An hour later, driving surface streets back to the resort in Scottsdale, he passes a burning church where people run screaming out the front doors, some with their clothes and hair on fire. He pulls to the curb and stops, watching as men in black uniforms cut the fleeing people down with submachine guns. The killers have come in black paneled vans, on the flanks of which the red arms of the triskelions are depicted thick with muscle, hands fisted. When the vision fades, Nameless sits for a while, staring at the church in the quiet night, its facade a promise of peace, its twin spires shining
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