“Then it should be a simple snatch and grab, but he owns two dogs and several horses. They’ll likely know about us before he ever would.” Allen answered, returned to pointing at the map.
“We’ll stop the trucks here on the logging road, and cut through the rise of the trees, and descend on the flank of his home to cut off any retreat through the ravine. You can take your agents and three of my men up the drive at the front on foot.” Agent Connelly didn’t say so, but he appreciated the soldier’s thoughtful planning. It saved him a great deal of work.
“Alright.” Connelly answered with a nod. “Just remember. We’re here to apprehend him for questioning. I’m going to try to talk to him sensibly if at all possible.”
“But be alert, Connelly.” Lieutenant Allen warned. “Your other fugitives could be here seeking shelter from the agency.”
“Understood and accounted for.” Connelly responded. “Keep your eyes peeled gentlemen, for Jason Brooke, or Devin Lock especially.”
They’d crossed through the rising of Bonney Lake, and left it behind, howling to and through the small town of Buckley. Then they sped over the White River into the sprawl of Enumclaw in the wake of their police escort, taking a right on a street Connelly missed seeing the name to. For a time they followed concrete streets. The wilderness began to thicken after passing through open pastures and farmers’ fields. But soon enough, they came across an unmarked old gravel access road into the hills. The squad car’s sirens died.
Reaching deep into the sticks, and proceeding up the logging road until the policeman pulled over, the Hum-V’s came to a brief halt as the lead driver exchanging brief words with the officer. Reportedly three miles up and in would bring them to Stevens’ property line and the length of his driveway, off the left side of the access road. With that news they were underway again, trucks easily scrambling up the rough lay of the rutted route.
In little time once more, the drivers brought them to slowing, approaching more quietly than Connelly would have thought a trio of Hummers capable of doing. They could see the marker of Stevens’ drive far up the road, and they killed the engines swiftly, soldiers disembarking in a rush.
“Alright. It won’t take us long to get into position. Give us ten minutes to circle around before you make your approach.” The Lieutenant informed, and with that, he gestured to his men and struck off into the trees, leaving drivers, sentries and gunners behind to man their transports.
This likely could have been the longest fraction of an hour Connelly had ever experience in his life. He waited, standing at the foot of the drive alone, draped in his trench coat and the silence of the woods. He studied the shade of the trees as they cast their wily patterns across the uneven roadway up into Stevens’ property -possibly the loudest things out here. He listened to the forest and decided all was as it should be.
Ten minutes passed and the remaining soldiers left to Connelly's command disembarked their armored trucks and pulled his four agents towards the shadowed drive where he waited. Only two men per transport remained behind, plus a partol man.
It was time.
Connelly didn't hesitate.
A quarter mile passed beneath their feet, steadily rising up into the hills, yet lying low between the sharper climbs to either side. After weaving a slight bit, their path opened up low before their eyes and the undergrowth dwindled a bit, revealing a swerving gentle descent into the more open ground. From there Connelly could see frequent breaks in their cover throughout Stevens’ yard as it then climbed slowly again, rising up to a fine cabin and nearby garage at the right. He could see it through breaks in the canopy as it stood mostly exposed in a hill, but flanked on the left by a tight, close cluster of tall pines. It was a beautiful plot of land and a fine, wealthy house, despite being painted drab brown and trimmed in dull white.
Apparently, it paid well to be the best in the world at what one like Stevens did. He’d clearly made quite a living off of his publicity and endorsements, as did most any Olympic gold medalist. The forest beyond descended right up to the rear of the garage. There sat a clean, forest green jeep Cherokee with its hood propped open before the open garage door.
With any luck, Connelly mused, Stevens would be busy working on the truck, and with nose buried in the engine compartment, he wouldn’t see or hear anything coming. He started forth, and his agents and soldiers fanned out into the trees, leaving him alone on the edge of the roadway. He cut a b-line through the swerves, but ended up on the driveway again as it ran straight up to the shadows of the front yard. His gun slipped from its holster, and he paused next to a pine, sheltering himself from any possible eyes as he scanned for the soldiers and agents fanned out through the dwindling wood. Nearest was a federal agent, and he gestured forth, beckoning the man to cover him and follow him in.
He crossed the yard with gun low, eyes scanning, drifting towards the open garage door and the jeep. Its hood was up, but there was no one working on it. He could hear the old tune of “Dust in the wind” coming from a radio resting in an open window on the front porch, which held numerous couches and a tightly fenced railing, screening away anyone who might possibly be lying in wait. He tensed, feeling the hairs stand up on the back of his neck, and glanced to the garage door once again. Still silent.
Up to the covered sprawl of the large porch he went, setting his first good foot on the first step. It creaked softly beneath his weight, and he froze instantly, raising a fist to his followers. However, it was not nerves that struck him cold. It was a deep, throaty growl erupting nearby at his right. His eyes slowly descended to see a danger at such close proximity. He nearly wet himself in surprise.
There crouched likely the largest german shepherd he’d ever seen, and he’d seen a great deal of police dogs in his line of work. Its teeth were bared, and he lowered his fist gently, opening his hand to plead with the animal, trying to calm it. But, it only began barking fiercely, rising up to its feet and stepping forth a single padding pace. It was a menace he’d known would be waiting, but which he’d foolishly failed to anticipate nonetheless.
“Easy, boy.” He tried to calm the animal, but a second hound emerged from the front door through a large doggy door, padding to a halt and immediately joining its brother with a harsh growl of its own. This one was only larger and more intimidating than the first. The hackles on its back rose up enough to rival a wild boar as it lowered its head and flattened its perky ears.
‘What on earth was he feeding these things?!’ Connelly thought wildly, but decided he really didn’t want to know as he lowered his hand entirely, returning it to his lowered desert eagle to join his left. Connelly realized the first dog must have been sleeping, for it surely would have heard him coming otherwise. It must have been fully passed out on the deck behind the screen of fence and couch on a dirtied, tough old oval rug, relaxing to its heart’s content, but the creak of the first step had awakened it. Its surprise had likely caused this reaction, but Connelly couldn’t back away. He was prepared to shoot the animals if it came to it.
“Easy.” He tried cooing to them again, eyes dancing warily to everywhere all at once, and out of nowhere, he heard a whooshing, soft whine. It hissed near silently, and a blaze of pale color suddenly streaked across his vision to strike the porch post at his left with an audible thud. A vibration and twang followed immediately as he was left to flinching in surprise. The dogs suddenly sulked simultaneously and tucked their tails, but they did not give ground. Connelly found an arrow vibrating itself to silence, buried in the post, and the agent behind him was screaming, scrambling towards the jeep with gun poised to kill.
Ben looked towards the garage again to see the old goat, Christopher Stevens standing before the jeep. He stood casually, leaning lightly on his bow, clutching its upper curvature lightly with both hands, as if it was some sort of weight-bearing walking stick. He clearly wasn’t going anywhere, and made no move to fire again. He didn’t even appear to have any more ammunition. He just stood there casuall
y, and Connelly noticed the weapon in his hands. It was clearly a custom-forged old-world long bow. It was rather beautifully crafted, even for all its simplicity.
Stevens was swiftly surrounded by two of the three soldiers and the foremost agent to move in his direction, but he clearly posed no greater threat.
“Hold your fire!” Connelly snapped to the men, and they froze, remaining poised with well trained aim.
“Can I help you gentlemen?” Stevens called out to Connelly, seeing as he was clearly in charge, and he certainly didn’t sound like a killer. He sounded more like a kindly old woodsman than anything else. He did not bother to glance to the soldiers tensed at his back, nor to heed the commands of the agent in front of him.
“Would you mind calling off your dogs, Mr. Stevens?” Ben asked with a commanding tone of his own.
“That depends. Will you shoot them if I don’t?” Stevens shot back.
“Only if I have to.” Connelly replied a warning.
“Oh, I see.” The old man sighed. “Can I ask you safely what you want, first?”
“I am Agent Ben Connelly, with the FBI. I’m here to ask you some questions, Mr. Stevens. You’d be best off complying.” He warned, and the fellow’s gaze narrowed.
“Serious questions?” He presumed correctly.
“Very.” Connelly shot back, not taking his eyes from the old man.
“Very well.” Stevens answered, calling out to his dogs. “Walker! Padishar! Lie Down!”
Much to Connelly’s relief, the big shepherds obeyed instantly, laying down where they stood and going silent, though they still looked prepared to attack this trespasser. The soldiers then moved, disarming the old man and taking him into custody quite roughly. The first agent moved close and began patting him down but found nothing dangerous about him.
“Let him go.” Connelly called, leaving the porch as they brought Stevens forward.
“What’s this about?” Stevens demanded, quite a short fellow in his age. He moved with a rocking gait, as if he didn’t have the greatest knees anymore.
“Am I under arrest? And if so, for what? I presume you have a warrant if such is the case?” He clearly knew his rights.
“You might be, Mr. Stevens. I just want to ask you some questions, and if you’re not guilty of anything, or have any valuable information for me, I might just ignore the warrant for your arrest.” Agent Connelly informed.
“Oh?” He asked in response, glancing to the soldiers and agents before arching a brow and looking back to Connelly, who was now undoubtedly proven to be in charge here.
“Well, would you like some coffee?” He offered kindly, but there was a bit of an upset tone to his request.
“No, thank you.” Connelly answered.
“Alright then.” Stevens concluded. “You can call out the bunch you’ve got up in the ravine out back. I assure you they’re not necessary.”
Agent Connelly went silent. How the devil did this old goat know about the soldiers in the hills out back? Unless of course, he’d been watching from the time they’d set foot on road to his property. In either case, it made little difference now. One of the soldiers did as bidden, radioing the others out of hiding at the rear of the property, informing of the target’s safe capture as Connelly escorted the old fellow inside.
“No coffee, eh? Would you like tea then?” He asked, and the agent declined as the others swept the house in swift fashion.
“Is there anyone else in the house here with you?” Ben demanded, but the old fellow merely dropped himself into a cozy recliner with his dogs in tow and close at hand, that he might scratch Walker’s head as well as his own grizzly little whitening beard.
“I’m a single old man, Agent Connelly, was it? Who else am I going to have in my house? Terrorists?” He was clearly making a point, but the look Connelly gave him suggested he would be harboring terrorists indeed. All at once, Stevens grew a wizened, knowledgeable look.
“You think I’m a terrorist.” He made it a statement of fact. “You’re here about Jason Brooke and the attack in the news, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” Connelly answered, holstering his gun beneath his long coat. “What can you tell me about Jason Brooke and his organization?”
“I don’t know anything about them.” Stevens answered. “I only met Jason last year during my lectures at the UW.”
“You’re not a sympathizer with the E.L.F. organization?” Connelly asked another quite harshly.
“Lord, no. I’d never heard of it until about a week ago when I saw his picture on the news.” The old man wasn’t lying. Connelly could hear it in his voice.
“Then he didn’t try to recruit you to their cause during your lectures?” The agent asked yet again.
“The house is clean.” Came the voice of an agent as he returned from the sweep. Connelly only glanced to the man and back again.
“No. He invited me to be a spokesperson for Green Peace and I declined. But, I did offer to become a member as consolation, and I am a frequent donator to their cause because charity is tax deductible.” He answered flatly.
“Did he ever mention his involvement with the eco-terrorist activist organization E.L.F.?”
“No.” Stevens answered.
“And what about your technique, Elf-walking, as you called it in your book? Was this a part of your teachings at the UW?” Connelly pressed insistently. At that, the old man’s wispy white brows arched up highly.
“It was part of my lectures, yes. But I didn’t show Jason Brooke or any of the students during the event.” He revealed, and Connelly was stumped for a moment. He sighed, frustrated.
“You’re certain?” He then asked.
“Yes. Why? It’s not like they could’ve learned it in a week at any rate. I don’t care how swift a learner they might have been.” Stevens was quite insistent. “I explained the principals and referred them to my book, but still. It would take them years to learn to play hide and seek properly.”
“Yes, I know. I’ve read your book.” Connelly responded, lowering his gaze thoughtfully. If Stevens was telling the truth, then there was virtually no way Jason or any of the others could be responsible for the escape of Shannon Hunter. “What about Jason Brooke, and Devin Lock, Mr. Stevens? Did they show promise as archers?"
“Why?” Stevens asked immediately.
“A federal agent is dead, Mr. Stevens.” Connelly reminded him. “Autopsy reported his sniper was not a gunman, but an archer.” He paused, letting it sink in, and sink in it did. He could see it in Stevens’ eyes. He now knew exactly why they were here for him.
“You think I’m responsible?! You think I shot a federal agent?!” His tones were nothing short of incredulous.
“Either you or your students, Mr. Stevens. There are no others. We’ve reasoned through any other possibility. You’re the only one in the region capable of making the shot that killed Agent Fastez, according to your own words already.” Connelly leveled with the old man.
“Unless you can tell me that Jason Brooke or Devin Lock were capable of making the shot, then I must arrest you.” He offered a possible alternative.
“Just what sort of shot are we talking about?” The old man leaned forward, finding interest here where the FBI needed his authority and expertise. “What were the conditions?”
“A shot over more than fifty yards, in the dark, over elevation differences of more than fifty feet, under a good headwind, through smoke and fire from the explosions and into fair cover.” Agent Connelly revealed, tone all of seriousness.
“At a moving target.” He added dreadfully. Stevens’ face was a mask of disbelief and silence as his jaw hung slightly slack. He clearly couldn’t even begin to decipher the possibility of such a shot being presented.
Up hill, through the snow, both ways. Ben was talking about the toughest of tough shots. It only could've been harder if it had been a hurricane and pouring a torrent at the moment of truth.
“You’ve got to be kidding me, right?” He did
n’t even slow. “Those boys couldn’t make that shot, not even on their best of days, nor with a mountain of luck. Sure, they showed promise, but they were far too undisciplined to learn to shoot like that.”
“Then I’m afraid that leaves only you, Mr. Stevens. I’m going to have to take you into custody for the murder of a federal agent, and the aiding and abetting of a terrorist organization.” Connelly resolved. “Unless you can tell me who could make such a shot who is also in the region and might be sympathetic to the E.L.F. cause who could be placed at the scene.”
“I don’t know anyone who could make that shot, Agent Connelly. The patience and steady hand, the practice and knowledge about how to make such a shot couldn’t be held by anyone other than myself in the entire region, for I haven’t met the individual yet who could rival myself. But, I didn’t kill that man. I was here at the time of the attack.” Stevens denied his involvement with low tones and shadowed eyes.
“Nevertheless, Mr. Stevens. I’m afraid I have to take you.” Connelly answered.
E.L.F. - White Leaves Page 16