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After showering, you check the red tent, but it's sealed up tight. Olivecrona is deep in negotiations with other branches of the federal and state governments, and with private "charitable" organizations that need cheap labor.

What the hell? She must know you're here, but between her Malinois and her endless parade of guards, you can't get in. Worse, more and more vehicles seem to be parked around the camp.

Too many people, you think. The Masquerade is endangered by this kind of lively chaos.

Five hundred dollars won't get you far unless you target the right people. You spend most of the night making small talk not just with the guards but with the civilian contractors, procurers, and handlers who circle the camp.

One woman is particularly accommodating: a nonprofit employee, her job is to procure bright and attractive Hispanic or indigenous children for Christian households in the United States. You don't have any children to sell her, but a small initial cash outlay gets you information about which guards make good targets for bribery.

From there, you chat up a few mid-ranking agents in the incoherent public-private partnership that guards the camp, passing out cash until they "reallocate resources" in a way that's "best for everyone." You're back to your trailer, confident that they'll be a big enough hole for you to drive a bus through when the time comes, by 4:00 a.m.

Next

The next day you're repeatedly jarred awake by the sound of heavy equipment moving around. Vampires sleep heavy, but your nerves are on edge all day.

Someone bangs savagely on your door just as you get ready to leave.

"Courier!" It's Nilay. "Get out here. Olivecrona wants to see you."

You poke your head outside to confront your sire's scarred underling. The sky is still tinged with purple in the west.

"Meet me at the red tent," they snap. Then they take off.

Next

You've been ordered to the red tent, and you feel eyes on you as you step outside. After a few minutes spent checking possible exits, you enter the red tent for the first time.

The guard dog that's always outside takes the lead. You follow the Malinois.

Most of it isn't offices, like you were expecting. Instead dozens of migrant prisoners, mostly women, are lined up in front of refurbished laptops performing Mechanical Turk-style labor. A few with good English skills appear to be phonebanking for Texas politicians or Christian charity organizations.

Past a security door is a crude facsimile of a government office, complete with faux wood-paneled walls and a deep blue carpet.

Image Description: Elin Olivecrona, Ventrue Overseer of Camp Scheffler

You find Olivecrona in an oversize office, seated at an elaborately carved wooden desk in front of a Department of Homeland Security seal.

Olivecrona looks the same as you remember her: tall and gaunt, with long blond hair arranged in an elaborate braid. She wears a blue-black pantsuit decorated with more silver jewelry than most government workers. Her colorless eyes meet yours; you detect a flicker of distaste and disappointment.

"Oh, Krarr, there you are," your sire says, as if you haven't been trying to deliver the USB for nights. Tired of waiting, you march past Nilay and slap the USB down on her desk.

"From Prince Lettow, I assume?" she says. Before you can answer, she drops beneath her desk, rummages around, and pulls out a spare laptop. She inserts the USB, then starts to read.

"Hmm. The Second Inquisition is coming," Olivecrona says. "Thank you, Lettow."

Next