Full Tilt

69

Near Miles City, Montana

The wind rolled in waves over the vast grasslands, tumbling into the coulees and raking the cottonwood grove where Brennan lay hidden from view.

Face clenched behind mounted, high-powered binoculars, he studied the ranch house and outbuildings rising from the plain over a mile away.

This is where Sorin Zurrn’s going to be today.

Through his earpiece Brennan listened to whispered spurts of encrypted transmissions over walkie-talkies.

No movement or activity.

The FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team controlled the inner perimeter.

They’d set up lookout posts while sharpshooters and assault team members were concealed in spots surrounding the house. They were backed up by an FBI unit from Salt Lake City and tactical teams from across Montana. They held positions at the outer perimeter, where Brennan and other task force members waited.

Flying above them, silent and unseen, a small remotely controlled surveillance drone sent live images of the isolated region to the FBI’s command post four miles away in a building where the Montana Department of Transportation kept snowplows.

Brennan had been at his perimeter position for ten hours now, confident that the investigation was solid.

This is Zurrn’s property. He’ll be here. Everything fits.

They’d connected all the dots going back to Carl Nelson’s coworker Mark Rupp, who’d glimpsed Nelson looking at a real estate page and making notes more than a year ago. It turned out Nelson had used an absent coworker’s computer, which had been sold later as surplus with other equipment to an out-of-state office supply warehouse.

It was a challenge, but the FBI moved fast and located the unit in Beltsville, Maryland. Examining it, they recovered and extracted the information, like browser history, that led to a real estate sale in Custer County, Montana. Executing warrants, the FBI determined that Zurrn had used a network of aliases and numbered companies to purchase the property under the name Wallace Cordell. When the FBI showed Zurrn’s photos to the agent on the deal she was incredulous. “Yes, that sort of looks like him! But Wallace Cordell had red hair and thick sideburns. My Lord! You’re telling me this is the man on the news?”

The agent said the deal had closed a few months ago and all that was left was for Cordell/Zurrn to take possession very soon. In fact, she’d already left the keys for him in a lockbox. The agent gave the FBI the date Cordell was to arrive to take possession.

“He assured me he’d be there at any time on that date. I was going to drop by after he called me to congratulate him and pick up the lockbox.”

The sprawling property was in a windswept region of farms and ranches. It had been owned by a doomsday cult. Records and plans obtained by the FBI showed that the group had constructed a well-maintained underground bunker, “with a large number of sealable, dorm-like chambers,” to prepare for a predicted Armageddon in 2012. But when the prophesy failed, followers left and the ranch was put up for sale.

It was ideal for Zurrn.

In the days before Zurrn’s possession date, the FBI executed warrants to search it and confirm it was empty, that no victims or prisoners were being held there. They also checked it for hidden cameras or security measures Zurrn may have surreptitiously installed.

Then the FBI questioned Hub Arness, who owned the neighboring property. Hub, who’d always kept an eye on the place, said there’d been no recent activity. But a couple years back there was some regular trouble. “These ex-cult types still trekked out there and sometimes vandalized the property,” Hub said.

Zurrn’s return date and the task force’s swift investigation led to the execution of more warrants and their arrest strategy. The Hostage Rescue Team flew from Quantico, Virginia, and, so not to attract attention, landed about 165 miles away at the Gillette-Campbell County Airport in Gillette, Wyoming.

Then, in an undisclosed location in Montana, the team and equipment were transferred to state and county service trucks. Under cover of night, they embedded at key points on the property while other tactical units, including members of the task force, took up positions in the outer perimeter where they’d been waiting since the predawn hours.

Now, as sunset neared, the radio crackled with a dispatch from the command post.

“Head’s up. Eyes in the sky have activity.”

Brennan tensed.

“We’ve got a van approaching from the east.”

Dust clouds rose in the distance as a lone vehicle rolled along the dirt road to the property. It was headed to the ranch house.

“Hold your positions.”

Brennan dragged the back of his hand across his mouth as he watched through his binoculars.

“Hold.”

The van slowed, then braked. Nothing happened. From what Brennan could see, there was only the driver in the front. Judging from the shadow silhouette, the driver was doing something behind the wheel.

“Maintain positions.”

The driver’s door opened and a male got out and began walking to the rear of the van.

“Go! Go! Go! Go!”

Heavily armed tactical members rushed from their covers with weapons drawn on the driver, instantly putting him facedown on the dirt.

“What the-don’t kill me!”

As the driver was handcuffed a tactical team member fished through his pants for a wallet and ID. According to his Montana driver’s license, the man was Marshall Chang, aged thirty-two from Billings, where he worked for Big Sky Rapid Courier.

“What’re you doing here, Mr. Chang?” an agent asked.

“I’m delivering to Wallace Cordell. This is my last one of the day.”

“Did you speak with Cordell today?”

“No.”

“Do you know his whereabouts?”

“No. I don’t know the guy. This is my first time to this place.”

“What sort of delivery are you making?”

“I don’t know, it says ‘parts.’”

“Parts for what?” The agent turned to another. “Let’s take a look.”

Weapons at the ready, team members opened the van’s rear doors to a large wooden crate. They pried off the lid to find it lined with heavy plastic. The first agent pulled at the plastic, then suddenly recoiled.

“Whoa!”

The agent backed into the second agent, who moved forward to look.

“What the hell?”

Others crowded, peered inside to a mass of severed arms, legs, torsos and heads with sinewy tendons. One agent grabbed the lid and read the shipping label, which was stamped “Urgent Express.”

“Look at this.” He pointed to the shipper’s address. “Studio Quality Body Parts Discount Movie Props, Burbank, California-they’re fake! This is for us! He expected us to find this place and be waiting today!”