by Rhona Weaver
As the seconds ticked away, Win’s breath was coming back, but his heart was racing and his ears were ringing. He felt sweat trickle down his chest. Someone pulled his hands down and forced them behind his back. Win knew the bitter taste in his mouth was fear; he kept fighting to keep it from overwhelming him. He drew a shallow breath and tried to focus on the thin man in military camouflage kneeling beside him.
“Please . . . don’t take that,” he quietly asked the man, who was systematically going through his pockets. The militiaman had already confiscated his phones, wallet, pocketknife, handcuffs, and Bureau credentials. It was just a tiny book bound in brown leather and wrapped in plastic.
The man peered out from his mask with a questioning look. “I don’t reckon you get to keep your stuff. You ain’t in charge no more, Fed.” His voice was slightly muffled by the brown fleece mask.
The big man was watching another militiaman adjust a set of zip ties on Win’s wrists. He glanced down in the dim light at the small package. The single bulb was swinging slightly, throwing yellow stabs of shifting light into the dark corners of the old garage. “What is it?” the big man asked. His deep voice was in keeping with his size.
Win figured the question was aimed at him, so he answered, “Bible . . . had it since, uh, since fifth grade. Always have it with me when anything big is happening. . . .” Win’s voice trailed off as he realized how silly that must sound to these hard men.
The big man reached for it and removed the plastic cover. “New Testament . . . all right, Agent Tyler, can’t imagine anything bigger happening to you than what you’ll face in the next few hours.” He handed it back to the militiaman who was now squatting beside Win. “Put it back in his pocket.”
“Thank you, sir,” Win whispered as the man replaced it in his cargo pants. The guy behind him pulled the plastic zip ties tighter on his wrists. The next few hours. He said, “The next few hours . . .” Win’s heart clung to Eriksson’s words with hope. They’re not gonna kill me right now. . . . There’s still a chance! For a few more seconds no one spoke. The two men who’d been kneeling beside Win moved away and took up their rifles. It puzzled Win that none of them seemed to be in any hurry. When the big man spoke again, he realized they’d been waiting for the rangers’ check-in with dispatch. His guards did one-hour check-ins with their dispatcher before 9:00 p.m., or 2100 hours, and every two hours thereafter until the next morning.
“Time to call in the all clear, boy.” The younger of the two rangers’ eyes widened. Win recognized him as one of his escorts on the road trip down to the area where they’d rescued the hikers. His name was Maddox. The other rangers had been teasing him about adjusting to fatherhood; the kid had a two-month-old baby. One of the armed men stepped to the ranger’s side, bent down, and yanked the duct tape from his mouth. The poor guy gasped in pain. The militiaman pulled the ranger’s head back by his hair and produced a black commando knife from its sheath.
The big man was still doing all the talking. “Alright, same as last time, I know exactly what has to be reported. It’s the nine o’clock report. Your man is here—you deviate one word and your throat’s slit. You hear me?” The low intensity in the man’s deep voice was nearly as frightening as the knife the other guy held.
The young ranger whispered yes. The thug let go of the guy’s hair and hit the button on the ranger’s handheld radio. Maddox cleared his throat best he could with the serrated blade still touching it. “This . . . this is YP12 to base, it’s 2100 hours, Tyler’s house. All clear. Tyler . . . Tyler is here. Do you copy?”
The radio crackled and a clear, cheerful voice came back, “Roger that. YP12 at Tyler’s house; Tyler in. All clear. Supposed to rain tonight. Stay dry, boys! Base out.” It would be two more hours before anyone checked on the house again. Win’s heart sank. The masked man with the knife stepped back and the young ranger dropped his head. He seemed ashamed to look Win in the eyes. The exchange between the men told Win the bad guys had been here since before eight o’clock, around twilight, not even completely dark on this gloomy night. The younger ranger had obviously called in for them earlier. Win’s eyes scanned the little shed and found discarded hikers’ backpacks, civilian clothes, and utility bags. They’d probably shown up as contractors or tourists and lured the rangers into the shed right before dark.
“Alright, gag him, we’ve got to get to the vehicles. Let’s move,” the big man began.
“We’re not leaving those two to report anything.” It was the masked man who was farthest from the captives. The militiaman standing above the rangers froze with the duct tape in his hand. He quickly looked toward Win’s captor.
Win felt the big guy shift toward the man who’d spoken. “The Prophet’s orders are to bring Tyler to him. We have no orders to harm the others if they cooperate.”
“Well, I’ve got a different way of thinkin’ and we’re leaving this my way. Two fewer Feds to deal with later! You boys don’t have to do a thing, just move outa my way and turn your damn heads if you ain’t got the stomach for it.” As he talked, he slung his AR-15 over his shoulder and drew a sheathed knife. He’d taken two steps toward the younger ranger when Win found his voice.
“You can’t let him do this! It’s against Scripture! God demands at least two witnesses to a successful mission—you have your two witnesses! It’s in Deuteronomy 19:15!” Win was talking loud and fast and hoping these men weren’t Bible scholars. “Listen to me! You’ve got a chance to glorify God through an act of mercy—letting them live! It’s in Matthew and Luke, uh, Luke 6! You can’t let him nullify that!” he pleaded. “What would your prophet say?”
The huge man still had his hand on Win’s collar, and Win twisted to try to look up at him. The masked man who stood over the captives seemed unsure, conflicted. But the aggressive one now had Maddox’s hair in his left hand. The ranger tried to scoot away on the concrete. The aggressive one was ignoring Win. He was taking his time—he seemed to be enjoying the horror of it. Win heard the ranger quietly plead, “Please no, please . . . ,” just before the giant who was holding Win stepped around him and grabbed the arm of the man with the knife.
“I’m in charge here! We’re the Arm of the Lord! We won’t kill just to be killing. There’s glory for God here, like the Fed says.” Then softly, “Put up the knife or you’ll be the one dying here.” He still had a huge hand on the man’s arm. Win could see sullen anger in the thug’s eyes, but he slowly lowered the weapon.
The confrontation ended as quickly as it began, and the younger ranger slumped back against the dusty wall. One of the militiamen finished the task of re-taping his gag. They quickly had Win on his feet. He locked eyes with the older ranger for just a second and saw those eyes register thanks. He nodded slightly to acknowledge that and tried hard to swallow. The large man pulled the string on the light and the room was plunged into darkness.
The big man moved Win outside the door and gently closed it behind him. The blackness of night had become dense, with fog setting in and drizzle falling. Eriksson steered Win behind the shed and stood close, facing him. The guy had to be six nine or ten. Win couldn’t see much, but he could smell, and he didn’t expect the man’s uniform to smell clean. He picked up the normal scents of a hunter: musty canvas, leather, and gun oil. They’re the hunters . . . I’m the prey. Please help me, God. That plea had weaved through his mind a hundred times in the last few minutes.
The big man quietly spoke down to Win. “It’s not my job to end your life, unless you slow us down or cause us trouble. It’s my job to deliver you alive, but it’s really up to you if you live or die on this trip. No gag so you can breathe on the climbs, but if you call out to someone or try to escape, you die—and it may cost innocent lives. You hear me?”
Win stammered a reply, “Yes, sir.”
“Used NVD before?”
Win knew he was referring to the night-vision equipment. “No. No, sir.”
/> “You’ll have to adapt your depth perception to negotiate the trails; using binocular goggles makes it easier. Agent Tyler, you better catch on fast.” Win felt him turn slightly.
“Two!” The big man called out in a low tone, and the tall, thin man with the sniper rifle appeared at his side.
“Sir!”
“Get a helmet and twin goggles on him. Hold on to his collar till he gets used to the goggles and can manage alone. He’s got hiking boots on, that’ll do for the trail.”
Win had to try to reason with them. “You men . . . you men don’t want to get any deeper in this. It doesn’t have to come to—”
The big man closed his massive hand around the front of Win’s throat and squeezed just a little. It got his attention. He growled down at him in a whisper, “Did I say it was up to you? Follow orders and you may come out of this fine, otherwise . . .” He didn’t have to finish the sentence.
* * *
The six men in camouflage, along with their captive, moved in single file up the trail behind the shed, alongside the hot springs’ thermal features. The bright-green glow of the night-vision goggles created an otherworldly experience for Win. The fog, combined with the whirling steam from the hot springs terraces, made it look as if he’d been dropped into some menacing, green version of Hell. He’d only worn night-vision goggles for a few minutes at the Academy’s brief introductory course. He’d marveled then that anyone could move quickly or effectively with those things attached to their head. Thankfully, they were taking him up the well-worn hiking trail that snaked behind his house, a familiar path where he’d run several times. The rangers had long since closed the trail as part of the security measures for him. They wouldn’t meet anyone for miles.
The goggles were taking some getting used to. Win nearly fell on both of the narrow wooden bridges crossing the small stream uphill from his house. “Two” steadied him and eased him forward. Win kept his head down, concentrating on the obstacles just in front of him. As they hiked up the hillside, the dense fog stayed in the lower elevations, giving the goggles more ambient light to filter. Win’s visibility began to improve. He forced his mind to stay on simple tasks: Master the goggles and pray for rescue. First, master the goggles. If that wasn’t accomplished quickly, he knew he might not live long enough for his prayers to bear fruit.
Less than an hour into the forced hike, the thin man pulled Win to a halt and then onto a rock next to the trail. Win had overheard enough whispered conversations to know they were waiting for the two men who’d been impersonating the rangers to catch up. When they stopped, he realized how heavily he was sweating and how chilled he’d become. He tried to calm his breathing and keep himself from shivering in the cold. He couldn’t feel his hands now. The pain from the zip ties had been horrible for the first fifteen minutes or so, and then his hands had gone numb. While he couldn’t feel anything below his wrists, his arms were cramping from the unnatural position. He had to force himself not to groan out loud as he shifted his weight on the damp rock.
The big man approached and flipped Win’s goggles up. Win blinked to see in the sudden blackness. “Two says it looks like the zip ties might be too tight,” the deep voice said. He bent low behind Win to examine the bindings. “Uh-huh. Going to clip them off. It’ll hurt like hell until the blood flow returns. Work your fingers and wrists when I get ’em off. Can damage the nerves if they’re too tight. Open your mouth. . . . Bite down on this.” He reached down for something and forced a small stick into Win’s mouth.
When the man cut the plastic bindings, the pain in Win’s hands and arms was so intense it took his breath away. His arms hung limp from his shoulders. He doubled over on the rock and blinked back tears as he slowly tried to massage some feeling back into his fingers. There was sticky blood in narrow grooves where the ties had cut his wrists. As the anguish gradually subsided, he was thankful for the gritty stick in his mouth; he’d managed not to cry out—he hadn’t shown weakness. One little victory. The thin guy stood at his side, but the other men gave him a wide berth and let him suffer through the pain alone. It took all of five minutes for any feeling, other than the stabbing, needle-like pain, to return to his hands.
He still couldn’t see worth a darn, but he heard someone say the men they were waiting for were coming up the last switchback behind them. The tall, thin guy rustled Win off the rock and offered him a canteen. Win spit the dirt and wood splinters from his mouth and drank. The man retied Win’s hands behind him—much looser, thank goodness—then adjusted his helmet and dropped his goggles into place. His world became bright green again.
As they started back out on the trail, one of the other men brushed up against Win’s shoulder and spoke in a low voice. “I mighta got those ties a little tight . . . mighta been too ramped up, is all. Never done this before. No harm intended.” The guy moved on up the trail.
Win wasn’t real sure what to make of the apology. Except for one man, these guys weren’t acting like a bunch of cold-blooded killers. But he remembered what the young militiaman had yelled at Marniski and him one afternoon: You work for the oppressors! They saw him as one of the pro-Zionist Federals their prophet kept vilifying, the enemy—their enemy. Win had enough sense to know that folks who were normally good, decent people could be manipulated into murder by a charismatic madman. It had been happening since the beginning of time.
They’d split off the original trail awhile back and were hiking northwest on the Sepulcher Mountain Trail. He’d seen the signs and knew from studying topographical maps that the trail led to one of the highest points above Mammoth Hot Springs. He also knew the Arm of the Lord Church compound was only five miles, by trail, north of that mountain. The church had to be their destination. At the pace they were going, once they topped Sepulcher Mountain, they could be at the compound well before daybreak. As they approached the mountain, the trail became rougher and steeper, but Win had mastered the night-vision goggles to the point where he was able to focus on other things besides his next step forward. There was a downside to that.
His anxious heart fought to override his rational mind. His thoughts alternated between frantic prayers for rescue, crushing stabs of regret, and reckless thoughts of escape. His tendency for rational thinking wasn’t much help either. He knew they’d been hiking for over two hours, but even with the limited visibility his goggles afforded, he could tell the scattered fog and low clouds were persisting. His guys couldn’t get search helicopters up in this weather—not in these mountains—and the Bureau’s drones were too far south in West Yellowstone to be of any help. Not only that, but the kidnappers had specifically mentioned, in front of the captive rangers, that they needed to get to their vehicles—a ruse to throw off any pursuit. His guys wouldn’t know where to begin searching. His mind kept coming back to the same, very logical conclusion: They probably won’t find me in time.
His heart kept going back to his family. His folks must have been disappointed. He’d given up the pursuit of pro football or a successful law career for this? His father once thought he might come back to the farm—might take over the land, keep the legacy alive. But now Blake had filled that role. Blake had provided the grandkids his folks had dreamed of, all while he was in North Carolina living in sin, with a lifestyle that hadn’t really included family—at least not his family. He’d pulled back from them because of selfishness and shame. He’d spent most of his leave time in Martha’s Vineyard or Boca Raton with Shelby and her family. That’s where she’d wanted to be. Her folks were modern thinkers, she’d said: “They couldn’t care less if we live together.” He wasn’t so sure that was true either, but Shelby was much better at lying to herself than he was. . . . Was he blaming her for his sins? Yes, I often did. That unfortunate trait of men had started with Adam and Eve—he’d just kept up a very long and damaging tradition.
He and Shelby hadn’t really formed a family; she’d just moved in with him. He’d seen it, at
least in the beginning, as reasonable, cost-effective, even practical—never mind that it broke every tenet he believed about a man and woman’s journey in life together. It might not have been sin for someone else, for someone without his strict interpretation of Scripture, but for him it was sin, and he knew it, and he did it anyway for two solid years. And it really screwed up my life. He’d put on the face of a hypocrite and he’d worked hard at living a lie. He’d been unfaithful to his God. Now, in this dark forest in Yellowstone, he knew he was gonna pay for it. Here he was, bound up like a prize hog, trudging through the mountains in a cold drizzle to his well-deserved fate. Justice. We reap what we sow, damn it.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Trey had just turned off his bedside lamp at 11:04 p.m. when he got the call from dispatch. He was standing within the dim light of Win’s old carriage house thirteen minutes later. His most experienced men were hours away in West Yellowstone or within the areas of the park where the dignitaries would soon converge. He’d put in a call to Chief Randall and the FBI office on the frantic drive over. He’d been told Agent Johnson was the point man for the FBI in Mammoth.
Trey’s heart was still in his throat as he stepped around the dangling light bulb inside the old building where he and Win had stood facing each other twenty-four hours earlier. Maddox and Gentry were both wrapped in blankets and leaning into the wall. A paramedic had already checked them out, and other than the pain inflicted from the removal of the duct tape, both men were unharmed. Maddox was still shaking from the trauma of the attack, but Gentry seemed to have his wits about him. Five other Park Service folks were standing in the shed, but the rangers’ numbers were so thin that three of the rangers facing Trey weren’t even in law enforcement.