Breaking Point

27

Joe Pickett’s eyes shot open at the sound of a sharp concussion. Instinctively thinking thunder, he expected the night sky to be filled with storm clouds, but it was still clear, the stars sharp and endless.

Then, like a distant thunderclap, the echo of the explosion rolled through the mountains. He sat up and rubbed his face, and noticed other bodies were stirring in the moonlight, disturbed by the sound. But no one else seemed awake.

At that moment, Underwood’s satellite phone went off and Joe got a sick feeling in his stomach.

Grunting himself awake and patting around in his blanket for the phone, Underwood sat up.

Joe was close enough that he heard Batista’s triumphant voice say, “We got him.”

Joe closed his eyes. He thought of Pam and Hannah Roberson, hoped they were sleeping, and hoped they’d be spared the news as long as possible, because their lives had just been changed forever.

The team of Special agents grumbled and thrashed as Underwood walked among them, nudging them with his boot to get up and get ready. Joe had already stowed his sleeping bag and pad in his saddlebags and was carrying his saddle toward Toby when Underwood said to his men, “Listen up, guys. I just talked to Director Batista. He said they located Butch Roberson west of us with the military drone and they fired a Hellfire missile and took the bastard out.”

Joe paused to hear the rest, and saw the faces of the team turn to Underwood. One of them said, “Holy Christ-a Hellfire missile?”

“Our drone used night-vision technology to pinpoint Roberson and transmit the video back to the FOB,” Underwood said. “He was standing in the middle of a small clearing, talking to Director Batista on the satellite phone. He didn’t have the hostages with him and he was in the clear, so the determination was made right then to fire.”

“Is he dead?” one of the agents asked.

“Deader than dead,” Underwood said. “With no collateral damage we know of. Director Batista is concerned Roberson might have killed his hostages before he was located, but our job is to confirm that. We’re supposed to establish a perimeter around the kill zone and keep everyone away until the FBI can send their forensics team to get a positive DNA identification.”

“Hold it,” Joe said to Underwood. “If they got video of him and determined it was Butch, why do they need to send in forensics to the site? Can’t they do the work later in their lab?”

“I don’t know the answer to that,” Underwood said. “I wasn’t the one who issued the kill order.”

“Who did?”

“Director Batista,” Underwood said. “He made the call himself. That much I know.”

“It’s over,” one of the agents said. “Riding horses, sleeping in the open-all this bullshit for nothing.”

“At least he won’t be shooting at us,” one of the agents said with relief.

“Let’s get ready, guys,” Underwood said. “We need to be at the kill zone as soon as we can. I’ve got the coordinates, and Batista said it’s about eight miles away.”

He looked up at Joe. “How long do you think that will take?”

Joe said, “Two hours if we can stay out of the down timber, a lot longer if we get tangled up in the forest.”

Underwood grimaced and nodded. He said, “Let’s not do that. Let’s get this over so we can get the hell off this mountain.”

As Underwood painfully climbed up into his saddle, Joe said, “So this is how it happens now?”

“What?”

“You don’t even bother with making an arrest or taking them to court. You just see them on a video screen and push a button.”

“Wasn’t my call,” Underwood said. “But I can’t say I’m all busted up about it. Better they blow him up than risk any of us getting hurt.”

Joe said, “And here I always thought part of the job of law enforcement was the risk of getting hurt.”

Underwood smirked and shook his head. “You and your old-school crap.”

“Let me borrow your phone again,” Joe said, reaching out.

“Not now. We have to stay off the line in case. .” Underwood’s argument petered out as he saw the illogic in it. “I guess Butch can’t use his phone if he’s blown up in a million pieces.”

“Yup.”

Underwood sighed and unslung the lanyard for the phone over his head. “Why do you need it?” he asked.

Joe said, “I need to quit.”

“What-this mission?”

“My job,” Joe said.

“Then you can’t have it,” Underwood said, pulling the phone back before Joe could grasp it. “I need you until we find the kill zone. You know these mountains better than anyone here.”

Joe took a deep breath and expelled it slowly through his nose. He felt the need to be a witness at the kill zone since he’d already come this far.

“That and no farther,” he said.

“Don’t worry,” Underwood said. “I’ll be as glad to get rid of you as you are to leave.”

Joe could see the reflection of his grinning teeth in the moonlight.

That’s when Underwood’s phone lit up again and trilled. Joe expected it to be Batista with more orders or more self-congratulation.

He was close enough to hear Butch Roberson’s bass voice ask Batista, “What the hell did you idiots just do?”

Joe looked up at the night sky and was a little surprised and ashamed by his sense of relief.

Then it hit him: If it wasn’t Butch Roberson who’d been hit by the missile, who was it?