by C. J. Box
“There has been no trial I’m aware of,” Nate said.
Prior to the agreement, Nate had been persuaded by his friend Joe Pickett to provide state’s evidence against Templeton, who had successfully run a high-powered murder-for-hire operation out of his ranch in the Wyoming Black Hills. Nate had been hired by Templeton to do what he considered honorable work that turned out not to be. After Nate turned, Templeton fled in a private plane and had not been located or arrested, as yet.
“Does this have to do with Templeton?” Nate asked.
“No,” Tyrell said. “The FBI would love to catch him, and there’s some political heat to get that done, but no, we’re not here about Wolfgang Templeton. In fact, if you ask me personally, I approve of most of the murders he committed. He took out some real dirtballs we couldn’t touch through legal means.”
Nate shook his head. He said, “You’re an unusual fed, that’s for sure.”
Tyrell shrugged and continued scrolling through the document. “It says here you signed away your right to carry a gun.”
“That was my mistake,” Nate said. “I didn’t realize at the time that Dudley was offering me up as bait. He wanted me unarmed so that if Templeton came after me he would show himself and they could go after him. It was a trap set by Dudley. Only, the wrong people took advantage of it. I was ambushed without a way to fight back. The agreement violated my Second Amendment rights and it nearly got me killed. I wasn’t a convicted felon. That’s not right.”
Tyrell said, “I agree that it was an unusual provision in an agreement of this kind, but the fact is, you signed it.”
“I did, and I shouldn’t have. It’s not something I’m proud of. But I would have signed just about anything to get out of federal lockup.”
“So what you’re saying is, you feel you have the right to decide which provisions of the agreement you’ll actually follow? That you’ll only abide by the terms you agree with?”
Nate said, “I know the difference between right and wrong. Offering me up as a target with no way to defend myself was wrong.”
Tyrell moved his finger from the screen and stubbed the tabletop with it to emphasize a point. “So, Mr. Romanowski, do you think that your own personal code about what’s right and wrong supersedes anything else?”
“In this case, yes.”
“I see,” Tyrell said, sitting back.
“You left two things out,” Nate said. “In that same document, I agreed to Governor Rulon’s request that I not commit any crimes in the state of Wyoming while he was still governor, and I haven’t.”
Volk looked to Tyrell with surprise. “Can a governor actually make that kind of deal?”
Tyrell rolled his eyes. “You don’t know Governor Spencer Rulon. He’s a loose cannon, and apparently he found out the same deal was given to Butch Cassidy back in the day. Supposedly, it’s an offer made to ‘honorable outlaws.’”
“And I’ve stuck to that,” Nate interjected. “Dudley also made me promise not to be in contact with Joe Pickett or his family. I’ve stuck to that, too.”
Left unsaid was the incident that had happened the last time Nate had encountered the Pickett family, when he’d thwarted a threat to the then-comatose April Pickett in Billings, Montana. But they’d not really been in “contact” . . .
Nate said, “I’m tired of talking. You said you were here to make a proposal of some kind. Either do it or cut me loose. I don’t even know what kind of federal people you really are.”
“There are hundreds of us from every federal department and agency in Washington,” Tyrell said. “We’re part of a shadow government devoted to national security. We call ourselves the Wolverines, after that band of rebels in the movie Red Dawn. You know, the kids that rose up to defend our democracy using guerrilla tactics. We’re trying to protect the country from the political ruling class who care only about themselves and are too timid to look up and see the dangers we’re facing. We hope you’ll help us.”
Nate said, “I’m not your man. I’m not political. I just want to live my life and be left alone.”
“Then you’re political,” Volk said. “Welcome aboard.”
• • •
“THE WOLVERINES AREN’T about any particular political party,” Tyrell said. “It might surprise you to find out I’m a registered Democrat and Volk here is a die-hard Tea Party Republican. We don’t agree on much, but the one thing we do agree on is maintaining national security. We know that our country is in danger from internal and external enemies. There are people out there who want either to subjugate us or kill us, and our so-called leaders think they have to play by the rules when there aren’t any rules.”
“I don’t see what this has to do with me,” Nate said.
Volk leaned forward. “What Brian meant when he said we’ve got people in every agency and department is that we can make things happen . . . and we can make things go away. The government is so huge and unmanageable that no one will ever know either way. The Wolverines realize we have to win this thing on our own without the ‘leadership’ of Washington. If and when we win it, we can go back to arguing about domestic policies. But if we don’t win it, it’s over.”
“Again,” Nate said, “I don’t see what it has to do with me.”
“The FBI and several other law enforcement agencies have been after you for years,” Tyrell said. “We can now deliver you to them if we choose to. We can deliver Olivia Brannan as well. But we don’t want to do that. We want to make all the federal charges against you go poof. There are prominent Wolverines within the NSA, the CIA, the Pentagon, and the Department of Justice, including the FBI. We even have a couple of secret members on the president’s cabinet and within his national security team. Between them all, we know how to get things done.
“You’ll no longer be a target. In fact, you won’t even exist in any federal law enforcement databases. Agent Stan Dudley will go to pull your file and find out it’s been digitally deleted from the server.”
“And I should believe you why?” Nate asked.
Tyrell sighed while he tapped the laptop’s screen several times. Then he spun it around so Nate could see the screen.
At first, he wasn’t sure what he was looking at other than a kind of Google Maps–type overhead image of a paved two-lane road through a vast sagebrush plain. It looked like a still photo.
“I’ll zoom in,” Tyrell said.
In seconds, Nate could see the roof of a pickup as well as the contents in its bed as the vehicle moved down the highway. There was no other traffic. The shot reminded him of many he’d seen before of an enemy vehicle or convoy moments before it was struck with a missile. Then Nate recognized the truck as belonging to Rodrigo.
“Olivia is in that truck,” Nate said, feeling his anger rise.
“On her way to the Denver airport, no doubt,” Tyrell said. “We’ll have eyes on her all the way there. We’ll have an image of her checking in. And we’ll have an image of her entering and departing the New Orleans airport.”
“So this is a threat,” Nate said.
“Not at all,” Tyrell said, seemingly offended. “I’m just showing you this to prove that we’ve got access to the best surveillance systems our government has to offer. We’re showing you this so you know we’re not blowing smoke.”
Smoke or not, Nate was furious. He sat back and glared at Tyrell. He wanted to launch himself across the table and tear their heads off. A few months ago, he would have. Nate had never liked hard-asses like Tyrell and Volk, no matter who they were with. But it wasn’t just about him anymore. He had Olivia to think about. She didn’t deserve to be collateral damage for his past deeds. He owed it to her to find out what they wanted.
In fact, he didn’t see how he had any choice. Gritting his teeth, he said, “What are you asking me to do in exchange for clearing Liv and me?”
“That
’s more like it,” Tyrell said with a warm smile.
Volk said, “Don’t expect a written agreement from us like you got from Dudley. We don’t do written. Written means a record. We don’t do records, either.”
“It probably won’t surprise you,” Tyrell said, “to find out that my name isn’t really Brian Tyrell and he’s not really Keith Volk. Our real names aren’t relevant here, and neither are our agencies. But our offer is rock solid: You accomplish your mission and we will guarantee that you will be left alone to live your life. The files created to build up an indictment against you will be expunged. Plus, you’ll be helping save the country you love and you can help preserve our freedoms and our way of life.”
Both men paused. It was Nate’s move.
After a full silent minute, he said, “Why me, if you have all these people available throughout the government?”
“Many reasons,” Tyrell said. He counted them off by tapping the tabletop with his index finger. “One, you have a unique special ops background. Two, the stakes are high enough on both sides that a deal can be struck. Three, you know the Mountain West and you’re comfortable here. You’ll never be mistaken as an outsider, like us. Plus, you’re not exactly an unknown entity. Certain people like Dr. Bucholz know you by your reputation. There is no way we could establish anyone with an identity like that in a credible way.”
“You’re kind of a homicidal libertarian folk hero,” Volk said with a grin.
“I’m not sure I like that description,” Nate said. Then to Tyrell: “Is that all?”
“No. We’ve left out the most critical attribute: You’re a master falconer. Believe it or not, there isn’t a Wolverine in any position anywhere who knows and practices falconry.”
“Why is that important?” Nate asked.
“We’ll get to that,” Tyrell said, spinning the laptop around so he could access another file. “But first, have you ever hunted with your falcons in the Red Desert?”
“The Red Desert? Here in Wyoming?”
“Where else?”
“Wyoming?”
“We’re tracking potential terrorist activity in all fifty states.”
Tyrell reached forward and drummed his fingers on the tabletop to punctuate each word as he said again, “All. Fifty. States.”
Nate had absolutely no desire to have anything to do with these men. But they had him, and he knew it.
5
Later, at dusk, as Nate balanced himself on the cottonwood branch that reached over the bank of the Encampment River, a cloud of tiny Trico flies rolled over the water below him. The bugs were so tightly packed together they looked like a spoor of light-colored smoke. A pod of brown trout beneath the surface noted the Tricos as well; they broke up and rose one by one to sip the bugs that were caught in the film of the surface. The trout barely rippled the water as they fed, but from Nate’s vantage point, he could see them clearly as they emerged from the depths with a slight upward tilt of their open mouths. They looked like slow-motion pistons working in a natural engine as they sucked in bugs.
A herd of seven mule deer—three does, three fawns, and a big but wary buck—ghosted through the trees and brush on the other side of the river until they all stood side by side and drank. They never looked up at Nate and he didn’t move or make a sound. He could hear them slurping.
He thought, as he often did, how even a small river like the Encampment provided the absolute lifeblood to a dry mountain state like Wyoming. Find the water, he thought, and you’ll find life.
The deer raised their heads when an upstream beaver slapped the water with its tail. The sound startled Nate as well, and he realized how jumpy he was.
And no wonder. The day had started off with a nightmare and it had only gotten stranger with the arrival of Tyrell and Volk. Nate half expected to wake up and realize it had all been some kind of interconnected fever dream.
But it wasn’t. It had happened.
And the next morning, he’d transport his birds and his gear less than a hundred miles to the west beyond the Sierra Madre mountains.
To the nine-thousand-square-mile anomaly filled with dunes, mesas, hoodoos, canyons, and harsh vistas known as the Red Desert. Where there was very little water at all.
• • •
“HIS GIVEN NAME is Muhammad Ibraaheem,” Tyrell had said, gesturing to the screen of his laptop. “He’s twenty-nine years old next month. He grew up in Georgetown as the oldest son of the ambassador to the U.S. from the Kingdom. He was born in Jeddah, but his father brought him to this country when he was five. He went to private schools in Virginia, where he excelled. As a senior in high school, he was rated the number-one placekicker in the country and he was offered dozens of scholarships. Unfortunately, the summer before he went to college, he was in a car accident with his mother and their driver that trashed his knee.
“Instead of playing football,” Tyrell went on, “Ibraaheem got his bachelor’s degree at the University of Michigan and his master’s at the University of Southern California’s Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism. At both universities, he wrote for the college newspapers and participated in student government. From everything we can find, he was popular, well liked, and considered a brilliant student. He’s fluent in four languages: English, French, Spanish, and Arabic. He was known as ‘Ibby,’ not Muhammad. Although he is certainly considered a devout Muslim—with his dad being who he is, he better be—he wasn’t known to be strident and certainly not extreme in his religious views. He’s what we’d call a moderate or even secular Muslim, like the great majority within that religion.
“He wrote a lot of articles and op-eds at USC and there isn’t a hint of Islamic extremism in any of them. Believe me, we’ve read them all. If anything, he went out of his way to avoid religious or political subjects. And he was a hell of a good sportswriter.”
“An all-American boy,” Volk said with a barely suppressed sneer.
The photo of Ibraaheem confirmed everything Tyrell had said so far, Nate observed. He was dark, good-looking, and had a jaunty but confident smile. His eyes were warm and intelligent. In the photo, he wore a USC hoodie and was surrounded by a dozen students who looked like they were on their way to, or from, a football game. It was a beautiful Southern California day with palm trees in the background and a perfect blue sky. Two blond and pleasant-looking female students were draped on him, and Ibraaheem looked at the camera like he couldn’t believe his luck, either. Black curls reflected the sun.
“He got hired straight out of J-school by an international wire service to be a foreign correspondent,” Tyrell said. “You can guess that his connections and language skills helped in that regard, and he traveled all over the world filing stories. Europe, Russia, Argentina, China. If you do a Google search you can find his byline on hundreds of stories over the last six years. His last ports of call were Saudi, Yemen, and Syria. Then . . . nothing.
“For six years he was the hardest-working journalist in the world,” Tyrell added. “Then he dropped off the map.
“No calls, emails, texts, nothing.”
Nate raised his eyebrows.
“Exactly,” Volk said. “You can see how that aroused our interest. And then this came up.” Volk tapped on the screen and spun the computer back around. On the screen was a pixelated black-and-white photo of five men huddled in conversation outside of what looked like a mosque. Four of the men wore robes, but one didn’t.
“These guys are high-value al-Qaeda militants in Yemen. It was taken two years ago by a drone, but initially overlooked,” Volk said. “Look at the figure on the right.”
The slim man in Western dress had his back to the camera but there was a quarter view of his face as he turned his head toward the others. Nate shook his head. The photo was too blurry to make a positive identification.
Volk said, “I know it isn’t definitive, but it could be h
im. The build is the same, at least. We know he was in Yemen at the time.”
Tyrell took over. “There’s an unofficial-slash-official policy to check up on every citizen with a U.S. passport who has returned here after spending time in an ISIS-controlled territory: Syria, Iraq, Yemen, et cetera.
“So a couple of special agents went to visit the Ibraaheem family. It didn’t go well,” Tyrell said. “In fact, the ambassador filed an official complaint against the two FBI guys who showed up at his house to check on the well-being of his oldest son. It wasn’t just any complaint—it went straight to the president. It turns out our administration is working closely with people in the Kingdom to implement a super-secret antiterrorism strategy within the Middle East. The ambassador—Ibby’s dad—is the primary conduit. He said the FBI agents harassed him, and they both lost their jobs because of it. The ambassador is apparently a very special diplomat.”
Volk snorted and sat back. He said, “Those poor FBI guys never knew what hit them.”
Nate asked, “Was Ibby there?”
Tyrell and Volk again exchanged glances.
“No, he wasn’t,” Tyrell said. “His family claims they don’t know where he is. There’s a reason why Ibby has gone completely off the grid. He doesn’t want to be found.”
“I sympathize,” Nate said. “But what does any of this have to do with me, and why is it so important that you had to hunt me down?”
“Because,” Tyrell said, “there’s been chatter intercepted overseas about an upcoming terror event. We don’t know who’s involved or when it’s supposed to happen, but our people think it’s going to be huge. It’s supposed to take place out here in the Mountain West, where no one expects it. They want to show us that no one anywhere is safe.”
“Isn’t there always chatter?” Nate asked skeptically.