Endangered

7

On Monday morning, Nate Romanowski blinked against the harsh interior lighting of the interrogation room in the Federal Building in downtown Cheyenne. He wore a loose orange jumpsuit stenciled with DOJ over the breast pocket and large red Crocs on his feet. His long blond hair cascaded past his shoulders. His complexion was waxen and pale and his sharp blue eyes looked out as if from behind a mask. His hands and wrists were bound by a Smith & Wesson Cuff-Maxx high-security belly chain and restraints, even though his trip had consisted only of an elevator ride from the basement cell to the seventh floor.

The guard guided him through the door and shut it behind him.

“Was this really necessary?” he asked as he rattled his wrist chains at the bulky man on the other side of the interrogation table. A slim manila folder was on the surface of the table.

“Probably not,” the man answered with a slight grin. He wore a suit jacket, tie, and a white shirt that strained over his belly. His name was Stan Dudley, and he was the FBI special agent in charge of Nate’s case. Dudley was in his mid-forties, with a fleshy bland face and pasted-down light brown hair that would rise away from his scalp as the day went on. He had close-set eyes, a rounded nose, and ancient acne scars beneath his cheekbones. His thick neck bulged over the collar of his shirt, and sometimes when he talked, the swell of fat under his jaw trembled.

“Then why did you bring me up this way?”

“People talk,” Dudley said. “We don’t want the guards and other staff to think we’re letting you walk, do we?”

Nate grunted.

“Have a seat.”

“Do you have a key for these?” Nate asked, thrusting his arms out.

“Someone does. Sit down.”

Dudley liked this, Nate knew. He liked telling Nate what to do and how to do it and when he wanted it done. And he liked stringing him along, reminding Nate who was in charge and who was in custody.

As he repositioned the hard-backed chair with his foot so he could sit down in it, Nate thought how easy it would be to quickly reach across the table and twist Dudley’s ears off. The chain between his wrists was long enough that he could grab both of them.

But because he wanted out and he knew that Dudley would love the excuse to keep him inside, Nate sat.

Dudley reached out and tapped the file. “You know I fought against this, don’t you?”

Nate didn’t respond.

“I think it’s a despicable deal. If it was up to me, I’d unleash the federal prosecutors on you and put you away for a hundred years. I know—and you know—that you’ve been responsible for murder and mayhem across most of the continental U.S. People just can’t go around serving as judge, jury, and executioner based on some kind of personal code. We have laws for that. To that, we can agree.”

Nate agreed to nothing.

“But we’ve gotten the word to back off. All they care about at the Department of Justice right now is this deal,” Dudley said, again tapping the file. “I don’t know if you realize how flipping lucky you are.”

“I’m Mr. Luck,” Nate said sourly. He’d been held in the basement of the Federal Building in detention for four months. He’d not flown his falcons, or breathed mountain air, or eaten his normal diet of lean game meat he killed himself. Although he’d done thousands of push-ups, pull-ups, squats, and other exercises in his cell, and he was in many respects in the best physical shape since he’d been in Special Operations, mentally he felt bloated, flabby, dull, and completely off his game. His brain was foggy, and he had trouble concentrating. Nate had come to understand the vacant-eyed tigers he’d seen pacing rhythmically back and forth in the zoo because he felt like one of them.

“Rulon didn’t help, either,” Dudley scoffed, referring to the governor of Wyoming, who had two and a half years left in his second and final term of office. “I don’t know what you ever did for him, or if you have illicit photos of him or what, but he went to bat for you. He somehow convinced my superiors you’d be of better service to us out there than in here. I think he’s full of shit, but he must have been pretty convincing.”

Nate raised his eyebrows in surprise. He wasn’t aware that Rulon had been involved in the negotiations, but he was grateful for it.

“We’ve got your gun,” Dudley said. “And you’re not getting it back.”

“I’ve got a right to defend myself,” Nate said.

“When you sign these papers, you sign away your rights. You have no rights beyond that, unless I say so.”

“I want my weapon back.”

Nate had surrendered his .50-caliber five-shot Freedom Arms .500 Wyoming Express revolver when he gave himself up. It was a handgun that could take out a moose a mile away or kill a car. The gun was a part of him and he knew how to use it.

Dudley placed his hand on the file and said, “If you’re stupid enough to arm yourself again, you’ll be right back here, and I’ll be happy to expedite the paperwork.”

Nate looked away.

“I’m sure you’ll be happy to know that even though I lost the argument against releasing you, the DOJ agreed to retain me as your case manager, since we have such a special relationship and all.”

He said, “You know, before I took this job out here, I was warned about people like you. I was told there were still a number of lone-wolf survivalist types who lived out here in places like Wyoming, Montana, and Idaho. I thought we’d stomped them out years ago, but here we are. There still may be a few of you left, but as of today the number is one less, which makes me feel very . . . patriotic.”

Dudley grinned at that.

—

“THE NEGOTIATIONS WERE LIKE five monkeys fucking a football,” Dudley complained. “You’ve got career federal prosecutors, a military JAG because of your Special Forces background, DOJ political lackeys, and the governor’s office all fighting about what to do with you. My solution was real simple: put you on trial and send you to the supermax in Florence, Colorado.”

Dudley looked up to see if he could get a reaction out of Nate. He couldn’t.

“But our biggest problem, as you know, was placing you at the scene of your most heinous crimes, because you were literally off the grid. No credit card receipts, no hotel registries, no cell phone records, no loans, no CC videotape, no arrests, no nothing. No direct or circumstantial evidence. Don’t get me wrong—I’m convinced that with enough time and manpower we’d be able to nail you. We can nail anyone if we set our mind to it. Anyone.”

Nate tried not to sigh. He’d heard the threat from Dudley a half-dozen times. He knew better than to rise to the bait.

What he wanted to say was simple: I’ve never killed anyone who didn’t need killing.

—

THE FACT WAS, Nate knew, the feds couldn’t convict him on the murder, conspiracy, kidnapping, or other charges they’d originally filed against him. As Dudley had admitted, the evidence wasn’t there.

But what they could do was put him away for not filing tax returns for the last twelve years. While the crime didn’t even remotely rise to the level of the original charges, a conviction on tax evasion could put him into federal prison for years. It was the “Al Capone method” of going after a target indirectly, and it could be devastatingly effective if the prosecutors were motivated to pursue it.

The original charges had been quietly dropped and replaced with new charges while the negotiations were under way. However it went, he knew, they had him.

—

“SO LET ME BE the first to welcome you back to the modern world,” Dudley said, showing his teeth. “Consider your wings clipped. You can’t make a move without me knowing about it. If you decide to try and go underground again, I’ll be on you with a team within minutes and we’ll drag your ass back here, unless, you know, something bad happens during the arrest that results in your demise.

“I’ll know where you drive, what you eat, where you sleep, and how long you sit on the toilet. You’ll be just another American citizen. We’ll know everything about you and we can take you down anytime we want. And believe me, I’ll be paying attention to those things because I’m . . . motivated. Motivated to putting you away. Do you understand that?”

Nate grunted again.

“Did you read the agreement?” Dudley asked.

“Yes.”

“Are you ready to sign it? Because if you aren’t, I’ll happily call the guard and send you back to your home away from home in the basement. Even the governor would have to understand that we couldn’t release you if you refused to play ball.”

“I need a pen,” Nate said.

“That’s my boy.”

Then, turning toward the two-way mirror, Dudley said, “Bring in the devices.”

—

A HIGH-TECH TRACKING BRACELET was secured to Nate’s left wrist and another was fastened to his ankle by two young DOJ technical support staffers. Nate barely listened to what they were telling him about the devices, but he got the gist. Neither of the techs would meet his eye as they worked.

The monitors were waterproof, shockproof, and permanent, and could only be removed by a DOJ specialist. The devices looped around his limbs and were locked in place by a coded infrared beam. They were thin and unobtrusive and reminded him of plastic-coated steel cables.

If he tried to cut them off or remove them, a homing signal would alert the feds—meaning Dudley as well as full-time surveillance staff stationed in Virginia—and “the wrath of God will descend upon you,” Dudley said. The devices would provide Nate’s precise GPS coordinates to the meter at all times and could be tracked by satellites and, if necessary, drones.

Even local private closed-circuit cameras could be hacked and overridden to provide video evidence of his whereabouts if they wanted to watch him. It was experimental technology, Dudley said with pride, but it had worked in beta experiments thus far.

One of the techs placed a cell phone and charger on the table in front of Nate.

Dudley said, “That’s your new BlackBerry. Don’t lose it, don’t use it for anything other than to check in every day, and don’t ever turn it off. There’s a single number stored inside that goes direct to an operations center in Langley, Virginia. When we say check in every day, we mean check in every day. Let us know what you’re doing, where you’re going, and who you’re with. You won’t be talking to me directly, but I’ll get a daily update from your contact. If you don’t call in, we’ll come looking for you. Got that?”

Nate frowned at the phone. Not only did he hate cell phones, but Dudley had given him a BlackBerry.

—

NATE BREATHED IN and looked up at the camera mounted over the two-way mirror in the wall. The red light was on. Someone, somewhere, was watching him.

He was back on the grid.

—

“I’M OBLIGATED BY PROCEDURE to go over the agreement with you so you fully understand what you’re about to sign,” Dudley said. “You claim that you’ve read it, so this is for the record.” The record meant the overhead camera, Nate knew.

Dudley opened the folder.

“‘Agreement between the U.S. Department of Justice and one Nathaniel Romanowski,’ blah-blah-blah, legalese boilerplate . . .” Dudley said in a singsong voice until he got to the third page. “Okay, page three: the terms. If you want me to read the actual language, please indicate by saying that you do. Otherwise, I’ll paraphrase.”

Nate sneered.

“Okay then, I’ll take that as permission to paraphrase.

“Subject agrees to cooperate with all ongoing federal investigations concerning one Wolfgang Templeton and his criminal network. Subject agrees to provide testimony in court if requested by the DOJ. Subject agrees to participate in any local operations if asked by the DOJ involving Wolfgang Templeton and to serve as an agent of the prosecution during said investigation. Got that?”

Nate nodded.

“You know what it means, right?”

“I’m offering myself up as bait.”

“Correcto,” Dudley said. “We’re assuming Templeton isn’t too pleased with you for blowing up his operation. If he knows you’re out on the street, we think he’ll come after you. That’s when we’ll nail him. So, yes, ‘bait’ is a good word for it.”

Nate had crossed the line the year before. He had willingly become a part of a high-class murder-for-hire operation with the understanding that only elite society’s untouchable scum would be targeted. Nate had wholly approved of the concept. Templeton ran the operation from his remote Black Hills ranch in Medicine Wheel County, Wyoming. But Templeton had overreached and the operation had gone sour. Nate had realized too late what had happened and he’d been the catalyst in Templeton’s final undoing. Templeton got away in one of his private planes, along with his new fiancée: Joe Pickett’s mother-in-law, Missy Vankueren. Their whereabouts were unknown.

Nate had discerned that the FBI wanted Templeton bad due to political pressure placed on them by members of the administration who’d had friends and crony capitalist colleagues “disappeared” by Templeton’s operation. He’d heard there were cabinet secretaries as well as the attorney general himself who wanted revenge, and they were willing to influence the prosecution of Nate to expedite it. He was to become a tool of the same elites Templeton had targeted. At the same time, Nate had no doubt that Templeton was under pressure from former clients—many of whom were prominent in government and industry—to eliminate the threat of Nate ever talking about the operations he knew about and had been personally involved in.

“There are other terms,” Dudley said. “You already know about not carrying a weapon so we won’t go there again. Oh—and this: ‘Subject waives his rights to access the federal witness relocation project.’ That means if Templeton turns up the heat and comes after you, you can’t come crying to us to hide you away.”

Nate gritted his teeth. He said, “I’ve never gone crying to anyone about anything.”

Dudley smiled and went on to the next item.

“‘Subject agrees to commit no more crimes in the state of Wyoming.’”

Nate snorted at that.

“That was Governor Rulon’s provision,” Dudley said. “He said he did some research and a former governor of Wyoming made the same deal with Butch Cassidy before he released him from the territorial prison over in Laramie. Apparently, Butch was an honorable outlaw and he never committed another crime in Wyoming, even though he used to use the state as his hideout. It seems like a stupid provision to me, but the governor insisted. Are you as honorable an outlaw as Butch Cassidy?”

Nate’s face didn’t twitch.

“Oh, and this is mine,” Dudley said, looking up. “‘Subject agrees to have no more contact with one Joe Pickett of Twelve Sleep County—or his family.’”

“What? That wasn’t there earlier,” Nate said angrily.

Years before, Nate had made a pact with Joe to watch out for the Picketts after Joe managed to get Nate released from jail for a crime he didn’t commit. Since then, they’d been through a lot together and it was Joe who’d convinced Nate to turn himself in after the Templeton scheme blew up. It wasn’t a vow he was willing to break.

“I just added that this morning,” Dudley said. “It’s for your own protection and for ours. I talked to the DOJ and I pointed out that every time you get involved with that friend of yours, people end up dead. I know it, you know it, everybody in the state knows it. This will prevent that from happening until we’ve nailed Templeton. Maybe after that, we can revisit the language.”

“I won’t agree to it,” Nate said. “You can’t put in terms that weren’t negotiated earlier.”

“We can do whatever we want,” Dudley said, thrusting out his jaw. “We’re the government.”

Nate smoldered. He had relented on every point over months and he was minutes away from being released. Now this.

“What about my right to freedom of association?” Nate said.

“I think we went over that rights thing already,” Dudley said impatiently.

“Joe is a good man. I’m obligated to him.”

“Not anymore.”

“You can’t do this.”

“Do I have to say it again?”

—

“AND THE LAST THING,” Dudley said. “‘Subject agrees to go seek legitimate employment.’ That’s right—you need to go straight. Meaning you’ll actually get a job, go to work, pay your taxes, and exist like a normal human being until Templeton decides to find you. This, for you, might be the toughest thing of all.”

“It’s not,” Nate countered.

Dudley leaned back and arched his eyebrows. “Are you gonna tell me this falconry business you dreamed up is actually going to work?”

“Yes.”

“What is it you plan to do again?”

Nate said, “There are people out there who have a need for falconry services, mainly for the purpose of chasing off problem species. Over the years, invasive bird species have been introduced throughout North America and they’ve multiplied by the millions. We’re talking about starlings, English sparrows, house finches, Eurasian collared doves. Their populations have exploded. Crows and pigeons are always a problem, too.

“Refineries don’t want pigeons roosting in their equipment. Ranchers don’t want starlings taking over their barns and pooping on their livestock. Growers don’t want starlings and crows eating their produce. All these birds are terrified of certain predators like peregrines or gyrfalcons. They know and fear a falcon’s silhouette in the sky even if they’ve never actually seen a real raptor—it’s imprinted in their DNA. They know that if a falcon is around, they better leave the premises or they’ll get smacked. Starlings will travel a hundred miles to avoid a falcon in the sky. Hiring an experienced falconer costs a lot less than trying to poison or shoot the pest birds, or to rig up netting or spikes or whatever. That’s what I’m going to do.”

Dudley rolled his eyes. He said, “And this girlfriend of yours has it all organized and ready to go?”

Nate nodded. He’d met Liv Brannan in Medicine Wheel County and they’d connected instantly. Liv had a sharp business mind and the capital from years of working for Templeton to launch Yarak, Inc., a falconry services enterprise. He couldn’t wait to see her. She had milk-chocolate skin, big brown eyes, and a trim figure, and she was smart as a whip. She had spent hours convincing him through the Plexiglas window of the visiting room that he should negotiate his way out of jail—and that she’d be waiting for him. They’d go straight together, she’d said.

Liv had talked to proprietors of other falconry outfits around the country and learned that experienced master falconers could make $400 to $750 per day from winegrowers, refinery owners, farmers, ranchers, and other commercial operators. She’d obtained the equipment, registered the new company with the Wyoming secretary of state, filed the tax forms, set up a website, and had already begun marketing Yarak, Inc.

The classic falconry definition of yarak was a Turkish phrase describing the peak condition of a falcon to fly and hunt. It was described as “full of stamina, well muscled, alert, neither too fat nor too thin, perfect condition for hunting and killing prey. This state is rarely achieved but a wonder to behold when observed.”

“It sounds like a stupid idea to me,” Dudley said.

“That’s why I hate explaining a business plan to a bureaucrat who’s never worked in the private sector in his life.”

Dudley narrowed his eyes and set his jaw.

He said, “I know what’s going to happen to you. You’ll either be back here or you’ll be dead. I’m okay with either one.”

Nate reached out and pulled the sets of documents closer and spun them around. He said, “One of the greatest and most mystical things about falconry is that when you release a bird to the sky—even a bird you’ve worked with for years and years—you never know if it’s going to come back. Eventually, that falcon may take off and it’s the last you ever see of it. Years of work and dedication are released to the wind. There’s satisfaction in the partnership, but no certainty. If you’re a person who needs certainty, falconry isn’t an art you should try to master.”

Nate signed the papers and shoved them back to Dudley, who sat back, screwed up his face, and said, “I’m not sure I understand a word of what you’re saying.”

“I’m not surprised,” Nate said, holding out his hands. “Get the key.”

—

AS NATE PASSED BY the armed security guards manning the metal detector in the entry lobby, they nodded at him in a way that suggested they knew much more about him than he knew about them. He nodded back. He was aware from several disparaging remarks from Dudley that a kind of unwelcome (by Dudley) legend had grown about Nate among certain types. Nate had never fostered any admiration or following, and he didn’t plan to start now. But those security guards seemed to admire him in a way he found uncomfortable.

He was wearing the same clothes he’d worn when he was taken into custody months before: jeans, heavy lace-up boots, a T-shirt under a gray hoodie, a canvas tactical vest. A leather falcon jess bound his hair into a ponytail.

When he pushed through the double doors of the vestibule’s entrance and stepped outside, his senses were overwhelmed. The sky was cloudless and the spring’s high-altitude sun was intense. The air smelled of leaves budding out, pollen, and car exhaust. He could hear birds chirping, motors racing, and a light din of traffic from downtown.

Idling on the street in front of the Federal Building was a white panel van. A graphic of a peregrine falcon in full-attack stoop had been painted on the side over the words YARAK, INC., lettered in a rough stencil format. In script beneath the graphic it read: Falconry Services and contained a website address.

Liv was at the wheel, and when she saw him come out of the building, her grin exploded. It seemed bright enough, he thought, to cast shadows.

He waved hello, then walked around the back of the van and jumped into the passenger seat and shut the door.

“You are a sight for sore eyes,” she said, still beaming. “I’ve been dreaming of this day.”

Liv wore jeans, knee-high boots, a T-shirt, and a blazer with a sheer violet scarf. She looked good.

Nate overlooked that and said, “We need to talk.”

She shook her head defiantly and pulled away from the curb.

The golden dome of the state capitol building reflected the harsh afternoon sun. Nate thought: Thank you, Governor Rulon. You did me a solid. But he knew to expect a call someday from the governor’s people. Rulon was wily and he’d expect something in return.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” she said.

“Liv . . .”

“Forget about it. I know you. You’re going to try to convince me that I’m in danger being close to you. That we should go our separate ways for my own safety.”

Nate nodded. He said, “It’s a matter of time before Templeton finds me. When he finds me, he’ll find you. I can’t risk losing you. You deserve a better life.”

“That’s nice,” she said, guiding the van north through the blocks of old Victorian homes that once belonged to absentee cattle ranchers who had ranches in the north. The buildings were now law offices or the headquarters of associations.

She said, “I’m not going anywhere. This is a partnership, remember? We’re going straight and we’re doing it together. We’re putting Mr. Templeton behind us and we’re getting right with God and country. It’s a new chapter in our lives. This is where the outlaw falconer and the formerly wayward sister from Louisiana join forces. We’re going to be normal together like we talked about. So save your breath.”

He moaned.

“Forget all that and think about this moment,” she said. “You’re out of jail and back among the living. This is what we’ve been waiting for.”

“I wish it felt better,” Nate said.

She reacted as if he’d slapped her, and he quickly tried to explain. “It’s not you,” he said. “I’d rather be here with you right now than with anyone on earth. But I thought I’d feel free on this day—emancipated. Instead, I feel like a eunuch.”

He lifted his arm to show her the monitor. “There’s one on my ankle, too. They’re tracking every move I make, so they can swoop down on me if I stray or if Templeton finds me. And they didn’t return my weapon.”

“That was part of the agreement,” she said, patting the center console. “But nowhere on that paper did it say I couldn’t carry.”

Nate opened the console to find a deadly looking snub-nosed revolver.

“It’s a Smith and Wesson Governor,” she said. “The man at the gun store said it’s very versatile and a real stopper. You can load it with .410 shotgun shells, .45 ACP rounds, or .45 Colts. Or you can mix and match—three shotgun shells, three bullets. I thought you might like it, and I think even I could hit something with a shotgun shell at close range.”

“Interesting choice,” Nate said. He was proud of her.

“Look over your shoulder,” she said.

He turned. There were no seats in the back of the van. His two peregrines and the red-tailed hawk stood erect and hooded in wire cages on the floor. They looked healthy and still. The ability raptors had for remaining still for hours and then exploding into furious action was a trait Nate had always admired.

A large plastic cooler—no doubt containing dead rabbits and pigeons for feed—was behind the cages. Falconry gloves, lures, and whistles were packed in translucent boxes that had been fixed to the interior side wall of the van. On the other wall was heavy winter clothing and a small desk that would pop down for communications and bookkeeping.

“Just like you described it,” Nate said. “You did a great job.”

“We’re open for business,” she said with a grin. “In fact, there’s some news on that front.”

He waited.

“Our first job,” she said. “It came this morning. A rancher in northern Wyoming named Wells needs to chase starlings out of his horse barn.”

“So that’s where we’re headed?” Nate asked as they cleared the city limits and merged onto I-25 North.

“Only as far as Casper tonight,” she said, looking over and crinkling her nose. “We have a reservation at a hotel—the honeymoon suite. You and I have some catching up to do.”

Nate sat back and smiled.

She said, “Those bracelet monitors can’t hear us, can they?”

“No.”

“Good. I don’t want to scorch some bureaucrat’s ears tonight.”