by Olson, Mal
Rambo stood. Silent. At alert. Ears perked and focused toward the fence. They cut the chatter and slipped away from the dugout. Blade crouched and moved toward the six–foot high wire fence—had to be electric—that enclosed the compound’s cluster of buildings and rows of tents. Rambo shadowed him, and Brandy followed, placing each footstep as quietly as she could. When she stopped alongside Blade, she went rock still and surveyed the surroundings.
Minutes later, a vehicle drove up, approaching from the trail to the east that originated on the Montana side of Thunder Mountain.
****
“Stay here,” Blade whispered, his heart beating a little faster. “I’m moving in for a closer look.”
Brandy nodded and as he scrambled away, following the fence line.
He signaled Rambo with his hand, and the K–9 followed. They crept through the darkness and moved to the section of fence where he and Brandy had seen men from the compound pass through the bottom rows of wires during the early evening hours. Hopefully, it was still current–free. With a gloved hand, he tested one of the tensile smooth wires, the second from the bottom, using a non–contact voltage detector. All clear.
He crawled under the wire and into the compound and got a better look at the housing accommodations, dozens of army style canvas tents, and several more make–shift buildings hidden beneath the canopy of trees.
The vehicle they’d seen came to a stop at a gate next to one of the larger tents. A man exited the tent. Blade squinted. A little moonlight would have helped. As it was, when the car door opened and spilled light into the night, he saw clearly. Reverend McKee stood next to the driver’s side. When the driver got out and turned, Blade got better than a glimpse.
Skip Coogan.
Blade’s heart froze, stopped beating for a second. Then he forced himself to hold onto his common sense. He scrolled through the possibilities.
Don’t jump to conclusions.
Skip could be working undercover.
Yeah, and maybe he was Big Foot.
He fought for control as his pulse started to race, and he struggled to maintain his composure.
The sheriff department’s jurisdiction included one of the state’s biggest dams, which was located in Fort Shoshone, and therefore also fell under the Fort Shoshone PD’s authority. Skip’s jurisdiction. Ever since 9/11, everyone knew the possibility of an attack on the dam was real. While briefing for the Little Chute job, Blade had been informed he’d be working regularly with the FBI, as well as other federal agencies to stay atop security measures for Fort Shoshone Dam.
The Fort Shoshone Police Department was part of the JTTF effort. The original Neo Nazis had a history of terrorist acts. Blade told himself the undercover theory was plausible.
Only Skip hadn’t mentioned any undercover operation.
Blade and Rambo slipped through the shadows and circled around. Maybe he could get close enough to eavesdrop. Near the gravel trail on the eastern edge of the compound, he found a couple of old logging trucks, canvas tarps covering the cargo on the flatbeds.
Before he could get a closer look, he spotted one of the guards with a flashlight walking outside the fence in the direction where he’d left Brandy.
Adrenaline surging, Blade shifted directions. Sprinted back to the non–hot section of fence. He ducked between the wires and scrambled toward the surveillance point where he and Brandy had separated.
He didn’t see Brandy anywhere.
His heart thundered in his chest.
Surveying the interior of the compound, Blade noticed Skip’s car was gone. Then he noticed a second guard, toting a rifle and flashlight, heading into the forest. And near the tents, a small group of guerilla soldiers had started organizing. Blade hoped it wasn’t a search party.
He and Rambo dove into the thicket and started looking for Brandy.
Downhill from his vantage point, the only thing visible were trails of light from the two guards weaving through the tree shadows. Weaving toward his and Brandy’s dugout.
Every muscle in his body tensed. Jesus, what if…
He felt out of control as panic rolled through him like Tsunami waves.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Twenty feet away, a shaft of light from a flashlight swept a path, trailing over scrubby undergrowth. Brandy held her breath. Voices and footfalls confirmed several guards from the compound were headed her way. The sounds moved closer. She froze, her heartbeat revving up as she prayed her camouflage clothing would do its job.
Slowly, quietly, she crept backward, edging deeper into the shadows. Then she lowered herself to the ground, and on hands and knees, she scuttled blindly in the pitch black forest.
With the next sweep of the flashlight, the circle of light hovered an inch from her foot.
The voices were so close now she could hear the conversation between the men. “You’re paranoid, Geek. What do you think you heard?”
“Dunno, but I heard something, and you know McKee’ll have our hides if anyone finds this place. Come on, keep looking.”
Sharp underbrush scraped Brandy’s knees and legs and bit her palms as she skittered, trying desperately to keep her movements silent, but she wasn’t half as stealthy as Blade. Navigating the floor of a forest in the dark wasn’t something she’d trained for. Not yet. But instinct told her to keep going, told her she had to be close to their foxhole.
She kept clawing through undergrowth until she reached an open spot. She pushed onto the balls of her feet, stayed crouched, and half–sprinted until she somehow found the dugout. She stumbled breathlessly into the hole, bringing clusters of pine boughs over the top of her.
Seconds after covering herself, footsteps thudded so close she expected a foot to come crashing down on her face—the foot of a crazed militant toting a tactical rifle. A loony indoctrinated with a shit–load of McKee’s white supremacy hype.
Would the sound of her panting breath give her away?
Her service pistol in hand, she prepared to defend herself. Closer still, the footfalls stomped. Louder.
Her heart thumped. She gripped her pistol, hoping she wouldn’t have to make a shoot–don’t shoot decision. Most of McKee’s recruits were young men, teenagers or barely in their twenties.
Conversation ceased. Light squiggled in thin streams through the ponderosa branches above her, the pine needles barely thick enough to hide her. Lying dead–still, she edged her index finger over the Glock’s trigger. Her pulse nearly stopped as the sound of another foot smashing the ground, vibrating inches from her head.
Adrenaline rushed beyond scenario–training level.
Maybe it was Blade. Wishful thinking. She’d never hear Blade coming.
“I think you’re hallucinating, man. And we didn’t even start with the good stuff yet tonight. There’s nothing out here. Let’s go back to camp and get us some of McKee’s special stash.”
“I dunno. I thought I saw something.”
“We’re wasting time we could be spending with Denise and Sandy. We can check things out again in the morning.”
“Shit, man, if we get in trouble, you’re taking the heat.”
“Yeah, I’m going to take lots of heat—from Sandy. Maybe Denise, too.”
Retreating footsteps and sly laughter faded into the distance. Hundreds of racing heartbeats later, when the light, the voices, and the threat were all gone, Brandy sucked in air.
Then, as she knew he would, Blade appeared, his voice barely stirring the night. “Brandy?” He reached into the dugout and hauled her to her feet. His arms encircled her as he pulled her against him and held her so tightly she thought for a moment…
With his forehead against hers, his breath fell against her mouth. “We’re not out of danger yet.”
Seconds later, they were packing their belongings, filling the foxhole back in, and scattering the branches, after which Blade, Brandy, and Rambo made tracks, figuratively speaking. Blade was all about not leaving any hint of their presence.
T
hey literally raced down the mountain, Rambo leading the charge. Not until an hour later did Blade slow from sprint speed to jogging mode. Their effort left little time, breath, or energy for conversation.
Brandy’s mind was stuck in a loop, replaying the scene they’d witnessed. Skip Coogan shaking hands with McKee. She was dying to hear Blade’s reaction to that. But Blade was far from being in a talkative mood as they continued to tramp down the rocky slope, distancing them from the compound.
It had taken them a day and a half, twelve actual hours of climbing, to reach the compound. Racing downhill, they made it all the way back to the trailhead from where they’d started in six hours. At six–thirty A.M., the Idaho sun promised another clear, scorching day for the Little Chute Valley.
Finally, when the Tahoe came into sight, Blade slowed the pace to a speed walk.
Brandy dropped to her knees. “I don’t see any hellhounds on our heels. I’m stopping to rest. I’ll catch up with you.” Assuming he wasn’t planning to continue the marathon all the way across the entire state of Idaho.
****
Blade stopped in his tracks. He felt like he was wearing his heart on his sleeve as he heaved in a breath. And when Brandy said, “Blade, about Coogan?” he waved her off.
“Don’t—just don’t. Not now.” During their retreat, his mind had been playing a non–stop video clip, first of Skip Coogan shaking hands with McKee, and then of all the possible scenarios that could have played out, all the things the pothead Neo Nazis might have done to Brandy if they’d found her.
“Sorry.” His gut refused to unclench. He stopped and braced his hands on his knees, waiting for his breathing to return to normal. He didn’t like the way his thoughts tied his stomach in knots, made him feel—like he wasn’t in control. Made him feel like Brandy was working her way under his skin. If anything had happened to her There was a lot to be said for having a dog as a partner. And there was a lot to be said for the virtues of a non–committed relationship. His gut shouldn’t be roiling the way it was.
Sure, FTOs had a certain amount of professional concern for their recruits. But what he was feeling wasn’t even close to that. This kind of gut–wrenching anxiety could eat a man up, spit him out, and leave him defenseless.
But if he let his thoughts dwell on Brandy, maybe he could keep his mind off the other axe wedged between his ribs. The same old axe that Brandy had been grinding all along. Skip could be corrupt. The thought nagged at him, chipping away the foundation of everything Blade believed in. He’d been denying it all along and didn’t want to confront it now. So he told himself the possibility of Skip being connected with the NNFF was insane. Impossible. He had to be working undercover.
Blade was capable of letting things fester inside of him with the best of them, but on this subject he would not procrastinate.
“I’ll talk to Skip and get to the bottom of this.” He hoped Brandy didn’t notice the tremor in his voice. “What you see is not always what it seems to be.”
Once he made the call, and his idol confirmed he was working undercover, infiltrating the NNFF compound, maybe Blade could breathe easy again. And all would be right with the world.
“I’ll drop you off at home. You can catch some sleep, and we’ll punch in at noon.”
****
By the time Brandy reached her apartment and climbed into bed, hours had passed since the sun had dawned over Thunder Mountain. She spent another hour not sleeping as she theorized about Skip and tried to keep Blade off her mind. She barely remembered that today was her birthday.
What reason, other than the obvious, could Skip have for visiting McKee’s compound last night? She couldn’t accuse him of being part of the NNFF network until she made damn sure she wasn’t railroading him the way her mother had been railroaded.
And Blade she’d read the anguish on his face and heard it in his voice. There’d been no way she could push him further. If Coogan was corrupt, it was going to break Blade’s heart.
Her mind swam. A Blackberry would have come in handy. Someday she’d be able to afford one. Though by that time, they’d probably be obsolete. She reached for the notepad on her nightstand and jotted down a reminder to look for any connection, say during the past ten years, between Skip and the Neo Nazi Freedom Fighters.
Debriefing herself, she tried to recall every detail she’d witnessed at the compound, making notes about the number of tents and the makeshift buildings. Coogan had driven in from the logging trail. After midnight. Four–door, unmarked sedan. One of the guards looked familiar. Resembled a guy who worked for Tonya.
An uneasy quiver shot through her stomach. The Freedom Fighters were prejudiced against all non–whites. She needed to warn Tonya. She didn’t fall asleep for another hour. When she awoke, it was past noon. She’d slept through the alarm.
After a record–fast shower, she scrunched her wet hair into a ponytail, guzzled the last of the OJ directly from the container, and ran out the door.
Eager to discuss the surveillance operation with Blade, and fighting a yawn, she arrived at work and stepped into the main office. When she looked up, she knew something was amiss.
“Surprise!”
A dozen deputies and office personnel stood in a huddle around the coffee machine. They parted to reveal a huge bouquet of flowers and a birthday cake decorated with pastel rosebuds and candles.
A lump swelled in Brandy’s throat. She hadn’t said a word to anyone about her birthday. Leave it to sheriff deputies to seek out personal data. Blade appeared in his office doorway, a sheepish grin on his face.
She’d never had a birthday party, not that she could remember. She felt suddenly awkward, almost embarrassed.
“I picked out the cake.” Todd Christiansen grabbed a lighter. “Let’s light these suckers so you can make a wish. Incidentally, if the wish involves booze and hot sex, I’m available every night this week,” he said, a smile on his face telling her he knew he had no chance of hooking up with her.
“I hope you like roses,” Blade said over Todd’s comment as he joined the group.
Brandy’s stomach twittered. It was silly to get all sissy–struck over cake and flowers. Sillier yet to let Blade affect her the way he did.
Damn, she felt the sting of tears in her eyes. Do not start bawling. Cripes, she didn’t even cry over catastrophes, so how could she be on the verge of falling apart over a simple act of kindness?
She smiled and put on her happy face as the crew sang Happy Birthday, and then she blew out the candles. She pretended not to be as touched as she was and took a slice of cake, the one that had her name on it and a big confectionary rose.
After the fanfare died down, Blade motioned her into his office. She’d barely sat down when he said, “I’m meeting with Skip Coogan tomorrow. I already called him. He’s out of town today.”
“And?”
“Brandy, there’s the possibility that he may be working undercover.”
Always the optimist. But her thoughts stutter–stepped. For Blade’s sake, a part of her wanted to believe he was right about Skip. She wasn’t out to damn Coogan if he was innocent. But in her estimation, the case against him was growing. How would Blade handle it if his hero wasn’t a hero after all?
While she tried to think of something to say, Blade said, “I’ll handle it like I would any other investigation.”
“I know you will. You’re a rock solid, clean law enforcer, Blade.” She swallowed. Something akin to fear struck her. “You could be in danger.”
With a smile one step removed from sardonic, Blade shook his head. “I won’t be.”
“You can’t be sure.”
“Let’s wait until this plays out before…” He looked away.
“Of course.” She forced her insides to relax.
Thirty seconds ticked by until his expression changed. “Um… on another subject. I hope you’re not busy tonight, because I’ve made reservations for dinner.”
Brandy stared at him mutely.
<
br /> “I can cancel them if…” He shrugged. The look on his face spoke to the flock of birds fluttering in her chest.
“Is this a date?”
“No. We can’t date, remember? But we can be friends. And I’m fresh out of supplies at home. This is just a convenient way to keep me from starving to death and to keep you from celebrating your birthday alone.”
It was a date, and all those fine–feathered canaries in her chest began to chirp with glee.
****
Blade could tell from the look on Brandy’s face that she was appropriately impressed with his choice of restaurants when they pulled up to the Thunder Mountain Lodge. He could also see thoughts spinning in her head. She would balk over the expense and would insist on splitting the bill, and he knew she couldn’t afford it.
“It’s your birthday, Brandy. This is on me, and it wouldn’t be ladylike to argue about it. Besides, you can’t disobey a direct order from your FTO.”
She laughed.
After they were seated and studied the menu, Blade said, “I think I’ll have the prime rib. Order anything you want.” He couldn’t keep his eyes off her, the epitome of femininity, wearing his favorite dress, the shiny concoction she’d worn to Skip’s honorary dinner.
“Oh, I forgot something in the car.” He pushed away from the table. “I’ll be right back.”
When he returned with the two packages, her eyes sparkled with amazement.
“What’s this? Blade, you shouldn’t—”
“It’s nothing really, but a woman’s got to have a couple of packages on her twenty–second birthday.”
“I’m not… used to getting presents.”
His heart back–flipped. Another suspicion confirmed.
“They’re wrapped so beautifully. It’s a shame to open them.” She fingered the frilly bow the clerk at the department store had attached to the foil paper. “Why two packages?”
“One’s from me and one’s from Rambo.”
She laughed and carefully slid the ribbon aside on the flat square box. The sparkle in her eyes turned his insides to mush.
He’d wanted to get her something really nice, extravagant, personal. But then he would have been a presumptuous SOB—or so she would have thought. Which, of course, would have pretty much been on target, although he was honestly trying his damnedest to control his attraction to her.