Son of Kenneth and Audrey Menzies. Kenneth, who after returning from Vietnam in sixty-nine as a twenty-eight-year-old decorated war hero, in eighty-six bludgeoned to death wife Audrey in a fit of uncontrolled rage while four-year-old son Mathias looked-on. Stripped of his rank, booted from the Marines, Kenneth died in prison in two thousand three, sixteen years into a twenty-five-year sentence.
In the year Mathias enlisted.
To Mathias, it was a miracle he was accepted. Did the recruiters see something of the father in the son, Mathias wondered at the time?
Washing her hands at the basin, Tara sensed, more than saw, a movement out the window at the corner of her eye; near the horse barn fifty yards away. She dismissed it, at first; a trick of the moonlight on the barren land. But the second time, Tara was convinced. There, against the clapboard siding of the barn, a silhouette. Not a shadow, but the outline of a man shifting left foot to right as if he was cold, had to pee, or both. And the glowing ember of a cigarette butt recklessly exposed.
As Tara wasn’t expecting guests, invited or otherwise, she moved to the locked gun cabinet in the kitchen where Mathias stored a cache of weapons. Dialing the combination, Tara removed the padlock. She pulled open the door. Arranged on racks and in boxes stacked on shelves was a choice of long-guns, pistols, and ammunition.
Tara considered her options.
Many of the weapons, Mathias had trained her to use. Tara was proficient though by no means a crack-shot. But if she was to shoot a man, she preferred it to be from a distance.
Tara opted for a hunting rifle she and Mathias used to scare off and put down especially brazen or injured coyotes, wolves, and big cats that wandered onto the property and refused to leave; a lever-action Timber Classic Marlin 336C. In addition to the lever-action, the knurled-cherrywood buttstock and receiver appealed to her sense of tradition.
At the door, Tara slipped on a pair of soft-sole leather moccasins and a dark-colored lightweight coat. Exiting from the rear, she planned to catch the son-of-a-bitch by surprise.
ONE HUNDRED
Antimony, Utah
“IF YOU MOVE, I’LL SHOOT YOU.”
Remarkably, she’d managed to catch the man unawares.
“Raise your hands where I can see them. Slow.”
“I’m unarmed,” the man said.
“I have only your word for it.”
“You can check.”
“Sorry, but I like the view from where I stand.”
“ID is in my right hip pocket.”
“Wasn’t talking about your ass.”
After a moment, the man dropped his hand.
“You so much as reach for a piece of lint, buck-o, you’ll be talking out the wrong side of your windpipe. This is Utah; not a jury in the State would convict me.”
“Listen, Ms. McDonald. I don’t mean you any harm.”
Taken aback at the use of her name, Tara said, “You have me at a disadvantage. You know me; who the hell are you?”
Turning slowly to face Tara, hands raised, the man said, “Clayton Brux, Washington Post. My editor sent me out here to get a story.”
“How did you get here?”
“Co-worker dropped me off after dark. Walked from up the road.”
“When did you get here?”
“Two days ago. Been sleeping in that horse barn ever since waiting for you. Shifted to the lean-to,” the man said, jerking a thumb back to the feed supplies shelter, “when the ranch hand arrived. I stink like a mule, and my water supply is running low. Don’t suppose you could spot me a shower and a Budweiser?”
“How did you know to find me here?”
“Educated guess. From what I already know of you, I didn’t think you’d stay long in California hiding behind the hem of your sister’s skirt.”
Taking a moment to assess the threat and veracity of the man’s claim, Tara said, finally, “Fine, Mr. Brux. Let’s you and I go inside, have ourselves a chinwag. But I swear to God, you so much as breathe funny, I’ll blast you a new pie-hole.”
Brux nodded. “No worries, Ms. McDonald. I believe you.”
ONE HUNDRED ONE
Antimony, Utah
CAUGHT UP SHORT by the sight of the woman pointing a rifle at a man, Bohannon dropped to the dirt.
“Down, down, down!” he said into his mouthpiece, voice a low rattle.
“I see ‘em, Chief,” replied Chan, his words barely audible.
“Ditto, that,” said Hathaway, twenty yards off Bohannon’s right flank.
Unexpectedly, the woman had appeared from around the corner of the home. Shouldering a rifle, she moved to the barn. Tracking the barrel’s sight, Bohannon detected a shadow standing by the horse barn fifty yards away. A fourth sentry? One he’d overlooked?
Maybe he was slipping and not Chan.
After listening to Chan’s story of killing sentry number one, he and Hathaway moved quickly to locate and eliminate any other members of the security detail. Fifteen minutes later, they thought they’d done so, taking out Alphas one and three simultaneously from five hundred yards out on a count of one-two-three.
A half hour of careful reconnoitering and Bohannon declared the area safe and secure; time to move on to the woman, the primary target.
Now, a fourth man discovered by the woman loitering in the vicinity of the horse barn, a man with hands raised, firearm aimed center mass.
Bohannon considered the situation. He watched as the man turned to face the woman. Hard to say in the dark, but it looked like they were talking, the man trying to explain his unlikely trespass on the property, the woman calling bullshit. After a moment, the woman corralled the man into the home, keeping her weapon level at his spine.
Did she not know she was under protection by armed security? Or was this something else altogether?
More to the point, the damn woman had a weapon. And why should he be surprised? She was Mathias’s woman. And knowing Mathias, he’d taught her damn-well how to use it.
ONE HUNDRED TWO
Antimony, Utah
ESCORTING BRUX into the home at gunpoint, Tara turned on lights. She ordered Brux into the kitchen. She forced him to lean spread-eagle over the kitchen island.
“Is this really necessary?” he said.
“You want to die?”
“Not today.”
“Then spread ‘em.”
Searching for a weapon, Tara patted Brux down. Finding none, she extracted his driver license and Washington Post employee ID card from a wallet in the right hip pocket of his jeans. Confirming his identity, she ordered him to sit on a high stool, hands open flat on the butcher-block countertop, fingers splayed.
“I’m not a threat to you, Ms. McDonald. In fact, I’m an advocate for gun control.” Brux smiled weakly at his own feeble attempt at humor.
Finding no humor herself, Tara waggled the Marlin. “You trespass on my property. You hide-out in my barn for two days. For all I know, you’re Ezekiel Bohannon.”
Exasperated, Brux huffed. “May I?” he said, gesturing to roll up his shirtsleeves.
Tara nodded. “Easy, buck-o.”
Brux removed his windcheater, rolled his shirtsleeves almost to the shoulder. He rotated a pair of spindly arms with pale, freckled skin and a surface-layer of downy hair.
“If I were Bohannon, Ms. McDonald, I’d be inked; a Trident tattoo, the official emblem of the SEALs. As you must know, it’s an eagle perched in an over-watch position on a trident that forms the crossbar of an anchor. A flintlock pistol sits in front of it. As you can see, I’m no SEAL. I’m certainly not Bohannon.”
On the countertop, coffee gurgled to a stop through the filter. Outside, the rising wind rattled the eaves.
“Because Bohannon is two thousand miles away trapped like a rat on Manhattan Island?”
“About that—”
Before Brux could finish the sentence, both double French-doors leading from the verandas burst inward in a flurry of splintering frame and shattering glass. The doorjamb
securing the main entrance door exploded under the weight of a heavy impact. Stunned, Tara swung the rifle barrel left, right, center, and back, trying desperately to assess the most imminent threat. Before she could even register the three black-clad men brandishing vicious-looking weapons of their own, her moment to act had passed.
“Drop the weapon, Ms. McDonald. No one needs to die here tonight.”
Holding steady, Tara refused to budge.
“Not unless you want them to.”
“Bohannon,” she said.
“Yours truly.”
“I could ventilate you before either of these assholes gets off a shot.”
“You could. And you’d be dead.”
“It’d be worth it.”
“Not to Mathias, it wouldn’t. Without you as his anchor, Mathias would drift out to sea. Mathias is as bat-shit crazy as I am. You know this.”
“Fuck-you,” Tara said, raising the Marlin.
ONE HUNDRED THREE
Antimony, Utah
MATHIAS ROUSED HIMSELF from the solid surface of the bench, unable to sleep. He stretched. Four a.m. in Provo, six a.m. back east. He dialed Berkshire’s mobile number. Berkshire answered straight-away, alert, and awake. Mathias explained the situation, demanded Berkshire offer a solution.
“It’s four in the morning, there, Mathias. I’ll need to wake important people. They may not appreciate it.”
“If you prefer, I can wake them for you.”
Silence. Berkshire weighing the consequences.
Finally, “I’ll have a chopper there in thirty. Nothing fancy. But it’ll get you to the ranch inside of twenty minutes.”
Mathias disconnected without a word of thanks.
ONE HUNDRED FOUR
Antimony, Utah
THE BULLET WHIZZED so near her head, Tara thought she could feel the breeze. Never having been shot at, it could have been her imagination. The Marlin dropped from her hands, skittered across the floor.
When Bohannon spoke again, it was difficult for her to hear; she’d gone deaf in one ear.
“What did you say?” she said.
“Killing you here would give me no joy. Plenty of time to decide on that later.”
At the kitchen island, Clayton Brux cowered, spindly arms crossed over his head as if it would keep him safe.
“Who’s the ginger?” Chan said.
“No one,” Tara offered. “A journalist.”
Bohannon eyed Brux speculatively. “Journalist? Is that still a thing?” he said, tone mocking.
Hoping to distract him, Tara said, “If you hurt me, Mathias will kill you.”
“He’ll try.”
“Why are you here, Bohannon? What’s the plan?”
At a glance, Bohannon studied the home. Disappointed or impressed? Black eyes flat, Tara didn’t know.
Returning the flat black gaze to her, Bohannon said, “Mathias has a choice, Ms. McDonald. To decide what matters to him most; all this and you? Or me.”
Tara scoffed. “He won’t let you go on killing if that’s what you think.”
“If you matter to him at all, it’s exactly what he’ll do.”
Bohannon’s expression hardened, eyeballs turning blacker in his head—if such a thing was imaginable. To Tara’s side, the Asian man twitched. For the first time, she considered he might be on drugs. To her other side, the lanky white dude with the patchy beard, deep tan, and leathery skin looked embarrassed, as if he shouldn’t be here at all but on a beach wasting away in Margaritaville instead.
“You still haven’t answered my question: What do you plan to do?”
Bohannon smiled, what in other circumstances, Tara would consider an engaging grin. The man wasn’t unattractive, but hard and inscrutable as a blank slate.
“Escort you away from this humble abode. Less comfortable accommodation, I admit, but not entirely disagreeable.”
“You plan to hold me hostage?”
“In a manner of speaking, indeedy, I do.”
“For how long?”
“As long as it takes for your boyfriend to come to his senses. As long as it takes is now entirely up to Mathias.”
“He’ll hunt you down.”
“I’m counting on it.”
“What about him?” Tara said with a nod toward Brux, still cowering.
“Him?” Bohannon said. “He lets Mathias know I mean business.”
Looking hopeful, Brux stirred, for the first time lifting his eyes. “You want me to act as your go-between?”
Bohannon snickered. “In a manner of speaking.” Turning to the Asian, he said, “An ear and a forefinger should send a clear message to Mathias. If not, we cut deeper.” Addressing the lanky white dude, he said, “If she tries to interfere, kneecap her.”
Within moments, Chan had the horrified journalist spread out on the island like a sacrificial lamb. Serrated blade poised, Brux began to scream. Wanting to cover her ears, Tara resisted, unwilling to give Bohannon the satisfaction.
ONE HUNDRED FIVE
Antimony, Utah
TARA NOT WAITING OUTSIDE the ranch-house to greet him. Drapes billowing inward through the shattered glass of the French doors either side of the main entrance. Front door ajar, jamb splintered. Proof enough things had gone sideways, though Mathias knew already when Tara hadn’t returned his early morning phone calls.
The small chopper dropped Mathias fifty feet from the home. Keeping low to avoid the sweep of the rotors, he sprinted over the hard earth to the main door, weapon drawn.
Fearing the worst, Mathias burst through the splintered doorframe into the entry foyer. From here, he could see through to the great room ahead and to the panoramic view of the dry gulch and Sevier Plateau beyond.
Home sweet home.
To his left was the hallway leading to the master and guest bedrooms, to his right the open kitchen with its assortment of hanging copper pots and pans and its six-seat butcher-block island.
At the kitchen, he stopped cold. Having had so much experience of it, Mathias did not recoil at the sight of so much blood.
Still, the sight of so much blood in his own home caused his breath to catch in his throat. Choosing to delay the inevitable, Mathias surveyed the scene from the doorway.
As if to make good on its utility, the butcher-block was crimson, awash in a layer of blood. Pooling on the floor beneath the island was more blood rapidly congealing. From the kitchen to the foyer, a smear of bloody boot prints on the ceramic tile hallway leading like dance steps to the front door.
On the bright side, an amount of blood insufficient to cause death by exsanguination. More worrisome, enough to imply torture.
Anticipating the worst, Mathias entered the kitchen from the foyer. Over the counter to the left of the kitchen sink, the ceramic back-splash cratered and reduced to rubble and dust by the impact of a single large caliber, high-velocity gunshot; three of six high stools toppled to the side suggesting a struggle; on the floor, the Marlin Classic 336C suggesting Tara fought back or had at least tried to defend herself.
Despite the dire circumstances, Mathias smiled ruefully.
Notably, as if arranged with intent among the smear of blood on the island, a human ear severed from its owner and a severed human forefinger. Neither belonging to Tara, he realized with some relief; male, judging from the shape and size.
But who?
From the kitchen, Mathias moved to the dining room, great room, and guest bedroom, in turn: No blood, no bodies.
No longer able to postpone the inevitable, Mathias moved down the hallway to the master bedroom. Even before reaching the threshold, he sensed a violation, as if some evil force had invaded his and Tara’s personal and private space.
In the bedroom, Mathias discovered no evidence of torture or mayhem, only an envelope propped on the bureau addressed to him, Captain Mathias Menzies (Ret), United States Navy, SEAL Team 9.
Mathias opened the envelope.
Captain,
I wish no harm to your lady-fri
end. Like you, she is an individual of extreme courage and loyalty; you’re lucky to have her. My quarrel is neither with you nor her. She will be released to your care upon the completion of my mission. This is my promise to you as a fellow Officer, on my honor as a brother SEAL and your former Commanding Officer.
The only question now is why? This, also, will be revealed to you upon completion of my own personal journey. If you’re reading this, you know I’m no longer working alone. I’ve assembled a small but competent team. They will watch over Ms. McDonald until further notice. Be assured, she will not be hurt unless you make it necessary.
Please stand down, Captain. As was the case in Fallujah when I issued a similar order to you, your odds, here, are long to nonexistent, a bet no bookie would take. Save your woman, save yourself and let the country save itself. Haven’t we both sacrificed enough?
Respectfully yours,
Captain Ezekiel Bohannon (Ret)
United States Navy
Commanding Officer, SEAL Team 9
ONE HUNDRED SIX
Langley, Virginia
“ANYTHING HAPPENS TO Tara, Berkshire, I’ll skin you straight to the bone.”
“Don’t be dramatic, Mathias.”
“Do not test my limits.”
Test Mathias’s limits? Something Dabney Berkshire had no intention to do.
After receiving the second call that morning from Mathias, Berkshire could only shake his head. Even slipping through the gauntlet laid down for him in Manhattan, it should have taken weeks, months, of bobbing and weaving for former SEAL Chief Bohannon to reach the ranch in Utah. All the while he’d need to avoid law enforcement and security cams at every airport, train station, bus depot, car rental, and ride-share agency along the way—all placed on high alert—further slowing his progress.
All this, and he was wounded.
The media attention raised Bohannon’s public profile so that every crackpot nationwide with an assault rifle, handgun, or BB Gun was on the prowl to bag The Shooter, to claim the glory and the quarter-million-dollar reward offered by the FBI for information leading to the arrest of the man who tried to assassinate their leader.
American Sniper Page 16