by Rhona Weaver
Wilson suddenly stood and leaned forward over the desk. His right hand slapped the metal top. His face was crimson, and the veins bulged in his thick neck. “You played me down there! Damn you! You set me up!” he yelled into Win’s face.
Win didn’t flinch. “Uh-huh, and you provided intel to someone who took a shot at me with a high-powered rifle. Wanna call it even and get on with our business here?”
Win’s statement took the wind out of the man’s sails; his jaw went slack and he slumped back into the stationary chair. His shaking hands came back up to cover bloodshot eyes, and Win saw him bite down on his quivering lower lip.
“Wanna tell me what’s been happening, Bill?” Win’s tone had never changed. “This isn’t like you. . . . How’d you get sucked in?”
“Didn’t think it could come to this.”
They never do.
“It was just harmless stuff at first—how many agents in town, what your schedule was, who was under surveillance . . . harmless stuff. I, uh . . . I’ve got a money problem. Didn’t want Maddy to know.” Wilson’s voice was trembling now.
Win raised an eyebrow and nodded.
“Got into the internet gambling thing two years ago. Then every trip to the grandkids in Reno, I’d hit the casino. Retirement coming up and I’m down over a hundred grand, and . . . hell, I didn’t mean for it to get out of hand.” Sweat was beading on his forehead and his hands were shaking badly. “I heard talk about someone paying for information . . . approached one of the church members, a big guy named Billy Thayer at the Zippy Mart in Gardiner. He put me in touch with Ron King.” He caught a sob in his throat and buried his face in his hands again.
Win waited a moment, then spoke. “Walk me through it, Bill. Cooperation is the key here. You’re gonna help me on this. . . . You want to make it right.” Win’s calm demeanor and quiet voice hid an underlying intensity and focus he knew Bill Wilson couldn’t see. He forced himself to compartmentalize the process—to target his goal: Find the truth. Tromp through all the excess, let the man work through his fears and pain, patiently sift through the rights and the wrongs. Only then would the truth come out. Only then could justice be served.
Compartmentalization had another convenient benefit. Win’s own sins could remain shut away, his fear of his own untruths hidden. Did he want to face the truth or lack of it within himself? Did he want to face deserved justice? No way! Did he want the truth and its resulting justice for Bill Wilson? Hell yes! It was an agonizing paradox in his own moral code that unfortunately tried to slide into his soul every so often during his work. He blinked and dropped a mental curtain on his own feelings of infidelity. He casually leaned forward in the chair, silenced his soul, and began to verbally take poor Bill Wilson apart.
At the end of the lengthy, gut-wrenching process, Win stood up and told Wilson he wanted his badge. There were tears in the man’s eyes and his hands were still unsteady as he slowly unpinned the gold shield from his gray shirt. The sorrow and regret in those tearful eyes were real. Win closed his hand over the badge and knocked on the door. Two HRT operators entered to handcuff Wilson, and Win moved to face the group of officers who’d entered the hall. He handed Chief Randall the dishonored badge with a mumbled word of condolence. Gus Jordon still had the stricken look in his eyes Win had seen earlier in the afternoon. Win managed a sad nod toward the man.
Wes Givens called a ten-minute break before operational strategy meetings were to commence and everyone began to drift away. The ASAC patted Win’s shoulder and whispered, “Good job,” as he moved past him down the hall. Phillips just nodded and seemed to be appraising him; Win had seen that look from NFL scouts back in his football days. He knew the successful interrogation had raised his stock. He knew he should feel good about it. What he actually felt was a nearly overwhelming desire to throw up. Instead, he walked down the hall, smiled a strained smile at Deb, and got a cup of stale coffee.
* * *
Twenty-five minutes later, Win moved into the Justice Center’s big conference room and listened as an ambulance with siren wailing pulled up to the front steps outside. He looked down from the second-story window as four green-clad EMTs maneuvered a stretcher up the steps and in the front door. A small crowd of tourists and curious workers were gathering outside in the cold wind. A few minutes later a bundled patient was carried out on the stretcher to the waiting Park Service ambulance. Its red lights continued to flash and the siren sounded, calling even more attention to the spectacle at the Justice Center. Word would get around fast.
Ranger Bill Wilson, beloved keeper of the courthouse, had been stricken with a heart attack and was being rushed to the hospital in Bozeman. Win glanced across the street to the park’s medical clinic, where four real park ranger EMTs were probably wondering why they’d been sworn to secrecy and what the hell was going on. The siren was fading in the distance. The Bureau folks would have the traitor on lockdown at the hospital, and the Prophet’s guys would just chalk it up to bad luck—relying on a snitch who was an old guy with a bad heart. A bad heart? Well, maybe they’d be right about that.
Win let out a deep sigh. The nausea hadn’t totally subsided after the two-and-a-half-hour interrogation. In less time than that, Bill Wilson would find himself held captive in a hospital room in Bozeman until the thugs were taken down. His sweet wife, Maddy, would go through the horror of thinking he was actually in critical condition in coronary care only to discover all too soon that the truth was maybe worse.
The interrogation had gone well. Real well. Bill Wilson had taken a total of $23,500 in eight separate cash payments. He didn’t know any of the group’s plans, but he knew enough names and identified enough mug shots to start the wheels turning on some heavy-duty conspiracy and bribery indictments for at least six of Shepherd’s men, including Ron Chandler, a.k.a. Ron King. Not as weighty as terrorism charges, but it would do to get those guys off the street.
The only big surprise for Win had been Wilson’s main method for obtaining the information he’d sold. Wilson had guarded the old courthouse while the new one was being built. He knew the unfinished portion of the Justice Center’s second story, where the FBI contingent had set up shop, had a partially completed intercom system hidden away in the framing. He discovered he could use it as an audio feed to overhear anything that was said in that area. Wilson had to be careful when he listened in—if there was too much foot traffic at the building’s entrance, or if the FBI guard was lurking too near his office door, he couldn’t risk tapping into the intercom from his security office on the first floor. Even with those limitations, he’d managed to sell out the good guys on everything from agent numbers, surveillance schedules, and air assets to HRT’s deployment.
The information on Bronte’s attack on Ellie this morning had been gathered the old-fashioned way. Wilson had helped himself to some of Susan’s doughnuts and asked her where the fire was after Win and Trey went running from her office at 7:05 a.m. Modern technology aside, the old World War II slogan was still true: “Loose lips sink ships.”
Bill Wilson swore he had no advance knowledge of the attempted hits on Win’s life. The man certainly had plenty of incentive not to admit to providing information tying him directly to a conspiracy involving attempted capital murder of a federal agent—a big no-no with a likely twenty-five-years-to-life sentence in a federal penitentiary. But Win’s intuition told him Wilson was being honest on that point and was clueless about the attempts to kill him. Wilson did confirm the information Bordeaux had provided on the ridge three days ago. Most if not all of Ron Chandler’s seven men, plus the eight chosen militiamen, were out of the church compound and scattered in Gardiner or within the park. The Bureau only had eyes on five of them, and Wilson knew nothing about the whereabouts of the others. Big problem.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Win leaned his head back against the top of the grungy couch in the thrown-together break room. There were stack
s of empty pizza boxes on both tables—these guys did occasionally eat, but they sure weren’t tidy. It had to be creeping up on 11:30, but he didn’t have the energy to even look at his watch. For most of the day he’d run on pure adrenaline. Now he was starting to crash. Trey had been asleep on the couch at the other end of the room for more than an hour while Win continued the debrief with the HRT guys on Bill Wilson’s arrest and interrogation. He still felt a little nauseous when he thought back over it. He kept remembering Maddy, Bill’s cheerful wife, bringing him coffee and muffins that first cold morning after he’d arrived in Yellowstone. He brought a hand over his eyes and tried to push the thoughts away. He realized someone else had entered the room, but he didn’t look up.
“Hey, y’all had a big day.” It was Matt Smith’s slow Georgia drawl. Win opened his eyes to see him glance over at Trey and pour himself a cup of coffee. Smith surprised him when he pulled up a metal chair, straddled it, and sat down across from him. His voice was low since the ranger was sleeping. “You and your partner have done good work on this one. . . . Let me see, y’all rescued a woman in distress, caught and turned a mole in a domestic terrorism case. . . . What you got goin’ for the rest of the night?” Win forced a grin and sat up a little straighter.
The big man was leaning toward him over the back of the chair with the coffee cup cradled in both hands. He looked relaxed and at ease—reminded Win way too much of his cat, just before the cat was getting ready to pounce on something. Win responded with a quizzical smile. “Why am I thinkin’ you’re not gonna suggest we just take tomorrow off and get some much-needed rest? Why am I thinkin’ the next shoe is fixin’ to drop?”
Smith laughed softly. “You’re an interesting one, Tyler. Phillips is really high on you and he isn’t easily impressed. You turned his little drone surveillance shakedown completely back on him the other day. Gutsy, I’ll give you that. Sniffing out the leak and the takedown was good work—heard the ranger’s interrogation was a crowd-pleaser too. Your marksmanship and aptitude scores are out of sight. You’ve got what it takes, Win. Why don’t you apply for HRT when this mess clears?”
“Yeah, right. You know the Bureau threw me to the wolves out here—you know why I was sent here. You’ve obviously seen my file.” He had to fight to keep the emotion out of his voice, and he wasn’t real sure it was working with Smith.
“Yeah, yeah . . . the loss of effectiveness transfer. . . . You caught a real bad break, but that’s not the way it works everywhere in the Bureau. At HRT we actually value loyalty to teammates. You’re winning enough points in this case to squash that crap—doesn’t have to stay in your file forever. Think about HRT when this case is over.”
Smith sipped the coffee and switched gears. “Given the current intel, we may go with bringing in as many of the subjects as possible—preemptive move. See if we can’t get several of them off the street.” He cocked his head. “Bordeaux is leaning their way. That’s how I read him today. You could see it. Luke Bordeaux is real smart and real dangerous—a bad combination if he’s not one hundred percent on your side. He’s way too close to Trey, so we have to cut Trey loose on this operation—and the fact that the mole came out of his agency didn’t help matters any. I don’t want you thinking for a second we haven’t gained a lot by having his help. And you’re right, Trey’s a good man, but even the best men can be put in compromising situations if they aren’t awfully careful. We can’t take a chance on it.”
“Then tell Trey that.” Win nodded toward the sleeping ranger. “He came into this to bring down the bad guys and he’s done an excellent job. If you have to cut us both loose, that’s your decision. But just so you know, I think Luke is still conflicted, but when it comes down to the lick-log he’s one of the good guys—I can feel that in my heart. And even if he doesn’t eventually come to our side, as you put it, I don’t think Trey would cave to Luke.”
“Well, I wouldn’t bet my life on it, and that’s what it comes down to in some of these deals. Wouldn’t worry about you getting cut loose till it’s over; looks like you’ll be helping our liaison with your ASAC and the rest of the Bureau. Since the intel leak has been handled, we’ll operate in a more traditional vein, with SAC Strickland as the official on-scene commander as of 0700 hours. I assume you’ve already heard we’re not going to hit the church compound tomorrow, not after Wilson confirmed everything Bordeaux told you about the main players being gone. Our revised operational plan needs to be developed tomorrow morning, so go get some sleep and be back here at seven.”
“Trey comes with me in the morning?”
“No, his agency will handle some of the logistics for the dignitaries’ visit. He’ll probably be glad to be rid of the obligation to work with us. You’ll talk with him?”
“Or you could just tell me now.” It was Trey.
“Playing possum?” Smith stood up and turned his attention to the ranger. “That was careless of me. How much did you hear?”
“All of it,” Trey responded as he sat up on the other couch.
“Then you know how much we appreciate your help and that you’ve made a real contribution to this operation. You also know why we feel the relationship needs to end tonight. I’ve enjoyed working with you, and if this mess doesn’t get resolved soon, we could all be working together again, but for now, you go back to the Park Service tomorrow.”
“Understood. Glad I could be of some help. We out of here, Win?”
To his credit, when Trey stood up to go, Smith walked over to him and shook his hand. “I’ll have a couple of my guys walk you over to your vehicle so you won’t have to call anyone to come down. With those thugs roaming the park, Win still needs to stay on guard.”
The two HRT guys Smith had called out were downstairs waiting near the ever-present guy guarding the door. They had their civilian winter garb on, with equipment pouches, and had black H&K submachine guns tucked under their arms. The Hostage Rescue Team’s compact MP5s fired 10mm rounds—they were lethal-looking little suckers.
As they exited the building, Win suggested one of them move ahead to Trey’s SUV in the park’s Administration Building lot and the second one follow as flanker. Trey and Win quickly walked the two blocks to the rear of the big stone building and through the row of Park Service vehicles. The wind had finally died down, and it wasn’t nearly as cold as it had been the last several nights, but with the temperature hovering around twenty-eight degrees, it wasn’t exactly balmy. They thanked the HRT operator who was standing next to Trey’s Tahoe and Trey started the engine. Win scribbled on the notepad stuck to the truck’s console, then turned on his cell phone light to illuminate his written warning: BUGGED??? CAREFUL!
Trey gave him a startled look and Win started talking. “Well then, you get to go back to rangering tomorrow! Bet you’re glad about that. Your stuff’s at my place and it’s so late—just crash over there again tonight.” As he said it, he was nodding his head yes.
Win and Trey managed to come up with vague, generalized statements about nothing for the two minutes it took to drive to the rear of his house. Trey called on his radio to the lead ranger in Win’s protection detail. There were two of them at the house tonight and nothing out of the ordinary was happening.
Trey pulled into the rear parking area, and the ranger acknowledged his boss’s arrival with a quick wave before Trey killed the headlights. Trey didn’t even grab his hat off the dashboard as he stepped out of the Tahoe and approached the man. “Did anyone have access to the house today? Anyone?”
“We did an interior sweep at seven o’clock tonight when our shifts changed. No one has been inside since then. No one,” the man replied.
“Okay, call whoever was on the earlier shift and ask them. I want to know ASAP.”
Win was standing outside the ranger’s SUV. He pulled his parka tighter around him, moved into the deeper shadows at the side of the small garage, and waited for Trey to join him.
“Maybe I’m paranoid, but how did the HRT operator know which of five identical Park Service Tahoes parked in that lot was yours? He walked right to it. Plus, didn’t you think it was odd those two HRT guys were already in winter garb with night-vision equipment, like they were waiting around for us—and this just a couple of minutes after Smith’s off-the-cuff mention of having agents walk us to the vehicle. They’re probably watching us right now! As for Matt being careless and talking to me in that break room with you in there . . . the man didn’t get to be a senior team leader in the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team by being that careless. I’m not buying it!”
“Man, I hope you’re being paranoid—what do you think’s going on?”
“I’m guessing they decided to tail you after the meeting at Luke’s house this morning. I was a little concerned about that, and not only for you. Luke was treating me like a long-lost cousin as well.”
“You think they suspect you’re somehow involved with Luke? Naw, that’s a stretch,” the ranger said.
“They don’t make their living trusting rookie agents or anyone else, for that matter. They’ve probably seen plenty of good people go bad. Heck, look at Bill Wilson! There’s a sickening example. Good folks make horrible mistakes! I don’t blame anyone at HRT—they’re trying to do their jobs. I figure there’s also a good chance they’ve got your personal phone tapped, probably since this morning, but it could have been earlier than that.”
“So why would they waste their time keeping up with us?”
Win stared into the darkness toward the parade grounds—from where he was sure someone else was watching them. The wind was picking up, but neither man was bothered by the cold night air or the late hour at this point.
“I got to thinking. How did Phillips and Smith even know we were at Luke’s place early this morning? They were halfway up his road when I called to tell them where we were. HRT isn’t directly connected to the SWAT Team’s communications. They’ve kept HRT’s communications system separate because of the leak. And how did Phillips know Bronte might have been trying to surrender? I never mentioned that—I’m not even sure of that. They may have watched the whole thing develop on a low-level drone feed. HRT has one of those specialized drones here. They can fly it under weather conditions that wouldn’t work for more traditional, high-altitude drones. If they got good video footage, they may have enough to charge Luke with something during the incident with Bronte. That would mean Luke would be part of the subject takedown Smith was talking about. A charge of second-degree murder wouldn’t likely stand, but it would be enough for them to arrest him. They’d be able to hold him at least temporarily.”