In the Crosshairs

34

The alarm screeched like a wounded wildcat, tearing Luke Gibson from a sound sleep, and he rolled off the mattress before his eyes were even open, groping for the shotgun under the bed. The unmanned security control room was running on automatic and had piped the unvarying, piercing whine into every room. An instant later, warning sirens began to hoot outside. Gibson scrambled to his feet and headed for the control room. Every light in the house flashed on. They were coming.

He threw open the security doors and saw that every screen was lit with alert signals. Sensor dots to pinpoint unwanted guests flecked the computers like measles, and coming from every direction. He took a moment to collect his thoughts, then dashed back to grab jeans, boots, sweatshirt, and the bug-out bag that was kept topped off for just such a situation. When he ran outside, shotgun in hand, he heard the rattle of approaching helicopters and motorcycles and trucks — a cacophony of bad news.

Gibson reacted like a test pilot in a spin, ticking off options one after another as disaster drew ever closer. The airstrips were of no use, and neither was a big 4 × 4, because the roads would be blocked. A horse was too slow. The encircling force meant that the Canadians were in on this, which wiped out the usual border trails.

Gibson took off for the trees. Darkness and cover were his allies now, and, in addition, his attackers wouldn’t know about the tunnels. He broke into a hard run, pounding down the driveway. A haze of headlights rose above the distant treetops, moving his way. The chopper was closing in fast. He reached the tree line just as some unlucky cop hit a hidden claymore mine off to the east, and the explosion shook the night.

He felt a momentary surge of euphoria as the victory virus swept through him. The ranch was full of surprises that only he knew. His path to the tunnel entrance would be clear when the automatic defenses took their toll on the unsuspecting policemen, most of whom could arrest speeding drunks but had no training in tactical combat scenarios. A white phosphorus grenade exploded up where the Mounties were coming in. He ran.

The main threat was that helicopter, probably an FBI HRT unit. Those were bad boys. He recalled hearing one pass by in the distance during the night, but had given it little notice. Choppers and small planes were frequent modes of transportation across the immense distances up here, particularly over toward the oil patch. This new one, however, was heading for the ranch house, and he saw the brilliant cone of its searchlight combing the forest and the ground. It came toward Gibson fast, and he ducked against a boulder, letting the bird pass overhead.

The tone of the attack was already changing as the ranch took its defensive toll, and Gibson knew the momentum had shifted. What had looked like an overwhelming force on the attack plan only moments ago was fizzling into disarray. There was another boom in the south, and he heard someone cry out. Breathing hard, he hunkered down beside another boulder to catch his breath. The pain in his lungs indicated that he’d probably been running dangerously hard for about a mile. He knew the trip-wire locations, but if he stumbled and broke a leg or ran into a tree the game would be over. “Hell it will,” he told himself, and a smile creased his face as he inhaled deeply and put down the weapon to take a drink. “This game is already over. I’m number one.”

“Hello, Luke,” a voice said softly in the darkness.

Gibson looked out in disbelief as a silhouette broke from the shadows and moved toward him at a lazy pace. Luke screamed and grabbed for his gun, and Kyle Swanson unloaded a blast of his own 12-guage, unleashing a swarm of miniature flechettes. Some of the needles broke on the rocks and shredded trail brush, but about a dozen punched through the clothing and skin of Luke Gibson with the power of a mad surgeon. He had never felt such searing pain, and he screamed as it immobilized him; the tiny syringes had been packed with enough chemicals to bring down a gorilla.

Swanson charged. The result was certain, but a few heart pumps were required for the drug to circulate to the brain and vital organs; until then, the victim would be able to resist. Swanson kicked Gibson in the ribs and sent him sprawling. “How you doin’ down there, Number One? You look like a porcupine.”

Gibson tried to crawl, but Swanson stomped on the back of his knee, then kicked the shotgun away as he reloaded his own weapon — a test model of the anti-personnel, multiple-projectile, remote drug-delivery system straight from the Excalibur laboratories. It was supposed to be nonlethal, but dosage was a still a problem. At the moment, Swanson didn’t care. He had been dropped off six miles from the house early this morning and found a hide on a ridge from which he could see most of the spread. When Gibson ran out, Swanson trotted up the trail behind him.

“You’re dead.” Gibson croaked as his energy evaporated. The bright cone of the helicopter light came back and painted a circle around them. “You’re dead!”

“Oh, go to sleep,” Swanson said. He punched Gibson hard in the temple as FBI black-clad fighters slithered down long ropes to the forest floor.

An anesthesiologist at the Kalispell Regional Medical Center efficiently brought Luke Gibson back. The patient was secured to a hospital bed in a guarded part of the facility, where he had been flown while still unconscious. A doctor had plucked out the quills and closed the little wounds. Blood work had taken a while, because of the complex formula used as ammunition in the darts, but the recovery was relatively swift. Dose like that, delivered by a shotgun blast, could kill a man.

When Gibson finally became aware of his surroundings, he saw two women standing on each side of the bed. One was a nurse in pink scrubs who had a lousy bedside manner as she shook him awake. The second wore a brown uniform with blue shoulder flashes and a duty belt.

“Hey! Hey! Can you hear me?” the cop barked. She also gave him a shake. “Wake up.” Her voice was young but firm.

Gibson was irritated and still groggy, close to barfing. “Yeah. God damn it, I can hear you. Where’s Kyle?”

“I don’t know any Kyle,” she said. “My name is Danielle DeLaittre of the Montana Highway Patrol, assigned to District Five. Do you understand that?”

She came into better focus. Lean and muscle-toned, with a turtleneck sweater beneath her shirt, and looking very young. “How old are you?” he asked.

DeLaittre had been expecting such a comment. She had been briefed by her training officer to emphasize her lack of law-enforcement experience with the prisoner. The federal officials who had brought this guy in wanted him to be treated like a common criminal. “I’m twenty-five years old and a member of the most recent graduating class of the Montana Law Enforcement Academy. Before that, I worked my way through college by cleaning motel rooms and making sandwiches at a Subway over in Billings. Now, are you coherent?”

“You’re a damned rookie!”

“Lowest of the low, sir. They made me leave my .357 Sig outside because you’re some kind of bad dude. However, I consider you somewhat special because you’re my first arrest.”

“And I’m fresh out of nursing school,” chirped the nurse. Both cop and nurse grinned in amusement.

While Luke Gibson groaned at the intentional insult of being treated like pond scum, Danielle DeLaittre took a small card from her pocket. “I will now read you your rights,” she said.

The lawyer from Manhattan looked out across the plains and felt nervous. This was cowboy-and-Indian country, and probably not a decent bagel within a hundred miles. He had flown out yesterday and spent the night in a hotel, hoping not to be scalped. As Leonard P. Flagler climbed the steps of the federal building, he felt that he was reaching the safety of a frontier fort, and put on his business face.

He presented his card and was ushered directly into the office of Melissa Jacob, an assistant U.S. Attorney in the Criminal Division for the District of Montana. She was an attractive woman, dressed in blue jeans and a flannel shirt, plus Western boots. No, this was not Manhattan.

She apologized for the casual look, but said it was a paperwork day for her, just to clean up some loose ends; she could have worked from home had she not made this appointment. She put on a pair of rimless glasses and read briefly from a file. “So you’re the attorney of record for Mr. Lucas Gibson?”

“I am.” He read the body language. This woman wasn’t cowed by his courtroom reputation. In fact, it looked as if this might be a short meeting.

“And Gibson wants to make a deal?”

“I visited with my client earlier today, and he is willing to become a fully cooperative government witness in a number of important investigations in exchange for…”

Melissa Jacob leaned back and crossed her arms. “Whoa up right there, Mr. Flagler. I’m afraid you’ve made a long trip from New York for nothing. There will be no deal. Period.”

Flagler felt a trickle of sweat on his back. He might be out in the badlands but he knew how to make prosecutors crawl. “That’s highly unlikely, Ms. Jacob.”

“Tell your client he does not have a single thing we want. Nothing at all. In fact, we’re finishing up the paperwork today, declaring him to be an enemy combatant and a national-security threat; he’ll be transferred into military custody. Any trial will be in secret, and he will not be allowed a civilian lawyer.”

“That’s preposterous, madam! On what charge?”

“I cannot tell you that because you do not have proper clearance for top-secret material. Just assume we start with treason and murder and work our way down. I suggest that you get your payment up front, Mr. Flagler, because we’re seizing all of Mr. Gibson’s assets as soon as possible.”

“He’s an American citizen and has constitutional rights!”

“Read the fine print in his employment contract with the CIA. Oh, sorry, you don’t have clearance for that, either.” Melissa Jacob came around the desk and extended her hand. “Look, Mr. Flagler, I’m doing you a favor here. I know your firm defends drug dealers and other such criminals, and everyone deserves a robust defense, but you do not want any part of Luke Gibson. We intend to bury him. Spend your time elsewhere.”

Flagler was being dismissed. He sputtered, “My client demands to confront his accuser, a man named Kyle Swanson.”

“Ain’t gonna happen,” she said. “Go tell your client what I said, and that he will be transferred tomorrow to the United States Disciplinary Barracks at Fort Leavenworth, down in Kansas. His future after that is unknown. You will never see him again. Have a nice trip back to New York, Mr. Flagler. Thanks for dropping by.”