Force of Nature

26

There was still a sifting of powdered-sugar snow that held in the cold night air as Joe slid his shotgun into the cab of his pickup and pulled himself in. He shut the door and started the motor and sat for a few seconds with the engine idling, sorting out his route and hoping his suspicions about Luke Brueggemann were wrong. Lord knows, he thought, he’d been wrong before.

As he backed out of the drive onto Bighorn Road, he recalled the first time he’d heard that he’d be getting a trainee. It had been less than a month before and in the form of a departmental email sent by the assistant director of the Game and Fish Department in Cheyenne. It wasn’t a request as much as an order. Joe hated orders, balked at them simply for being orders, but in this case he swallowed his consternation and remembered his own days as a trainee, and how the experience — for better and for worse — had set him on the path he had taken. Pay it forward, he had thought.

But Joe recalled that the initial email was typically terse: the trainee’s name, origin, and date of arrival. No other information, and Joe didn’t have additional reason to ask for more at the time. Joe knew the state system well enough to doubt whether Brueggemann had somehow infiltrated it with this end in mind. He doubted it. More likely, he thought, Brueggemann had been recruited by someone — probably his girlfriend.

Brueggemann was of the age and station in life — single, barely twenty-two, and practically penniless — that he’d likely be vulnerable to an approach, Joe thought. If sex, a future, or money were offered, few boys that age would refuse. So maybe they got to Brueggemann once it was known he’d be assigned to Joe Pickett in Twelve Sleep County.

Or maybe, Joe thought, she’d replaced the real Luke Brueggemann with a Luke Brueggemann of her own? If so, what happened to the real kid? Joe shivered at the possibilities.

Or maybe, Joe thought, he should stop letting his imagination run wild until he knew more and could actually base his speculation on a foundation of facts.

As he drove away from his home, he watched it recede in his rearview mirror. The house was lit up like Christmas, which was all the more striking because of the utter darkness all around. It looked like a beacon, every room lit up as Marybeth and Lucy and April packed for their early morning flight. The place looked so … inviting.

He took his foot off the gas and coasted for a moment, thinking about turning around. It wouldn’t be that many hours before they’d need to gather up and go to the airport. If something happened while he was away, he’d never forgive himself.

But …

Mike Reed had agreed to stay until he got back. Reed could be trusted, couldn’t he?

Joe swatted away his paranoia and drove on.

As he let the threads of speculation hang there, one item jolted him in another direction: Brueggemann’s girlfriend. All he knew about her, or thought he knew about her from Brueggemann, was that she lived in Laramie because she was a student at the University of Wyoming. And he thought about what Nate had said: a young female.

Which made his mind leap and his scalp contract. Joe drew his cell phone out of his breast pocket and opened it and scrolled down the speed dial until he found Sheridan’s cell phone number.

The call went straight to voice mail.

“Call me the second you get this,” Joe growled, “and don’t turn your phone off at night.”

He cursed aloud. One of the problems with every person having a cell phone instead of a landline was that if they turned their phone off, there was no way to contact them in an emergency. Sheridan was a serial offender, and like most girls her age, she was casual about keeping her phone on or properly charged up. To her, the phone was for her personal convenience — for calling or texting out. She needed her sleep, after all, and rarely considered the possibility of a worried father trying to call her in the middle of the night.

Joe considered letting Marybeth know of his concern but decided to let it lie for now. Marybeth had enough on her plate that very moment. He’d tell her after he’d come up with some kind of plan. Meanwhile, he sent a call me text to Sheridan’s phone.

Then he scrolled further down and found the name chuck coon and pressed send.

Coon was the special agent in charge of the FBI office in Cheyenne in southeastern Wyoming, which was only forty-five miles from Laramie. Coon was approaching middle age but looked surprisingly youthful. He was upright, tightly coiled, and crisply professional. In a perfect world, Joe thought, Coon would be on track to move up in the Bureau to the top echelon. But in the bureaucratic and political world of the federal government, there was no assurance of his advancement. Coon, like Joe, didn’t do politics well.

Luckily, Coon seemed to like the unique and sometimes bizarre challenges of living and working in a state with dozens of overlapping state and federal law enforcement agencies despite its tiny population of barely a half million residents. Joe had worked with — and against — Coon on several cases over the past few years. They respected each other. Joe had happily become a thorn in Coon’s side more than once, and Coon used Joe for background and as a sounding board for all things Wyoming. Since both were family men with young daughters, they had a common bond. Coon had asked Joe never to call him at home on his private number unless it was an emergency.

Coon’s phone rang four times. Joe imagined the special agent plucking it from a nightstand, reading the caller ID, and groggily making a decision whether to take it or not.

Then: “Joe, what do you want?”

“Sorry to wake you up,” Joe said.

“What makes you think I was sleeping in the middle of the night?”

“You don’t sound very excited to talk to me.”

“It’s”—Coon was likely fumbling around for his glasses before he said—“twelve thirty-five in the morning.”

Before Joe could speak, Coon said, “Hold on a minute.”

Joe waited, assuming the special agent was padding out of the bedroom and shutting the door behind him so his wife could go back to sleep.

“Okay, what?” he asked.

“I’m sure you’re tracking all the troubles up here,” Joe said. “The triple homicide, the missing residents, all that.”

“Of course,” Coon said, instantly irritated. “Your sheriff asked for some technical help, but he won’t let me send in the cavalry.”

“I know,” Joe said. “He’s funny that way. Anyway, I’m starting to believe everything is connected to one man. And I’m narrowing down his motives and location. I wish I could say he’s lying low, but I think he’s just taking a breather until the next shoe drops.”

Coon didn’t speak for a moment. Finally, “You think one bad guy is responsible for all that?”

“One guy and his team. He has others,” Joe said. “I don’t think I have enough time to lay it all out right now. But the bad guy I’m talking about has federal connections. He’s one of you—only on the special-operations side instead of the Homeland Security side.”

“One of us?” Coon asked, doubt in his voice. “What’s his name? No, let me guess: Nate Romanowski.”

Joe snorted. “Not this time.”

“Then who?”

Joe told him, and spelled out N-E-M-E-C-E-K so Coon could jot it down.

“Never heard of him,” Coon said.

“I’m not surprised. And you likely won’t find much on him, is my guess. But if you dig deep enough into the Defense Department or talk to some secret spooks, you might find out more.”

“This is crazy,” Coon said. “This is too much for the middle of the night. Why are you calling me with this now?”

“So you can start the process,” Joe said. “And I know you’ve got no reason to believe me yet. But just start the process, get things going in the morning with your guys. It’s Friday and you wouldn’t want to wait over the weekend to get started because it may be too late. I’m thinking if official inquiries are made it might get back to the bad guy that he’s got trouble. It might make him back off and we can save some lives up here.”

Coon moaned the moan of a frustrated federal bureaucrat. Joe had heard it before.

“I know,” Joe said. “But some of those lives might belong to my family.”

“What?”

Joe told him about the visit to Marybeth in the library.

Coon was flummoxed. “But why would he do that? Was he trying to intimidate her?”

“I guess,” Joe said. “Of course, he didn’t know who he was dealing with. But it did put the fear of God in her when she considered our daughters. We’re leaving for a few days in the morning.”

Coon sounded genuinely concerned when he said, “You’re taking your family out of the state? Jesus — this is serious.”

“I wouldn’t have called you otherwise,” Joe said. “But I need something else.”

Coon’s concern turned quickly back to agitation. “What?”

“It’s a personal request,” Joe said, “but it may connect with everything else. Do you remember I have a daughter going to school in Laramie? Named Sheridan?”

“Yes,” Coon said. “I remember her.”

“I’m asking you to drive over the summit tomorrow and wake her up in her dorm room. I’ll give you the hall and the room.”

“Wake her up? Why?”

“Ask her about a new friend of hers from Maryland. A female. I’m sure Sheridan will give you her name and location. When you find this Maryland girl, check her out. Look into her background, then go see her. It should be you in your official capacity. You in your suit and tie and that FBI ID. If this girl from Maryland is who I think she is, you’ll get a whole different response than I would. And be careful — she might surprise you. And find out if she’s acquainted with a boy who just graduated named Luke Brueggemann. I’ll spell that …”

“You can’t just throw this crap out there and expect me to jump,” Coon said. “Did you forget who I work for?”

“Look,” Joe said, “trust me on this. Chuck, I wouldn’t call if I didn’t think it was important. This is my family and my daughter I’m talking about, plus who knows how many other innocent people will go down before this is over. I can’t prove a darned thing, but we can sort it all out later. I’m not asking you to do anything unethical or illegal. I’m just asking you to rearrange your morning and get your guys in the office to start an investigation of John Nemecek. If it all pans out, you and your office will be heroes. If it doesn’t, I’ll be the jackass.”

“Won’t be the first time,” Coon chuckled.

“Or the last. And as soon as I know more from my end, I’ll call you. I think the pieces will start to fall into place if we force it.”

Another sigh.

“I’d do it for you,” Joe said. “If you ask me a favor to help your family, you know I’d do it.”

“I was waiting for you to play that card,” Coon said, defeated.

“I would,” Joe said.

“I know you would,” Coon said. “Now what was the name of this Luke kid?”

After Joe closed his phone and dropped it into his pocket, he looked up and the road was suddenly filled with mule deer. He weaved around a doe and two fawns — barely missing them — and stomped on his brakes inches away from hitting a five-point buck.

Then something hit him.

Over the last week, Brueggemann had made several references Joe found discordant, but he hadn’t placed any significance to them at the time. But now, in retrospect, they were odd things to hear from a Wyoming boy who claimed to have grown up in Sundance.

First, Brueggemann had asked Marybeth for another soda, instead of a soft drink or pop. More significantly, now that Joe thought about it, was when Luke said he’d done a full head mount of an “eight-point buck” and that he liked his venison bloody. In the west, hunters classified deer by the number of antler points on one side, not both. Hence a buck with a set of four-point antlers was called a “four-point,” not an eight-point, like they said in the east. And no one used the term “venison.” Everybody simply called it “deer meat.”

He sat motionless in his pickup, breathing hard, while dozens of deer flowed around him. They were moving from the mountains toward the valley floor in a thick, shadowy stream.

Joe drove down dark and silent Main Street, noting that even the Stockman’s Bar had closed early, and turned left on First. A single set of tire tracks marked the asphalt. Light snow hung like suspended sequins from the streetlights.

As he drove up the hill toward Brueggemann’s motel, he took a side street and turned up an alley toward the building. As if he were approaching potential poachers in the field after dark, he slowed down and turned off his headlights and taillights and clicked on his sneak lights. He crept his pickup up the alley and slowed to a stop at the egress where he could see the front of the TeePee Motel parking lot but remain hidden in the shadows.

It didn’t take long.

There was a sweep of headlights from the street that licked across the windshields of parked guests’ cars followed by the sight of a dark crossover Audi Q7. The vehicle paused near the front doors of the motel and the brake lights flashed. Because of the darkness, Joe couldn’t see the driver or any other passengers in the car.

He dug for his spotting scope and screwed the base into a mini-tripod and spread the legs out on his dashboard. He leaned into the eyepiece just as a silhouette framed the left-front door.

Brueggemann was looking out from the TeePee Motel alcove into the parking lot with a strained expression on his face. He’d changed from his uniform shirt into a dark bulky fatigue sweater, and he clutched his cell phone in his hand as if it were a grenade he was about the throw. Joe pivoted the scope until he could see Luke Brueggemann’s shadowed face in full frame. He adjusted the focus ring to make the image sharp.

Then, apparently confirming who was out there, he pushed his way through the doorway.

Joe sat back away from the scope and watched his trainee stride across the wet pavement toward the Audi. As Brueggemann neared the vehicle, he did a halfhearted wave, then paused at the passenger door. Apparently getting a signal from inside, Brueggemann opened the door without hesitation and swung in.

The crossover sat there for a few moments, and Joe removed the spotting scope and folded the legs and tossed it on the passenger seat. He assumed Nemecek and Brueggemann were having a conversation, or outlining plans. After fifteen minutes, Brueggemann climbed out and went back into the building. The brake lights flashed on the Audi, and the vehicle pulled away and turned left on the street and was quickly out of view.

Left was the way to get to the mountains.

“Oh, Luke …” Joe whispered, shaking his head.

Joe nosed his pickup out of the alley and turned left and hugged the building he’d been hiding behind. He slowed to a crawl before turning onto the street to make sure the Audi hadn’t stopped or pulled over, but he saw no activity.

With his sneak lights still on, he drove out onto the street to give chase. The TeePee was on a rise and the road ahead dropped out of view. At the crest, he slowed again before proceeding and saw the taillights of the crossover about a quarter of a mile away. He checked the cross-streets on both sides to make sure there were no other cars, then eased his pickup down the hill. Up ahead, the vehicle he was following turned right on Main Street. When it was out of view, Joe accelerated to close the gap, then slowed again as he drove through town, over the bridge, and onto the highway. At the entrance ramp he checked both directions, assuming Nemecek would drive toward the mountains but not positive of it, and waited until he could see the single set of red lights heading west. Then he gunned it so he could keep the vehicle in view.

Because of the absolute dearth of traffic in either direction, Joe dared not turn on his headlights again. Instead, he used the faint reflections of his sneak lights from delineator posts along the sides of the road to keep himself in the center of it. He wished the snow had stuck to the pavement so he could simply use the tracks to follow, and as the elevation rose he began to get his wish. One set of tire tracks marked the snow, and far up ahead — so far he prayed the driver couldn’t detect him back there — the Audi continued toward the Bighorns.

Elk and deer hunters longed for heavy snow in the mountains and foothills during hunting season. Joe knew that when local hunters saw what had happened during the night, they’d start gearing up in the morning. No doubt there were a few dozen men looking out their windows at that moment, planning to call in sick the next morning so they could get into the mountains and get their meat. As a game warden, Joe often did exactly the same thing and planned the next day accordingly. In this case, the elk and the deer and the hunters were off his radar. But he’d take advantage of the snow for tracking.

He wondered what Nemecek and Brueggemann had discussed. After all, as far as his trainee knew, Joe would pick him up early in the morning. Brueggemann had no idea Marybeth had planned the Pickett family exit.

As he drove, Joe wondered how many more operatives Nemecek had in the area besides his trainee.

The falling snow increased in volume as he rose in elevation. Joe ran his heater and windshield wipers, and the snow made it harder to see the reflector posts as he coursed along the highway in the dark. Luckily, the tires of the Audi had crushed the fluffy snow into the asphalt and the result was two dark ribbons. Easy to follow.

He simply hoped Nemecek had no inkling he was being followed. If he did, he could simply slow down and pull over in a blind spot and wait. Joe could only hope that — as usual in his career — he was being underestimated. That Nemecek’s strategy and thinking was all about finding Nate Romanowski, and determining his whereabouts. That he’d never really consider that the local game warden was tailing them with his lights out.

Joe weighed grabbing his mic and requesting backup from the highway patrol or sheriff’s office, but quickly dismissed the idea. The lone highway patrol officer stationed in Saddlestring would be asleep in bed, and wouldn’t be able to join in pursuit in time to provide assistance. McLanahan might have a man available on patrol, but because it was Joe making the request the call would be routed to the sheriff himself for approval. The delay and subsequent radio chatter could prove disastrous and tip off Nemecek. Brueggemann, after all, had a department-issued handheld radio and could follow the conversation.

Besides, Joe thought, he had nothing on Nemecek except his odd visit to the library and the suspicious behavior involving Brueggemann. By following them and maintaining radio silence, he thought, there might be a chance to determine the location of Nemecek’s headquarters. Then, if there was probable cause, he could alert the cavalry….

As the Audi neared the turnoff to Bighorn Road and his house, Joe could feel his stomach clench and his scalp crawl — two sensations that always kicked in just before a fight. Instinctively, he reached down with his right hand and touched the stock of his shotgun, which was muzzle down on the floorboards.

“You take that road, mister,” Joe said aloud, “and things are going to get real western real fast.”

The crossover continued on without slowing down for the exit. Joe exhaled.

Twenty miles out of town, Joe got an inkling where the crossover might be headed.

So much so, in fact, that he decided he could slow down and allow the cushion to lengthen, reducing the risk that he’d be spotted. Since dark timber now formed walls on both sides of the road and he couldn’t see his quarry ahead, he decided to simply stay in the tracks to see if his speculation proved correct.

If so, he’d located the headquarters of John Nemecek.

And now that he was sure of Luke Brueggemann’s involvement — or whoever his trainee really was — he smacked the steering wheel with the heel of his hand.

It made perfect sense.

Joe had no intention of following the Audi all the way to its destination. He just wanted to make sure it was going where he thought it was. When he confirmed it, he’d return to his house and have a lot of thinking and sorting and worrying to do — while he packed.

The road narrowed, and the tracks he was following went straight down the center. The trees were so thick and close on both sides that if the crossover stopped suddenly and Joe came upon the vehicle it would be nearly impossible to turn around quickly. It wasn’t much farther until the old road he guessed Nemecek was aiming for intersected the pavement.

He envisioned rounding a corner to find the Audi blocking his path, Nemecek straddling the tracks, rifle ready. Joe slowed down around the next turn, eyes straining through the darkness beyond his sneak lights, hoping to see the vehicle before the occupants of the vehicle saw him.

The tracks made an abrupt turn off the old highway onto South Fork Trail, and Joe stopped his pickup. He would pursue no farther, because he now had no doubt where the Audi was headed. He was both relieved and anxious at the same time.

He backed slowly up the road he had come on, careful to keep his tires in the same tracks. If it kept snowing, the tracks would be covered and Nemecek would have no idea he’d been followed. But if the snow stopped suddenly, Joe’s pursuit would be revealed as plainly as if he’d left a note.

So he ground backward in reverse, keeping his tires in the tracks, until his neck hurt from craning it over his shoulder. When he thought he’d retreated far enough from the logging road that the evidence of a three-point turn in the snow could be explained away as a wandering elk hunter, he headed back toward Bighorn Road.

His cell phone burred a few minutes after he cleared the timber, and he snatched it out of his pocket. Joe wasn’t surprised to see who was calling.

“Hi, darling,” he said.

“Are you okay?” Marybeth asked.

“Okay enough,” he said. “Luke is working with Nemecek. I followed Nemecek as far as the road to his camp.”

“My God,” Marybeth said, and he heard sincere disappointment in her voice. “He seemed like such a good kid.”

“He might be,” Joe said. “I’m about forty-five minutes out. Is everything okay there?”

“Everything’s fine,” she said. “Mike is sticking around until you get back. Every fifteen minutes or so, he goes outside and looks around. He said nobody is out and about yet.”

“Good,” Joe said.

“You sound distracted,” she said. He didn’t realize he was, but she was good at pulling things out of him.

He said, “I was thinking about something.”

As briefly as he could, and with a real effort not to color the theory or worry her any more than necessary, he told her about what Nate had said about the female operative on Nemecek’s team.

“Since we haven’t encountered any young women that would fit that profile,” Joe said, “something came to mind….”

She didn’t let him finish his thought. Her voice quickly rose through the scales: “A young woman, probably from the east. Sheridan’s new friend is from Maryland. She doesn’t know much more about her, I don’t think. The girl who wants Sheridan to go to the East Coast for Thanksgiving. It might be her. Nemecek may know Sheridan is Nate’s apprentice, and this girl might be in Laramie to keep an eye on her—or do something to our daughter to lure Nate.”

“Calm down,” Joe said. “We don’t know anything yet.”

“And she won’t answer her phone!” Marybeth said, clearly alarmed.

“She never does,” Joe pointed out. “Really, we can’t do any good getting worked up.”

“I’m not worked up!” Marybeth shouted.

The juxtaposition of her statement with her tone gave them both pause. He waited until she came back, this time more calmly. “I could try to call a couple of her friends to go wake her up, if only I knew they’d have their phones on,” she said. “Or better yet, we could call the dorm front desk or the Laramie police department.”

He told her about his conversation with Chuck Coon, and she agreed that was the best way to go.

“I’m going to keep trying to get in touch with her, though,” Marybeth said. “She’ll have to wake up and turn on her phone eventually, won’t she?”

“Yup.”

“Hurry back,” Marybeth said. “We’ll need to leave for the airport in three hours, and you haven’t packed anything.”

Joe shrugged, even though he knew she couldn’t see it.

“Oh,” she said, “I had something to tell you when I called.”

“Go ahead,” he said. The road was covered with an inch of slush as he descended from the mountains into the valley, where it was a few degrees warmer.

“I looked at that book I brought home.”

“Yes,” he said, prompting her.

“It’s a lot to digest. Did you know the idea for al-Qaeda got started in Greeley, Colorado, of all places?”

“Greeley?” Joe said, thinking of the northern Colorado city that smelled of feedlots and cattle. “Is that our connection?”

“Hardly,” she said. “That was 1949. It’s interesting and sick at the same time. The Egyptian named Sayyid Qutb was at the college there as a visiting professor, and he became disgusted with Western morality because he went to a barn dance! I’ll tell you all about it on our plane trip.”

“Okay,” Joe said.

“But that’s not what I found that makes me think we’re onto something. I think we might know the secret of Nate: why he is how he is and how he got that way. And maybe why they’re after him. The timing is perfect as far as Nate goes, and we know he was involved in some bad stuff. Listen closely….”

Joe strained to hear, as she obviously found her place in the book and began to read aloud:

“In early February 1999 …”

27

Nate and Haley drove through Riverton without seeing a single person awake or out on the streets. It was 2:30 in the morning and the bars were closed and not even a Riverton town cop was about. For the past hour he’d filled her in on assignments he had undertaken on behalf of Mark V, and some of the things he’d seen and done. He said he used to have several passports, issued to him under different names. In fact, he said, he’d used the last clean one a month before to fly to Chicago and back under a false identity.

Before they cleared town, Nate stopped at a twenty-four-hour convenience store and filled the gas tank as well as his reserve tank. Inside the Kum & Go, he awoke the Indian night-shift clerk. He bought two large cups of coffee, granola bars, and energy drinks, and handed over five twenty-dollar bills. Although it hadn’t occurred to him yet that he hadn’t slept for nearly twenty hours, he wanted to stave off exhaustion when it came for him.

He climbed back in the Jeep to find Haley sitting up, wide awake. She rubbed her eyes and thanked him for the coffee, and said, “You left off in 1998.”

“Do you really want me to go on?” he said, easing out onto the street. He turned north until it merged onto U.S. Highway 16. One hundred eighty miles until they hit Saddlestring.

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” she said. “You said Nemecek came to you with a special assignment.”

In March of 1998, John Nemecek called Nate Romanowski into his office. The building itself was a small, single-level brick residential bungalow. There was no plaque or sign out front to indicate it was anything other than one home of many at Warren Air Force Base in Cheyenne. Airmen and their families occupied the houses on either side of the bungalow. There were bicycles and wading pools in the yards up and down the street.

“He started out as he usually did,” Nate said to Haley, “with a history lesson. In this case, it was about how important the sport of falconry was to the Arab emirs through time. How falconry was literally the sport of kings in the Arab world, and how it had almost mythical and religious significance. Unlike here, where anyone can become a falconer if they have the time, patience, and desire, in the Arab world only the royals and elite are allowed to participate. Think of it like fox hunting in England in the past — very elitist.

“The pinnacle of falconry in the Arab world is to hunt a rare and endangered bird called the houbara bustard,” Nate said. “These are large birds that mainly stay on the ground, but they’re capable of short flights. Some weigh up to forty-five pounds. They remind me of prairie chickens but bigger and faster. When a falcon takes them on, it’s a wild and violent fight. Bustards live in high, dry country, and they’re all but impossible to get close to because they live where there are no trees. Bustards can see for miles if anyone is coming. The Arabs like to watch the kill through binoculars hundreds of yards away, like generals watching a battle far from the front line. They don’t eat the dead bustard or use it for any purpose. It’s all about the kill.

“To me, their philosophy of falconry is perverse. They hunt their birds for the sake of killing, and it’s done in big social gatherings of the upper crust. They buy raptors from around the world as if they’re racehorses, and the royals gain status by having the most exotic and deadly birds.”

Haley said, “How is that different from your experience?”

“Every falconer I know hunts his birds as a means of getting closer to the primitive world,” Nate said. “It’s a way to become a relevant part of the wild. There’s nothing sweet or Bambi-like about it. It’s not about status or elitism. Most of the falconers I know are barely getting by, because it takes so much time to get good at it. You can choose a family and a career or you can devote your life to falconry. They don’t mix well. The only exception to that I can think of was Nemecek himself. He was able to maintain his falconry while running Mark V. He thought of himself as a royal falconer because of this strange connection he had with his birds, and I really can’t blame him for it.”

While Nemecek detailed the Arab obsession with falcons and falconry, Nate listened patiently and waited for the general outline of the mission ahead. Instead, Nemecek asked him about obtaining young peregrine falcons from the nest.

“At the time,” Nate told Haley, “peregrines were hard to find. They were on the endangered species list, and even though there were plenty in zoos and aviaries, it was illegal to capture the wild birds. Wild birds are what falconers want, not birds raised in captivity. They’re considered to be a much higher prize.

“I knew of a nest — maybe two — in Montana where I grew up, and I told Nemecek about them. He asked me if there were young birds up there, and of course I didn’t know at the time, but I assumed so. Right then, without telling me anything more about the operation or explaining why there were no other team members present, he signed a travel authorization for me to fly up to Great Falls. He told me to go as a civilian, take my climbing gear, and operate under my real name.”

On a thirty-degree spring day under leaden skies, Nate snapped on his climbing harness, threaded the rope, and backed off the edge of a five-hundred-foot cliff overlooking the Missouri River. Beneath him, car-sized plates of ice floated sluggishly with the current of the water and occasionally piled up at river bends. The northern wind was sharp and cold and teared his eyes as he descended.

He rappelled down, feeding rope through the carabiners of his harness, bouncing away from the sheer rock with the balls of his feet. Tightly coiled netting hung from his belt.

It was fifty feet down to the first nest, which filled a large fissure in the cliff face. The next was a huge crosshatching of branches and twigs and dried brush, cemented together by mud, sun, and years. It was well hidden and virtually inaccessible from below, but he’d located it years before by the whitewash of excrement that extended down the granite from the nest, looking like the results of an overturned paint bucket.

As he approached it from above, he noted the layers of building material, from the white and brittle branches on the bottom to the still-green fronds on the top. The nest had been built over generations, and had hosted falcons for forty years. Nate couldn’t determine if all of the inhabitants had been peregrines, but he doubted it. The original nest, he thought, had been built by eagles.

The nest came into view, and Nate prepared for anything. Once he had surprised a female raptor in the act of tearing a rabbit apart for her fledglings and the bird had launched herself into his face, shredding his cheeks with her talons. But there were no mature adults in the nest. Only four downy and awkward fledglings. When they saw him, they screeched and opened their mouths wide, expecting him to give them food.

He guessed by their size that they were two months old, and would be considered eyas, too young to fly. Four young birds in a nest was unusual, he knew, since usually there were just two or three. If taken now, they would need to be immediately hooded and hand-fed until their feathers fully developed, and kept sightless in the dark so they didn’t know who gave them their food. If the birds saw their falconer too early in their fledgling maturity, the falconer would be imprinted for life as the food provider and the birds would never hunt properly or maintain their wild edge. Nate didn’t like taking birds this young, not only because of the work involved but because of the moral question. He no longer wanted to own his birds, preferring instead to partner up with them.

But here they were. So where was Mom? He almost wished she would show up and drive him away. He could claim to Nemecek that the trip had been unsuccessful. But Nate was in a stage of his life where he refused to fail.

He spun himself around, and the landscape opened up as far as he could see. The sun was emerging from a bank of clouds on the eastern horizon and lighting the skeleton cottonwoods below while darkening the S-curves of the river. There were no birds in the sky.

He spun back around, pulled the net from his web belt, and reached inside the nest.

Farther downriver, on another cliff face, he found the second nest. He was surprised to find out it held three more birds. The seven eyas were carefully crated, and Nate drove them to Colorado, where Nemecek maintained his elaborate falconry camp in Poudre Valley near Fort Collins. For the next eleven months, the birds were slowly and carefully brought along by Nemecek and Nate. All seven turned out to be healthy, strong, and wild. All seven turned out to be exquisite killers.

When Nate finally asked what the fate of the birds would be, Nemecek was vague, except to say their presence had a national security purpose, and that Nate would soon learn what it was.

When Nate asked why no other operators had been involved in the mission thus far, Nemecek was contemptuous. He told Nate the answer to his question should have been obvious: there were very few competent master falconers in the entire country, much less Mark V. Nemecek and Nate were the only men capable of capturing, nurturing, feeding, and training the young peregrine falcons. So of course no others were brought in.

Nate didn’t know whether to be flattered or suspicious.

“One year later, in February,” Nate said, “I found out. When the falcons were a year old and in prime flying condition, Nemecek and I took the seven birds with us to Kandahar in Afghanistan. We were met at the airport by a driver in a brand-new GMC Suburban and taken a hundred miles south in the desert. The driver seemed to know Nemecek by sight, and never asked for ID. There was barely a road, and the guy driving us didn’t speak a word of English.”

“By then,” Haley asked, “did you know what your operation was about?”

“Barely,” Nate said. “All Nemecek told me was we were to meet some important people who would buy the falcons from us for a minimum of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars each.”

“Good Lord.”

“That’s what I thought, but I didn’t say it. You didn’t say much around Nemecek, or question his planning. You simply did what you were told. But when I saw where the driver was taking us, I was blown away.”

Seven large jetliners and two cargo planes were parked on the desert floor on a huge flat expanse of hard rubble. Arabic writing marked the tails of the aircraft. As they passed through the makeshift airport, Nate could tell from the lettering and the green, red, white, and black flags painted on the sides that they originated in the United Arab Emirates. One had a slogan painted in English on the side that read visit dubai — the jewel of the desert. They continued on the poor road but the driver never slowed down. Uniformed men with automatic weapons waved them through two checkpoints and the driver didn’t even acknowledge them.

This operation continued to be unlike any other Nate had participated in. There were only the two of them — his superior and him. If others had been embedded, that fact was kept secret. They were traveling under their own names, with their personal passports. And they had no weapons. Only the birds in their special darkened crates, their personal luggage, and a single satellite phone Nemecek kept turned off in his carry-on bag.

The predominant color in all directions was beige, Nate noted. There was little green vegetation except in shadowed pockets on the sides of rock formations, and everything looked sun-bleached and windswept and bone dry. As they drove on, the terrain rose and got rougher and wind-sculpted rock escarpments stood like monuments. Nate could see the distant outline of mountains, and he was reminded of the bleak badlands of eastern Montana or western Wyoming. That impression went away, however, when the driver topped a small hill and below him he could see an elaborate desert camp.

As they approached, he was astonished by the size and number of Bedouin-style tents. Parked next to the tents were dozens of late-model American SUVs, Land Rovers, and Mercedes luxury crossovers. Uniformed men with submachine guns strapped across their chests wandered through the tents. But what struck him most were the dozens of tall wooden poles mounted in the desert next to the tents. On each of the poles was a small platform. And perched on top of each platform was a hooded falcon.

“It was a bustard hunting camp,” Nate explained. “The emirs flew their falcons and handlers from the UAE to Afghanistan for a hunting trip. The cargo planes brought the tents, soldiers, and vehicles. I found out later that when they struck the camp and left, the emirs left the SUVs and tents for the Taliban as payment. And they did this kind of thing two or three times a year.”

“Let me get this straight,” Haley said. “These rich Arabs flew private jets to Afghanistan just to hunt forty-pound birds? That must have cost them millions to stage a thing like that.”

“Absolutely,” Nate said. “And it’s why Nemecek schooled me. So I’d have an idea what we were getting into.”

“But why were you there?”

“I was there to be the bird handler,” Nate said. “I assumed when we saw the camp that our mission was to gift the peregrines to some king. As tribute, since the UAE were allies and things are done different over there. I could imagine some genius in the State Department finding out an influential emir was crazy for falcons, and having the brilliant idea of delivering rare North American peregrine falcons to him as a gift. Remember, this was a year and a half before 9/11 happened. This was after the Khobar Towers bombing but before the attack on the USS Cole in Yemen. Al-Qaeda was at war with us, but very few of us knew it. All I knew at the time was that in the Arab world we had both friends and enemies, but that nothing was clean-cut or predictable. Some of our friends bred future enemies, paid protection money to terrorists, and killed their own people. But it wasn’t my job to know which from which, or why we were over there delivering peregrine falcons to emirs. My job was to take care of the birds and show them when Nemecek gave the word.”

They were housed in an amazingly well-appointed tent on the edge of the camp. Servants appeared to bring them food and drink and to help secure the bird crates.

While they waited, Nemecek left the tent with the satellite phone and didn’t return for a half an hour. Nate fed the birds — they were hungry and disoriented and now of age to fly and hunt once they were released — and wondered who his boss was checking in with. But he didn’t ask, and Nemecek didn’t volunteer any information when he returned.

“We were invited to the largest tent that night for dinner,” Nate said. “We ate roasted goat and lobsters flown in from Maine. Our host was the prime minister of Dubai, named Mohammed bin Rashid Al Khartoum, and he was fat and jolly and a wonderful host. He spoke perfect UK English because he’d gone to school at the London School of Economics and later MIT. But his interest was in the peregrines, and Nemecek deferred to me on all the questions. It didn’t take long to figure out Nemecek knew this guy pretty well, and he was our contact. There were about twenty-five other guests that night. No women. After dinner they told hunting stories and laughed about things that had gone on during the day, how one of the emir’s falcons missed a bustard and smashed into the ground, that sort of thing. I could understand bits and pieces of the conversation, but it wasn’t unlike any hunting camp I’ve ever been to. They broke out the single-malt Scotch, although technically as devout Muslims they weren’t supposed to drink, and it went on late into the night. I know now it was a Who’s Who of UAE royals and underlings. Plus, there were some visiting guests in addition to us. All I remember about the guests was that several of the emirs really groveled around them, and I assumed they were locals. I guessed they were emissaries from the Taliban government, but it was only a guess.”

Nate said, “One of them was tall and handsome and the other older and very intense. Both had long beards in the Taliban style — one black, one gray. The older man wore glasses and talked a lot. He kept looking at us in a way that gave me the impression he was suspicious of our being there. The tall one just smiled the whole time, as if he was enduring the stories in a good-hearted way. He seemed serenely calm. They were never introduced to us. The storytelling went on for hours, and I was bushed. It was obvious Nemecek wanted to stay, and I didn’t care. I needed to feed the birds. As I said good night, the two other visitors got up and made all kinds of apologies about leaving as well. From what I could understand, they had a camp of their own a few miles away and it would take them a while to get back.”

Nate thanked his hosts and paused while two soldiers threw back the tent flap and let him out. The night was cool and dry and the stars brilliant. He paused outside and looked up, marveling at the upside-down constellations.

The two other visitors followed, and Nate stepped aside to let them pass. He nodded at them as they strode toward their car and driver. The driver, Nate noticed, eyed him coolly and thumbed the receiver of the AK-47 he had strapped across his chest. The older, intense man removed his steel-framed glasses and cleaned the lenses with his robe while the tall cool one paused next to Nate. Surprisingly, the tall man spoke in English for the first time that night.

“You’re from America,” the man said. “Do you watch the cowboy shows?”

Nate was confused. “The cowboy shows?”

“You know, what you call westerns. Cowboys and Indians.”

His tone was soothing, whispery, almost hard to hear. His eyes were dark and soulful, his features thin and angular.

“Like Gunsmoke?” Nate asked.

The man grinned and gently clapped his hands together. Nate thought the display oddly effeminate. “Gunsmoke,” the man said. “Marshal Matt Dillon. Miss Kitty. Doc. And that Festus, he makes me laugh. Do you remember the one where Festus went to San Francisco and thought they were trying to feed him a mermaid?”

Nate was flummoxed. He vaguely remembered it from when he was a boy. “I think so,” he said.

“That one makes me laugh,” the man said. “And the one where Marshal Dillon is trapped in the mine with the outlaw? Do you know that one?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t.”

“Did you ever watch The Rifleman?” To illustrate his question, the tall man pretended he had a Winchester lever-action rifle and fanned his right hand as if firing and ejecting spent shells.

“I remember that one,” Nate said.

“Good show,” the tall man said, and grinned. “His son was named Mark.”

In the dark, the older man with glasses had reached their car. He coughed politely and insincerely. The tall man talking to Nate waved in his friend’s direction.

He said, “Maybe we can talk about westerns later. Before you go back to America.”

“Sure,” said Nate.

The tall man bowed with a nod and turned toward his car.

“So did you sell the falcons to this Mohammed guy?” Haley asked.

“I’ll get to that. Plus, half of them were named Mohammed. Our guy was Al Khartoum.”

“Sorry,” she said. “I just think of all those innocent birds from Montana sitting there in a crate halfway across the world. It kind of breaks my heart.”

Nate snorted. “I wasn’t crazy about the deal, either. I don’t mind killing bad guys I’ve never met. I didn’t lose a minute of sleep afterward. But those birds … it bothered me to leave them there, to be honest.”

“Anyway,” she said, a lilt in her voice to prompt him to continue.

“Anyway,” he said, “you’re focused on the falcons. That is the least significant part of this story.”

For the next two days, Nate took out each of the seven peregrines one by one to demonstrate their ability. The Arabs would gather on an escarpment under a temporary cover with binoculars and long-lens video cameras as Nate drove out farther into the desert. Nemecek stayed behind with the emirs to detail the strengths and abilities of each young bird, as well as the attributes and characteristics of peregrine falcons in general.

“The birds were magnificent,” Nate said wistfully. “It was almost as if they’d been born there, the way they took to the sky. There was no hesitation, and no lack of confidence in any of them. All of them were perfect aces — they performed as if they’d been bustard-hunting all their lives. Those little falcons would drop out of the sky at two hundred miles an hour and take out a bustard running full-bore across the desert that weighed four times as much. I could hear the approval of the Arabs even without using the radio.

“It was more like an air show than falconry,” Nate said. “As if we were defense contractors showing our new equipment in front of rich generals who wanted to buy.”

Nate noted that late at night, after the inevitable long dinner in the tent of their hosts, after he’d fed and secured the falcons on their stoops and tightened their hoods and gone to bed, Nemecek would gather his pack and slip outside without a word. He’d be gone for an hour or more and return silently and slip back into his blankets. Nate never asked Nemecek where he went, and Nemecek never explained.

But Nate knew that along with personal items and clothing, the satellite phone was located within the small pack he took along with him.

On the morning of the fourth day, as the wind picked up and sandblasted the fabric of the tents with the sound of angry rattlesnakes, Nemecek appeared and said, “Let’s go.”

They left the peregrine falcons, and the drive back to the airport through the makeshift camp and parked jetliners seemed strangely hollow to Nate. Nemecek, however, was buoyant.

When they were seated together in first class on the commercial airplane on the way home, Nemecek said, “Establishing and nurturing relationships with these people is more important than anything else. We’ve got billions of dollars of hardware and technology, but what we don’t have is on-the-ground human intel. It’s like the Jetsons versus the Flintstones, and we’re the Jetsons. But that doesn’t mean the Flintstones might not win in the end if we don’t figure out a way to relate to them on a human level.”

Nate nodded, not sure where the conversation was going.

Nemecek said, “Now all those men back there know us and respect us on a basic level. We can sell them planes and rockets and technology, but that doesn’t mean they like us. But appealing to their actual wants and needs, like we did back there, puts us on a different level. We can now call on them if we need something, even if it’s personal. They’ll receive us in their homes and palaces. If the diplomats and the politicians can’t get them to do what we want, they’ll ask us to help out.”

His commander grinned at Nate, an expression Nate had rarely seen before.

“If you think you were valuable to our government as an operator,” he said, “imagine how valuable you are now. Imagine how valuable we are. Suddenly, Mark V is the tip of the spear in Special Forces because we know these people personally. And the Middle East is where everything will happen when the shit hits the fan.”

Then he turned, still smiling, and closed his eyes. Nemecek slept for the remainder of the flight. Nate spent his time wondering what he’d just been told.

Nate’s incomprehension grew deeper the next time he was called into Nemecek’s bungalow.

“That’s when he handed over two million dollars in cash to me,” Nate said. “A full military duffel bag filled with bricks of hundred-dollar bills. He said it was my share.”

Haley gasped.

“The peregrines performed so well there was a bidding war between the emirs,” Nate said. “The final price was a half million each. Or so Nemecek said. It might even have been more.”

Nate paused and said, “I’ve been living on it ever since.”

He took the duffel bag of cash back to his quarters. He sat next to it on the bed for the entire night, thinking. How many other operations was Nemecek involved in that provided such huge payoffs? How many other Peregrines were tethered to Nemecek because of off-the-books operations that resulted in personal wealth?

Of course it wasn’t right. Operators didn’t become operators for the money. But if by doing good and valuable things for their country and risking their lives every time they went out resulted in rewards that would provide for them (if they lived) and their families for years, where was the harm? After all, the only other logical recipient of cash would be the U.S. Treasury. Might as well feed the bricks of cash, one by one, into the garbage disposal, right?

The next day, he drove back to Nemecek’s bungalow to return it. Nemecek was gone, cleared out. Nate guessed he’d moved — as he often did — to one of his other small offices throughout the world.

He went back to his quarters, expecting a secure set of orders for his next operation or at least a communication from his commander. But there was nothing.

Over the next year, Nate spent a good deal of his time deconstructing the mission and analyzing everything that had occurred both at home and in Afghanistan. Because of the vertical and decentralized design of Mark V, he never saw or heard from Nemecek. That in itself wasn’t unusual, except for the special circumstances of Nate’s relationship with his superior officer. Nate had questions and concerns. And later, guilt.

“The week after 9/11,” Nate said in a whisper, “I walked away. I didn’t say goodbye to anyone, and I didn’t file any papers. I didn’t submit to debriefing, which was in my contract. I just threw that duffel bag in the back of my Jeep and started driving. I ended up in Montana.

“All along the way,” he said, “I saw American flags on every storefront and in every yard. I remember looking out once over the prairie near Billings, way out in the distance, and seeing a single flag flying above a ranch house. The world had changed, good people had been killed and damaged, and I was partially responsible for it. And when they needed me most, I quit.”

Haley had wrapped her arms around herself, and she shook her head from side to side. She seemed deeply troubled.

“I don’t get it,” she said. “I don’t see why you just left them when they probably needed you the most. It doesn’t seem like you.”

Nate snorted.

“Why did you do it?” she asked. “Why did you desert our country and your service?”

Nate took a deep intake of breath. “I was young. I was stupid. I was devastated.”

He turned away. “I believed in Mark V and John Nemecek. I devoted my life to the cause, and I killed human beings all over the world on their behalf. I knew what we were doing was questionable in terms of laws and treaties, but I thought it was for the greater good. But when I found out Nemecek was using the Peregrines for his own benefit, and that much of what we’d been doing was all a game, I lost faith in the entire system. I just wanted out. I couldn’t look at myself in the mirror anymore, and I sure as hell couldn’t go on another operation. So I went to Montana to leave Mark V and the rest of the world behind.”

She asked, “And why do you say you were responsible for innocent lives lost?”

“I told you the story,” Nate said, “except for the most important parts. It all became clear that week after September eleventh. I watched those buildings go down in New York and the speculation on who was responsible. Then they showed the old video of who had masterminded the attack. Until then, I didn’t know.”

“Know what?” she demanded, her tone shrill and accusatory.

He took a deep breath and held it. Then: “The visitor to the camp that night, the lover of westerns, was Osama bin Laden. His friend was Dr. Ayman al-Zawahiri. Together they were the heart and brains of al-Qaeda, and at the time they were putting the final touches on the 9/11 attacks.”

“But how could you know that?” she asked.

“I didn’t, and nobody did at the time,” Nate said. “But our government wanted to kill bin Laden for things he’d done already — the USS Cole bombing, the embassy bombings. They were watching that camp with satellites while we were there, ready to launch cruise missiles and take him out. In the end, the reason they didn’t pull the trigger was because they were afraid of collateral damage — they didn’t want to be responsible for a bunch of dead princes in the desert as well.”

Haley shook her head. “But you said the visitors had a camp a few miles away. They could have hit that camp and everybody else would have been fine.”

“Exactly,” Nate said.

“So how are you responsible for that bad decision?”

Nate turned his head, his eyes slitted. “Because our government man on the ground called them up each night on his satellite phone to tell them bin Laden was staying in our camp. So we wouldn’t risk our lives and so we’d personally get rich with blood and oil money.”

Haley recoiled. “Oh my God.”

“Now, apparently,” Nate said, “Nemecek has gone semi-private, like a lot of the old spooks have with all the defense cuts. His company is up for a massive contract to do clandestine counterintelligence, and he looks like a shoo-in, at least according to that poor bastard I got the information from back in Jackson. The skids are greased for him to make millions more and do what he’s best at. His reputation in Washington is stellar because of the great work of the Mark V Peregrines. But if the staffers and senators awarding the contract knew that he did his damnedest to save bin Laden’s life before 9/11 …”

“He’d lose the contract and his reputation and probably go to jail,” Haley said, finishing Nate’s sentence.

“And there’s one guy who could blow it for him if this ever got public,” Nate said.

“Now I understand,” she said. “So your friend Large Merle? He knew?”

Nate nodded.

“What about Oscar and Gabriel and the rest back in Idaho?”

“No. But Nemecek thought they might. So he had to take them out.”

“What about your friends in Saddlestring? The ones you called and told to leave?”

“No,” Nate said. “But it doesn’t matter.”

“I don’t understand something,” she said. “I don’t understand why you never went to the government or to the press with your story? You could have put Nemecek out of business.”

“It wouldn’t have worked,” Nate said. “Nemecek is inside of the inside. He would have found me before I even made contact with anyone. He used every resource the government has to try to find me, which is why I went low-tech and completely dropped out of society. No credit cards, no phone, no address. But if I’d stepped forward and tried to contact someone, it would have been like signing a death warrant on us both. Very few people in the bureaucracy can operate with complete impunity. They’ve got to report to people and write summaries. Nemecek would have intercepted the communications within minutes and cut everything off and eliminated anyone involved.

“Believe me,” Nate said, “I’ve spent years agonizing over this. I could never figure out a way to take him down without taking down innocents as well. I don’t mind killing people who deserve it, but not those just doing their jobs. So I dropped out. I did what I could to help out a friend. I carefully made contact with a few others, like Oscar and Cohen. And look what happened to them.”

Haley squirmed in her seat. He could guess what she was thinking.

“And now I know,” she said.

“I tried to get you to leave,” he said.

“We don’t have a choice, do we? We’ve got to kill him and stop this.”

“It’s our only option,” Nate said. “But an old saying keeps coming to mind: If you’re going to try to kill the king, you’d better kill the king.”

After they’d driven a few more miles in silence, Nate looked over at Haley. He said, “It’s a different version of events than you heard from Nemecek, isn’t it?”

The question froze her in her seat. Even in the dark, he could see her face drain of color and her eyes fix on the windshield in involuntary terror. She looked like a frightened ghost with dark, hollow eyes.

“He told you it was me who was in business with bin Laden, didn’t he? And that there was a score to settle? That’s what he told all the other operators, wasn’t it?”

She didn’t react other than to continue staring ahead. But the fact that she didn’t lash back told him everything he needed to know.

“You don’t have to explain,” he said. “I can figure it out. He recruited you for this operation with the story about letting bin Laden get away. Only he reversed the players and the motivation. You don’t know how many others are on the team, and you don’t know who they are or what they’ve been told. And you’ve spent the last few hours trying to reconcile what he told you against what you’ve seen and heard yourself.”

He said, “I think you’ve got a good heart, Haley. I think your reaction to what happened to Cohen and Oscar was genuine. And I sure as hell know your passion back there with me felt real.”

Her mouth trembled, and her eyes blinked too fast.

“You’ll have plenty of opportunities ahead to take me out,” Nate said. “And if you choose, you can probably find a way to warn Nemecek I’m coming for him. I’m not going to stop you or kill you now. I’ll let fate take its course.”

In a barely audible whisper, she asked, “Why?”

“Because I think you’ll do the right thing.”

She said, “If you’re going to try to kill the king, you’d better kill the king.”

He didn’t ask which king.

28

The Pickett family sat in a line on uncomfortable red plastic scoop chairs in the predawn at Saddlestring Municipal Airport as the tiny cinder-block structure staggered to life. Their luggage, an assortment of mismatched suitcases and duffel bags, had been checked through by the lone ticket agent, a pierced dark-haired stocky woman of indeterminate age who had communicated via a series of grunts, and who had gone outside the double doors for a cigarette the minute she’d completed grunting as she tossed the bags on a cart.

Joe turned in his chair and watched her out there, the tiny red cherry of her cigarette bobbing in the darkness, until she returned and sulked back to her counter to check the manifest. He’d caught a glimpse of it as they checked in: only five passengers were listed. The Picketts and a local rancher named Donald M. Jones, also known as Rowdy. Rowdy Jones hadn’t checked in yet.

Joe wore civilian gear and his battered hat. No uniform shirt, holster, or equipment belt. He felt lighter than air and vulnerable without his weapons and gear and sense of purpose.

Joe hadn’t slept since he’d returned from following Nemecek into the mountains, and his sleep deprivation heightened his sense of despair. His thoughts were like too many large fish in a small tank — writhing and intertwining over one another, depleting the oxygen available, in search of some kind of blue-water relief.

Three locals dead. Bad Bob and Pam Kelly — missing. Nate gone, his only communication a cryptic warning to get his family out. Nemecek, planning his next move. Brueggemann’s betrayal. Snow, elk hunters, The Looming Tower.

He thought about the community he was leaving, the residents bunkered in their homes. And he felt like a coward.

Marybeth looked over to Joe and smiled in a worried way. He knew she wouldn’t be comfortable until they were all on the airplane and Sheridan had checked in with them. It was still an hour or two before Chuck Coon could get over the summit from Cheyenne to Laramie, and likely longer before Sheridan would awake and turn on her phone. Nevertheless, Joe reached out and patted his wife on her knee to reassure her, then stood up and paced behind the row of chairs. He couldn’t sit still until they were all on the plane, either, he thought. His stomach churned and he had the sour taste of acid in his mouth.

They’d left Marybeth’s van in long-term parking on the side of the terminal. There were only two other vehicles there, both dusted with snow — travelers who’d not yet returned. He wondered about asking Mike Reed to move the van somewhere after they’d departed, so Nemecek or one of his crew wouldn’t spot it and know they’d flown away.

“Are you going to sit down?” Marybeth asked him.

“Can’t,” he said, wandering toward a display case on the wall that boasted faded photos of famous people who had once used the local airport, including Queen Elizabeth twenty years before to visit relatives and buy locally made saddles, and former vice president Dick Cheney en route to a wilderness fly-fishing trip. He returned to the counter and waited for the agent to look up from her magazine.

“What do you need?” she asked. He felt his anger rise from her manner.

“Just wondering who has access to the passenger lists,” he said.

She shook her head, confused.

“Who keeps track of who flies in and out?”

“I do.”

“I mean generally,” he said, letting impatience creep into his voice. “Can anyone walk up and ask who flew out this morning?”

“Nobody ever has,” she said.

He took a deep breath. “What I’m asking, ma’am, is what if someone did?”

“Nobody ever has. I just told you that.”

“But if they did,” he said, his voice rising, “what would you do?”

She shrugged. She looked over at his family, assessing them. He followed her gaze. Marybeth sat primly with her hands in her lap. Lucy was slumped to the side, her chin in her hand. April slouched back with earbuds plugged into her iPod.

She said, “I don’t think it’s public information, sir. It’s nobody’s business.”

He glared at her. “Let’s keep it that way.”

She flinched and rolled her eyes in a whatever gesture. Then she looked over his shoulder and said, “I’ll need to get you to step away from the counter, sir. The other passenger has arrived.”

Joe looked over his shoulder to see Rowdy Jones enter the terminal in full western dress: boots, pressed Wranglers, massive silver rodeo buckle, string tie, fine 30X gray Stetson. He pulled a large rolling leather suitcase behind him that had been personalized with his brand burned into both sides.

“Rowdy,” Joe said as a greeting, stepping aside.

“Morning, Joe,” the rancher said, looking over the Picketts. “Taking everyone on a family vacation?”

“Kind of,” Joe said.

“Game warden leaving during elk season,” Rowdy said, grinning. “That’ll get around.”

Joe continued to pace. The eastern sky was lighting up into early-dawn cream. Snow crystals hung sparkling in the air. The sky looked as if it would clear soon. He looked at his watch, then his phone.

Joe listened halfheartedly as April mocked Lucy by saying, “I’ll miss my precious play rehearsal, boo-hoo.”

“April, please,” Marybeth said.

Joe looked out onto the road, looking for a dark Audi crossover.

Rowdy Jones lowered himself in a chair that faced Marybeth. Rowdy commented — loudly — as white-clad Transportation Security Administration employees filed in through the doors, headed for their screening station set up in front of a small departure area.

“Five of the knuckleheads!” Rowdy said, evincing a scowl from two of the agents as they passed by. “Count ’em. Five of ’em. One per passenger. Boy, I sure feel safe now, don’t you? And to think it’s my tax money that’s paying them. And from what I hear, they’ve never caught a damned terrorist. Not one!”

One of the TSA agents paused to glare menacingly at Rowdy.

Marybeth looked to Joe like she’d rather be anywhere than where she was.

Another dark fish was added to Joe’s small tank. This one represented what might have been, back in 1999, if cruise missiles would have been launched to take out the targets who later planned and approved 9/11. Would the world be better? Would those five TSA agents even exist? Would TSA exist? Would the country still be somewhat safe and innocent and intact?

Rowdy turned back to Joe and Marybeth and said, “Make sure you don’t have any tweezers on you or any liquids more than four ounces. Think about our safety!”

To change the subject, Joe asked Rowdy where he was headed.

“Europe!”

“Really,” Joe said.

“Craziest thing,” Rowdy said, shaking his head, “I used to have to beg folks to come and help us out on the ranch during spring and fall, when we moved cattle to and from the mountains. Literally beg them. Bribe ’em with a big steak dinner afterward and hope they’d show up when they said they would. Then I started charging tourists for the privilege. Got my son to throw up a website advertising ‘Rowdy’s Authentic Cowboy Cattle Drives,’ and it was Katie-bar-the-door,” he said.

“Fifteen hundred a person,” he said, grinning, as if Joe and Marybeth were coconspirators in a scam. “And all these Easterners and Europeans are paying me to do what nobody around here will do anymore. Now I spend the summer ranching and taking care of these dudes, and I spend the winter visiting them in Europe. England, France, Holland, Germany … staying in the homes of former guests. They tell me my money isn’t any good over there.”

“That’s quite a story,” Marybeth said. Joe knew it was true.

“Saved the ranch,” Rowdy said. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it fifteen years ago. Hell, I finally figured out how to make that place pay, and it sure as hell isn’t horses and cows. It’s rich folks playing cowboy! I’m thinking about building some more cabins at the place so I can charge ’em to stay there. I used to pay Mexicans and provide beans and a bed, and now I can charge folks for the same privilege.”

Rowdy looked up as the front door opened. Joe wheeled around in his chair, tense. But instead of John Nemecek, it was the two pilots, each pulling along a battered wheeled bag. They were very young, and their uniforms helped only a little, Joe thought.

“They look like they’re Sheridan’s age,” Marybeth whispered to Joe.

Or military age, Joe thought, feeling his insides clench. But the pilots nodded to a couple of the TSA agents and addressed them by name. They were familiar with one another, and this was obviously a daily event. Joe sighed in relief but couldn’t sit any longer and listen to Rowdy. Rowdy was a fine man and a good guy, but Joe was too nervous and guilty and paranoid to relax.

“I’ll be back,” he said to Marybeth.

“Man looks like he’s got ants in his pants,” Rowdy said as Joe walked to the far end of the terminal to look at the old photos.

Again, Joe checked the road out front. No Audi. He checked his phone. No call or text from Sheridan. He tried her number again and it went straight to voice mail.

There was a high whine outside. He went to the window that overlooked the tarmac to see that the pilots were bringing the airplane around from its hangar on the other side of the field. It was a small Beechcraft 1900D turboprop that held nineteen passengers. All over Wyoming, like angry bees, the little planes delivered people to Denver International Airport, where they could board large jets for other places.

The aircraft swung around and parked, and the pilots killed the spinning propellers but kept the engines running. In a moment, the door opened and a spindly staircase accordioned out. Joe watched as the surly counter girl, now in an overlarge parka, tugged the luggage cart out toward the plane. The copilot stood near the back of the aircraft to help her toss the luggage inside. He could see Lucy’s colorful suitcase and April’s bulging duffel bag. It seemed to Joe the girls had packed everything they owned.

Beyond the small airplane, the serrated profile of the Bighorn Mountains, fresh with snow, dominated the horizon. Up in those mountains was Nemecek’s headquarters. And Joe was flying away. As he stared, his stomach churning, he saw a lone falcon soaring high in the cirrus clouds, moving so slowly as to almost be motionless.

He wished he could talk to Nate, tell him what he’d found out.

Because of the whine of the aircraft, he didn’t hear Marybeth approach, and he jumped when she placed her hand on his shoulder.

He turned.

“Joe, are you all right?” she asked, tilting her head slightly back, probing his face with her eyes.

He paused for a moment. “No, I’m not.”

She couldn’t hide the disappointment but tried. “I know how you feel about these little planes.”

“It’s not that,” Joe said. “Think of how many times he helped me. How many times he helped us,” he said, nodding toward Lucy and April. “Now, when he’s the one in trouble, I’m flying away.”

“But he wants you to,” she said. “He said it himself.”

“Nate doesn’t always know what’s good for him,” Joe said.

She shook her head and said, “This is a different level they’re playing at. These are different kinds of men. You said it yourself, Joe.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t help,” he said. Her inference stung.

“But he doesn’t want your help,” she said, frustration showing. “He wants you to go with us and watch over this family. That’s what he admires about you, Joe. You’re not like him.”

Joe smiled bitterly. “I’ve got to see this through,” he said.

Marybeth reached out to him and cupped her hands around his face and took a long moment. Then she said, “It won’t do me any good to argue, will it?”

“Nope.”

“If you get yourself hurt or killed …” She didn’t finish the thought. There was no point.

Joe said, “I’ll see you in California in a day or so. We can use a vacation we can’t afford.”

She smiled, but there were tears in her eyes.

He said, “Go into the bathroom and compose yourself, honey. We don’t want the girls to see you crying. I’ll go say goodbye to them and tell them something came up.”

She nodded, then kissed him on the cheek.

“I’ll be careful,” he said. But he wasn’t sure what he meant.

From inside Marybeth’s van, Joe watched his wife and daughters troop across the tarmac toward the waiting plane. Rowdy Jones followed them. At the base of the accordion stairs, Marybeth turned and gave him a little wave.

He waved back but wasn’t sure she could see him.

When the airplane was in the sky and its wings tipped and it banked to the south toward Denver, he started up the van. Now that they were safe, the fish tank of his mind got bigger. He could see the individual fish, the individual problems. He began to make a plan.

He had no idea if it was a good one.

29

Although Nate Romanowski had been gone only a week from Twelve Sleep County, it seemed to him as he cruised the untracked morning roads of the Wind River Indian Reservation that he’d been gone forever. He drove by Bad Bob’s, noting that although it was too early to have opened, there was a troubling and vacant feeling about the place, indicating no one was there. Bob’s pickup was parked as always on the side of the building, but it was covered with snow. There was no sign of life from inside the store or Bob’s house behind it.

Same with Alice Thunder’s place. No woodsmoke from the chimney or exhaust fan on the roof. Newspapers, both the Saddlestring Roundup and the even smaller reservation weekly, gathered on the front porch sheathed in translucent orange tubes.

“She’s gone, and she’s been for a week or so,” Nate said. “Good.”

“Who’s gone?” Haley asked, following his gaze toward the small frame house.

“Someone I care about,” Nate said. “Everybody I was in contact with is in danger. That’s why I warned them to get away.”

Haley didn’t respond but seemed to be looking inward, thinking. He didn’t ask about what.

Nate cruised up Bighorn Road fifteen minutes later. As he did he checked his mirrors repeatedly and slowed down on the crest of each hill before descending. His weapon was on his lap.

He nodded as he drove by Joe Pickett’s house. Joe’s Game and Fish pickup was parked on the side of the garage, also blanketed with a thin coat of snow. A set of tracks emerged from beneath the garage door: Marybeth’s van. They were gone.

“For once,” Nate said, “Joe seems to have listened to me when I told him something.”

“He’s gone?” Haley asked.

“Looks like it. They’ve got kids, and the place would have been a beehive this time in the morning before school.”

He stopped at Joe’s mailbox a quarter-mile from the house and placed an object inside. When Haley gave him a quizzical look, he said simply, “I want him to know I was here.”

“Okay,” he said, swinging off the pavement onto a rough two-track directly away from the Pickett house, “the field has been cleared and the operation is under way.”

He could feel Haley’s eyes on him as he drove toward the base of Wolf Mountain. They crashed through a thick set of willows where the branches scraped both doors and emerged in a small white alcove. There was brush on all four sides of them, no way to see out, and no way to see in from the road.

He looked sternly at her and killed the engine. “Come on,” he said.

Unexpected fear flashed in her eyes. She hesitated for a moment, then climbed out.

He chinned for her to move to the front of the Jeep, and when she did he raised the .500, then spun it with his index finger through the trigger guard and rotated it so the muzzle was pointed at his chest and the grip was offered to her.

“Take it,” he said.

“Why?”

“Just take it,” he said more gently.

She did. He stepped back three steps, his boots crunching in the light snow.

He said, “If you’re going to kill me, I want you to do it now.”

She stood there, uncomprehending, her eyes puzzled.

“In an hour or so, I’m going after John Nemecek,” Nate said. “I’m going to hit him hard and fast and right in his face. The tactic is speed, surprise, and overwhelming violence. You don’t have to participate, and I may not want you involved. But Haley, if you’re going to bushwhack me, or try to warn him, I want you to do it now. Aim and fire. Blow a hole in me no one could recover from. Do it and get it over with now, not later.”

She held the gun out away from her, pointed vaguely at his waist. But not yet raising it. Their eyes bored into each other’s.

“Why are you testing me like this?” she asked. “Why are you doing this?”

“I’m giving you your chance to be a hero. Do it now, if you’re so inclined. I have no other weapons, and I couldn’t get to you in time to stop a shot. This is your chance.”

“Why, Nate?”

He paused. “I can handle the enemy, and I salute him if he can get the better of me in a fair fight. But I hate betrayal. I need to know one way or the other with you.”

After a few beats, she shook her head and let the weapon drop to her side.

“You know what,” he said, as he took the .500 from her and fed it back into his holster, “I’ve never done that before. Given my weapon to someone.”

He noticed her hands were trembling and he covered them with his own.

“This might work out,” he said.

“It’s tough when the foundation for your loyalty and beliefs crumbles away while you’re in the building, isn’t it?” he said, as they drove back out through the wall of willows toward the road.

“Yes,” she said.

She told him how Nemecek had found her after she’d enlisted in the Army and had gone through basic. How he’d selected her for the Peregrines and tested her character and strength. He knew her father was a lifer in the military, and that she understood the culture and the sacrifice necessary to ascend to Special Forces. She’d participated in two overseas operations — one in Bosnia, one in Iraq — before Nemecek came to her and explained that he was creating the strike team on the outside and that he had a very special role for her to play.

“He told me that same story about Afghanistan,” she said, “but he reversed the blame, just like you said. There wasn’t a single operator, once they heard what happened, who didn’t want your head. Me included.”

“He’s persuasive,” Nate agreed.

“And he’s evil and cynical,” she spat, “because he uses our patriotism and loyalty for his own benefit. Now that I know, I question both those missions I went on. Were they to help defend our country or to settle a score or eliminate competition for Nemecek? I just don’t know.”

“So it was you who found Merle,” Nate said. It wasn’t a question.

“Yes, but I didn’t kill him. I’d already flown back to Idaho.”

“Merle was my friend.”

“And I’m sorry. I had no idea what they were going to do to him, and I was sick when I found out what happened.”

When they hit the highway, Nate turned back toward town instead of toward the mountains. It took her a second to realize what had just happened.

“Aren’t we going the wrong way?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Why? You aren’t going to get rid of me somewhere, are you?” she asked angrily.

“We need a new car,” he said, and didn’t explain any more.

As they neared the town limits, he asked, “Do you know how many are on the team besides you?”

“No,” she said. “He never told me. You know how it is. You get your assignment and maybe see or meet one or two other operatives, but no one knows the entire plan or all the players. I only knew my job, which was to seduce Gabriel and Merle and infiltrate that compound in Idaho. Nemecek said you’d be in contact with them, and when you were, I was to tip him off. I never knew he planned to use me to kill Oscar and Cohen and the rest. I didn’t have a clue. All I knew was that when you showed up, I was to alert him.”

“You didn’t?” Nate asked.

“I never got a chance,” she said. “And by that time I was having doubts about everything he told me, to be honest. I came to really like and admire Gabriel and Oscar and the rest. They weren’t antigovernment, like Nemecek had led me to believe. They were pro — American individualism. They were patriotic and honest, and they were straight shooters. I kept waiting to hear someone go on a rant about revolution or something, but it never happened. They just wanted to be left alone. I can empathize with that.”

Nate said, “You never knew where Nemecek’s headquarters was?”

“No,” she said. “I had only one assignment. I didn’t know they were going to kill everybody.”

She looked away sharply but not before he caught a glimpse of tears in her eyes. “Damn it,” she said, “I don’t want to cry. Goddammit.”

Nate pulled into Hinderaker’s Used Cars on the south end of Main Street just a few blocks from the Burg-O-Pardner. As he entered the lot, Hinderaker — the bespectacled proprietor who had his official third-generation GM dealership dissolved when the government took over the company — emerged from a single-wide trailer that now served as his office. He shot his sleeves out so his cuffs emerged from his jacket, worked up a friendly grin, and ambled out into the drive so Nate couldn’t help but see him.

Haley stayed inside the Jeep while Nate strode through the rows of used vehicles, Hinderaker on his heels.

Nate paused at a white five-year-old SUV.

“You won’t be able to beat that deal,” Hinderaker said. “Plenty of miles but all highway miles. Are you thinking of trading in the Jeep?”

Nate fixed his icy blue eyes on Hinderaker and noted how the man took an involuntary step back.

“Maybe,” Nate said. “How’s the four-wheel drive?”

“Great!” Hinderaker said. “Probably never been used.”

Nate paused, not blinking. He knew he was making Hinderaker uncomfortable.

“Mind if I try it out?” Nate asked in a whisper.

Hinderaker started to object. No problem taking it for a test drive, he said. No problem at all. But company rules required a salesman to go along, and Hinderaker was on the lot all alone until his salesmen showed up at eight….

Nate said, “There’s my Jeep. I’ll leave it here as collateral with the keys in it. Registration and pink slip are in the glove box.”

Hinderaker sighed.

By the time Nate walked to the Tahoe, out of Hinderaker’s sight, Haley had transferred the gear and weapons from the Jeep.

As they cleared Saddlestring once again en route to Crazy Woman Creek in the Bighorns, Haley said, “White Tahoe. Got it. That’s what they all drive.”

Two miles past the Bighorn National Forest sign, Nate gritted his teeth and spoke through them.

“There’s this condition elite falcons get when all they can think about is to fly, fuck, and fight. It’s called yarak….”

30

While Joe pulled on his uniform in the darkened bedroom, he fought the growing feeling of dread that seemed to fill his empty house. It was odd being there without Marybeth and the girls, and he questioned his decision to stay, although not the reason for it. But there were so many loose threads, so many possible scenarios. …

He retrieved his weapons from his gun safe — two long rifles, his shotgun, and his holster — and went back outside to brush the snow off his green Ford Game and Fish Department pickup.

He swung out onto Bighorn Road — noting several sets of tire tracks already there — and did a mental inventory of his gear. Everything he might need was locked in the equipment boxes in the bed of his truck. Or at least he hoped so.

For the hundredth time that morning, he checked his cell phone for messages from Sheridan, Nate, Brueggemann, or Chuck Coon. Nothing.

He speed-dialed Coon, and after four rings the special agent picked up. “What now, Joe?” He sounded irritated.

“Is everything under way?” Joe asked.

“Yes, sir!” Coon said with sarcasm. “I’ve left urgent instructions in my office for them to start researching this Nemecek guy and rattling cages to find him, and I myself am in my comfortable government sedan just about to leave the city limits en route to Laramie to scare your daughter’s friend.”

“Great,” Joe said. “Thank you. Will you call me the minute you can?”

“Probably,” Coon said.

“There’s something else,” Joe said, ignoring the epic sigh from Coon’s end when he said it.

“Of course there is,” Coon said.

“I got more information last night after I talked to you. Something big is about to happen up here, I think — a major break in the case. I’ll know within a couple of hours if we’ve located the bad guy. So in the meanwhile, can you get a team together and have them ready to fly up here on your chopper? We’ll need lots of firepower.”

Coon moaned and said, “At least it’s just a small favor you’re asking.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Look,” Coon said, his voice rising, “I can’t put together a request for that kind of operation without probable cause, and you haven’t given me any. I need an official request for assistance from your sheriff or police chief. You know that, Joe. I can’t just send my jackbooted federales on raids all over the state of Wyoming.”

“I didn’t say send them,” Joe said. “I asked you to get them ready.”

“We need an official request, Joe. You know how this works.”

“Okay,” he said, frustrated. “I’ll work on that.”

The usual vehicles were parked outside in the lot of the Burg-O-Pardner, and Joe turned in beside them. This was the every-morning coffee gathering of the movers and shakers of the city and county. Discussions were off the record, and the public was never informed of what business was transacted. It had been going on since Joe first moved to the area, and he’d never been invited to coffee and wouldn’t have shown up if he was.

He strode past the line of vehicles — the chief of police’s SUV, the mayor’s Lincoln Town Car, the one-ton diesel pickup belonging to the county commissioner, and Sheriff Kyle McLanahan’s stupid old beater truck, which he tapped on as he walked past.

Inside, it was warm and close, and the small restaurant smelled of coffee, bacon, and burned toast. Five beefy faces all swung in his direction when he entered, and the conversation stopped. The sheriff had come with Deputy Sollis, who smirked at Joe with his piglike eyes.

Joe said to Sheriff McLanahan, “Got a minute?”

McLanahan looked tired and worn-out, despite the early-morning hour. There were dark rings under his eyes, and his skin seemed sallow and gray.

“I’m eating my breakfast,” McLanahan said. “Can’t you see that?”

Joe nodded. “Yup.”

“Hold your horses and I’ll be with you when I’m done,” McLanahan said, dismissing Joe and stabbing the point of a piece of toast into his egg yolk.

Joe asked no one in particular, “How many days until the election?”

McLanahan looked up, scowling. The others looked from Joe to the sheriff and back again.

After a beat, McLanahan made a show of tossing his toast down on his plate and pushing away from the table. Sollis pushed back from the table as well.

“Not you,” Joe said to him.

The deputy looked to McLanahan and was hurt when the sheriff nodded for him to sit back down.

“Just a few minutes of your valuable time,” Joe said, stepping aside so the sheriff could walk past him toward the door.

Outside, McLanahan turned around and put his hands on his hips and glared at Joe like a bull about to charge.

Joe said, “You know I support Mike Reed for your job, right?”

McLanahan nodded slightly.

“So you know it would be better for Mike if you continued to screw up all these investigations and nobody got caught or arrested, right?”

McLanahan’s face flushed and he looked like he was about to take a swing, but he growled, “Get to your point, Pickett.”

“Appreciated,” Joe said. “I need you to do three things this morning, and I mean this morning. If you do them all, we might just crack this thing and get the guy responsible for all the crimes around here. If you don’t, we can be pretty much assured of Sheriff Mike Reed and your unemployment.”

McLanahan didn’t move, but he didn’t object.

“First,” Joe said, “you need to assemble your SWAT team as fast as you can. Make sure Mike Reed is on it.”

McLanahan did a little head bob — not an overt agreement but more of an I-acknowledge-that-you-just-said-something-but-I’m-waiting-for-more gesture.

Joe said, “Do you want to get out your notebook and write these things down?”

“I think I can remember them, goddammit,” McLanahan spat.

“Okay, second, get the SWAT team over to the TeePee Motel, room 138. The target is my trainee Luke Brueggemann.”

The sheriff arched his eyebrows at the name.

“You remember him,” Joe said. “He was with me when you called me down to identify the murder victims.”

“I remember,” McLanahan said. “A young pup — a little wet behind the ears.”

“That’s him,” Joe said. “But he isn’t who he seems. You need to get him in custody and start sweating him. Find out who he’s working for. Confiscate his phone and turn it over to your best tech people to find out who he’s been calling and texting. But most important, get him behind bars for the rest of the day so he can’t warn anyone or muck anything up.”

McLanahan shook his head. “I can’t just arrest a guy and hold him without charges.”

“You forget who you’re talking to,” Joe said, and laughed. “You do it all the time. And besides, I’m sure I’ll be the one to press charges against him.”

The sheriff looked away for a moment, then back to Joe with a squint in his eyes.

“Why do we need a SWAT team to bring him in? He don’t look like much.”

“Because he’s not who he says he is, I told you that,” Joe said. “He’s got weapons and he may be highly trained. You don’t want anyone to get hurt, do you? Hit him fast and hard, and assume he’s dangerous.”

McLanahan shook his head as if he couldn’t believe how ridiculous Joe was acting.

“Plus,” Joe said, “you might need that assembled SWAT team later this morning. I think I know where our bad guy is located. Once it’s confirmed, I’ll give you the word.”

“Bullshit,” McLanahan said. “Tell me what you know.”

Joe shook his head. “Not until I’m sure.”

“Damn you, this is my county. You can’t be running your own deal here. I’ve got jurisdiction and you know it.”

Joe took a step toward McLanahan, which surprised the sheriff.

“What I know,” Joe said, nodding toward the restaurant where Sollis stood watching them from inside the window, “is you’ve surrounded yourself with thugs and idiots. That’s why I want your assurance that Reed will be on the team this morning, so there’s at least one competent officer. And make sure you tell them all to stay off the radio. Brueggemann and others are likely monitoring your frequency. He’ll know you’re coming, and we don’t want that.

“And if you send your goons out there before I pinpoint our bad guy, you could tip him off or get your goons killed. Or get my friend killed. Or get me killed.”

“Your friend?” McLanahan said, perking up. “Romanowski’s involved?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Joe said. “But if he is, I don’t want you risking his life.”

“You’re really pissing me off,” McLanahan said. “I don’t need to do anything if I don’t want to. This is my county and my investigation.”

“Understood,” Joe said. “But imagine what people will say about you if everything explodes today and you decided to sit it out. I can’t imagine that would help your reelection chances much.”

McLanahan glared at Joe and then surprised him with a long, slow grin.

“You think you’ve got it all figured out, don’t you?” he asked.

“Nope,” Joe said, “not at all. I just know that being sheriff is the only thing you know how to do because you’d get eaten up in the real world. You want to keep this job as if your life depended on it, which in some ways it probably does.”

The smile vanished.

“You said there were three things,” McLanahan said, his tone flat.

“That’s right. Call the FBI in Cheyenne and request assistance immediately. Tell them you might have a firefight up here and you need a federal strike team.”

McLanahan turned away and stomped his foot in the slush.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Joe said.

After a few smoldering moments, the sheriff said, “If this doesn’t all work out, I’m holding you personally responsible. You better understand that. I’ll hold a press conference and name names, and the governor and your director will hear from me.”

Joe shrugged. “If it does work out, you might have a chance of being sheriff again, as miserable as that will be for everybody.”

As McLanahan fumed, Joe walked back toward his pickup. “Keep your cell phone on and stay close to the radio,” Joe said over his shoulder. “I’ll call you as soon as I know if you need to send your goons in.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” McLanahan growled.

Joe said, “I just did.”

Joe clicked his radio over to the county frequency while he drove through town toward the mountains. He wanted to monitor traffic as well as he could, and hoped the arrest of Brueggemann would go down as smoothly and safely as possible. And that he wouldn’t hear a word about it until the arrest was made.

Then he called Mike Reed on his cell phone and woke Reed up.

“You’re supposed to be on a plane,” Reed said sleepily.

“Maybe tomorrow,” Joe said. “But in the meanwhile, I need to let you know what’s going on and apologize to you in advance.”

“Apologize for what?” Reed asked.

Joe sighed and told him the story. There was silence on the other end.

Finally, Reed said, “Don’t apologize, Joe. If we get the bad guys, it’s all worth it, whether I win or not. McLanahan’s still a fool, no matter what happens.”

“Thanks, Mike.”

“Well,” he said, “it sounds like I better get dressed and drag my butt into the office.”

He saw a few elk hunters road-hunting on his way up Bighorn Road. When they saw his green truck, they pulled over to be checked, but he waved and kept going.

His plan was under way, but he didn’t trust McLanahan not to figure out a way to screw it up.

He looked at his watch and guessed Marybeth and the girls would be able to see the tentlike architecture of Denver International out the window of their Beechcraft.

And he wondered where Nate Romanowski was, and hoped his friend would call. Immediately.

For the second time since he’d left the airport, he drove past his house. Unlike the last time, though, Joe noted a set of tire tracks that veered off the road in the snow near the mailbox, and large boot prints going to and from his box.

Since it was much too early for mail, Joe stopped, left his pickup running, and got out. The boot prints looked familiar, and a rush of excitement shot through him.

Joe opened the door of the mailbox and saw the glint of bronze inside. He reached in and grasped the thick, heavy cartridge between his fingers, and read the stamp on the back: .500 wyoming express fa. The FA stood for Freedom Arms, where the revolver and the cartridge were manufactured.

He slid the cartridge in the front pocket of his Wranglers as he strode back to his pickup.

This is it, he thought.