Tyler chose this spot for a reason.
He had a wide field of view from up here and could see or hear pretty much anything approaching. An electronic gate blocked the driveway leading up to the cabin. The driveway itself was nothing more than a gravel trail that wound up the mountain slopes. Cameras around the gate also alerted Tyler to anyone curious enough to wander too close. Even if a trespasser decided to circumvent the gate and go it on foot, they would face a long uphill journey. In a vehicle, it would take nearly fifteen minutes to reach the summit.
That was more than enough time for him to prepare.
Still, anxiety racked his mind.
"How did he find me?" Tyler asked out loud. His voice died in the cool darkness, sucked up by the trees. "I was careful. I took every precaution." Anger and frustration overshadowed each word.
He had been careful.
The other men from the team didn’t even know he was here, as far as he was aware. He'd been able to keep tabs on Collier for the simple reason that the man was a loose cannon, a true sociopath in every sense of the word. Nathan Collier always rubbed him the wrong way. The guy enjoyed killing; took a sick sort of pleasure in watching his enemies perish, and often in gruesome ways.
When parting ways with the others—all agreeing never to make contact again—Billy did everything he could to track Collier, if for no other reason than to make sure the man never tried to hunt him down and take his share. Billy always had suspicions that one of the others would do that, make a play for a larger chunk of the fortune they'd gleaned from their discovery in Iraq.
Even with most of his money secured in various accounts and shelters under his new identity as Tyler Mumford, there was still a good amount of it in the safe in the cabin's basement. He'd always believed that bullion was a commodity that needed to be kept on hand, and so Tyler invested heavily in it.
Gold and silver could be exchanged anywhere in the world, so he kept nearly a quarter of his remaining funds on site in case he had to bug out and drop off the grid.
He spun around and stormed back into the cabin with no answers and more questions than he had when he stepped outside.
If it was Dak who'd killed his new friends, Tyler needed a plan. Would he stay and fight? Or should he take his resources, load up, and leave? He’d disappeared once. He could do it again.
Or could he?
If Dak had tracked him down once, he could do it again.
Paranoia gripped Tyler as he stalked into the kitchen and stopped at the corner where a collection of bourbon bottles occupied the marble countertop. He reached for a bottle of Blade and Bow and simultaneously slid a tumbler closer to the edge, away from the backsplash. He poured a couple of fingers into the glass, set the bottle down, and took a big gulp.
The smooth burn tickled his throat as he swallowed. He let out a relieved sigh and poured a second drink, then capped the bottle. Tyler turned with his glass, content to sip this one, and made his way over to the couch where the fire crackled in the hearth.
He ran through the crime scene again in his head—the bodies laid out on the gravel, each killed with expert precision. Was it the work of Dak? Or was there someone else capable of such killing?
His thoughts wandered back to the equally sinister possibility that Collier could have found him. Was it Nate who did this?
If so, he would be calculating the best way to take Tyler out. He'd map the entire mountain, figure out the best approach, and strike at the opportune moment.
Tyler had placed enough sensors around the perimeter of the cabin to give him plenty of notice if someone was approaching on foot. He had to remind himself of that so he could get some sleep, but he already knew that was going to be tenuous at best.
He took another swig of the bourbon and eased back into the thick leather couch. A pistol sat on the cushion next to him. One of his AR-15s rested on the coffee table with two spare magazines beside it.
Whoever was behind the killings, Tyler convinced himself that they wouldn't attack him tonight. They would wait and plan their next move.
For now, he needed to get some rest. The local cops were doing all they could, which wasn't much, but the killer would lie low for a little while. It's what Tyler would do. When he put himself in the shoes of Dak or Nate, he figured that's what they would do, too.
Moderately satisfied with his rationale, Tyler finished the rest of his bourbon and lazily watched the fire flicker and crackle as his eyelids grew heavy and he surrendered to sleep.
Twelve
Cuchara
Sheriff Sanders burst through the front door of the building before the first rays of sunlight streamed over the horizon to the east. The smell of cheap, burnt coffee barely registered as he passed the front desk.
"Sheriff?" said the woman on duty.
For a second, her call to his attention passed him by in the haze of thoughts and emotions running chaotically through his head.
He paused and then turned to face her. "Yes?"
"I'm sorry, sir. I know you have… a lot going on."
"Spit it out, Amy. I'm conducting an investigation of my son's murder. In case you hadn't noticed."
She blushed, her rotund cheeks burning the color of ripe plums. "I know, sir, and I'm sorry. It's just that—" She hesitated for fear of attracting more of his anger.
"Well?"
She gasped and let it out. "There's a man here to see you," she said. At the sight of his vague confusion, she continued. "He said it's about the investigation, sir. He claims to have information about the… um, killer."
The sheriff blinked. "Where is he?"
"He's in your office, sir."
"My office? You just let him walk into my office?"
"No, sir. Well, sort of. He was very insistent."
"Insistent?" Sanders looked as if his head might blow off and fly into orbit. "Amy, this is a police building. We don't just let strangers have access to any room they want, and especially not my private office." His voice built until it ended in a shout.
He spun and continued down the hall at a faster pace than he'd begun with until he reached the open door and looked inside.
A man, probably in his early or mid-thirties sat in one of the chairs across from the desk. He had one leg crossed over a knee and hands folded in his lap, the picture of someone trying to mind their own business.
Sanders' head bobbed in all directions as he threw his hands up in the air. "Can I help you?"
He marched into his office, leaving the door cracked open, and plopped down in the chair behind his desk.
"Well, are you just going to sit there or are you going to explain yourself? Amy said you claim to have information about who might have killed my son."
The words stung coming out of his mouth. Sanders hadn't slept the night before. His son had been brutally slain in a bar parking lot along with his two closest friends. A range of emotions constantly swept over him throughout the night, rousing him every brief moment it seemed slumber would finally take him.
The man across from him didn't respond at first. He stared back at Sanders with steel blue eyes that could have cut through stone.
"I do," the man said finally, seconds before the sheriff could ask again.
Sanders' temper eased and he slumped back into the chair. Here we go, he mused. The first of probably dozens of claims.
Anytime something like this happened, law enforcement had to pore over piles of claims from people swearing they had legitimate information regarding a crime. The worse the crime, the more people typically came forward with "information."
Most of the time, it was little more than rumor or guesswork.
Sanders hadn't seen much of it in his time in Cuchara, but he'd heard from his buddies with the State Troopers and in other cities. It was always the same and there was a high correlation between the higher rewards offered and the number of people claiming to have helpful information.
The sheriff had to admit this guy didn't look like the freeload
er type, trying to get a few grand with a lucky guess about the suspect's location.
He was strong, with broad shoulders and a striking tan that belied years of outdoor work. His gray jacket over a casual dress, navy blue sweater and dark blue jeans also portrayed a guy who had experienced some moderate success in life. Sanders guessed he was an amateur real estate investor whose actual job was probably in one of the cities—Denver or Colorado Springs—by proximity. He might have been a financial advisor or perhaps one of those startup guys looking to be the next Elon Musk or Bill Gates.
"I'm listening," Sanders said nonchalantly.
"The way those young men died," the stranger began, "would have taken someone who knows what they're doing, wouldn't it?"
The sheriff choked back his grief and gave a single nod. "I suppose so."
"Your son, his friends, did they have any formal combat or martial arts training?"
Sanders' irritation burned on his skin. "You have a point to all this, sir? Because right now I don't see where this is going."
"My apologies, Sheriff," the man said with just a little too much coolness in his voice. "I was only trying to connect a few dots. That's all."
"What dots?" Sanders snorted.
"Seems to me that you have a troublemaker in your midst. Quiet little town like this probably doesn't see many homicides. I'm guessing you haven't during your entire tenure."
Sanders stood and planted his palms on the desk. He leaned over, his face sizzling. If he were a cartoon, smoke would have been spilling out of his ears.
"You better make your point and make it fast, stranger."
"Yes, sir," the man said. "How well do you know Tyler Mumford?"
The question startled the sheriff, but he answered honestly. "Not too well, I suppose. He moved here several months back. Bought one of the old abandoned ski resorts just outside of town. He's done a little philanthropy in the area since he got here. People seem to like him."
No need to mention that most of the "philanthropy" had ended up in the sheriff's pockets.
"I'm sure he has," the visitor hissed. "I'm not going to bother you about how Tyler Mumford came by his fortune. I honestly don't care. What I do know is that he isn't who he says he is."
The irritation on the sheriff's face melted into a frown. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Exactly what it sounds like, Sheriff. You're a smart man." He let those last words hang with a bit of sarcasm.
"What? Are you suggesting Tyler is someone else? As in, he's using an alias or something?"
"I realize it must sound ludicrous to you. So, tell me. Was he friends with your son?"
The knot returned to the sheriff's throat. He sucked in air through his nostrils and let it out gradually. "They had recently become acquainted, yes."
"Did you notice any animosity between your son and Mumford? Any issues at all?"
Sanders' patience waned, desperate to get to the point. "Sir, I'm going to need you to either tell me what it is you think you know or let me go about my day. I'm very busy and as I'm sure you can imagine, this is an extremely difficult time."
"I understand," the stranger sympathized. "You want to find who did this. I'm telling you who is responsible."
The sheriff lifted and dropped his shoulders. "So, you're saying Tyler Mumford killed my boy and his two friends? That's your big reveal?"
The visitor reached into his jacket, and the sheriff drew back instinctively. The man eased his concern with a twist of the head and the slightest, albeit devilish, grin.
"Just a file, Sheriff. I'm unarmed."
The man pulled a manila folder out and set it on the desk, sliding it toward the lawman.
"What is this?" Sanders asked, confused and curious at the same time.
The visitor said nothing, merely staring at the sheriff with the cool gaze of a world champion poker player.
The sheriff took his cue and opened the file. He passed over the pictures of the man he knew as Tyler Mumford, but in a different guise. He was wearing military fatigues. In one of the pictures, Mumford cradled a sniper rifle against his shoulder as he peered through a scope.
"Is this a—"
"Dossier?" the visitor finished. "Yes. You'll see in the file that Tyler's name is actually Billy Trask. He's a former Delta Force operative gone rogue. I'm here to bring him in."
"Bring him in?" The sheriff's confusion mounted.
"I work for a special agency with the DOD, Sheriff. It's my job to locate and arrest particularly dangerous people, people we previously employed. He changed his name and moved here to avoid justice. I'm tasked with the duty of making sure he's brought in. I'm sorry to say that I got here too late to save your boy, Sheriff, but if you help me get to Billy, I can keep it from happening to anyone else."
The sheriff considered the story, sorting through the details of the file in his hands. It was all there in black and white. The truth about the mysterious Tyler Mumford was at his fingertips.
"I can't believe I didn't see through it," the sheriff admitted. "We all just accepted his story without question."
"I assume he was… persuasive, Sheriff. I would tell you not to beat yourself up, but I know you must feel somewhat responsible for what happened last night. You have to let that go for now. There will be a time for grieving, but it isn't now. I need you to take me to Billy's place. I understand he built a cabin on the top of Purgatory Mountain."
The sheriff nodded absently. "Yes, but if you know where he is, why do you need me?"
"He's a marksman, Sheriff, a killer of the highest order. He's taken out targets thousands of yards away. His cabin is perfectly situated to take out anyone foolish enough to come after him. He trusts you. You can get me up there. Once you're in the cabin, I'll make my move."
"He won't suspect anything?"
"Why would he? You're conducting an investigation into the murder of his friends. He doesn't know you know the truth now. Tell him you have some new information on the case."
Sanders thought about it. "He did say he wanted to be the first to know if I got any leads."
The visitor opened his hands wide. "There's your in, then."
The sheriff nodded, anger filling his veins once more. "Okay. Let's do it."
"We have to make it look like you're going alone, Sheriff. No other cars or deputies. Just you. I'll hide out in your car until you're in the cabin. Then I'll move in. Understood?"
"Why no backup?" Sanders wondered.
"That'll spook him. Believe me when I say the last thing you want to do is spook this guy. He could take out your entire department in twenty seconds. You go in alone. I'll have your back."
The sheriff pondered the plan for thirty seconds before he nodded. "Okay. Let's load up and go after him." He stood and then realized he didn't know the visitor's name.
"I'm sorry," Sanders said. "I didn't get your name."
"I didn't give it, Sheriff. And if it's the same to you, I'd like to keep it that way. I'm sure you can understand. But, if you need my credentials, I have them right here."
The visitor reached into the other side of his jacket, but the sheriff stopped him. "No, I don't think I want to know. You've given me more than enough." He looked down again at the man he'd trusted so quickly, the man he now believed killed his son.
Thirteen
Cuchara
Sheriff Sanders steered the county police vehicle off the road and onto the gravel driveway leading up the mountain. The empty runs of the old Purgatory Mountain ski resort traced wide, white lines down the slopes, winding through dense stretches of trees.
Sanders stopped at the security gate that sat thirty yards off the road, surrounded by pine and spruce. A metal speaker box with a numbered panel stood to the left, held up by a black metal post. The sheriff reached out and touched the call button, then waited as the heat escaped his car into the cold morning air.
The phone connected to the key panel rang three times before someone answered.
"Sheriff?
What brings you here so early? You have information about the killer?"
"Good morning, Tyler," he managed. "And yes, I do."
"That was fast," the voice through the box said, surprised more than skeptical. "Did you arrest him?"
"We're tracking him down," Sanders said, stumbling through the words. He immediately worried he'd given away the fact he was lying. "I think we'll have him soon, probably within the hour. I have some questions, though," he added quickly. "I want to make sure we get the right guy."
A pause on the intercom furthered the sheriff's concern. Had the ruse worked? Or was he going to have to call for backup and go in guns blazing? He didn't like the second option. If the dossier on Trask was as legit as this mysterious stranger suggested, cops could be hurt or killed. Trask would probably hold out in his mountain fortress, picking off approaching officers one by one until an all-out assault took place. National news would cover the siege and subsequent battle. None of that sounded like something Sanders wanted. He did his best not to glance into the back of the county SUV where the stranger hid from sight. Even the slightest look might give away what the sheriff was up to.
"Okay, Sheriff," the voice said through the speaker. "Come on up. Sorry it took me a second. I was making some eggs."
"No problem, Tyler. Be right up."
The iron gate slowly retracted to one side. The chain pulling it bounced along until the path was clear and the motor automatically shut off.
Sanders continued through the opening and watched in his mirror as the gate began to close behind.
"Good job, Sheriff," the stranger said in a deep voice from behind the seat.
Sanders didn't acknowledge the comment. Instead, he remained focused on the twisting road leading up around the backside of the mountain.
The forest engulfed the SUV on all sides with pine, aspen, and spruce. The lush evergreen had always given Sanders a sense of safety and serenity in a chaotic world. Since his wife Lorita left him over a decade ago, he'd always found comfort in the mountains and woods around Cuchara. She'd had her reasons for leaving. He wasn't around enough, and when he was, Sanders didn't always give her enough attention. It was doomed from the start, he supposed, and he was less than shocked when she ran off with another man, a rancher from Wyoming who she met while he was passing through town on business.
The Relic Runner Origin Story Box Set Page 27