by Rhona Weaver
“Where to, boys, I’m driving!” Win made a lame attempt to appear upbeat.
Trey sounded tired and frustrated. “I gotta go back into the office and make a report on the near shoot-’em-up between our folks and the HRT boys over at your house. Gus is furious, so things may not go real smoothly there. . . . My rig is at your house, just take me there.”
“Luke? You’re welcome to stay at my place tonight. Got extra bedrooms and a bath upstairs. You can head out tomorrow, or whenever you want.”
“Me and Trey talked it over, and I’ll stay over at his place tonight. I ain’t too happy with your kind, and I damn sure ain’t feeling too good ’bout me right now. I know exactly what you’re thinkin’, Win—thinkin’ that fool Cajun done got himself into this mess and he’d be right smart to thank me fer saving his hide tonight. But just so’s you know, I ain’t feelin’ too grateful at the moment. I aim to drop out of sight fer a few days till this deal is over, so don’t come lookin’ fer me! You got that?”
Win could hear Luke reloading the handgun directly behind him, and he could tell from his tone that he was conflicted and angry about placing himself in a position where he had to “snitch,” as he saw it, on a bunch of criminals he shouldn’t have been involved with in the first place. Win didn’t want to get on the wrong side of Luke’s anger, especially when Luke had a loaded pistol behind him.
“Okay, okay, I got it! Uh, why don’t you leave the gun with me? You aren’t allowed to carry in the park,” Win said.
“You gonna push that tonight, boy?” The low voice sounded deadly.
Win quickly weighed the pros and cons of keeping his informant on the right side of the law. There was one serious problem with pushing the matter: Luke Bordeaux might be angry enough to kill him.
Trey saved them from a confrontation neither man wanted. “Why don’t I hold the weapons till we get over to my place. Probably just leave ’em on the kitchen table. Where they end up after that . . .” The ranger shrugged.
After Luke handed over his knife and Beretta to Trey, there wasn’t any more conversation on the short drive back to Win’s house. The old stone dwelling was lit up like a Christmas tree, and as they drove up, Win could see several rangers milling about in the yard. It was the aftermath of the run-in with the HRT guys, which had happened only fifty-five minutes earlier—events had been unfolding at a frantic pace.
An odd sense of detachment settled on Win for a moment as his headlights swept over the five Park Service vehicles surrounding his house. His mind went to the Federal Operational Threat Assessment that had come in from Headquarters earlier this evening. In less than forty-eight hours, the Israeli delegation would have been here and gone. Many honchos in the Department of Justice, the National Park Service, and to a lesser degree the Secret Service still thought that the Arm of the Lord Church cult and their sketchy followers were using the dedication of the Jewish monument purely for recruitment propaganda. All bluster, no credible threat. Those attached to that way of thinking considered the two attacks on Win to be totally unrelated to the church group. Win was an FBI agent, they reasoned; agents often made enemies.
The FBI, especially the agents on the ground, certainly weren’t thinking along those lines—not on either issue. But Win knew the consensus of the higher-ups in three federal agencies was that there was an eighty percent statistical probability that nothing bad would happen during the next two days in Yellowstone National Park. Win pulled the Explorer to a stop beside Trey’s Tahoe and frowned into the night. That leaves a twenty percent probability that it will.
Chapter Thirty
It was just too quiet in the house. Nearly 10:30 on Sunday morning and no squealing little girl, no list of honey-dos, no big slobbering dog. He hadn’t even managed to go to church this morning; he’d slept late instead. The birds were hard at it outside the curtained window, singing their cheerful songs, trying to hurry spring along. But inside the house it was just too quiet. His second cup of coffee and over six hours of much-needed sleep had finally cleared most of the cobwebs from his mind, but he was still having a hard time sorting through his thoughts. Had last night really happened? He wasn’t even sure Cindy could comprehend all the convoluted activity, much less his conflicting emotions. He’d called her with the CliffsNotes version of events when he’d first awakened. As he recalled, she kept saying, “Oh my . . . Trey, oh my . . .” At least McKenna had cooed “Love you, Daddy!” to him a half dozen times before she ran from the phone to continue her princess games. He drew in a long breath—it was Mother’s Day, and he missed his girls so badly it hurt.
He gently brushed a dirty spot off his tan felt hat. He was holding it under the bright light above their small breakfast table, trying to make sure every speck of dirt and grime was gone. It was May 11th—hat rotation day at Yellowstone National Park. All rangers switched as one from the tan felt Stetson to the summer’s straw version of the flat hat. It didn’t matter that it was still hovering near freezing outside; summer season in the park had officially begun. He’d worn the hat for nine years now—the first time as a summer seasonal ranger back in graduate school, and seven years now as a permanent law enforcement ranger. It had a tooled leather hatband intricately carved with oak leaves and pinecones. The peaked crown was designed in the 1920s to shed water and snow. Folks called it a Smokey the Bear hat. To some rangers it was a hassle to carry around and deal with, but to Trey, it represented his life’s calling. It was a powerful symbol of what he’d always wanted to be.
Late last night that had all been called into question. Gus Jordon had handed him his butt—the man was livid. Gus didn’t exactly say his promotion to Mammoth District Ranger had been ill-advised, but he sure did imply it. He’d sat in Gus’s office and gone through the situation, as they were calling it, between his two Special Response Team rangers and the two HRT guys who were spying on Win Tyler’s house. Then there was the fact he’d let Luke Bordeaux move into his place yesterday afternoon. Gus hadn’t been subtle.
“What was going through your mind?” Gus’s face was red—the man almost never got red-faced. “Thank God it ended with four men just cussing each other, but in the dark, with all four heavily armed . . . someone could have gotten killed! And we turned out six more units because of the perceived threat! Two FBI agents in handcuffs! Do you have any idea how ticked off everyone in their agency is tonight?”
Trey had tried to respond. “Our team was charged with protecting Tyler. Two men with night-vision equipment sneaking up on his house. Yeah, I thought they were HRT, but I didn’t think it was advisable to walk over and ask them—hell, Gus, you know they don’t have any regard for our tactical ability. To them, we’re the junior varsity!”
“Well, there’s damn good reason for that! Compared with them, we are the junior varsity! How much SWAT training does our team actually get? Twelve days a year? And that’s if everyone’s able to show up! And them? Hell, even their Denver SWAT Team trains four days a month. HRT trains constantly. They train with Delta Force and the Navy Seals—constantly. And you send Jimmy and Brent after two of their guys? What were you thinking!”
Trey crawfished a little. “They could’ve been the bad guys. . . .”
“You didn’t really think that.”
True. “No, no I didn’t. . . . Tyler and I hatched a plan to spring Bordeaux from my house, and we needed a distraction. We were both pretty sure it was HRT watching us.”
“Yeah, well, lucky for you, Win called me right before you walked in and made a pitch to fall on his sword for you on this deal. He pointed out that technically you were still working for him and he was calling the shots. He said it was his decision to tag the HRT guys and move Bordeaux out of your house.”
Well now, that’s a bit of a welcome surprise. Trey raised his eyebrows at that revelation and shrugged.
“That still doesn’t explain why my Special Response Team leader lets a man who’s out on fede
ral bond—a man who took shots at Chief Randall just over a month ago, a man who is obviously mixed up with this Arm of the Lord cult—why he lets that man stay in his home!”
“He was my best friend for a lot of years, Gus. Back before you got to the park. He was my best friend. You know Luke is Tyler’s informant. And he has a temper. We were trying to avert a shootout between Luke and HRT.”
“So you nearly created one between our guys and HRT!” Trey kept his eyes on the Park Service ball cap in his hands. And Gus kept talking. “So now what am I gonna do with you? Hell, I may have to give you a Valor Award for saving Ellie Bordeaux’s life on the river yesterday—but what I feel like doing is shipping you to Gates of the Arctic for the rest of the year! Let you freeze your ass off in the middle of nowhere in a park where you can’t possibly screw things up too badly!”
Trey’s boss took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair. Trey mustered the courage to meet his angry eyes. He was praying Gus’s fury was nearly spent.
Gus was still glaring at him, but he blew out the anger with a long breath. The brown eyes said, We’re not done with this yet, but his tone softened as he turned his attention to their larger mission. “Looks as if the FBI and Secret Service are finally going to take our advice and bring the Israeli delegation in through West Yellowstone’s airport. They’re gonna deploy to the Interagency Fire Center at the airport sometime tomorrow—but, hell, it’s already tomorrow! Randall and I will be going down there to help them set up a command center. You’ll stay in Mammoth with part of your team in case we need a medical response or the FBI needs some form of backup. Which is not likely, given their current mood.”
Okay, so he’s not replacing me as team leader just yet.
“Randall will want a recap on the Bill Wilson situation—maybe early afternoon, but don’t put anything on paper about his arrest yet. The FBI still wants the story out there that Wilson has heart trouble. They’ve got him in Bozeman at the hospital. I had to call his wife late yesterday. . . .” Gus’s voice wavered as he reflected on that painful event. He took another deep breath and kept talking.
“Alright, damn it . . . get back over there and calm the folks down at Tyler’s house. I’ve got four extra rangers there now. Everybody’s too hyped up and gung ho. And you haven’t had any time off in days—go home and get some sleep. Don’t get in here before noon tomorrow unless I call you in. I mean it!”
Trey remembered easing out of Gus’s office when the man dismissed him with a wave as another call came in on his landline. Calls at 1:30 a.m. were never good news—there’d been a lot of bad news lately.
He wiped a small amount of cordovan polish onto a cloth and worked it into the leather hatband. He grimaced a little when he thought about Gus’s threat of a TDA, or temporary duty assignment, to Gates of the Arctic National Park. Banishment to the frozen tundra above the Arctic Circle, with no real towns for hundreds of miles. Surely his boss wasn’t serious. Banishment. That’s what he’d called Win Tyler’s assignment here at Yellowstone. He placed the pristine felt hat into its summer storage box and wondered how Win was making out with his bosses this morning.
* * *
That question got answered when Trey’s phone rang about five minutes later and he heard Win Tyler’s southern accent.
“Hey, man. You still working for the Park Service?”
“At the moment . . . but I’m hanging by a thread. You?”
“Coulda been worse. I managed to get five hours of sleep and avoid the topic with the brass this morning. Everyone’s a little preoccupied—most of our people are leaving soon to finish setting up a tactical operations center in West Yellowstone. Did you hear that HRT got two of Ron King’s, uh, Ron Chandler’s men last night?”
“Naw, haven’t heard—I haven’t gone in yet. Any resistance?” Trey asked.
“No, thank goodness. Caught them sleeping in a sleazy motel on the outskirts of Gardiner, where Luke said they’d be. It was two of the guys Chandler had recently brought in. They’re tight-lipped; my folks are telling me they haven’t said a word. The Bureau is trying to keep the arrests under wraps until the Israelis are out of town tomorrow. We’re holding them under the Federal Rules of Criminal Procedure related to the Terrorism Act, so we’ve got several more hours before we have to provide them with lawyers. HRT could have collared a couple more based on Luke’s tips, but Headquarters called them back in to realign down to West Yellowstone around 4:00 a.m. Sure woulda been nice to have more of those thugs behind bars, but it wasn’t my call. You and I may not catch too much heat over our adventure last night since the intel Luke gave us proved so valuable.” Win paused. “Luke still at your place?”
“He was gone when I got up around 9:30 this morning. He left the vehicle he came in, so I suppose he’ll be back in a day or two.”
“He doing okay?”
“We talked awhile after I got home last night. He’s really conflicted over the Prophet’s church. Really struggling. He doesn’t believe any of the anti-Semitic, white supremacy crap, but he wants so badly to belong. . . . I feel awful for not reaching out to him sooner. He was so isolated after the FBI drug him through those trumped-up charges last year. If I’d been there for him as a friend, it might not have come to this.”
Win grunted a response. He really didn’t know what to say. He had his own regrets about a failed relationship weighing on his shoulders. So in characteristic fashion, he avoided the emotionally charged topic and switched to more comfortable ground.
“I’ll bring the gear you left at my house over to your office this afternoon. I’ll be staying in Mammoth today and tonight while everything gets reorganized for the Israeli visit. After the ceremony, I’m shippin’ out to Jackson Hole till this death threat issue gets a bit more resolution. If Daniel Shepherd doesn’t get indicted and locked up soon, I could be down there awhile. There’s some evidence he coulda ordered the hits on me as revenge for the death of his son in an FBI shootout years ago. Nothing concrete on it, it’s all circumstantial, but Mr. Givens doesn’t want to take any more chances with me stationed this close to their church compound.”
“Kinda hate to hear that. I was lookin’ forward to showing you more of the park when things settle down. Anything you need done while you’re gone?”
“Not that I can think of right now. Jason Price came over early this morning; he’s keeping my cat till I get back. Tia’s gonna keep dusting the house . . . so I’m good.” He hesitated. “Nope, wait—I told Tory Madison, uh, that girl I met out here, that I’d come down to Roosevelt and see her next week. No cell service where they’re camped. Is there a post office?”
“Not any general mail service, but no problem. I can get a note down to her if you want, but then again I could make some points by letting Gus deliver it for you. . . .”
“No way! Gus might be on the prowl! Since you’re married, I’m thinkin’ you’d be a better delivery boy on this errand.”
Win could feel Trey smiling through the phone. “Gus has the reputation of always being on the prowl, but that may just be talk. No problem, I’ll handle it.”
They ended the call and Win leaned back in his office chair and stared at the far wall, which was dominated by the remarkable painting of the bear. He’d been accomplishing one thing after another with a determined pace this morning. In between meetings with the HRT liaison, he’d called his dad and texted his brothers and several friends. When he couldn’t reach his mother on her special day, he settled for a text. His original plan had been to send flowers, but those good intentions got misplaced during the chaotic week. He wrote Tory a brief note of apology and checked one more thing off his mental to-do list. He wondered absently if he’d see her again. . . . No telling how long they’d keep him at the Jackson Hole RA, and Mr. Givens had mentioned a possible transfer to Denver. Then there was the job offer from Tucker. . . . He breathed out a deep sigh. He might not even come back to Mam
moth for more than a day or so, just enough time to completely pack up. I may never see her again. She made me smile. . . .
He blinked rapidly and sat straight up in his chair. Why am I thinking in the past tense? Why am I thinking this way? It was as if he was being spurred on to tie up loose ends for a purpose that went beyond just leaving town for a few days. The strange feeling of detachment emerged again. Did his soul sense something in his future that he couldn’t yet see?
* * *
He promptly forgot those uneasy sensations as he dove back into the vast amount of work required to coordinate between HRT and his ASAC, or the more traditional Bureau, as he liked to think of it. Each Hostage Rescue Team deployment included two HRT liaison agents who made sure everything ran smoothly between the requesting office for the mission—Denver, in this case—and HRT personnel. Win had met both liaison agents, but he’d never worked with them until this morning. After the events of last night, Win was shocked that Kirk Phillips was still using him as the coordinator between HRT and the Denver Field Office.
Shelia, the attractive, studious-looking agent who served as HRT’s lead operations liaison, had been quick to tell Win the reason he was still on board. “Don’t let them fool you, Win. Kirk and Matt actually loved it that you took the initiative, and took significant risks, in successfully getting your informant clear last night.” She lowered the dark glasses on her nose and peered at him over them. “Well, I won’t repeat word for word what they were saying,” she said, blushing, “but the whole HRT culture is based on traits like courage, risk-taking, and loyalty—all for a successful mission. They even admire that in their adversaries.” She shook her pretty, long blond hair. “Best of all, your actions led directly to successful arrests on our part—a win-win!”