by Rhona Weaver
Mr. Givens finally got Emily back on point, and she immediately became openly critical of Win’s “interview” process with the informant and began to cast doubts on the reliability of the information. Both Win and Trey had to admit they weren’t sure if Bordeaux was a true follower of Prophet Shepherd or if he had some other agenda.
After forty minutes, Wes called a halt and sent Jim West and Johnson back to the office to hold down the fort there. Their bosses would try to reach agreement on a unified game plan to stop the intel leak and accommodate the Park Service’s legitimate demands to be consulted on any ongoing or upcoming tactical operations within the park. Win and Trey were told to wait in the lobby until the meeting wrapped up.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, Win was still killing time. The lobby of the Mammoth Hot Springs Hotel was not large, and it was full of guests checking in and out, along with half a dozen screaming children. Win sat down to lick his wounds from Emily’s critical assessment of his handling of the source interview with Luke. Trey was standing on the far side of the lobby, talking with one of his female rangers. The higher-ups and the HRT guy were still in the Map Room.
Win watched a stooped, gray-headed man limp toward the lobby’s front doors. He was using a cane and trying to hold on to a newspaper in the rising wind. Since the doorman was apparently otherwise occupied, Win jumped up and held the heavy doors open for the elderly man. The man brushed past him and averted his eyes. Win immediately felt uneasy. But he couldn’t pinpoint any problem, so he nodded his usual greeting and reclaimed his comfortable chair near the fireplace. Within a minute the older gentleman sat down directly opposite Win, moved his wooden cane onto the adjoining empty chair, and settled the folded newspaper across his lap. Their eyes met and Win immediately knew—everything went icy cold.
“Don’t even think about it,” the man hissed softly as he shuffled the newspaper. He smiled and nodded to a woman who walked nearby. “You want these nice folks to get hurt?”
Win swallowed hard. “No, no I don’t.” He could see the nose of a silencer protruding from the newspaper.
“Good boy.”
“You’re Richter? Why me?”
“Yeah, I’m Richter and damned if I know. Fine young Aryan man like you . . . would rather be dealing with some Zionist scum. But that ain’t my call, and so’s you know, it ain’t personal for me. You’ve been a little careless, but then this isn’t your everyday occurrence. Convenient of your people to wave off your security guys a while ago—makes this almost too easy.” He chuckled softly. “Hope you’ve enjoyed those extra hours. It ain’t often I miss. Pretty little girlfriend you’ve got—”
“She isn’t part of this!” Win shot back.
“Not to worry about that. I do my job, and as long as you cooperate, nobody else gets hurt. Just sit there for a minute.”
Win’s world was moving in slow motion. The adrenaline spiked as soon as he’d met the man’s steel-gray eyes—as soon as he knew. He seemed to be watching everything unfold from somewhere outside of himself. And for some reason, he felt no fear. He was operating on a level just beyond the bounds of fear. He saw Hechtner still talking to the lady ranger, maybe forty-five feet away. A group of children were playing on the wooden banisters of the main stairs. There was a line at the register and people were milling around the gift shop. A large tour bus had pulled in moments after Win helped the man through the doors; its air brakes were still releasing. Win realized the assassin was waiting for the influx of people from the bus into the lobby. Dozens of Asian tourists were getting off the bus near the hotel’s high wooden canopy. Sounds were running together. The steely eyes hadn’t left his. They weren’t hostile—they were indifferent. It seemed as if they’d been sitting there a long time, but Win knew it could only have been a few moments.
“What are they paying you for this?” Stall! Stall the guy!
“Well, that’s my business. It ain’t your business.”
“Seems to me it is my business.”
The man laughed a little. “Well, now I guess you’re right. It’s $35,000 to handle Special Agent Winston Tyler, the top FBI man here.”
Win started to mention he wasn’t really the top FBI man here, since Johnson was back from his leave, but it was probably a moot point at this juncture. The horde of tourists began streaming through the front doors of the lobby, and the noise level was rising with loud voices in what sounded like Chinese.
The man’s face hardened. “My employer wanted me to give you a chance to make your peace. So I’d be doing that if I was you.” He said it in such a conversational way, he could just as easily been talking about the weather.
Win had made his peace long before now. At this moment, he was desperately searching for options. Just then two brown-headed little boys ran behind him and one launched himself into the empty chair to Win’s left.
“Not with the kids here. . . . That isn’t right,” Win began, as if killing him was okay as long as it wasn’t in front of some eight-year-olds.
Richter leaned toward Win. “Then get rid of the kids.” He said it tersely, just above a whisper.
The boy next to him was kneeling in the armchair, swatting at his partner, who was slapping back at him from behind the chair.
“Hey, hey, boys, I’m saving that seat. Need y’all to move on.” No luck. Their battle continued. He changed tactics. “Boys, want to help me play a trick on someone?” He suddenly had their attention. “See that ranger over there in the Smokey the Bear hat? He’s an Auburn fan from Alabama. Y’all run over there and yell ‘Roll Tide!’ real loud a couple of times. Will really rile him up.”
“The forest ranger?” they repeated as one. They were grinning from ear to ear, clearly thrilled with a real mission in mischief. Their parents should be proud, Win thought.
“Yeah, the forest ranger—have at it!”
As they sprinted through the emerging crowd toward Trey, Richter unexpectedly stood and motioned Win up with his free hand.
“Hadn’t counted on so many kids in here. Let’s us take a little walk.” As Win stood, the concealed pistol immediately lodged in his side. The man didn’t even bother to take Win’s gun; apparently this wasn’t going to take too long.
The boldest of the boys made it to Hechtner and, having never been taught not to interrupt adults, made a loud announcement. “Hey, mister! The man over there says to tell you, ‘Roll Tide!’”
“Roll Tide!” the smaller one chimed in.
Trey’s eyes left them immediately. He scanned the waiting area where Win had been sitting, talking to an older gentleman. It was so crowded in the lobby it was hard to spot anyone. He felt rising panic as his eyes darted around the room. He ignored the youngsters and began moving toward the sitting area with his puzzled ranger following. He caught a glimpse of Win and the gray-headed man moving through the crowd toward the entrance doors. He’d watched Win open the doors for the man a few minutes earlier. Now Win and the old man were very close together and the older man was no longer stooped—he was also no longer limping. Trey did a double take and saw the cane lying across a chair. He charged toward the doors into the Chinese tourists and yelled, “Stop! Police!” at the top of his lungs.
Win had exited the heavy doors with Richter breathing down his neck. At Trey’s first cry, Win felt the gun pull away for an instant as the gunman turned to grasp the situation. Win grabbed a stacked luggage cart and pulled it down hard with his left hand and dove to the right into the luggage that had been disgorged from the bus. He felt something catch his blazer as he fell. The tumbling luggage tripped Richter and he stumbled in front of Win into the covered driveway. He was still off-balance when he sent another round into the bags in front of Win, but Win’s training had kicked in and the bullet from Win’s Glock drove the man back three steps. Even after the deafening shot rang out, Richter was still on his feet, moving behind one of the hotel can
opy’s large columns.
Win was aware of people scattering in all directions. He saw Trey fighting his way out the doors amid a wave of panicked tourists. Trey was yelling “Get down! Police!” Win felt himself moving forward, his Glock held steady in a two-handed grip. But he didn’t have another clear shot at Richter; the man had gotten behind the bus and was dragging a woman out of the driver’s side of a red Jeep. Win kneeled beside the tour bus and hoped for a shot, but there were too many people on the sidewalk behind the Jeep. Within seconds the assassin sped away, weaving between cars and heading toward the highway leading south. Trey was hollering at some ranger to secure the scene. Richter’s .22 caliber pistol with silencer was on the pavement in a puddle of blood. The Department of Interior couldn’t wish this away—no imaginary drill this time—the bright-red blood was seared in Win’s mind.
A Park Service Tahoe, with blue and red lights flashing, pulled up beside the tour bus from somewhere and Trey and Win both dove for the passenger doors. The HRT guy, Kirk Phillips, emerged from the crowd and piled in beside Win in the back seat.
“Go! Go!” Trey ordered. The driver knew what he was doing. He cut across a median, dodged a sign, and got them on the highway behind the Jeep in no time. Their vehicle raced past the two-story houses along Officer’s Row, passed the Yellowstone Chapel, and dropped off the plateau into the expanse of the park.
Trey was calmly telling someone on the SUV’s radio to block a bridge and also ordering the helicopter up for the pursuit. Win knew they were less than two miles from the deep gorge of the Gardner River, which separated the Mammoth area from the steeper, tree-covered mountains to the south and east. It was the same road he and Trey had driven up two hours ago.
Phillips asked the driver about the extra weaponry in the Tahoe. He was holding a .45 caliber Glock 38 in his left hand and hanging onto the SUV’s handhold with his right. He didn’t even turn to Win when he asked, “You hit?”
Win hadn’t had time to think about that—the left side of his blazer had a shredded look, and when he touched it, his fingers came away covered in black powder. He wiped the gunpowder residue off his hand onto the jacket and saw the HRT commander raise his eyebrows and nod. “Close. Real close.”
Richter’s fast and erratic driving was evidenced by three carloads of tourists stuck in roadside ditches where they’d swerved to avoid the fleeing Jeep. The speeding Tahoe topped the final barren hill leading to the high steel bridge just in time for Win and the others to see a cloud of dust to the right of the bridge. The red Jeep rolled twice and disappeared over the side of the gorge. The two-hundred-foot drop to the Gardner River wasn’t straight down, but it was plenty steep enough. A Park Service cruiser was sitting on the bridge with its police lights on. Trey’s driver braked hard as they neared it.
“Until we get a body, we have to assume he jumped before it went over and is still a threat,” the HRT guy said to no one in particular.
Two armed rangers came running from behind the patrol car as they stopped. They reported that the Jeep’s driver was slumped over the wheel when the vehicle missed the bridge approach. The Jeep had never braked. It was upside down on the bottom of the ravine on their side of the river. Dust and wisps of smoke were rising from the wreck; two wheels were slowly turning. The only sound was the rushing river. For a long moment, everyone just stood on the concrete bridge approach, looking down.
Win finally snapped out of it, as it occurred to him that the FBI was technically in charge of matters like this and he was the FBI. He asked Trey to relay the situation to the Bureau office. A couple of minutes later, the yellow Park Service helicopter swooped in low and Trey sent it to the bottom of the ravine. Win watched as four Special Response Team rangers, with assault rifles aimed, jumped from the chopper, approached the wreck, and cautiously tried to find the driver.
A ranger from the helicopter radioed Trey that they’d found a deceased white male with what appeared to be a gunshot wound to the upper chest. He also had multiple traumatic injuries due to the crash—no idea which killed him. He was wearing a gray wig and had a .45 caliber handgun in his belt. No ID on him. No one else was in the Jeep, thank goodness. Reinforcements began arriving about that time, including the ASAC, Emily, Johnson, and a slew of other FBI folks.
Emily made the mistake of running from the Bureau SUV up to the bridge approach with gun drawn and announcing in a much-too-loud voice, “Pulling the security worked! Thug made his move,” or something to that effect. It didn’t set well with Win. She used me as bait?
He whirled and advanced on her. “You played your little catty control game, and now a man is dead! You don’t get it! This isn’t office politics—these are people’s lives you’re playing with. . . . This is life or death!”
Win was still advancing and Emily had gone pale. She was stepping back, gun in hand. Wes Givens moved in front of Win and placed a hand on his chest. The ASAC shook his head, and his eyes said, That’s enough. Win angrily looked away from her and obeyed his boss’s silent commands. It was indeed enough.
Wes told Emily to holster her weapon and go to their vehicle. He asked Johnson to take Win back to the office when he was ready to go, and to handle the preliminary on-scene steps in the shooting inquiry. He ordered another agent to reach out to all the Bureau folks who weren’t on surveillance and get them down here or over to the hotel to begin securing the crime scenes. The ASAC squeezed Win’s shoulder and shook his head sadly before he walked away to talk with Chief Randall, who’d arrived with another group of rangers.
Johnson rose to the occasion and even seemed to have a bit of sensitivity about him. He moved Win away from the bridge and out of the wind, alongside one of the rangers’ SUVs. “This is so damned awful! It’s a hard, hard thing. You want to go down to the Jeep? See him? Might help you close it out of your mind or might make it worse. I can’t tell you what you’ll feel, Win.”
Win took a few deep breaths and squinted up into the whirling white clouds. “No . . . no, I don’t want to see the body. . . . I don’t need to. I wanna say a word to Trey, that’s all, and then we can go, okay?”
“Sure. Sure, I’ll wait on you here.” Johnson leaned into the truck out of the cold wind.
Win walked back to the bridge where Trey was directing his rangers in the ravine by handheld radio. Win overheard enough to know the helicopter was lifting off to avoid the rising winds. The body would be brought up after the FBI had processed the crime scene. Trey finished the radio transmission and turned to Win. The ranger could see the shock of the shooting settling on him.
“Thank you,” Win said softly.
Trey met his eyes and nodded. There wasn’t any need for words. There wasn’t anything that could be said that would make it any better.
Chapter Twenty
He hadn’t been in the stone chapel since the meeting with Ellie Bordeaux ten days ago. Everything looked the same except for a white vase with yellow flowers sitting beside the large open Bible on the altar. A nod to springtime in the park, he guessed. He walked down the center aisle and sat down in the second pew near the front. He took off his parka and stretched out his arms to the top of the smooth oak pew in front of him. It had been well over an hour since the shooting. He’d walked away from the near-frantic activity at the office and found himself here. The numbness he’d felt was wearing off, giving way to a sense of altered reality—as if he wasn’t quite the same anymore. He leaned his head down on his outstretched arms and the quiet of the Holy Place embraced him. The only sounds were distant thunder and then the sound of rain on the slate tile roof. . . . It was starting to rain.
He tried to clear his head—easier to do than clear his heart. A second attempt on his life within two days. A second escape. Each time he’d survived only by the skin of his teeth, or as Mother would say, “only by the grace of God.” And the second time was so different. He couldn’t hold on to the detachment he’d forced into his mind aft
er the bullet from the rifle missed him thirty-three hours earlier. This time he’d looked the killer in the eyes—he knew the man’s name. This time a man had died. Death, even for the one who intended to kill him, left Win shaken.
There was an illogical self-blame going on in his thoughts. Had his lack of discipline put other lives at risk? Could he have averted the whole thing if he’d been more watchful? Or shot to wound the man instead of to kill? He couldn’t lose the churning in his gut, the tightness in his throat. He formed his hands into fists and tried to force the trembling away. He finally leaned back in the pew and lowered his head. He tried to pray, but his prayers seemed to float to the wooden beams of the chapel ceiling and hang there. Where has God gone?
He heard the door open behind him, at the rear of the sanctuary. He heard boots move down the aisle toward him. He didn’t turn. At this point, he didn’t care. Trey put his flat hat and jacket in the pew in front of them and sat down beside him. He didn’t say a word.
“I guess this means someone is still following me around,” Win finally said.
“Yup, that isn’t likely to stop just yet. You okay?”
“Yeah, just can’t seem to . . . can’t seem to get any peace about this.” Win kept his focus straight ahead toward the flowers on the altar.
Trey cut his eyes toward him. “I can’t even imagine what you’re going through, but this is the right place to start looking for that peace.” He took a worn black pew Bible and turned to the Twenty-Third Psalm.
He handed it to Win, who softly read it aloud: “The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want. . . .” Trey repeated all six verses along with him from memory. Then they took turns choosing a Scripture to read.