by Rhona Weaver
Okay, then . . .
But she hadn’t finished. “Kirk also saw the run-in with the rangers as a positive thing. He’d been concerned that Blue Unit’s operators were getting complacent sitting here for days on end in this crappy weather in this middle-of-nowhere tourist trap.” Her eyes took on a predatory look. “At HRT we don’t reward failure. That altercation with the park rangers will cause the boys to be a lot sharper tomorrow, when it counts.”
He nodded. Shelia won’t likely be writing a positive review for Yellowstone on TripAdvisor, but the girl knows her job—success seems to be the theme here. He wondered what had happened to the poor operators who got nabbed by the rangers last night. Her words: “We don’t reward failure.” Yikes! They may be wishing the rangers had kept them.
He got a break from Shelia when Deb called from Billings at noon to report that both of Chandler’s guys who’d been arrested last night would have federal complaints filed against them for a whole slew of big-time charges as soon as the Israeli delegation’s plane lifted off from West Yellowstone tomorrow afternoon. Deb, Ramona, and Murray had driven to Billings to meet with the U.S. Attorney for Montana since the arrests had been made across the state line, in Gardiner. Everyone was trying to keep a very low profile on the takedown. No need to tip the other bad guys to the arrests until the Cohn Monument dedication was over.
After he got off the phone with Deb, he hit the send button on the confidential human source report he’d written on HRT’s interview with Luke last night. He noticed with satisfaction that Washington had approved the required documentation for the Bordeaux’s informant payments. The federal charges against Ron Chandler’s two guys tomorrow would trigger confidential source payments to Ellie Bordeaux and to a trust fund for their children. It was a done deal. He’d kept his word to Luke—he’d taken care of his family, just not exactly in the way Luke had in mind. The fact that neither Luke nor Ellie knew they’d receive government checks totaling $200,000 in the mail next week had to be addressed. He smiled to himself. I’ll call Ellie on that one tomorrow.
Denver’s surveillance supervisor unleashed her frustrations directly on Win as they nearly collided in the hall a few minutes later.
“Headquarters just ordered a complete realignment of resources—our entire SWAT Team is being pulled out, going to West Yellowstone with the HRT guys. Do you know what that does to our surveillance containment?” The short woman’s tone was incredulous.
“Uh, for real?” Win dodged back against the wall as she tromped down the hall to the communications room. He stood there a moment and digested that unwelcome news. If all their tactical forces were hitting the road, Shepherd would have nearly free rein to operate in Gardiner and Mammoth.
Win leaned into the communications room to confirm the new orders. Evidently the Prophet’s latest video campaign, which launched online earlier in the week, was creating quite a splash among the country’s anti-government, separatist, and white supremacy elements. Someone well placed in the Justice Department panicked and ordered the FBI Director to redeploy all of Denver’s SWAT agents to West Yellowstone and secure a firm perimeter around the Jewish monument dedication site. With HRT and most of the other FBI contingent already pulling out of Mammoth, that move would eviscerate the Bureau’s surveillance efforts at the church compound and on the few hard-core bad guys they still had eyes on.
The Bureau had been raising the alarm about the threat from Daniel Shepherd’s cult for over three weeks, yet someone way up the ladder at DOJ was reacting as if they’d just heard about it today. Worse yet, they were trying to second-guess the Bureau managers on the ground. A good, well-thought-out containment plan was already in place—and suddenly the higher-ups at DOJ wanted a new plan. Win was almost glad he was leaving town tomorrow. If common sense didn’t prevail, this whole situation could go off the rails for the good guys in a hurry.
By mid-afternoon, the small FBI office and the Bureau’s work spaces in the Justice Center were nearly empty. All of Win’s bosses, as well as Denver’s entire SWAT contingent, the JTTF agents, and parts of the Violent Crime and Domestic Terrorism Squads were either on the fifty-five-mile drive to the West Yellowstone Interagency Fire Center or already there. The Fire Center was active during the summer and fall months for forest fire suppression, but the site was largely deserted this time of year. The main attraction for the Feds was the 8,400-foot asphalt runway and wide taxiways used as staging areas for the nation’s smoke jumpers and the large air tankers used for fighting wildfires. The Israeli Ambassador’s contingent could land their Boeing 767 there and be completely shielded from the public—and hopefully from Daniel Shepherd’s hooligans.
* * *
While most everyone else was making the slow drive through the park to the new operations center, Win and Shelia made a final walk through of the former HRT building at Mammoth. It was only 3:00 p.m. He’d been in the building a few hours earlier and it’d been the hub of activity for more than seventy folks. Now there was literally no sign HRT had ever been there. The place was cleaner than it was before they’d arrived, and every shred of evidence that an elite federal tactical force had spent five days there was gone. Even the trash cans were empty. Win was in awe—those guys were good. Shelia tossed Win the keys to the old building as she deftly jumped onto the running board of the last large utility truck idling in the parking lot.
He walked a little closer to the truck. “So you’ll be set up down there tonight?”
She laughed. “We’ve been set up for hours! Got a C-5 flying in at 1700 hours with Charlie and Echo Teams from our Gold Unit for backup. That’s eighteen more operators.”
“That’s amazing!”
“No, that’s HRT! Your tax dollars at work!” Shelia slid into the cab and rolled down her window as the driver shifted into gear. She spoke loudly over the rumble of the big engine. “Don’t be a stranger, Win, when you get back to Washington!” She glanced back at him one more time as the truck began to move and called out, “I know my way around!” She winked at him and he felt his ears go red.
Yeah, I’ll bet you do.
* * *
An hour later, Win walked out of the park’s Administration Building after finding it almost vacant. Gus, Chief Randall, Trey, and most everyone else were twenty-four miles southwest, helping organize the security perimeter at the Cohn Monument site. Win had dropped off Trey’s tactical bag and Tory’s card in Trey’s empty office and scribbled him a short note.
Partner, Thanks for taking this to Tory. Been an honor being on your team these last few days. Catch you later. Win
Trey Hechtner would likely be back in his element after the ceremony tomorrow: protecting the wildlife from the tourists, protecting the tourists from the wildlife, protecting the tourists from the tourists, and so on. Win remembered again what Gus Jordon had told him . . . park ranger—best damn job in the world! He watched a tiny elk calf try out its long legs in playful leaps around its frantic mother on the new grass near the flagpole. At the moment, his security detail was far more concerned about the photo-hound tourists surrounding the elk family than about protecting him. He could see the excitement in the rangers’ eyes as they watched the newborn calf’s antics. Win was a little envious. . . . He’d felt that way about his job not so long ago.
They made the five-minute walk from the office to his house for a very late lunch at five o’clock. His security guys visited with the two rangers who’d been stuck guarding the outside of the house all day, while Win scrounged up a ham and cheese sandwich and Coke, then made his first stab at packing for the trip to Jackson. The park’s roads were still blocked by snow south of Old Faithful, so he’d take the longer, seven-hour route to Jackson through West Yellowstone and down through Idaho. He changed into more casual clothes and wondered if he’d ever have the opportunity to wear a short-sleeved shirt again. It was May 11th, and at best it was only in the mid-thirties at night.
> After he changed, he stood beside the desk in his bedroom and found himself at a loss. The feeling of detachment emerged again. This is strange. For some reason he couldn’t quite grasp, he wasn’t sure what to plan for, what to take, what to do. He felt indifferent to the task, as if it didn’t matter. Something is wrong here. Maybe the emotions surrounding the shootings were catching up with him—maybe it was the pent-up fear of being someone’s target, maybe the weight of the responsibility of the job. Something is very wrong.
His hand found his study Bible on the corner of the desk. It opened on a familiar page. His eyes fell on Psalm 31:14–15, Scripture he’d underlined years ago and knew by heart.
“But as for me, I trust in You, O Lord; I say, ‘You are my God.’ My times are in Your hand; Deliver me from the hand of my enemies, and from those who persecute me.”
He said a simple prayer of thanks.
His unsettled mood began to lift with the prayer, but he still found no motivation for the job at hand. Maybe he was pushing too hard, struggling too desperately to prove to the Bureau he didn’t belong in this dead-end place. Maybe I’m actually trying to prove that to myself. He shut out those thoughts; there’d be more than enough time for reflection with seven hours on the road tomorrow. He’d return to his comfort zone—the office. There were still things to attend to there before he left. Packing and thinking could wait until tonight.
* * *
The skeleton crew the Bureau left behind in Mammoth that evening included Johnson, Emily, Win, a surveillance supervisor, and a few technicians. There were still two five-agent teams running the scaled-back surveillance of the church compound, but several more of the Prophet’s militiamen had slipped surveillance. It was looking as if the FBI wasn’t the only group repositioning during the last several hours.
He and Johnson would be riding down to the dedication site together tomorrow. The weather was predicted to be awful tonight, but tomorrow was supposed to be at least tolerable—cool and windy with thunderstorms. Win had watched the SAC and ASAC leave the Justice Center late in the afternoon. His bosses’ expressions of worry were obvious—no one had any idea what Daniel Shepherd’s group would do. Shepherd had perfect targets: the Israeli Ambassador, the U.S. Ambassador to Israel, and a host of other Jewish dignitaries, right in his backyard. At the very least, Win expected some form of confrontation at the monument site; he was just praying it wouldn’t be violent. Following the afternoon ceremony, Win would drive his Bureau vehicle on to Jackson, and Johnson would hitch a ride back to Mammoth. Tomorrow was shaping up to be a very, very long day. He decided to call it a night. Nothing to do at the office now but sit around and hope everything was in place.
Win had managed to avoid Emily ever since Mr. Givens benched her after Richter was shot, but his luck ran out as he was leaving his office at 8:30. She was leaning against the hallway wall, watching him like a hawk watches a field mouse. Her frizzy red hair was pulled back tight; her metal glasses were low on her nose. She was wearing an expensive version of a safari jacket with a green scarf. Her eyes matched the scarf, but they were flinty. It wasn’t one of her better looks. She didn’t even pretend to be consolatory.
“Think you’ve clawed your way out of this hole, Tyler? I heard you might be transferred to Denver.” She shook her head knowingly. “Samuel Cushing is a very powerful man. He’s a powerful friend.” She lowered her voice and dropped her chin. “A very dear friend of mine. Mr. Strickland, Wes, all the supervisors are aware of that. Do you think any of them will be willing to stick their necks out to help you move along in your career? At the expense of jeopardizing their own careers? I know better. You know better. Not gonna happen.”
Win just stood there with his hat and his Gore-Tex jacket in his hands.
“You’ve had a little success with this case—things have fallen into your lap—but if you think for a minute it’ll go smoothly for you in Denver, think again!” With that she wheeled and disappeared down the hall into the communications room.
Win was blindsided. He had no idea how to respond to her, but then, he knew she didn’t want a response. She simply wanted to bully him. Samuel Cushing was using her to force him out of the Bureau. The Deputy Assistant Director was still out to destroy Win’s career, and he’d found a very willing and effective ally in Emily. Win slowly let his breath out and tried to quench the smoldering rage he felt. How to fight back? When to fight back? He drew in a deep breath before he started down the stairs. My career in the Bureau . . . my career as an agent? He blinked away the emotions flooding over him. This fight might already be lost.
* * *
“Hey, bud!” Tucker’s voice was breaking up as Win waved away his ranger escort and pulled into the narrow gravel driveway leading to the rear of his house. He stopped the SUV to try to let the phone connection take hold. As his headlights flashed across the ranger guarding the front of the house, the guy shifted his rifle and gave Win a weak wave.
“Can you hear me?” Win asked loudly.
“Yeah, yeah! Got it, saw your text on Jackson—you’re going there tomorrow. My aunt has a condo there. Happenin’ little town, by the way. Major step up from the boonies you’re stuck in now!”
Win tried to focus on Tucker’s words, which were fading in and out. He hoped his answer was going through. “Should get there late evening,” he said. “Be good to see you. . . . Can you hear me now?” The low cloud cover was impacting the cell coverage again. Oh, well, back to civilization tomorrow.
“Terrible connection!” Tucker shot back. “Hey, if you can hear this, I’ll fly to Jackson later this week and we’ll talk about the job. Maybe finalize it. Damn shame the FBI didn’t appreciate your talents! I’m off!”
The connection dropped. Yeah, real damn shame. His stomach had an empty, hollow feel. He hadn’t completely recovered from the anger he’d felt earlier. After the run-in with Emily a few minutes ago, he’d come to the painful conclusion that it might be time to cut his losses and move on. At the very least, it was time to seriously start looking at other options. He’d texted Tucker about the job less than five minutes ago, and Tucker, enthusiastic as ever, had insisted on a road trip out West to hash it out in person. Of course to Tucker, a road trip just meant a three-hour flight to Jackson in his daddy’s private jet.
As Win pulled into his parking area, he refocused on the preparations for his trip. He’d squared everything away at the office—he’d be able to pick up the False Prophet case on the Bureau’s Sentinel system from Jackson without missing a beat. His written notes and printouts were organized in the numerous working files he’d boxed to take with him tomorrow. He’d also made an extensive packing list so as not to have a repeat of this afternoon’s packing paralysis. Need to get it done and get more sleep tonight.
The dark silhouette of the ranger at the rear of the house waved to him as he killed the SUV’s headlights. He wasn’t sure who was on duty tonight, but he needed to thank his night guards. Since this could be the park rangers’ last night for guard duty, he wasn’t likely to see them again. He was sure those men were much sicker of it than he was.
He turned off the ignition and stepped off the running board. The gravel crunched under his boots, and the north wind stung his face as he pushed the door shut and locked it. He waved to the guy. Might as well get the goodbyes over with. Light drizzle was beginning to fall, making the surroundings even darker. He saw the other ranger out of the corner of his eye. Why is the guy at the front coming my way? Win stopped mid-stride. The ranger at the rear had just saluted the one approaching from the front—it was the same palm-across-the-heart salute Luke had given Trey on the ridge several days ago. A cold chill hit Win’s spine, and he suddenly felt light-headed.
He hadn’t seen it coming.
Chapter Thirty-One
The big man hit him from behind with as much force as any SEC linebacker. Win’s chest went hard into the hood of the SUV, knocking the
breath out of him. His hat and keys were flung to the gravel. He was too stunned and disoriented to grab for his gun. There was a gloved hand over his mouth, someone twisting his right wrist backward, and extreme pressure on his back.
“Not a word!” an intense voice growled. The man behind him pushed him even harder against the hood and pulled his Glock free from its holster. Win felt the cold metal of a gun barrel on the back of his head. He was gasping for breath through the gloved hand.
“Hands behind your head! Now!” The urgent commands were low and quiet. Win struggled to pull his hands to his head—to comply. The man who had Win pinned was huge and powerful. He jerked Win away from the truck by his collar and steered him through the darkness toward the old garage. The pistol’s muzzle never left the back of his head. Someone opened the wooden door and called for lights—the single bulb dimly illuminated the interior of the small, windowless shed. Win blinked to adjust to the light and realized if they hadn’t killed him yet, there might still be a chance.
“On your knees!” The big man still had him by the back of his collar. His strong arm forced Win down on the concrete floor. He found himself staring directly into the faces of two park rangers who’d been stripped of their tactical coveralls, helmets, and weapons and were sitting bound and gagged against the far wall. He had the same floating sensation he’d felt in the Richter shooting—everything seemed to move in slow motion, every sense was crystal clear.
Almost immediately his rational self began to compartmentalize, to filter the evidence, to collect the data—all within his own crime scene. He instinctively knew it was a defense mechanism to hold the fear at bay. For a few moments, at least, it was working, as he began to assess his predicament. The two men who’d been dressed as rangers were apparently still on guard duty outside the house. There were six others in the shed, all in masks; three were holding assault rifles, the night-vision optics on their helmets flipped up. A deadly-looking M40 sniper rifle leaned against the wall. It had to belong to one of the two men kneeling beside him. So there were at least eight of them—they’d come in force. The large man at his back had to be the church’s militia sergeant. Win remembered his name as Jon Eriksson from the surveillance files.