by Rhona Weaver
“Thank God he’s alive!” A wave of relief swept over Trey. “So now what?”
We’ve got hostage negotiators from Washington landing at Bozeman within the hour. We’ve got HRT sending their Blue Unit guys back to the compound—those are the guys you worked with—but they can’t fly out until the fog lifts down at West Yellowstone. The Salt Lake City ASAC will take over as the Bureau’s on-scene commander outside the church compound as soon as their SWAT Team arrives, hopefully in three hours or so. My stint as FBI honcho on this deal is short-lived.”
Something unsettling stirred in Trey’s mind. “But it will still be several hours before you hand it off?”
“Yeah, looks that way. . . . What? What are you thinking?”
“Not sure . . . a gut feeling, but this all seems a little too logical, too predictable, considering what Win told me about Daniel Shepherd. Logical and predictable were never that man’s MO.” Trey stared down at his coffee for a moment. “Why don’t we send my best tracker up Sepulcher Mountain and see what he finds? Let him summit it and check the other side—just in case.”
“You’re thinking some kind of switch-off?”
“I’m not sure what I’m thinking, but something doesn’t feel right. Can you spare four or five of your really fit SWAT guys for a seven-mile jog up the mountain with my man? I’m way too shorthanded to send anyone else. They’ll have to travel light. Just weapons.” Johnson didn’t answer right away. So Trey forged ahead. “I’d also like to get my ship up again and snoop around, now that we’ve got some ceiling.”
Trey could tell Johnson was thinking out loud. “I can’t authorize your helicopter up . . . but our SWAT guys won’t deploy to the church compound for a few hours and they’re rarin’ to go. We don’t have any other air assets that can get up—they can’t even fly the drones ’cause the fog’s so bad south of us. But hell, nobody’s gonna approve any move at the TOC. They’re in gridlock down there.” Johnson sighed into the phone, but his voice had resolve. “I can retire any damn time I want to . . . so what the hell. Yeah, let’s send some guys. Let’s see what’s out there.”
* * *
He held his breath for several seconds because he knew if he breathed, his hands would move ever so slightly. He had to be close to cutting through the plastic cuffs—even a fraction of an inch would matter. He’d been steadily sawing at the same spot for a couple of minutes. He prayed he was still sawing on the same spot. Sweat was mixing with the blood on his face and running down onto his crimson-stained jacket front.
His good ear picked up more movement and a loud snort from the direction of the woods. Maybe a black bear—they weren’t so bad. Please don’t be a grizzly. He hazarded another glance and saw a dark brown head and huge shoulders emerge from a bank of small evergreens. The large hump over the beast’s shoulders told him what he’d feared: grizzly bear—real big grizzly bear. Dadgummit! The bear’s head was up, his nose tilted toward the sky, sniffing the air. The little rounded ears flicked back and forth. Win could see the rusty-brown eyes clearly from this distance. There would be lots of “man” smell in this place. . . . The bear was being cautious.
He continued the delicate sawing motion with his hands against the knife blade. He mentally warned himself over and over against pushing too hard; he could fatally wound himself with Luke’s skinning knife. He needed to be slow, steady, and methodical. What he didn’t need was a six-hundred-pound bear deciding to make a meal of him. He heard the creature move through the surrounding thicket and out into the open. It was behind two large boulders and he couldn’t see it without turning. He couldn’t turn—he had to free himself. He remembered Tory telling him a grizzly’s sense of smell was seven times better than a bloodhound’s, and that the bears could run faster than a thoroughbred in short bursts. He tried to shut out the magnificent attributes of his latest adversary—he tried to focus on cutting those cuffs.
He heard it behind him; it had rounded the big rocks and pushed through the brush. It was probably less than thirty yards away now. He had no cover. He held his breath again and pressed his wrists into the knife blade. The bear snorted sharply, snapped its jaws, and let out a deep, low guttural growl. He heard water splash. . . . It was crossing the stream, it was within forty feet now and still coming. Please break! Please break! he silently pleaded with the cuffs. Please!
They broke.
He rolled to the right, scooped up the bloody knife, and stood on unsteady legs, waving his numb arms as he came up. He wasn’t sure what he yelled at the approaching bear, but it was along the lines of “Whoa! Damn it!”
The bear rose to its full height on two feet and let out a bloodcurdling roar that reverberated through every inch of him. Win’s limited hearing didn’t matter at this distance. The massive head went back and he could see the huge canine teeth. Four-inch claws ripped the air. Win figured there was a very real possibility he might just die of fright right there. He tried to steady the knife, a pathetic excuse for a weapon against such a creature. The bear threw its head back again and let out another long roar. Then they both blinked. As he tried to aim the knife at the now eight-foot-tall bear, Win realized his hands were shaking so badly that he might not hit it at thirty feet. But the bear’s eyes reflected an element of surprise, like a horse that had been spooked. Apparently it hadn’t expected its breakfast to offer this much resistance. Both of them hesitated.
For some strange reason, Win’s mind flashed back to the advice he’d read on the ever-present warning signs dotting Yellowstone: “If approached by a bear, remain calm. Do not run. Speak to the bear in a conversational voice.”
No way! They’ve got to be kidding! But in view of recent events, Win was feeling a little lucky. What do I have to lose?
“Okay . . . okay . . . okay . . . don’t want to hurt you . . . go away . . . please go away,” he began in an unsteady voice. He didn’t move, he tried hard to firm up his grip on his weapon. He was going to go for the beast’s eye. “I need you to move on.” The bear had cocked its head and seemed to be smelling the air again. Its “arms” were no longer waving. He thought its eyes looked more curious than menacing. He knew he was probably fooling himself, but he was gaining a little confidence. He wasn’t trembling quite as badly.
“I’m gonna need you to clear out so I can figure out how to catch some very bad guys . . .” He was now using his best “calm the horses” voice, and to his amazement it seemed to be working. He kept talking. The bear dropped to all fours and wagged its huge head at him a few times, but did not advance.
The dark head turned. It seemed to catch a whiff of something from the militiamen’s campsite up the slope. Have they left some food? Win knew human food was taboo for wild animals, but at that moment, he was praying someone had left something edible behind. The bear moved up the slope in the direction of its nose, and Win grabbed the phone and forced his still-shaking legs to climb a six-foot boulder standing in the clearing a few yards below him. The big rock would give him some protection from the bear—not much, but some, and he’d still be visible to the drones or search planes. He turned Luke’s cell phone on. No service, of course, but the phone’s locator might send out a signal. It gave him hope.
* * *
“Hey, Trey?” The satellite phone was coming in loud and clear. “We’ve got an issue up here.” Sam Morris had taken off his field cap and was running his hand through his sweaty hair as he spoke. He leaned behind a big whitebark pine with one of the SWAT guys to get out of the wind. “Got nine men, the same nine men from Win’s carriage house, all the way to the summit—got nine men coming down the north side. But it’s not the same nine men.”
Trey didn’t know what to say. Sam was an exceptional tracker. He’d rescued dozens of lost hikers during his many years with the Park Service.
“Okay . . . tell me what you’ve got,” Trey finally replied.
“Got some different boot prints going down. We
’re about a quarter mile off the summit on the north side, we just hit the tree line. It’s real flat, slick rock and ice up higher—no real imprints for a good ways. We’re going to backtrack and see where the changeup occurred. Our man, Tyler, he came up past the summit, but he’s not with them here. Boot treads are different. Also tracking a group of five who came up the north trail. Recent tracks—and you know that trail isn’t heavily used. Let me get back with you when I figure it out, but wanted you to know.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yep, not a doubt.”
“Call me as soon as you know more.”
“Roger that.”
Trey sat for a minute with the sat phone in his hand. His first reaction: This isn’t good. There were several possibilities, none of them good. He glanced at his watch; it was nine o’clock straight up. He punched in a call to Johnson.
“Whata you got?” The guy was not big on formalities.
“Got an initial report from my tracker. It’s not the same nine men. The men who left Win’s place with him are not the same men going off the north side of the mountain. And based on the tracks, Win is not with the group on the north side.”
There was silence for several seconds. Then a couple of curse words Trey wouldn’t repeat. “You’re sure? How good is your guy?”
“Sam Morris is real good, and he says there’s no doubt. They’re hiking back toward the summit to see if they can figure it out. Looks as if five men may have hiked up the north face of the mountain to meet the kidnappers. Lots of flat rock and ice up there, difficult tracking, but it’s looking like Win is somewhere else.”
Another moment of silence, a few more curse words, then, “Got an army of ramped-up HRT and SWAT agents heading for that church compound right now. We’re going to set up a tight perimeter and get our negotiators out there. We should be operational outside the compound within the hour. As soon as Salt Lake’s ASAC gets there, I’m off the clock.” He paused. “Have you been seeing the Prophet’s latest rants on the web? He is really going off on the dedication and on the heavy-handed federal thugs, as he’s calling us today.”
“Anybody made a visual on Shepherd or any of the heavy hitters today?” Trey asked the obvious question.
“No. No, and that’s making me real nervous. If Win isn’t in the compound—if that’s another of Shepherd’s diversions—then I’d really be circling the wagons down at the monument site,” Johnson replied.
“Yeah, I’m thinking the same thing. Shepherd’s trying to get us to divide our resources, reduce our assets in any one sector, to split our attention.”
“Looks like he’s not just trying to—looks like he’s done it. Which still begs the question, where the hell is Win Tyler?”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Win was trying to keep from falling asleep on top of the big rock overlooking the clearing. He and the bear had settled into an uneasy truce—uneasy for Win, but the bear just went about doing bear things. It had grown bored with whatever it smelled near the militiamen’s campsite and had returned to lick and roll in the bloodstained grass a few yards from Win’s boulder. It seemed to claim that spot as its own, chasing away the occasional raven that flew down to look for a potential meal. It fended off an incursion by a skinny fox that ventured too near. The bear ate grass, dug several holes, turned over two or three rotten logs, and occasionally rose on its hind legs to give Win the once-over. Win got the feeling it was eating roots and bugs and hoping the main course would give up the fight, come down off that rock, and make things easy. It appeared to be a lazy bear.
It might have been lazy, but it had nearly four hundred pounds on Win, not to mention the formidable teeth and claws. Win was smart enough to stay on his rock and keep the high ground. And keeping the high ground got harder and harder with each passing hour. His watch said 9:00 a.m.—the militiamen had been gone for roughly three and a half hours, and Win was a mess. His mouth was so parched and bitter he could hardly swallow. One eye was still caked shut with dried blood. His left ear was throbbing and oozing blood; he figured his eardrum had burst from the pistol’s concussion. There was fresh blood on his wrists, and he ached all over. He desperately wanted to clean off the blood, wash the taste of it from his mouth, and get a drink, but the bear had settled in between him and the stream. Even with his physical discomfort, the sensations of shock were beginning to wear off and his mind was becoming clearer. He’d thanked God a hundred times for his deliverance, but he still couldn’t get his head around the fact that if Luke hadn’t shown up to carry out the fake execution, there would have been a real one.
He’d managed to unlock the audio and camera apps on Luke’s phone and transcribe the who, what, and where of his kidnapping. He’d also taken a video of the bear, just to prove to himself this wasn’t all a horrible dream, if for no other reason.
And he’d played it over and over in his mind—Daniel Shepherd’s actions and words. He figured Shepherd had used their white supremacy contacts to connect with Richter. Shepherd’s twisted mind had concluded that he’d somehow displeased God with the impersonal sniper approach, then failed with the up-close-and-personal assassin method. So he’d gone for the kill-him-in-person-in-front-of-the-troops move. To what end? Win’s gut told him this wasn’t just about revenge for Dennie Shepherd. No, this was also a means to tie the men to his cause. They’d all stood by and watched him kill a federal agent; as far as they knew, Win was dead and they were accessories to his murder. No way to step back now, no way to back out—they were all in too deep. All in a very, very bad way.
His mind wandered to questions about their real mission. Had Luke tried to send him a message just before he pulled the trigger? Was there an actual attack planned on the monument dedication today, or simply more “New America” bluster? And what of Two’s purported suicide mission? Win knew he wasn’t operating on all cylinders just yet, but he also knew those issues weren’t nearly as pressing as the huge predator that was currently napping in the grass a few yards below him. His hand flexed as he gripped the knife. He willed himself to stay awake; letting his guard down wasn’t an option.
His open eye scanned the sky again. Someone has to be out here looking for me. He hadn’t heard of any FBI oath to never leave a man behind, like some of the military services had, but with so many Bureau folks in the area, there had to be some rescue effort. He hoped he was worth that much.
* * *
“Trey . . . we’ve got another issue.” It had been thirty minutes since Sam’s first call from the mountain. The connection on the phone was no longer crystal clear; Trey could tell the wind was howling, and Sam Morris’s voice sounded strained. “Nine men headed down the mountain on the north side. Four of them were with the original party that kidnapped Win. The other five came up from the north. Looks like they met about a hundred yards down from the summit. Lots of partial tracks—lots of flat rocks up here, so I’m still working out where the others went—but we found . . . uh—” The wind snatched the end of the sentence away.
“You found what?” Trey asked anxiously.
“We found where something’s been buried.”
Trey felt his stomach drop; a lump formed in his throat. He took a moment before he asked the questions that needed to be asked.
Five minutes later, after Trey had conveyed Sam’s report to Chief Randall and Johnson, he waited by the landline. When it rang, it was Gus Jordon. The Deputy Chief was to the point. “No change in status? Sam and those four FBI agents are still near the summit?”
“Yes, sir. Like I told Chief Randall, the agents wouldn’t let Sam disturb the area, where, ah, something’s been buried. The FBI wants to wait for their Evidence Response Team to get up there. They’re not considering it to be exigent circumstances. Can you believe that?”
“So we’ve got no idea whether we’ve got a body there or not?”
“No, sir. Sam found no sign of blood in the immed
iate area. But . . . that doesn’t mean anything. There are other ways—”
“Yeah, yeah.” Gus took a deep breath. “Sam followed the other tracks off to the southwest?”
“For a few yards, then he lost them. He could never get good prints on the flat granite. He’s trying to find where they came off the mountain. It’s slow going and dangerous now. Wind is gusting to forty-five knots at their elevation. I’m not sure how much longer we can leave them up there. With the wind that high on top, there’s no way we can get a helicopter to either take that group off or bring in the Evidence Response Team—if the FBI ever gets their evidence response folks here to Mammoth. . . . Could take hours.”
The line went quiet while Gus thought it out. Finally, he spoke again. “Well, the Chief and I will be here at the TOC until after the dedication at four o’clock. I suppose the FBI has surrounded that church compound with enough firepower to wipe out a small city by now. You’ve got next to no one in Mammoth to help you. . . . If you were to decide to use the helo to scope out the area southwest of Sepulcher Mountain—”
Trey interrupted. “I thought everything to the southwest of the mountain was within today’s no-fly zone because of the monument dedication.”
“That’s what they told us, another one of their FBI procedural rules. But I’m hearing that the FBI is only flying their drones and surveillance flights within a five-mile radius of the monument site itself. Leaves a lot of open airspace.”
“Are you suggesting we violate their rules and go looking for Win?”
Gus didn’t hesitate. “Apparently most of this ‘rules’ crap is coming down from DOJ in Washington. The FBI folks down here are pulling their hair out. Someone is trying to micromanage the incident from the Attorney General’s office. Those lawyers don’t care about Win, and they haven’t got a clue about the situation on the ground. Lots of the bigwigs in Washington are pushing for a move on the compound to supposedly rescue Win . . . sometime today. We sure as hell don’t need a raid on a heavily armed church full of women and kids—especially if Win isn’t even there. We need to prove where he is, one way or another.”