he had let the media people down.

The ATF men who had devastated the inside of John Lawmaster's house had carried machine guns as they conducted their raid. Not one agent or any of his superiors had paid any taxes on any of these NFAregulated weapons.

Not one agent had been made to undergo an exhaustive FBI records check and get a local police chief to sign a transfer form.

Not one of the agents or any of his superiors had paid the $500 special (occupational) tax that people such as Henry Bowman were forced to pay annually in order to buy or sell NFA weapons without paying the $200-per-weapon fee.

Not one of the agents or his superiors kept a bound book listing the seller, the seller's license number, and the date of acquisition of the machine guns they carried, as someone such as Henry Bowman had to do. Not one of the agents or his superiors would ever be charged with the crime of failing to maintain such a bound book, as someone such as Henry Bowman would have been.

The agents did not have to worry about any of these failings. They didn't have to. They worked for the government.

The ATF operations commander scribbled the words 'Nothing Taken - ATF' on a piece of paper, dropped it on the floor, and called his men to gather up their things and return to headquarters. He and the other ATF agents left Lawmaster's house with the front door broken off its hinges, his safes cut open, and all his guns lying in piles in the middle of the devastated residence.

John Lawmaster was never charged with any crime.

January 6,1992 "I don't get it with the broad, Sal. Why give him a piece first? What's the point?"

"Mikey-Mike's going to do this one, become a made man. I know the kid's got big balls, but Fat Tony Farratto ain't exactly some runner with sticky fingers like mosta the guys learn on. Up to me I'd bring in a mechanic and who cares about payin' the extra twenty gees. But Carmine says his son Mikey-Mike has to do it. So okay, I understand, it's a pride thing, I respect that. But this is my territory. Fat Tony never minded gettin' wet, an' I know he ain't forgot how. Mikey-Mike gets iced here, I look bad. Don't matter Carmine said it was the kid's play, don't matter I said let us handle it and Carmine said no. I still look bad. So I soften Fat Tony up a little, first. Let him have Cindy, get him relaxed, keep his mind on pussy and not on the fact I still got a lot goin' on with Carmine."

"Sal, Fat Tony like to hurt broads when he fucks' em."

"Shit, Nine-ball, who doesn't? Slam it in hard when they ain't quite ready? You 'n' me both done that lots a times."

"Sal, Fat Tony likes to hurt broads when he fucks 'em like by cuttin' em. He licks their blood for Christ's sake! Sometimes he burns 'em with cigarettes while he's doin' it. Bit halfway through some whore's lip in Atlantic City." Sal Marino looked pained.

"Sick fuckin' bastard. There's no knife on him-he was clean for the meet." Rules of etiquette dictated no weapons of any kind were allowed during territorial negotiations. The same rules prohibited killing a rival while he was a guest in your home. That meant that Fat Tony Farratto was safe as long as he was inside the building. This was why he had two hardmen waiting for him outside the front door.

"Shoulda given him someone else, Sal."

"We got a doc full-time, for Christ's sake, just two floors down. Any burns or bruises, he'll take care of her. Anyway, it'll be the last time Fat Tony ever pulls that kind a shit."

Cindy Caswell saw it coming long in advance, and she tried to defuse it. Fat Tony Farratto was not the first man she'd encountered in the last three years who had not been able to enjoy himself unless he was hurting her. Others had slapped her, bit her, jerked her hair, and in one case, punched her in the stomach hard enough to make her vomit blood.

Cindy had learned to move with the slaps. She had learned to endure the bites until the pain was severe, then deliver an ear-splitting shriek to stop the man from continuing. She had learned that if she moved her head so that when her hair was jerked it was pulled to the rear, it almost didn't hurt at all. She had learned to do all these things while at the same time coaxing more arousal out of whomever she had been commanded to pleasure.

Cindy Caswell realized in the first thirty seconds with the man now in front of her that she was in serious danger, but all of her experience was proving useless. Most men stroked themselves or reached for her when she came to them. The first thing Fat Tony had done after she had undressed entirely was to lick his lips. That was not unusual.

The second thing he had done was to take her left nipple in a firm grip between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. That was not unusual either.

The third thing he had done was to try to tear it off. Cindy had remained silent, but her eyes watered furiously. She realized now that the only reason Farrotto had not succeeded was that she always rubbed her skin with almond oil before she presented herself to a new master. In spite of the oil, she felt that the man had almost drawn blood. She knew that at the very minimum, Anthony Joseph Farratto was going to leave her with permanent scars.

"Oh, my" Cindy said in a husky voice as her eyes watered and she frantically tried to think her way through this crisis. "You're a man that wants a girl to remember him."

"You will," Fat Tony assured her.

When she heard those two words, Cindy Caswell made a decision. She knew she was probably writing her own death warrant. Had it been three years earlier, or two years earlier, or perhaps even only one year earlier, she might have decided otherwise. She might have elected to alternately beg and scream, and endure whatever outrages the syndicate man inflicted upon her flesh while hoping that someone would come stop him before he killed her. She might have chosen acquiescence then, but now she did not.

Cindy Caswell had been the personal sex slave of Salvatore Xavier Marino for three and a half years. For all but the first few months of that time period, she had been a 'perk' for whomever the mid-level Mafioso wanted to keep happy. Her services were required twice a week on average. Sal had made it clear that so long as she performed this duty adequately, she would continue to have her own suite in the hotel, room service meals, cable television, and elegant clothes to wear when they went out. As soon as her performance was not up to expectations, Sal had explained, the organization would have no more use for her. There were-hints that if age eventually diminished her appeal, she would be given a job in a casino, with a bank account as a retirement bonus. Cindy did not for one second believe this would ever happen.

Sal himself liked variety, so after the first two months he rarely had sex with Cindy Caswell. One thing Sal Marino never grew tired of, however, was watching two women in bed together. On many evenings when she was not otherwise occupied, he would call Cindy in to his bedroom to introduce her to whatever young woman was there with him. Women were safe, Cindy quickly learned, and sometimes she was almost able to forget that Sal Marino was even there.

For the first year, Cindy had concentrated on staying alive. In the second year, she had looked for every possible avenue of escape, and concluded that there were none. She could not possibly get out of Vegas before the word was put out and she was spotted. Cindy was forced to admit that she probably couldn't even get out of the hotel.

In the third year, Cindy Caswell had decided that she would endure her servitude for as long as possible, but when it became intolerable, she was going to die with her own self-respect intact. She was not going to die alone.

Cindy Caswell was not permitted to have anything in her room which could effectively be used as a weapon. When room service delivered meals, a single knife was included, and it was always removed with the dishes. Every time she went out wi th Sal or one of his guests, she was expertly frisked after dinner by one of his soldiers. After years without ever finding anything, she thought Sal would abandon the practice, but he had not.

Five months before, Cindy Caswell had taken to wearing her hair up in a chignon. She pinned her thick brown tresses in place with two tapered wooden dowels that looked like chopsticks, only a bit shorter. The first day she had come out of the salon with the new coiffure, two two-inch sections of wood were plainly visible angling out of the knot at the back of her head. No one had thought anything of it.

Over a one-month period, Cindy Caswell had used several paper emery boards altering the taper of the two dowels and making their tips much sharper. The change was gradual, so no one had noticed that, either. Cindy's hair was held up with the two tapered hardwood dowels as she stood naked in front of Fat Tony Farratto. She turned her body slightly to the left, presenting him with her right breast.

"Please don't ignore this one," she breathed. Fat Tony obliged her by savagely twisting her right nipple as he had her left. "Ohhhh...." she exclaimed, trying to make her cry of pain sound like one of sexual release. She saw that the man was now fully erect inside his slacks. I'm only going to get one shot at this she told herself. Better do it right now, while he's just been aroused. "Bed," she sighed. "Let's get in bed."

Cindy Caswell led Anthony Farratto to the king-size bed. He allowed her to push him onto his back, remove his shoes, and unzip his trousers. Cindy climbed astride the obese Mafioso, saying, "I want you to watch how wet I get when you spank my bottom." She moved her body up his so that she was kneeling with her thighs on either side of the fat man's neck. Her vagina was two inches from the tip of his nose. "I shaved it for you, so you could watch."

Fat Tony swung his right arm and slammed the palm of his hand into the girl's bottom, but he had no leverage at that angle, and the impact had little force. Cindy moved slightly with the blow and let her pelvic area cover more of the man's face.

"Harder!" she demanded, arching her back, tightening the muscles in her thighs, and throwing her hips forward. Fat Tony's eyes were now covered by Cindy Caswell's crotch. When she looked down, she could see only the top of the man's forehead and his oily black hair. Only got a couple of seconds she thought. "Slap my ass!" she said, breathing hard. Anthony Farratto was not going to try to slap Cindy's bottom. He had something else in mind.

Cindy Caswell pulled one of the tapered maple dowels from the coil of hair at the back of her head, seated the dowel's flat end into the palm of her right hand, and made a fist. The sharpened end stuck out five inches between the knuckles of Cindy's second and third fingers. She felt Fat Tony's hands reach up and grab her hipbones. One shot, girl Cindy said to herself. Got to lift yourself straight off the bed. She gripped the back of her right hand in the palm of her left, then pulled her hands in until her thumbs touched her abdominal muscles, with the tapered wooden spike pointing straight down. She knew instinctively that the man was about to pull her down onto his mouth so that he could bite off her labia.

Fat Tony pulled his lips back to expose his teeth, dropped his jaw, and used all of his considerable might to pull the girl towards his waiting mouth. Cindy sat back slightly, and as soon as she saw the man's eyebrows come into view below the swell of her pubic mound, she drove the wooden shaft straight down with all of the strength in both her arms.

Anthony Farratto had just started to close his jaws on Cindy Caswell's vaginal lips when the point of the sharpened maple spike entered the top of his left eye socket. With one hundred thirteen pounds of force behind it, the small wooden lance passed between the bone and the top of the eyeball, pushed the optic nerve aside, and drove straight through the man's brain. In less than three hundredths of a second, the sharpened wooden tip bottomed on the inside back of Anthony Farratto's skull and blunted itself as it slammed into the bone.

Cindy Caswell, her system charged with adrenaline, locked her elbows, flexed her shoulders forward, put every ounce of her weight on her palms, and did indeed manage to momentarily lift her knees off the bed.

Most of Fat Tony's right side went numb, and some of his voluntary motor functions on that side were shut down as if a huge switch had been thrown. His left eyeball was rotated upwards, but the vision in his right eye was still good. When Cindy Caswell got off his chest, he thought he could see something sticking out of his head just left of his nose. His left eye hurt, but other than that, there was little pain. He was trying to figure out what was going on, and why the girl was smiling at him.

Cindy Caswell reached for the protruding end of the wood spike. She saw with satisfaction that Fat Tony's good eye followed the movement of her hand. Cindy gripped the end of the round maple spike and pulled. The tapered dowel started to come free, and she stopped after she had withdrawn it about an inch. With her left hand, she grabbed the man's still-rigid penis, threw her leg over his hips, and sank onto his erection. An unintelligible sound came from Fat Tony Farratto.

"You like that, huh?" she said with a smile as she rocked back and forth on him. To Fat Tony, her voice sounded as if she were in a big steel drum, but he heard what she said. She picked up the pace and realized with surprise that she was close to a climax. "Don't look so surprised, Mister Farratto," Cindy chided as she reached once more for the protruding end of the wooden dowel. "Sal told you I was going to fuck your brains out."

As she felt the first wave of her orgasm start to course through her body, Cindy Caswell grabbed the end of the dowel, closed her eyes, and stirred vigorously.

"Hey! Tony! You still in there?" Sal Marino looked at his companion, then swore under his breath. "They been in there for hours. You hear water runnin', Nine-ball, or is that my ears?"

"No, it's water. Probably takin' a shower, wash the blood off," he said darkly.

"Christ! Don't say that!" Sal blurted out. The other man shrugged. Sal Marino shook his head and came to a decision. "Give me the passkey." Marino took the key, used it to open the door, and peered inside. He closed it softly and turned to his companion. There was a smile on his face. "Fat Tony's in the bed, under the covers. Must be sleepin'. So that's Cindy in the shower. I guess she worked her charm on him, huh?"

"I guess so, Sal. What do we do now?"

"Hell, let's hit the tables. He'll probably want to go for seconds when he wakes up. Let him have some fun. It's got to last him a long time."

The other man laughed at that, and followed Marino to the elevator.

August 21,1992 "You three know where you're going?" Deputy Marshal Arthur T. Roderick, Jr.

asked the members of the other three-man team. "The north peak?"

"Yeah, no problem."