The Blood of Patriots

by William W. Johnstone

  “I smell horses,” Dickson said.

  “It’s been—an eclectic day,” Ward replied.

  Easing over the curb he tore up the road, throwing Dickson back against the seat as he accelerated. The wind rushed hard around them, making it impossible to speak. It was just as well.

  Dickson pretty much said it all, Ward thought. It was long past time to put an end to the bullying.

  Coming down, Ward had followed the route Randolph laid out for him, noting all the landmarks—the fallen aspen that slanted across the mouth of the valley on the eastern side, the boulder shaped like a “U” that marked the start of the old trail, the bat cave that you didn’t want to enter unless it was an emergency because you’d break a leg slipping on guano. The return trip was easier. Ward knew there were no major impediments, no disabling gullies, no sudden drops. He saw the distinctive shapes easily in the headlight. In fact, as he ascended, he was able to sneak a look to the south. He smiled slightly when he noticed the lights on the plateau. Scott Randolph was doing his job. Ward wished he’d had time to stop there. In all his years of police work he had never attempted what he was about to do. He could have used a few pointers. In that respect, it was good to have Dickson with him. Even though he spent his days in a bank, he was a local. And locals tended to know things an outsider never could—either a New Yorker or a Chicagoan.

  It was almost a comfort to reach the leaning aspen, like coming home to a hotel. He traversed the narrow valley quickly, pulled the ATV into the foliage where Saeed had parked it, and went to the cave. He approached, staying close to the western side. If, for whatever reason, someone were up on the cliff with a rifle and a night-vision site, the overhang would not permit them a shot. He moved in with his rifle at the ready but saw no fresh tracks in the dirt or newly crushed grass.

  Dickson followed him in.

  “Do you think they have sentries?” the banker asked, jerking his head upward.

  “They didn’t before,” Ward said, “except for the guy I took out.”

  “You killed one of them?” Dickson asked eagerly.

  “Wounded.” He added, “Badly.”

  Dickson grunted. He was looking around. “I can’t believe this is out here, though I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”

  “Why?”

  “These higher elevations are not exactly widely traveled,” Dickson said. “My dad once told me the CIA had training facilities in the Rockies.”

  “The CIA?” Ward asked.

  “Back in the early sixties, for Tibetans fighting Chinese in the Himalayas,” Dickson said. “Camp Hale, I think it was called. I always thought it was sort of an urban myth. Maybe not.”

  Locals, Ward smiled. They know stuff. He was pleased to see life and vigor returning to the banker.

  “I wonder if these bastards have a name for this place,” Dickson said. “Like Muhammad Base or something.”

  Ward hadn’t thought of that. The idea that an enemy facility on American soil might be named for a radical terrorist made him want to tear the place apart with his teeth.

  Reaching the cave, Ward grabbed the flashlight he had left beside the solar panel. Then he went to the cooler where he had left the Muslim’s cell phone. It occurred to him that he hadn’t gotten the kid’s password but he didn’t need it. Ward was still able to access the text function. What he saw alarmed him. The detective’s lips pursed tightly.

  “What is it?” Dickson asked.

  Ward looked at his watch. “The return trip took us forty-five minutes,” he said.

  “What of it?”

  “There’s a text asking Saeed to confirm that he sent the last message.”

  “Okay—”

  “I sent it.”

  “Can’t you send another?”

  “Wouldn’t do any good,” Ward said. “There’s another text from someone saying that if he didn’t respond they would be taking action.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I guess they’ll come to investigate,” Ward said.

  “When was that sent?”

  “Nearly a half-hour ago.”

  Dickson’s expression showed anxiety for the first time.

  “They know the trail better than I did, so it may not take as long as it just took me.” Ward thought for a moment. Do they stand and fight or retreat to the mountains? He couldn’t see that there was anything worth dying for in here.

  As he considered the situation the chirping of crickets and the occasional cry of a night bird were consumed by the hum of multiple engines.

  Their options had suddenly narrowed to one.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  “We’ve got a serious problem,” Ward said into his own phone.

  Scott Randolph listened intently as the detective described the situation. He had put the phone on speaker and pulled a map from Dunson’s brochure rack so the others in the Dunson ranch house could follow. Gathered there were Matt, Garth and Tessa Dunson, concrete worker Ethan Ford, service station owner Howie Bond, Vito Antonini, and two of the Dunson’s part-time hands, twins Noah and Hank Hayden.

  As Ward brought them up to date, Randolph pointed out each location. When Ward was finished, Randolph spoke.

  “Earl’s a good up-close shooter,” Randolph said.

  “And I’m probably the last person they’ll expect to see here,” Dickson said without explaining to the others. “I can hang to the side near the entrance, block them in if it comes to that.”

  “That means I’m the bait who has to hold off their initial approach,” Ward said.

  “You good with that?” Randolph said.

  “Beats retirement,” he said.

  Randolph chuckled but he was already motioning to the others and jabbing a finger toward the outside as they spoke. The group understood. With Tessa and Garth in the lead, they hurried to the stables.

  “We still got four hours till daybreak,” Randolph told Ward. “I’m not sure we can give you the full measure of our support till then.”

  “I’ve got a feeling we’re gonna need some luck holding out until then,” Ward replied. “What about the police chief?”

  “There’s nothing she can do, not there, not now,” Randolph said.

  “Karma.”

  “Huh?”

  “That’s exactly what I told her, only I didn’t think I meant it,” Ward said. “Any advice? Those motors are getting real close.”

  “Don’t get shot.”

  “Any other advice?”

  “We’re workin’ on it,” Randolph said. “I won’t call unless I need to. I don’t want to give away your position. If we come up with somethin’, you’ll know it.”

  “Copy that,” Ward said. “Gotta go.”

  Randolph hung up and joined the others. They were in the barn preparing nine horses. “Garth, go to your compost heap and fill one of those empty feed bags with as many horse patties as you can.”

  The young man jumped to it without asking why.

  Randolph grabbed a flashlight from the wall, one with a leather thong. He tested it then went to the first saddled horse. “I’m goin’ up to my cabin. Matt, you’ve been up there. Can you find it?”

  The horse rancher nodded, then said, “Tough ride in the dark.”

  “Not if I set a good fire on Cabbage Point,” Randolph replied, jerking a thumb toward the compost. “That’ll light up the whole cliff side.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “I want you, Garth, and the twins to meet me there,” Randolph said.

  “But that’s a couple hundred feet above where we need to be,” Noah pointed out.

  “There’s no way we can get to the valley itself, on horseback, at night,” Randolph said. He took the bag from Garth, tied it to the pommel, and wrapped the leather thong of the flashlight around his left wrist. That was going to be his headlight. “Gettin’ to the bat cave is doable, though. Straight shot round the cliff. I want the rest of you to take whatever weapons you’ve got and wait there. Between the cliff on one side and the
cave on the other we can bottleneck ’em.”

  “And do what?”

  Randolph swung the horse toward the barn door.

  “They got AK-47s,” he said. “I’d make sure they don’t get to use ’em.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Ward held a flashlight as he and Dickson walked briskly across the valley. He was looking for a good place to position the banker.

  “Tell me something,” Ward asked as they walked. “How does the money get into Basalt?”

  “I think it comes in by private jet,” the banker told him. “I’m not sure.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Something Gahrah once said, about a delay caused by weather. It wasn’t snowing here, so I figured it was a problem en route.”

  “Any idea how it’s packaged?”

  “Inside Korans, I think. They always had stacks of them at the community center.”

  “Right. Customs wouldn’t dare check them without a damn good reason.”

  The Muslim cash comes in by air, to Aspen, Ward thought. In hops, no doubt, from Iran to either Germany or France where there’s a large Muslim population, then to here. They couldn’t risk coming directly from Iran without having the plane dismantled by inspectors. But if the Muslims are successfully getting it into the country, why test security response? Why train for an airport attack?

  Ward’s phone buzzed. He was not surprised to see it was Brennan. He did not take the call; no good could come of it. Besides, the engines were quite loud. The echo was still deceiving, but Ward knew the riders were very close. There was nothing Brennan could do in time even if there were anything she could do at all.

  Ward stopped Dickson and looked left and right. “You’re there,” Ward said, pointing to a thick-boled tree a few paces to the east. “Don’t fire unless they shoot first. You’re the ace in the hole.”

  Dickson nodded.

  The detective looked around. He saw a flat boulder a hundred or so yards behind on the same side of the valley. “I’ll be there,” he said. “If it does come to gunfire, we don’t want to duplicate our efforts. You cover targets south of your position, and only south, toward the mouth of the valley. I’ll cover the north, toward the cave. That way you won’t accidentally fire in my direction.”

  Ward had saved the cave for himself in case it was necessary to pursue anyone who went inside. There was one circumstance in which Ward might shoot first: to preserve evidence in case the Muslims decided to torch the site.

  Before Ward left, Dickson grabbed his jacket sleeve. “I want to hurt them.”

  “We will,” Ward promised him. “By winning. We put holes in ’em only if we have no choice.”

  Dickson hesitated. Ward wasn’t sure the newly energized banker—who was also exhausted—grasped the distinction, but he couldn’t fix that now. All he needed was for Dickson to follow orders.

  The detective jogged to the boulder, which would afford him a flat, slightly elevated surface on which to take careful aim in the dark.

  It was a long three or four minutes before the first of the ATV headlights could be seen. It appeared as illumination from an area outside the mouth of the valley. The light narrowed and intensified until a single beam came around the corner, the cyclopean eye of a monster returning to its lair. Ward was calm, as he often was immediately before a confrontation; it was always the crawling minutes of anticipation that revved him up. His own exhaustion probably contributed to that, now that he had stopped moving, along with the realization that one way or another this situation was about to come to an end.

  And how do you want it to end? Ward asked himself. With prisoners who can use a trial as a platform for radical causes, or as corpses that become martyrs?

  Four headlights followed the first into the valley. The cave was dark and Ward wondered if it was supposed to be. The four bikers slowed as the lead ATV approached. He was still about fifty yards from Ward’s position. The first ATV sounded his horn, three short bursts, then waited. After a brief wait he fired the salvo again. The horn almost sounded impatient. The biker revved his engine then cut it. He raised his right arm. The others remained where they were, idling. Ward could not see what he was doing. When a cell phone rang in the cave, he knew the man had called Saeed.

  Now they’ll know for sure that something’s wrong, Ward thought. He had left the phone near the front of the cave, far from the bedroll. Saeed would not have done that. The detective was no longer relaxed.

  The lead biker raised his left arm this time. That obviously meant “stay” because he rolled ahead. As the biker sped past, Ward saw something in the young man’s hand but couldn’t quite make it out. A sawed-off shotgun, it looked like. He saw the other riders pull weapons from the gun scabbards mounted to the back of the vehicles.

  The rider stopped just short of the cave. He adjusted his headlight by hand to study the interior. He must have guessed, correctly, that if someone were going to shoot at him, they would have done so already. He also may have surmised that anyone who did so would be subject to withering return fire from the other men.

  What the hell is he holding? Ward wondered as he strained to see through the dark. It wasn’t a gun; it was long and narrow.

  The white light showed the front section of the cave. The man dismounted and stepped in front of it. He was sharply delineated, like a freeze-frame flash snapshot.

  Holy crap, Ward thought. I’ve got one of them.

  He was gripping what appeared to be a tire iron. That was no doubt the weapon used to crack Scott Randolph across the back of the neck. What’s more, he wasn’t wearing a mask. He didn’t expect anyone to survive this and identify him.

  “Who’s here?” the Muslim yelled. “Show yourself, wherever you are! You have no way out!”

  Ward was pretty sure this was also one of the voices he heard in Debbie’s room when they were beaten. He silently apologized to Earl: he wanted to shoot the guy in cold blood himself.

  “This does not have to end in bloodshed!” the youth shouted. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a .38. “We have money! Come out and talk—”

  An echoing crack drowned out the rest of the sentence, or whatever part of it the man completed before hurling himself behind the nearest rock. Ward didn’t know if he were hurt or not, but he did know the shot hadn’t come from Dickson or Ward. It had come from above.

  Randolph.

  Unfortunately, Dickson didn’t know that. The banker fired two shots toward the mouth of the valley, where the other bikers were waiting. Ward saw one of the ATV riders lurch back then slump forward over the low windshield. The other three guns let loose on the tree. Splinters flew and Ward only hoped that Dickson had gotten down low, and fast. Ward had no choice now but to return fire. He swung his rifle around. He didn’t have a shot at the leader so he opened up on the others.

  Gunfire clanged off the ATVs and sparked off rocks surrounding the cave mouth. There was more than one gun on the valley wall. Ward knew how poor the visibility was from up there but that didn’t seem to matter. The shooters up there were pouring it on. All they had to do was aim for the headlights or at the bursts of gunfire coming from that vicinity to keep the enemy ducking.

  The gunfire from above continued but the distinctive barruuuuumm of the AK-47s on full automatic ceased abruptly. The headlights had either been turned off or shot out; in any case, Ward heard the bikes rev and recede. The cowards were leaving, and a couple of shots from Dickson followed them. At least the banker was all right.

  The leader did not follow them. His ATV light was gone but Ward saw him, a dark silhouette against the darker mouth of the cave. He had scurried inside where he couldn’t be fired on from above. He probably didn’t realize he was still backlit by the faint glow of the kerosene heater pilot lights.

  When the gunfire from above fell silent, Ward whistled to get Dickson’s attention then shouted toward the mouth of the valley.

  “Don’t speak, partner. Just stay where you are!” He
had not used Dickson’s name: the man in the cave had no idea who was out there. Should he find out, he still had a cell phone and could call in retribution against Dickson’s family.

  As soon as Ward had given the order, he immediately vacated his position, creeping as low as his bandages would allow toward the opposite side of the valley. As expected, the Muslim leader loosed a barrage of automatic fire toward the spot he’d just vacated. It was just a short burst. A moment later, Ward heard sloshing sounds.

  Overturning the heaters, he realized. The leader must have noticed the glow.

  When Ward reached the other side he followed it toward the cave. In the deep shadows, the man inside couldn’t see him. The leader himself wasn’t moving. He was obviously afraid that his footsteps on the dirt floor might give him away.

  Ward crouched against a tree that had been splintered during the onslaught. He had excellent coverage of the cave mouth. Now, all he had to do was get the Muslim to expose himself.

  Ward leaned out as far as he could. “Freeze!” he shouted.

  The Muslim fired at the voice but Ward was no longer there. He had withdrawn behind the tree and fired multiple shots to the left and right of where he had seen the burst. Ward heard the man cry out and heard the gun hit the ground. Ward flicked on his cell phone’s flashlight app. He shined it toward the cave. The Muslim had landed on his belly, facing in the opposite direction. He had lost the tire iron but was still holding the .38. Ward ran forward, his gun trained on the man. The Muslim was trying to get something from his pants.

  “I told you to freeze, asshole!” Ward yelled.

  The young man withdrew his hand.

  There was a cigarette lighter in it. That’s why he overturned the heaters.

  “I die for my people!” the Muslim cried. “Allah ak—”

  Ward shot him through the arm. “No Paradise for you, asshole. You’re going to the same hospital where you put Debbie.”

  “Allah ... Allah ...”

  The young man had resolve, Ward had to give him that. His gun arm was unhurt and he tried to roll onto his back so he could fire. The detective had reached him by then and kicked the weapon away.