by C. J. Box
“We have an advantage, though,” Nate said. “We know how he thinks. He trained us. We know that anybody we encounter could be one of his. The only man in this valley I can absolutely trust just flew away on an airplane. Everyone else is a potential threat.”
The gravity of what he said seemed to make her withdraw from him as she considered the possibilities.
“But the longer we wait and plan, the longer he has to devise a countermove,” Nate said. “I’m thinking right now he’s confused. He doesn’t know we’re out here and he doesn’t know what exactly happened to the two operatives in Idaho. He thinks they’re coming to meet up with him—that’s what I made that guy back there tell him—but he’s been out of cell or radio contact with them since then. No doubt Nemecek is waiting to hear from them when they arrive, and he’s probably trying to raise them over the phone.”
“Will he be suspicious?” Haley asked.
“He’s always suspicious,” Nate said. “He’s probably even figured I got the upper hand on his boys somehow. But what he can’t know is that you’re with me. So when he sees you, he’ll be confused, at least momentarily.”
“I see,” Haley said. “I’m bait.”
Nate smiled a cruel smile. “You can still get out,” he said. “It isn’t too late.”
“No, that’s not what I meant,” she said. “I just want to know what you’re thinking, so I can do my job right.”
He thought that over for a moment, then methodically laid out his plan of attack.
YARAK meant a condition of being hyperalert, he told her.
“Engage all your senses and push them out to their limits,” he said. “Don’t think—react. Don’t consider consequences or collateral damage. If you see me go down, don’t hesitate. If you hesitate, you’re dead.”
She shook her head, obviously doubting her ability to do it.
Then she asked, “And if I go down first?”
“I’ll miss the hell out of you,” Nate said. “But that’s after I’ve blown Nemecek’s head off.”
“God, you can be so romantic,” she said.
“Shut up, Haley,” he said sharply, shocking her. “Concentrate. Remember what I just told you about being hyperalert until this is over.”
“Why are you yelling at me?”
He gritted his teeth, and said, “I’m trying to keep you alive. I’m trying to show you, but I don’t think you’re listening. For example, what do you know about our situation right now that is different than a few minutes ago?”
She started to say something flippant by her gesture, but stopped herself. Instead, she looked around the Tahoe and out through all the windows at the lodgepole pines that zipped by on both sides.
“What?” she asked. “We’re in a forest?”
“No,” he said. “We’re being followed.”
33
JOE CLEARED the tree line of the summit in his pickup to find a barren field of blinding white punctuated by sharp blades of volcanic black scree. The sharp shards pierced upward through the thick scrim of snow, which was untracked and polished to a high-gloss sheen by wind and high-altitude sun. As he emerged from the trees, his radio came to life with a screech of static, and he checked his phone to find two messages: Chuck Coon and Sheriff Kyle McLanahan. Each had called within the past twenty minutes.
He slowed for a moment and reached for the mic, but as he did so he could feel the tires begin to sink into the snow. Since he couldn’t tell how deep it was and couldn’t risk getting stuck on top fully exposed, he grabbed the wheel again and goosed the accelerator. The snow was deeper than he would have guessed, but he knew if
he maintained his forward momentum across the top of it he had a chance of getting across it to a windswept bank of gravel on the horizon of the mountain. If he made it to the other side, he could return the calls and call in his position.
Although he couldn’t see clearly through the snow-covered windshield, he searched ahead for knobs of rock to steer toward so his tires could grab them and propel him forward. He saw a rock and cranked the wheel toward it, but the back end swung around again and his progress stopped cold. He cursed as the pickup settled in, sinking a few more inches, snow crunching and the exhaust pipe suddenly burbling as it descended into the snow, and he knew he was stuck fast almost exactly in the center of the snowfield.
JOE SAT BACK and gritted his teeth. Just a few more feet and he might have been able to gain purchase and maintain momentum enough to get to the gravel. But there was no point now but to reassess. It would take hours of digging to try and find the solid rock bottom of the snowfield. And even if he did, the only way he could safely get out was to reverse in his own tracks and end up back where he came from. He knew from being stuck many times and helping others that he needed a winch-truck to get the pickup out.
He cursed and slammed the top of the wheel with the heel of his hand. Wind buffeted the driver’s-side window. Out ahead of him, on the snowfield, small waves of gritty snow moved along the surface like sidewinder snakes.
The view was magnificent. As far as he could see ahead were the snowcapped ridges of wave upon wave of mountains. Stringy cirrus clouds unfurled like battered flags through the brilliant blue sky. There wasn’t an airplane or a power pole or a cell tower to be seen anywhere.
He felt incredibly lonely and frustrated, and when he caught a sharp whiff of carbon monoxide through his heating vents he reached down and killed the motor. The exhaust pipe was now buried deep in the snow and leaking back through the undercarriage. If he kept the pickup running, he risked asphyxiation.
Joe briefly closed his eyes and calmed himself, then checked his phone. He had a weak signal.
He called Chuck Coon first, and the agent came on after the second ring.
“We found her, this Maryland student,” Coon said. “Woke her up at her little off-campus apartment. After I swung by your daughter’s dormitory and woke her up. She’s fine, Joe.”
Joe felt a wave of relief. “Thank God.”
“But we have a problem,” Coon said, and Joe could hear the anger in his voice. “Or I should say you have a problem. In fact, a couple of them.”
“Yes?”
“This Maryland girl checks out, Joe. Her name is Jennifer Wellington—a blue-blood name if I ever heard one—and from what we can tell, she’s exactly who she says she is: an out-of-state student. Her record shows a straight line from high school to college. No gaps. No military service. Her parents check out, and right now they’re very angry with the FBI, and her old man threatened legal action unless we cut her loose, which we did.”
Joe said, “You let her go?”
“No reason to keep her, Joe. That’s what I’m telling you. She was upset and blubbering, and she had no idea why we were there. This whole trip over the mountain was a snafu of the highest order, thanks to you.”
“You’re sure?” Joe asked, feeling his stomach clench. “You’re absolutely positive she’s clean and her identity is solid?”
“As absolutely sure as I’ve ever been in my life,” Coon said, his voice rising. “You’ve wasted my time and used up your last favor.”
Joe sat back and looked at the phone in his hand. He was relieved his suspicions were incorrect and Sheridan was safe but disconcerted about how he’d been so wrong and so paranoid.
“Oh,” Coon said, “your daughter isn’t real happy with you right now, either. In fact, I’d call her, um, hopping mad.”
Joe could hear someone, another agent in Coon’s vehicle, laughing at that.
“Man, I’m sorry,” Joe said. “But it means there is someone still out there. Another female operator.”
“At this point,” Coon sighed, “it means this conversation is over.”
“Hold it,” Joe said, sitting forward again. “Did McLanahan request assistance from you? Is your team on the way?”
“Just a second,” Coon said, and Joe could envision Agent Coon covering the speaker while he asked somebody. When he came back, he
said, “No word from your sheriff. Nothing. Nada.”
Joe let the words sink in.
“Where are you right now?” Coon asked. “The reception is terrible.”
Joe slumped to the side. It was getting colder inside the cab, and he could feel a tiny tongue of icy wind lick his earlobe from a gap in the doorframe.
“I’m stuck on top of a mountain with no backup and no plan,” Joe said sullenly. “And in the valley below is John Nemecek.”
34
NATE HAD CAUGHT two quick glimpses of a vehicle coming up the mountain behind them in his side mirrors. Each look was fleeting: a dark pickup rounding a switchback turn maybe a mile away, a glint of reflected sunlight on glass and chrome. But he’d seen enough to know the pursuing vehicle wasn’t just driving up the mountain—but flying.
“Who is it?” Haley asked, placing her hand on the rifle next to her on the seat.
“Don’t know.”
“Could it be just a local? A hunter or something like that?”
“Maybe,” Nate said, increasing the speed of the Tahoe. “But he’s in a hell of a hurry.”
“Do you think local law enforcement? Maybe that car dealer called on us?”
“I said I don’t know,” Nate said.
He made a switchback turn to the right that leaned into a quarter-mile straightaway climb. He roared up the stretch, noting that Haley was instinctively bracing herself by clutching the handhold above her shoulder in a white-knuckle grip. He appreciated that she wasn’t a backseat driver.
There was another switchback turn to the left, and he slowed to take it. He hoped he’d put a few more seconds of distance between them and the oncoming vehicle. He’d need them. There were a few old roads leading off the asphalt, but they were few and far between on the climb up the mountain. The campgrounds and logging roads didn’t appear until they crested the top.
Three-quarters of the way up the second straightaway, he said, “Is that an opening in the trees up ahead?”
“Looks like it, but I can’t tell what it is.”
“It’ll have to be good enough,” he said, slowing down.
As they passed it, he took its measure: it had been a road into the timber at one time, likely a Forest Service road, but a hundred feet in they’d used an earthmover to create a berm that would be impassable. It was one of the more annoying Forest Service tricks of the last few decades: blocking access roads to the public while purportedly serving the public. But it was good enough for what he was looking for.
“Hold on,” he said, hitting the brakes.
When the Tahoe was stopped, he quickly reversed and backed into the opening and kept going until his rear bumper rested against the berm. Ahead of them was a narrow opening slot through the trees where they could see fifty feet of the road and the rock wall beyond it.
He turned to her and said urgently, “If he sees our tracks, he might stop and block us in, but I’m hoping he’ll drive right by. Jump out with that rifle so you’re clear to fire if necessary. If he makes any moves that seem hinky, don’t overthink it. Just aim and fire.”
“Pumpkin on a post,” she said with a wink.
“Go,” he said, and bailed out the driver’s-side door.
He could hear the vehicle coming, tires sizzling through the slushy snow on the roadway. The vehicle was coming fast.
Nate looked through the Tahoe windows for Haley. She was leaning back on the SUV and raising the rifle. She had a calm and determined look on her face. That look made him want to run around the back of the Tahoe and kiss her.
Then he shook his head to clear it; thought, Yarak; and drew his heavy weapon from its shoulder holster.
The vehicle—a dark green pickup with an emblem on the door and a single occupant inside—flashed by the opening in the trees without slowing down. Nate listened as it sluiced up the mountain without slowing. The driver hadn’t so much as looked their way. His profile indicated he was leaning over the steering wheel, watching the road in front of him without a sideways glance, and very determined to get to where he was going.
“Whew,” Haley said, uncoiling. “False alarm, I guess.”
Nate squinted, a sour look on his face.
“What?” she said. “Did you know him?”
He shook his head. “I thought for a second it was my friend Joe, that he’d decided to stay. That would be like him: dumb and loyal. But it wasn’t him.”
“So who was it?”
Nate shrugged. “Game and Fish pickup, driver wearing a red uniform. But it wasn’t Joe. He’s the only game warden in this district, so I have no idea who it was.”
“I’m confused,” she said, climbing back into the Tahoe.
“You’re not the only one,” Nate said.
“Are you disappointed your friend didn’t stay to help you?” she asked.
“Of course not,” he snapped.
35
JOE’S HAND was trembling when he returned McLanahan’s call. Even before the sheriff answered, he wished he could reach through his phone and throttle him.
“Yeah?” McLanahan answered.
Joe took a deep breath and tried to keep his anger in check. “Sheriff,” Joe said, “I just talked to the FBI. They said you haven’t called for their help.”
There was a beat of silence, then: “Dang it, that plumb slipped my mind.”
“How could it slip your mind? Tell me how it could slip your mind? Tell me how that could happen?”
“Whoa, there,” McLanahan said, annoyed. “Change your tone or I’m hanging up. I’m up to my ass in alligators right now and I don’t have time for your attitude.”
Joe closed his eyes.
“You heard the bad news, right?” McLanahan asked.
“No.”
“Oh.”
“What happened, sheriff?” Joe finally asked.
“We had an incident this morning.”
Joe’s left hand was balled up into a fist, and his nails were cutting into the palm of his hand just to keep from shouting.
“And what would that be?” Joe asked.
“I sent Mike Reed and Deputy Sollis over to roust your trainee, just like you asked. But the son-of-a-bitch came out shooting. Sollis was killed in the line of duty, and Reed’s in critical condition in the hospital. Doctors say it’s touch-and-go at this point.”
“What?”
“This Luke Brueggemann character—your trainee—got away. We issued an APB for him, and as soon as I get you off the phone I’m calling the Feds for help.”
“I told you to send a SWAT team,” Joe said, struck dumb by the turn of events. Mike Reed in critical condition?
“I don’t like being told what to do, pardner,” McLanahan said.
“Is Mike going to make it?”
“Shot in the neck and the shoulder, from what we know. Might have paralyzed him. But those doctors, they can do all kinds of miracles these days.”
“You are such an idiot,” Joe said. “You sent those men to their death.” Thinking: He sent his opponent.
“Whoa, there, buckaroo. There’s no call for that kind of talk.”
“I asked you to do three things,” Joe said, shouting into the phone, “Three things. You agreed. And you couldn’t even do the first thing right.”
“This call is over,” McLanahan said, feigning outrage, but it came across to Joe like naked fear.
“When I get down from here, you and I are going to have it out.”
McLanahan didn’t respond.
“Where was he last seen?” Joe shouted.
“Who?”
“Luke Brueggemann, you idiot!”
“Headed west in his pickup,” McLanahan said.
“Toward the mountains?” Joe asked, looking up through the windshield, remembering where he was again.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” McLanahan said. “But he should be easy to find in that Guts and Feathers rig you boys drive.” And with that he terminated the call.
JOE HAD to throw his
shoulder against the driver’s-side door to open it against the snow. It took four tries before there was enough space for him to crawl out. Strong icy wind blew into the vacant cab.
In the equipment box in the bed of his pickup, he pulled out his cold-weather gear. It didn’t seem like it’d been that long since he’d packed it, he thought. He sat on the bed wall and kicked off his cowboy boots and pulled on thermal knee-high Bogs. His hooded Carhartt parka cut the chilling wind, and he was grateful he’d left a pair of gloves in the pockets.
He filled a daypack with binoculars, his spotting scope, the handheld radio, a GPS unit, digital camera, Maglite, coiled rope, a hunting knife, and boxes of ammunition. It was heavy when he cinched it down on his back and climbed down into the snow.
He checked the cartridges in his scoped .270 Winchester and slung it over his shoulder, and loaded his twelve-gauge with five three-inch shells: two magnum slugs on each end and three double-ought magnum buckshots in between. A handful of extra twelve-gauge shells went into his right coat pocket along with a crumpled bandanna to keep them from rattling when he walked.
It was tough getting the door shut because snow had drifted in, but when he heard the click he turned and started trudging for the gravel bank.
_______
JOE WAS breathing hard by the time he reached it, and he wiped melted snow and perspiration from his face with his sleeve. The gravel bank was on the edge of the summit, and from where he stood he could look down into the steep timbered valley below. The pitch was such that he couldn’t quite see the valley floor or any of the camps established along the branch of the river.
Before picking his way through the loose scree on the other side of the mountain toward the timber below, he looked up and caught a tiny series of sun glints twenty-five miles in the distance. Saddlestring, he thought, where Sheriff Kyle McLanahan preened and made incompetent decisions and poor Mike Reed fought for his life.
THE OLD miner’s cabin had been built into the mountain slope itself on a spit of level ground twenty yards from the start of the timber. Whoever built it had burrowed back into the rocky ground to hollow out a single room and had fashioned eaves and a corrugated tin roof, now discolored, that extended out of the mountainside. It looked out on the valley floor and Joe caught a glimpse of a bend of the river far below as he approached the cabin from above. He could see why Richie had chosen the shelter of the cabin to look for elk. It was protected from the wind that howled over the summit and afforded unimpeded views of several meadows where wildlife likely would graze.