by Rhona Weaver
“I’m good. I still have last night’s surveillance reports to review. Then I need to—”
“The SWAT agent said you have ice water in your veins. You haven’t missed a beat—you’re eerily calm. It’s a little spooky, Win. It’s not like someone unloads on you with a .50 caliber rifle every day.”
Win glanced up and managed a thin smile. Me? Calm? If only you knew.
As Jim stood to leave, he dug in his jacket pocket and produced a note. “Oh yeah, the technical folks still have your personal phone. A call came in while you were in your 302 interview. From a woman . . . here’s the phone number. She wants to see if you can meet for lunch.”
Win blushed at his boss reading his personal message. “Probably a girl I met last week. . . . Bad timing.”
“Why not go? This may be the best opportunity you’ll have to get out with a civilian in public until we take these yahoos down. They’ve had their shot at you this morning and missed. Chances of anything else happening to you today are slim and none. I’ll send a man along to sit in the background.” He was holding the message and smiling down at his young agent, trying to ease Win’s discomfort.
Jim did have a point. The shooter was on the run and wouldn’t likely be thinking of another attack. After the supervisor left his office, Win returned Tory’s call and set up an early lunch. If he ever needed something positive to occupy his thoughts, today was the day.
* * *
Win could see the activity on the rocky, barren hill from where he stood at the window inside the foyer of the hotel’s dining room. The big cottonwood trees standing behind the hotel hadn’t leafed out yet, and his view of the high knoll through their outstretched bare limbs was unobstructed. His people were up there trying to figure it out; a shot from that distance would have taken serious planning. Had the shooter just lucked out with today’s delayed aerial surveillance from the Bureau plane? How had the bad guy known his routine? Win wanted desperately to be up there working, but Bureau rules relegated him to the sidelines. He pushed his frustration down and forced himself to refocus on other matters. He forced himself to watch for Tory Madison.
The restaurant was in a large frame building across the street from the entrance to the hotel. Both buildings had the same soft yellowish-gray paint; they were both constructed in 1936. With a few exceptions, Win had eaten at the restaurant every day since he’d arrived in Yellowstone. He was usually comfortable here. Not so much today . . .
He nodded to Agent Dillard, his shadow, as the man moved toward the bar area to observe the growing lunch crowd. He saw her walk out from under the wooden canopy in front of the hotel. Wow. She is beautiful. His knees went a little weak; he suddenly felt nervous and self-conscious. Geez! Win! If you can tamp down your nerves after a near-killing, you can surely deal with meeting a girl for lunch! Get a grip! He responded to his internal lecture with narrowed eyes and shallow breathing. It had always amazed him that others saw him as totally calm and collected, never anxious, never out of control. Win Tyler might be having an internal meltdown, but no one around him would have a clue. It was a handy little defense mechanism that had the downside of making him seem distant and detached at times.
He watched her coming across the street from the hotel. The heavy hiking boots and overalls were gone. She was wearing black cowboy boots, dark jeans, and a gray sweater. A black coat and scarf were slung over her shoulders. She had the look of a confident woman, and he noticed she either nodded or spoke to everyone she met on the crosswalk. She looked like a genuinely nice person, not too focused on herself.
He held the door open for her, and she smiled that beautiful smile and shook her head in an attempt to tame her blowing brunette hair as she walked into the foyer.
“Glad you called, was hoping you would,” he told her.
The tiny foreign hostess seated them against the far wall. Agent Dillard found a table in the near corner and seemed content with sipping ice tea and scanning the room for bad guys.
“Did you hear all the commotion early this morning? Around six? My one day in weeks to sleep in—ugh! Helicopters flying low, people yelling. . . . It sounded like an invasion!”
He pulled out her chair for her and moved to sit down. “Uh, yeah.” He fumbled with his napkin.
She narrowed her eyes slightly under perfect brows and pulled her chin down a little. “So what was going on? You work for the FBI. Don’t y’all know everything that’s going on?”
“The FBI only knows everything that’s going on in the movies and on TV.” He adjusted his napkin again. “So, did the hotel folks tell you what was happening?”
“They finally sent a guy door-to-door—he said the police were conducting drills. I’m not buying that.” She took a sip of her water and met his eyes. “Oh, so you can’t say. . . . I get it. Okay, you needn’t say.”
The waitress showed up beside them, and he broke eye contact while she ordered. Uh-oh, this girl is reading me like a book. Don’t telegraph everything you’re thinking, Win! Curious girl . . . smart girl . . .
They worked their way through their sandwiches while hitting the high points of their brief time in Yellowstone. She told him about her weeks in the field. Tory looked very feminine, but she was obviously tough. That much time in a nylon tent, much of it in snow and icy rain, didn’t sound like Win’s idea of a good time. But she made the various outdoor hardships sound adventurous, even fun. As he’d suspected, Dr. Kane was very serious about her research and expected everyone to pull their share of the load. Tory sounded like a worker; she seemed enthusiastic about everything. Reminds me of me not so long ago.
“You wouldn’t believe all the wildlife!” Her eyes were bright and she laughed softly when she told him about frantically climbing boulders to escape a herd of hundreds of bison flowing toward the center of the park two days ago. “I was desperate to get away from them.” Her eyes widened. “They were moving toward the valley, toward the new grass. They had no interest in me. I’ll never forget it—the sound of the cows grunting to their babies, the musty smell of earth being churned up under so many hoofs, the big bulls snorting to each other. . . . I was high on the rocks, safe. I was so silly to be afraid.” She cocked her pretty head. “I’ll bet you’re not afraid of anything.”
Nope, not going there. He fought the urge to glance at his armed guard as he grinned back at her. “Ah, everybody’s scared of something, but I’ve got some awesome angels looking out for me. . . .” He eased the conversation in a different direction.
He told her he’d spent most of his time organizing the FBI office. “Oh, a few interesting things have happened, but nothing comparable to catching and studying grizzly bears.” It bothered him to say that. Anyone outside the Bureau and the other related agencies might think he had the dullest job imaginable. He’d nearly died today, but he wouldn’t mention it to anyone on the outside as long as this case was open or the information didn’t become public. So he talked mostly of home and school and told stories of his brothers and she laughed easily and met his eyes constantly. He liked those soft-brown eyes; they had depth and sparkled when she talked. He found himself getting a little lost in them.
“I’m leaving town this afternoon and I may not have any time off for several days, but I’d really like to see you again,” he said. She seemed a little disappointed he’d be gone and it pleased him to see her reaction.
“We’ll be in Mammoth till tomorrow afternoon, then in Bozeman for three days of seminars at Montana State, and then off to the next camp in Roosevelt. Dr. Kane does give us some personal time each week; maybe you could come down and visit one day.”
He paid the bill, and as they walked out the entrance he told her he’d call her. Agent Dillard was on the sidewalk, pretending to look at a map. Win didn’t expect it when she turned to him on the landing and spoke in a low voice.
“That guy in the gray jacket and blue cap. Something’s not right.
He watched everyone in the restaurant, ate lunch, but not really there for lunch, you know? He’s standing over there now. You’re not in some kind of trouble, are you?”
Win knew Agent Dillard hadn’t been that obvious; this girl was sharp.
“No, no trouble. He works with me. We have lots of folks here. Didn’t the Park Service say it was just drills?” He tried to smile a reassuring smile down at her. He avoided her probing eyes.
She still wasn’t buying it, but her voice was gentle. “Thanks again for lunch. Look forward to seeing you again, Win.”
They moved to the side of the small landing to let another couple enter the restaurant. She was standing close to him. Her hair smelled like flowers. Tory took his hand in hers. He really wasn’t expecting that. He felt the warmth of her soft fingers. His breath caught in his throat and he went quiet and still. He’d spent years maintaining those solid walls that protected him from any woman except Shelby. For just a moment, as he stood there in the sunlight with her holding his hand, he sensed those walls beginning to crack. She squeezed his hand, turned, and skipped down the steps. Her scarf and her long hair were blowing in the breeze. Whoa . . .
Chapter Sixteen
Being in lockdown with the FBI SWAT Team was not what Win had in mind when Jim told him he’d stay on the case. One of the Denver SWAT Team members, who looked like he ate nails for breakfast, was standing guard over him in his office, while a second one lounged outside the closed door. This was not the loose protection detail he’d had before. These guys were dialed in. Security was so tight he felt suffocated.
He’d been back from lunch an hour now and had nearly completed the mind-numbing assignment of reviewing his previous cases from the Charlotte Field Office. He’d slogged through most of them this morning, before his early lunch with Tory. If he had enemies capable of murder in the mix, he hadn’t found them. During the three years since the Academy, he’d worked numerous cases where criminals had gone to prison, where reputations had been ruined, where ill-gotten fortunes were lost, but he’d concluded nothing in those cases should warrant an attempt on his life. Nothing except the Brunson case. And he didn’t even know where to begin on that one. He pushed back from the computer screen and closed his eyes.
The sheer volume of work was certainly helping force Win’s attention away from the events of the morning, but beneath the surface nagging thoughts ran through his mind. Who’d taken that shot? Why? Probably someone with the Prophet’s church, but what if . . . ? The fallout from the Brunson case was still happening—could someone see him as a loose end? In Congressman Brunson’s office, or even in the Bureau? The Congressman had taken more than a million dollars in alleged bribes. People were killed for a lot less. He keyed back into the Sentinel system and began the systematic review of that case. Am I grasping at straws here?
The agent sitting in the corner laid his MP5 across his leg and adjusted his body armor. Win sighed. I’m under house arrest. The surreal nature of it nearly jogged his mind back to the present. Nearly, but not quite. His inner monologue continued to play. . . . Maybe Luke had the answers. . . . Maybe Luke was the answer. Murray’s technical guys still had his personal phone. Maybe Luke had returned his early-morning call.
* * *
But Luke hadn’t returned his call. Luke had checked the message and deleted it before the militia moved out of cell phone range. It was Win Tyler’s voice, with a decidedly redneck slant. Hey, buddy! It’s ’bout seven ten in the morning. Great lookin’ day! Ain’t you loving it that Bama missed out on that strong-armed quarterback they were recruiting outa North Hills? Boy can throw the ball a mile. The Tigers may get him yet! Call back and let’s talk some LSU football.
It told him everything he needed to know. It had been a long-range rifle, fired from the hills north of Mammoth, the shooter had missed, and hadn’t been caught. He felt a tremendous wave of relief, followed by hollowness in the pit of his stomach. Damn—it’s for real.
He knew it had been the right thing to do, sending the text warning. But he still couldn’t believe it’d really happened. He couldn’t believe they’d actually tried to kill a man. Even after he’d overheard King’s men last week talking about taking Tyler out, even after he’d warned the agent Friday night—still he couldn’t believe they’d go through with it. The Prophet wouldn’t be mixed up in killing, in murder. There’d been lots of angry talk—threats, even—but the Prophet wouldn’t cross that line. Could Brother King have gone off on a wild hare of his own?
So for several minutes after he’d overheard the voices in the darkness this morning, he’d wrestled with it: Sniper’s taking Tyler out this morning. He’d heard the words clearly, but he couldn’t tell for sure who was talking. One of Brother King’s new men, he thought. He should have walked up and confronted them—everyone was waiting for the militia muster right before dawn. But he didn’t do a thing except stand in the cold and waller it over in his mind. He’d told himself he had to remember who his enemies were. Win Tyler was the enemy. The Prophet preached that the Feds were ruthless, attacking our families, stealing our lands, turning friend against friend. . . . Hell, they’d done it to me! The damn FBI had tried to ruin his good name—forced him into near-bankruptcy. They’d barely had money for the kids to have Christmas this year. If the church job hadn’t come up, where would they be? He couldn’t stand being a failure in Ellie’s eyes, so here he was, earning better money than he had in years, but to do that—to earn her respect back—had he thrown in with the Devil? No, that can’t be.
He’d tried to convince himself the boys were just being their usual blowhards, just posturing. There’d been plenty of that lately. They were preparing for the Prophet’s declaration of a New America, getting ready if the Feds attacked them, but surely it wouldn’t come to a shooting war. Then why’d he texted Tyler at dawn? ’Cause I was scared not to. . . . What if I was wrong? He’d sent the text. He’d helped the enemy again. And if they traced the shooter back to someone in the church, a real war would be on.
* * *
Ms. Stuart convened a status meeting in the early afternoon, and it was clear they were no closer to finding the shooter than they’d been at seven o’clock that morning. He or she had seemingly vanished, and unfortunately so had several of Prophet Shepherd’s scariest followers. Immediately after the shooting this morning, many of the surveillance agents had been recalled from the field. In that confusion, several of Ron Chandler’s men had disappeared from their radar during the militia’s training. To make matters worse, the ASAC’s plane was delayed by bad weather in Denver. Wes Givens, the Evidence Response Team, and ten additional SWAT Team members wouldn’t arrive before midnight. They were shorthanded, and Emily refused to give either the Park Service or the locals a greater role in the investigation. So as mid-afternoon approached, things were not going real well for the good guys.
Jim took Win aside as the brief meeting broke up. “The park’s Special Response Team has been assigned to protect you till we get more boots on the ground. They want to get you off the grid—take you down in the park till midday tomorrow. Gus Jordon said they’ve got some hiker rescue thing going on. You’re gonna tag along. A good idea, since it’s very possible half the church’s militiamen are milling around Mammoth right now. We had one hell of a security breach when Emily pulled the surveillance teams this morning.”
“Off the grid? I’ve still got—”
Jim cut him off. “Hey, technically, you’re supposed to be off duty for twenty-four hours after a shooting incident. I’m giving you a break here. You can keep your case agent status and we won’t have Personnel coming down on us for breaking regulations.”
“Doesn’t sound like I have a choice.”
“Nope. Besides, we need the rangers to watch your back. It frees up more of our folks to track down leads.” An agent down the hallway was motioning for Jim’s attention. He nodded to acknowledge her and put a hand on Win’s arm as he
turned to go. “Win, while you’re on stand-down . . . chill a little, okay? Don’t underestimate the trauma of a shooting—near miss or not.”
* * *
Ten minutes later, disguised in a ranger’s green coat and flat hat, Win was secreted out the back door of the office into a waiting Park Service SUV. The three law enforcement rangers in the Tahoe were clearly pleased to be on the road. Rescuing folks was definitely their gig, and while the rangers seemed excited about doing what they did, which was mostly helping people, they seemed much less excited about babysitting Win. They’d obviously been schooled on “Don’t ask the FBI agent any questions about what’s going on,” as they had an amazing lack of curiosity about the morning’s shooting. They stopped at Win’s house just long enough for him to check on the cat and grab a few things. He made an effort not to look at the damage or the strips of yellow police tape encompassing his backyard. The entire episode still had a Twilight Zone feel.
The Tahoe’s driver, Ranger Jimmy Martinez, filled him in on the mission. Two hikers, a father and his ten-year-old son from Wisconsin, were due back in Mammoth two days ago and had finally been reported missing late last night by a relative. There was confusion as to which trails they’d taken. They hadn’t followed the park rules for filing an overnight camping plan, although they had signed for a backcountry use permit. More than likely they’d found their permitted trail still snow covered and had chosen an alternate route without notifying anyone. The Park Service’s helicopter had been searching the area surrounding the hikers’ planned route until it was called back to help with the shooting this morning. So far, no sign of the two. Best-case scenario: They were well prepared for cold-weather camping, had just wandered off the beaten trail, and were having a fabulous father-son adventure, all the while oblivious to the fact that a rescue effort was underway. Worst-case scenario didn’t even have to be mentioned.