The Abduction

DAY TEN

Four years before he will become President of the United States of America, FBI Director Laurence McCoy is having breakfast in the Senate Dining Room with the Majority Leader, trying to convince the senator that the Bureau’s budget should be increased despite the FBI sniper killing that woman at Ruby Ridge. An aide hurries over and whispers in his ear. McCoy excuses himself. A situation has arisen.

Director McCoy is briefed on his way out of the Capitol. Elizabeth Austin, an Assistant U.S. Attorney on the Major Charles Woodrow Walker prosecution team, was kidnapped when she returned home last night. A handwritten note states that she will be returned in pieces unless the major is released from the maximum-security prison in Leavenworth, Kansas. They gave him twenty-four hours. The Hostage Rescue Team has been mobilized.

Abductions of federal judges and prosecutors by drug lords and terrorists are daily occurrences in Colombia and Mexico and other third-world countries. But not in the United States of America. That cannot be allowed to happen here; for if it does and if the government gives in to the abductors’ demands, the rule of law in America will die. And if it happens on the current FBI director’s watch, his dream of living in the White House will surely die as well.

“I won’t do it!”

Director McCoy is back in his office at FBI Headquarters, surrounded by the Assistant Director, the Special Agent in Charge of the Critical Incident Response Group, and the leader of the Hostage Rescue Team.

“Release Walker,” HRT leader Tom Buchanan says. “We’ll plant a transponder in his shoe, we’ll track him until he releases the hostage, and then my snipers will kill him.”

“Like they killed that mother at Ruby Ridge? Shit, Tom, I’ve got two Congressional investigations and a fucking federal lawsuit over your goddamn snipers! And the Majority Leader said to forget a budget increase!”

Larry McCoy turns and stares out the window. He can see the White House in the distance, just city blocks away geographically but close enough to touch politically. And the decision he makes at this moment will determine if Laurence McCoy ever inhabits that house. He turns back.

“Walker stays put.”

Larry McCoy drops the small zip-lock evidence bag.

He didn’t think they’d really do it. If the press gets wind that a federal prosecutor-a young woman, no less-is being held hostage by former black ops soldiers and dismantled and sent to Washington in plastic baggies, his political career is over. On the other hand, if he releases Walker and Walker kills other innocent citizens, his political career is over. The classic Washington lose-lose situation.

“They pulled them out with pliers,” the Assistant Director says.

McCoy looks down at the evidence bag holding Elizabeth Austin’s molars.

Hostage Rescue Team operator Frank Kane is sitting in his idling sedan outside the maximum-security federal prison at Leavenworth, Kansas. For the first time in his ten-year FBI career, he is unarmed. He will drive the prisoner to the release point. Transponders have been placed in Kane’s shoe, in the vehicle, and in the prisoner’s shoe. At that very moment, HRT’s C-130 transport loaded with a dozen operators and enough weapons to overthrow a small country is flying overhead at twenty thousand feet; they will track the prisoner with the transponders, they will land on a goddamn highway if they have to, and they will kill Major Charles Woodrow Walker and his co-conspirators.

After, that is, Elizabeth Austin is released.

“Pull over,” the major says.

They have driven twenty-seven miles west of Leavenworth on various farm-to-market roads per the major’s directions. Kane turns into an abandoned roadside vegetable stand. A late-model black Suburban is parked out front; a young Hispanic male is perched on the hood. They’re switching vehicles.

Kane exits the sedan, unconcerned about abandoning the vehicle and its transponders. They had anticipated the major’s move; the transponders in their shoes will still lead the HRT team above.

They walk over to the Suburban.

“Keys,” the major says, holding his hand out.

Kane tosses the sedan’s keys to the major. The major says something in Spanish to the young man and hands him the keys. The young man jumps down, walks over to the sedan, gets in, and drives back toward Leavenworth.

“Drive,” the major says. Kane nods, opens the driver’s door, and steps up onto the running board. “Naked.”

Kane freezes. “ What? ”

The major rips his shirt off and tosses it to the ground.

“Remove your clothes.”

“You want me to drive naked?”

“I’m pretty sure you didn’t stick a transponder up my ass. Beyond that, I can’t be sure where you planted them. Don’t worry-this vehicle’s got a good heater.”

Kane’s face betrays his thoughts. The major chuckles.

“How do you think we tracked downed pilots in North Vietnam?”

They did not anticipate this move. Kane tries to think of a way out but nothing comes to him. He unzips his jacket.

Frank Kane laughs. Not at the fact of two grown men driving naked through Kansas farm country on a Sunday morning in February but at the major’s sex and war stories from Vietnam.

“Three Viet women at a time?”

The major shrugs. “If you were man enough.”

An hour later and Frank Kane finds himself admiring Major Charles Woodrow Walker more with each mile. The major is a hell of a man. What would make this man turn against his own country? The major reads his mind.

“Betrayal. You know something about that, don’t you, Frank?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Ruby Ridge. You were there, doing your duty for your country, defending your country against all enemies, foreign and domestic. But things went wrong and your country blames you.”

“How do you know this? Our names haven’t been released.”

The major smiles. “Frank, I’ve got men in every branch of the military, active-duty officers waiting for my order, ready to restore order to America. And I’ve got men in law enforcement-how many ex-military are on your Hostage Rescue Team?”

“Most.”

The major nods. “I knew you’d be my escort before you did.”

“You’re plotting a coup?”

“I prefer to call it a regime change. You’re a good man, Frank, taking on this mission to save the hostage. Took guts. There’s room for a good man like you in my administration.”

The thought strikes Frank Kane. He is being blamed for Ruby Ridge. Heads will roll. And his might be one of them. Why not jump teams before he’s cut, like a pro football player who makes a better deal with another team? Why give a damn about loyalty to his country when his country has no loyalty to him?

Frank Kane sighs. He does. He gives a damn. His answer will likely cost him his life, but he says, “No thanks, Major.”

They are now one hundred eighty-seven miles into the heart of Kansas, in the middle of nowhere.

“Pull over,” the major says.

Kane steers to the shoulder of the road and cuts the engine. They are at an intersection of two farm-to-market roads. He can see for miles in each direction and all he can see are snow-covered fields. The major reaches over and removes the keys.

“Un-ass the vehicle,” he says.

Kane opens the door and steps out into the cold. He walks around the vehicle and joins the major, two naked men in Kansas.

“What now?” Kane asks.

“Here comes my slick.”

He’s looking off in the distance, skyward. Kane squints into the blue sky and sees a black dot growing bigger fast. In less than a minute, Kane identifies an Apache helicopter gunship flying low to the ground.

“Flying contour,” the major says. “Under the radar.”

The gunship arrives in a flurry of dust and snow blown up by the rotor blast. Kane notices that the pilot is wearing a military uniform. And that the gunship’s rockets are aimed at the Suburban.

“You might want to step away from the vehicle,” the major says.

“Where’s Austin?” Kane asks.

“We’ll release her.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

“How do I know?”

“You have my word, Frank.”

The major steps onto the skid of the gunship. He reaches inside and tosses a green blanket to Kane. Then he salutes him, like the president saluting his crew on the South Lawn as he boards Chopper One. He rises off the ground like a god.

As Frank Kane tries to comprehend the site of a naked Major Charles Woodrow Walker being lifted skyward by an Apache helicopter gunship in the middle of Kansas, a rocket fires from the gunship and blows the Suburban to smithereens.

Elizabeth Austin is locked in a small room in what appears to be a small cabin. Through the tiny window she can see the sand and cacti of a desert. She’s somewhere in the southwest, near Mexico or maybe in Mexico.

The last thing she remembers is stepping into her town house. When she woke, she was lying on the bed in this room and in pain. Two of her teeth have been removed. She spits blood and is working her jaw to relieve the throbbing pain when the door opens and Major Charles Woodrow Walker enters. He shuts and locks the door behind him. She thinks, He’s not locking me in; he’s locking them out.

“Sorry about the teeth,” the major says. “McCoy wouldn’t listen to reason.” He shakes his head. “A politician.”

Standing there in a long-sleeve black work shirt, jeans, and boots, his blond hair shaggy, his face clean-shaven, with the erect posture of a soldier, Walker seems the embodiment of the man he once was, the chosen one at West Point, the charismatic leader of men, the Green Beret legend; but not the man he is now, the most dangerous man in America.

He stares at her, and she can see the evil come into his eyes. He examines her-she’s still wearing the same blouse and skirt from her suit-as if trying to come to a decision. He decides.

“Take your clothes off.”

“Go to hell.”

He steps to her, grabs her blouse, and rips it off. She swings her fist at his face; he doesn’t bother to block her punch. It has no affect on him.

“Make it easy on yourself,” he says. “But you will do what I want.”

Her bra comes off next and she is standing before him. She does not cower or cry. She will not. He looks at her beauty and his respiration increases; his blue eyes turn dark. He comes close; she knees him in his groin. He backhands her across the face and knocks her onto the bed. Her face and jaw burn with pain; tears fill her eyes. He grabs her skirt and yanks it off with her underwear. His eyes are wide and he’s breathing like a wild animal. He unbuckles his belt; his pants fall to the floor. She does not look at him; she doesn’t have to. He grabs her hips and flips her over and then pulls her hips up. She closes her eyes and clenches her teeth and groans when he pushes into her with sudden force. She is relieved when he does not last long.

But it will not be the last time.

Each time is rough. He always takes her from behind, as if he does not want to see her face when he rapes her or her to see his. He never undresses; he only drops his trousers. He never tries to hold her or caress her or feel her. He just takes her. Like an animal, a wild beast. When he finishes with her, he leaves quickly and without a word, almost as if he’s ashamed of what he has done. But he does it again. And again. And again. She fights him each time but without effect. She cannot beat him with force. He is a force of nature. Her will is weakening. The major controls her life now. His evil is overwhelming.

After the tenth time, she says, “I love you.”

Two weeks later, the major and his men take her across the border into Mexico. They travel to San Jose del Cabo. He says they will live there together and forever.

“He must die! He must die fast and hard or we’ll become another goddamn Colombia!”

FBI Director Laurence McCoy released Walker only to have Walker renege on releasing Elizabeth Austin. Two weeks and no Austin. Major Charles Woodrow Walker must die. McCoy’s dream of the White House is riding on it.

But McCoy doesn’t know where Walker is or whom he can trust. Walker said he had men in the FBI. So McCoy is going outside the Bureau for this job. He says to the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency of the United States of America: “Find him and kill that son of a bitch!”

The young American woman is sitting at the outdoor coffee shop, sipping her coffee, so serene and beautiful in her wispy white dress and white sun hat and dark sunglasses. Perhaps she is a movie star. Yes, Juan decides, she is a movie star. Many a movie star has sipped coffee in his shop in Baja California, but surely she is the most beautiful of them all.

Juan takes her a fresh cup of his best coffee. She is radiant. He can only dream of having a beautiful woman like her. He sighs. Just having her in his coffee shop these last few weeks will have to suffice. She is alone today; the big blond American man is nowhere in sight. Nor are their bodyguards. Juan wants desperately to talk with her, but he cannot bring himself to do so. He places the cup of coffee on the table in front of her.

“ Gracias,” she says, and then she faints.

Jorge Hernandez, M.D., earned his medical degree at the University of Guadalajara in 1965, back when abortion was illegal in the States. From 1965 until 1973, Jorge specialized in abortions for Americans. He opened abortion clinics in border towns from Matamoras to Tijuana. Roe v. Wade ended his abortion career.

He closed his clinics and moved to San Jose del Cabo for the fishing. His last abortion procedure for an American was over thirty years ago. Certainly that is why this American woman is here. Jorge sees no wedding ring. He is patting her hand when she opens her eyes.

“Where am I?”

“Hospital,” Jorge says. “You are here for an abortion?”

“What? No!”

“But you are pregnant, you know this?”

From her face, Jorge sees that she does not know this.

She says, “I need a phone.”

Major Charles Woodrow Walker stops the Jeep at the secluded beach house outside San Jose del Cabo. He enters the house. He has been gone two days; he traveled to the border, only to learn that his face was still on the front page of every newspaper in the U.S. So he sent the men north. He will remain in Mexico for another month, then he will reunite with his men in Idaho. And they will wage war on America.

Until then he will enjoy sex with Elizabeth.

Charles Woodrow Walker was born for war and sex. He possessed the mental toughness to kill and the physical tools for sex, a combination that afforded him a great power over both sexes. Men would die for him and women would lie down for him. He has never tired of sex or killing. And there would be more of both for Charles Woodrow Walker.

Before he leaves, he will kill Elizabeth. She loves him, just as all his women eventually loved him, but she is a security risk. Women are always security risks. Charles Woodrow Walker loved war and sex but never a woman.

“Elizabeth!”

No answer. He walks through the house to the back deck. He scans the beach from north to south. It’s vacant, except for one woman at the water’s edge. He walks to the beach.

Elizabeth feels his presence and turns.

The major is walking toward her. From his face, she knows what he will do to her. He is smiling, but he suddenly stops and cocks his head, as if catching a distant sound. And they are here. Three black helicopters rise over the trees and surround the major, hovering just off the beach; three snipers’ rifles are pointed at Major Charles Woodrow Walker. He glances at each helicopter then back at Elizabeth.

“You betrayed me.”

“You raped me.”

She had called FBI Director McCoy from her hospital bed and set a trap for Major Charles Woodrow Walker. She told McCoy where she was and where the major would be. “I owe you, Elizabeth,” McCoy had said. “You just made me president.”

“You said you loved me,” the major says.

“I lied.”

“No, you didn’t lie. I own you, Elizabeth. I will always own you-your mind, your soul, your life. You will never be free of me. And one day I’ll come for you. But I won’t kill you. I’ll hurt you more. I’ll take what you love most. I guarangoddamntee it.”

He glances up at the helicopters again and shrugs with disdain. “They can arrest me again, but they can’t hold me. I’ll still come for you, Elizabeth. One day I will come.”

He grins and it is Satan’s grin. But the grin falls off his face when she says, “They’re not here to arrest you.”

She turns away and three shots ring out.

Elizabeth Austin walks off without looking back but knowing her life is forever changed. Evil took her for its own. Evil embraced her and violated her and planted its seed in her. That evil is now dead. But should the child she carries also die?

She has considered killing the life within her each day since Dr. Hernandez told her she was pregnant. She has also considered killing herself-but she had to kill Walker first. Now he is dead and she is free to kill herself and the child with her. She wants desperately to die.

But she cannot take the life within her. She cannot kill the child. The child deserves to live, and so Elizabeth must live to give the child life. The child is all that stands between her and suicide. The child saves her life. The child is her saving grace.

Her Grace.

She now hears the child’s cries. They become whimpers. Then they stop all together. The child is in the dark again, just as when she was inside Elizabeth. But she cannot save the child’s life now and the child cannot save Elizabeth’s life. Only one man can save them both.

She hears a voice, that familiar voice of evil: “I have taken what you love most, as I promised I would. Now I will own her as I have owned you.”

Elizabeth woke, sat up in bed, and screamed, “No!”

Ben’s eyes snapped open. He looked around. He thought he had heard a scream.

He checked his watch: 0400. He stood and went over to John, still snug in his sleeping bag, and squatted next to his son. He recalled those late nights after the war when he had sat on the edge of his son’s bed and watched his son sleeping and listened to his breathing and thought how much he loved him but knowing he was failing him as a father. John’s life had taken him on a different path, a path Ben had thought would never again intersect with his. But their paths were one now. Ben put his hand over his son’s mouth to prevent him from screaming. John jerked awake, startled; he realized it was Ben and relaxed.

“It’s time,” Ben whispered.

FBI Agent O’Brien lay duct-taped and asleep.

“The hell you mean you know all this?” FBI Special Agent Eugene Devereaux shouted into the phone.

FBI agents, even veteran ones like himself, were not supposed to cuss at the Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, even a political asshole like Stanley White-the director always had one finger in the air gauging the political winds and another finger up his ass. But Devereaux had no patience for protocol, not after having spent the better part of an hour tracking the director down-he was at Chicago Midway Airport aboard the Bureau jet, about to fly back to D.C.-to tell him everything Agent Jorgenson knew and now having the director tell him he already knew everything.

“We know the girl’s there,” the director said. “HRT’s had that place under surveillance for three months. We’ve got men on the mountain around the clock.”

“They’re after McCoy.”

“Yes. We believe they’re plotting to assassinate the president. Larry ordered Major Walker killed.”

“Then go in and arrest them! And get Gracie out!”

“We can’t. All we’ve got them on now are weapons charges. We need more evidence.”

“What about Gracie? They kidnapped her and transported her across state lines-that’s a federal crime! She’s evidence! Stan, she’s Elizabeth Austin’s daughter.”

“Austin? The girl’s name is Brice.”

“The mother’s maiden name was Austin when she was at Justice. She was one of the prosecutors on the Walker case. She was the hostage back then.”

“Jesus, I didn’t know.”

“Yeah.”

“Look, Eugene, we’ve got to get everyone involved with this plot identified and located before we move in. They could have operatives on the outside. I’m not gonna have a president killed on my watch!”

“So you’re sacrificing her?”

“The president’s life is more important than the girl’s.”

“You can secure the president!”

“Not from these people, Eugene. They’re trained assassins, the very best. Those fuckers went into North Vietnam to assassinate generals-they can kill anyone!”

“So can Colonel Brice.”

“Who?”

“Colonel Ben Brice, Gracie’s grandfather. Green Beret. He’s the guy that walked into San Bie prison camp and rescued those pilots.”

“I remember that. He got the Medal of Honor.”

“He was one of them, Stan. He was in Walker’s unit. He testified against Walker at his court-martial.”

“No shit?”

“Yeah, and he went after Gracie, to Idaho, on some bullshit call-in tip we got from Idaho Falls. At least I thought it was bullshit because Agent Curry reported that the source could not ID the men or Gracie. Stan, you had an FBI agent submit a false 302 about a positive ID on a child abduction case? That’s obstruction of justice!”

“Not in a case involving national security. Eugene, we couldn’t compromise the operation.”

“Well, Stan, I figure the operation’s not only about to be compromised, it’s fixin’ to be blown to kingdom come!”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, Colonel Brice is sitting on your boy right now.”

Stan laughed. “The hell he is. He’ll never find their camp. Took us the better part of four years.”

“Bonners Ferry. On a mountain called Red Ridge.”

He wasn’t laughing now. “Wh… how did you know?”

“I didn’t. Colonel Brice did. That’s where he’s at.”

“Jesus Christ, if he goes in now he’ll screw up the entire operation-and get himself killed in the process!”

“Stan, I wouldn’t bet against Colonel Brice.”

Ben had defused the perimeter explosives then rigged his own remote triggering device using the power pack; he had run the wire to their location behind a rock outcropping, where John would be safe. He could have run the wire to his shooting position and detonated the explosives himself, but this way John had something to do that would keep him out of the line of fire. When John punched the trigger, an electrical charge would race down the line and detonate the explosives. As much explosives as these soldiers had rigged up, half the mountain would be history.

But that was Plan B.

FBI Special Agent Jan Jorgenson wanted to fly to Idaho, but Agent Devereaux had told her to sit tight in Dallas until he and Director White arrived in Bonners Ferry. He wanted her to get to Mrs. Brice with any news before the press did. So she sat in her office, wondering: Why did they take Gracie? Her eyes paused on each heading on the grease board: GARY JENNINGS… JOHN BRICE… ELIZABETH BRICE… COL. BEN BRICE… DNA. She realized that she had never reviewed the DNA results on the blood in the truck or on John Brice’s shirt or from the family. She opened the file to the DNA results and scanned down the page. And she froze.

“Oh, my God. That’s why they took her.”

She checked her watch: seven Dallas time, five in Bonners Ferry. Jan picked up her phone and began punching numbers.

The FBI Academy is located on a Marine base in Quantico, Virginia, a four-hundred-eighty-acre site shared with other FBI units, including the Hostage Rescue Team. Being in close proximity, Academy trainees got to know the HRT operators. Most were macho assholes who liked to talk tough. But not Pete O’Brien.

Pete was a good guy. He cared. Jan and Pete had gone on three dates during her thirteen weeks of New Agent Training at the Academy. Pete had been in his own training as an HRT sniper, so his free time had been as limited as hers. Then she had graduated and been shipped off to Dallas; Pete had flown to Spain on an HRT mission to arrest an international fugitive-to kidnap him, actually, since an FBI agent had about as much legal authority in Spain as the guy who cleaned up after a bullfight.

They had last talked three months ago, just before Pete deployed on an extended mission; it was so secret he couldn’t tell her where he was going. Jan had called everyone she knew at HRT, finally waking up Ray, an HRT operator and Pete’s buddy. Their first date had been a double date with Ray and another female trainee. Jan’s heart had skipped a beat when Ray finally said Pete was in Idaho. After pleading that it was an emergency, Ray had given her Pete’s satellite phone number.

FBI Special Agent Jan Jorgenson wasn’t going to let anyone sacrifice Gracie.

A low intermittent buzz interrupted Ben’s thoughts.

“My satellite phone,” Agent O’Brien said. “In my bag. It’s my team leader. If I don’t answer it, they’ll send in the cavalry.”

Ben nodded. He pulled the phone out of O’Brien’s bag and handed it to him. O’Brien used both hands to put the phone to his ear and answered: “O’Brien.”

“Pete?” Jan Jorgenson said.

“Who’s this?”

“Jan.”

“Jan, how’d you get this number?”

“From Ray.”

“Why?”

“Are you in Bonners Ferry?”

“Yeah.”

“On a mountain called Red Ridge?”

“Yeah.”

“Pete, this is important. An ex-Army colonel named Ben Brice and his son are-”

“Right here.”

“They are?”

“Yeah. I’m sort of, uh, taking orders from the colonel now, if you know what I mean.”

“I think I do. Let me speak to Colonel Brice.”

There was a momentary silence. Then: “Brice.”

“Colonel, this is Agent Jorgenson, FBI.”

“I remember you.”

“Gracie’s alive.”

“I know.”

“She’s on that mountain.”

“I know that, too.”

“The abductor is Charles Woodrow Walker- Junior- the major’s son.”

The colonel was silent.

“Colonel?”

“I didn’t know that. So the son is taking his father’s revenge?”

“Yes, sir, but it’s not about the war. They’re plotting to assassinate President McCoy. When McCoy was FBI director ten years ago, Walker was apprehended. His men took a federal prosecutor hostage. McCoy released Walker in exchange for her.”

“Elizabeth.”

“Yes, sir. Then McCoy ordered Walker killed. We got him in Mexico. Now the son wants the president dead.”

“But why’d they take Gracie?”

Static on the line.

“Colonel, we’re losing the satellite connection, so listen, this is important. The director is flying in as we speak. That mountain will be crawling with FBI agents in a few hours. He’ll sacrifice Gracie to get those men.”

“He won’t have the chance.”

More static.

“Colonel?”

“I’m here.”

“O’Brien is a good man and a good shot. Let him help you.”

“Why’d they take Gracie?”

“Colonel, one more thing: don’t take prisoners. Kill those men, all of them, and burn everything to the ground.”

“Why?”

“Just do it. For Gracie.”

The satellite connection terminated.

Ben tossed the phone into Agent O’Brien’s bag.

“You were an Army colonel?” O’Brien asked.

Ben nodded.

“What’d Jan say?”

“They’re plotting to kill the president.”

“I knew it was something big.”

“And that your director would sacrifice Gracie to get them.”

“Son of a bitch.” O’Brien shook his head. “Colonel, let me help. I can shoot.”

“So I hear.” Ben studied Agent O’Brien’s eyes and saw something, the same something people once saw in Ben Brice’s eyes. “You’d be disobeying orders.”

“Colonel, I joined the FBI to save people like Gracie.”

Ben unsheathed his knife and cut the duct tape binding O’Brien’s hands.

“Take up a position west of the camp and stay there.” He turned to his son and handed him the. 45. “John, you stay here. Detonate when you see my flare then hunker down. When this blows, it’s gonna rain rocks.” He looked his son in the eye. “No matter what happens, John, don’t leave this position, understood?”

John nodded.

Elizabeth Brice stepped inside the sanctuary of the Catholic church. She walked up the center aisle with Sam and Kate, past wooden pews filled with the faithful for the 7:30 Mass. Her eyes were drawn to the crucifix draped in a white shroud high above the altar. Palm branches and white Easter lilies decorated the altar. Stained glass windows on the walls depicted the stations of the cross.

Heads turned to her; children pointed; parents offered silent pity. They arrived at a half-occupied pew near the front; Sam and Kate entered the pew first. Elizabeth sat by the aisle. She had come back for Easter Sunday Mass. She had come to pray to God and for Ben Brice.

Only God and Ben Brice could save her daughter now.

Ben must kill these men to save Gracie.

He had never enjoyed the killing. But killing was what he knew.

He had taken his sniping position, perched behind a fallen tree, on which he had steadied his rifle. He was no more than three hundred meters out; he had a clear line of sight to each cabin. Plan A was simple: put a bullet in the head of each man as he exited his cabin. With the suppressor and a little luck, he could take out the entire camp before they had their morning coffee.

Ben put his eye to the scope and surveyed the camp.

The processional music commenced. An altar girl carrying the Easter candle walked up the center aisle past Elizabeth. Behind her followed two more altar girls with their candles mounted on long holders then an altar boy carrying the crucifix on a standard, a deacon carrying a Bible overhead, and finally Father Randy. Their eyes met as he passed.

A light came on in one cabin. Ben put the scope on that cabin. A figure silhouetted by the light appeared in the optic. Three hundred meters out and no wind, it would be an easy shot. The cabin door opened and a man stepped into the doorway; he yawned and stretched and presented a perfect shot opportunity, conveniently backlit. Ben adjusted the ballistic cam on the ART until the horizontal stadia lines framed the target’s torso and head; he centered the cross hairs on the target’s head. He had not put the scope on a human being in over thirty years. Killing another human being was something you lived with the rest of your life. He had lived with his killing back then, and he would live with his killing today. Ben took a deep breath, exhaled, and squeezed the trigger.

The man fell.

A good sniper always maintains surveillance on the downed target because his comrades will often check the body or remove weapons. That is a mistake. A mistake another man in the cabin was making. But he quickly pulled back out of sight, stuck a sidearm out the door, and fired two rounds into the air-the discharge echoed around the mountains like a pinball. Damn! Ben kept the scope on the spot where the second man’s head would appear when he peeked out the door, as Ben knew he would.

When he did, Ben squeezed the trigger again.

Two down, nine to go.

Jacko didn’t jump when heard the two gunshots. He smiled. Ben Brice had come to him, sooner than he had figured. Ben Brice was on this mountain, and he would die on this mountain. Jack Odell Smith would take the major’s revenge. His destiny was at hand.

He sat up in bed and lit a cigarette.

Proceed to Plan B. Ben fired the flare gun into the air with his left hand then quickly returned to his shooting position. A man appeared at the door of another cabin. The bullet hit him in the forehead.

Three down, eight to go.

John saw the flare and punched the detonator.

Sheriff J. D. Johnson always rose at the crack of dawn. Twenty years living on military time would do that. Today, he needed to get up early. He was going up into the mountains northeast of town, the mountains he loved to gaze upon as he drank his first cup of coffee of the day, as he was now, to find Colonel Brice and his son. Or to find what Colonel Brice had left behind. Just as he was about to turn away from the window, Red Ridge exploded like a Roman candle.

The mountain shook.

Ben was under the log now, protected from the falling rocks and tree limbs. After allowing a few seconds for the serious debris to fall, he returned to his shooting position and sighted in the camp through the haze of dirt and snow blown into the air by the explosion.

The explosion had the intended effect: chaos had captured the camp. Men in long johns fell out of the cabins; their heads jerked about as they tried to locate their attackers. They fired their weapons wildly and took cover behind the vehicles. Ben put two more down before they had made cover.

Five down, six to go.

He was sighting in another man, a big man ducked down behind the white SUV outside the main building, when the man popped back into sight with a shoulder-mounted missile aimed directly at Ben’s position. Captain Jack O. Smith was a skilled soldier: the suppressor prevented muzzle flash, so he didn’t know Ben’s actual position; he was simply aiming the rocket at the shooting position he would have taken if attacking the camp.

An adrenaline rush catapulted Ben up and running before the captain fired. He ran east for the count of five then dove under the nearest cover just as the ground rocked with an explosion behind him.

“Ben!”

Little Johnny Brice was crouched down and his ears were ringing from the first explosion. The second explosion had been right at Ben’s location. Ben had told him not to move from this position, no matter what happened. And Mom had told him to do exactly what Ben said and maybe they’d get Gracie back alive.

But neither of them had told him what to do if Ben got himself blown up!

John looked down at his right hand, the one holding the. 45-caliber pistol Ben had given him and trembling like a leaf in the breeze. He had fired the weapon a dozen times out back of Ben’s cabin; he had hit nothing he had aimed at. He hadn’t even come close. This wasn’t his kind of work.

Scared shitless in Idaho!

John R. Brice, alpha geek, Ph. D. in algorithms, 190 IQ, billionaire three times over, pushed his glasses up on his nose, took a deep breath, and ran toward Ben’s location.

If Ben Brice were defending the camp, he would do what any good soldier would do: he would outflank the enemy. The western route was too steep; an assault would come from the east. So as soon as the sky cleared of falling debris, Ben jumped up and ran toward the east, running the woods just like he had run the woods in Vietnam. The instincts would always be a part of him, the instincts that — made him duck behind a thick tree. His ears had picked up a sound, and his mind and body had reacted automatically. He shut out the sound of his own breathing and listened. He heard heavy footsteps crunching in the icy remains of the snow; the enemy was coming closer now. Ben reached down and grabbed a large flat stone, several pounds of rock. The footsteps were almost on him now, closer, closer, closernow!

Ben stepped out and slammed the rock into the unprotected face of a large man carrying an M-16. He was out before he hit the deck. Ben straddled the man. He could not take a chance on the man regaining consciousness and returning to the fight. He thought only of saving Gracie as he broke the man’s neck. He patted the man’s jacket down and found two fragmentation grenades. Ben put them in the pocket of his coat.

Six down, five to go.

John inhaled smoke then coughed it out. The trees were charred and smoldering along a line where the explosives had detonated. At Ben’s location, there was a small crater. Ben had survived the explosion. Or he had been blown to megabytes.

John ran on.

The suspect was crouched behind an old truck and loading a goddamned grenade launcher! On the ground beside him was an MP-5 fully automatic machine gun! And FBI Special Agent Pete O’Brien was betting that truck didn’t have an up-to-date vehicle registration on file with the Idaho DMV!

Pete was standing twenty meters behind the suspect. His adrenaline was pumping double-time; his rifle was aimed at the suspect’s back. Just as he was about the squeeze the trigger, the voices of his Academy instructors came screaming back to him:

“An FBI agent may not shoot a citizen in the back!”

“FBI rules of engagement require that the suspect be given the opportunity to surrender!”

“Suspects have constitutional rights!”

“You must shout, ‘FBI! Drop your weapon! Yes, that grenade launcher!’ ”

Of course, ordering this suspect to drop his weapon would give him an opportunity to shoot Pete first. But that’s what the “arresting agent” had done in every training exercise at the Academy; and every “suspect” had surrendered. But this wasn’t some bullshit hypothetical training exercise staged in Hogan’s Alley at the Academy with fake bad guys and fake bullets, where no one actually died when someone screwed up. This was the real fucking thing, a fucking shoot-out on a fucking mountain in fucking Idaho with a bunch of armed-to-the-fucking-teeth terrorists holding a little girl hostage and plotting to assassinate the President of the United States of America! At the Academy, they said 99 percent of all FBI agents would retire without ever having discharged their duty weapon at a suspect, much less ever having killed a suspect. Pete O’Brien sighed; he wasn’t going to be one of those agents.

He shot the suspect in the back. Twice, to make sure he didn’t file a civil rights complaint.

Ben heard two gunshots from west of the camp. Agent O’Brien’s position.

He had to get around behind the camp. He ran north, deeper into the woods, then he turned west. He came upon the first cabin. He worked his way from tree to tree until he was at the east side of the cabin. He put his back to the exterior wall of the cabin then moved around to the backside and to a small window. Ben could see a man huddled inside in the rear corner; he was wearing yellowed long johns and pointing a sawed-off shotgun at the door.

Ben stepped back, pulled the pins on the two frag grenades, and threw them through the window. He heard a shotgun blast as he ran for cover and hit the deck. After the explosion, he looked back.

“ Cripes! ”

John had almost stepped on the man laid out in the snow. His arms and legs were splayed, like he was trying to make a snow angel and stopped in mid-angel; his head was cocked in a grotesque manner, as if he were trying to look behind him. This is what Ben knows. Ben was still alive.

John carefully stepped around the body and ran deeper into the woods, toward the cabins.

Ben figured four men remained to be killed, maybe three if O’Brien had killed one on the west side. One was Captain Jack O. Smith. Another was the blond man hiding behind the woodpile out back of the main cabin fifty meters from Ben’s location and holding a large caliber handgun. Ben needed him alive, at least until they found Gracie. Ben dropped the cross hairs from the man’s head to his hand, the one holding the gun, and squeezed the trigger.

Junior had never been in a real firefight before. He naturally figured he’d be a fearless son of a bitch because the major was. He figured wrong. He was shaking all over, and he was worried he might piss his pants.

Charles Woodrow Walker, Jr., was a coward.

As soon as the shooting started, he had run out back and hidden behind the woodpile, hoping Jacko and the others would take out the Feds. He was holding his. 357-Magnum a foot from his face when it disappeared, along with his middle finger.

“Get up, you're not hurt,” Ben said, kicking the blond man curled up in a fetal position on the ground; the man was holding his bloody right hand and groaning like a draftee after the first day of boot camp.

“Where is she?”

Before the man’s response-“Fuck you”-was out of his mouth, Ben’s boot was in it. When the man looked back up, his mouth was bleeding.

He spat blood and said, “You ain’t FBI.”

“And you're not your daddy, Junior.”

“Ben Brice. You betrayed the major.”

“He betrayed himself. Where’s Gracie?”

“You ain’t never gonna find her.”

Ben grabbed Junior by the collar and yanked him to his feet, then pushed him to the back door of the cabin.

“Open it,” Ben said, pushing Junior in front of the door.

Junior slowly opened the door. Holding Junior in front of him with his left hand and his rifle in his right, Ben entered the cabin. The main room was vacant. Two doors were at one end.

“Gracie!”

“She ain’t here.”

Dragging Junior in tow, Ben checked the two small bedrooms at one end of the cabin. No sign of Gracie. Ben looked around the main room. Army ordnance containers were stacked high against one long wall: machine guns, mortars, grenade launchers, LAWS rockets, C-4 explosive, detonators, and napalm. Maps and charts and an aerial photograph of Camp David were on one wall.

“What’s Gracie got to do with the president?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why’d you take her?”

“Because she’s my sister.”

Ben jerked around at Junior’s words. If he had not moved his head those few inches, the high-caliber bullet would have split his skull like a machete through a watermelon. As it was, the bullet creased the side of his head and felt as if someone had hit him with a two by four. He went to the ground. He felt warm blood streaming down his face. A big boot kicked Ben’s rifle away; a big hand yanked the Bowie knife from the sheath strapped to his thigh and snatched the knit cap off his head.

“I should’ve killed you thirty-eight years ago.”

Captain Jack O. Smith stood over Ben. He struggled to his feet.

“How?” Ben said to Junior.

Junior nodded to the captain. “Show him.”

Captain Smith pushed Ben toward a closed door by the kitchen. “Open it.”

Ben turned the knob and pushed on the door. It swung open, into a dark room. Junior moved by him and lit a kerosene lamp. He was standing next to a bed; he held the lamp up over the bed. And Ben saw him.

Major Charles Woodrow Walker.

His form under the blanket was frail, his face gaunt, and his blond hair thin. His eyes were closed. His body made no movement, as if he were “Paralyzed,” Junior said. “What McCoy did to him.”

“I thought he was dead.”

“After we took the woman and got the major released,” the captain said, “we went down to Mexico. The major sent us back up here, said he’d be here in a month. Two months later, he ain’t back, so me and Junior drive down to Mexico. Locals was still talking about the black helicopters and finding the big blond man on the beach. Said he was taken to the hospital. That’s where we found him, like this. They put three bullets in him, one in the neck, cut his spinal cord. Been in that bed for ten years.”

The major’s eyes flickered opened, found their focus, and looked at each of his visitors, finally coming to rest on Ben. After the recognition came into his eyes, Ben thought the major’s mouth moved. Junior leaned over the bed.

“He wants to say something to you.”

Ben stepped to the bed. The skin on the major’s face sagged now and the fullness was gone. But his blue eyes could still look into a man’s soul. He tried to say something. Ben leaned over and put his ear by the major’s mouth. The major’s words came out in a whisper and with great effort.

“Junior showed me… picture… magazine… Elizabeth… the girl… blonde… mine… she belongs… to me… I will own… her life… as I’ve

… owned yours… and her… mother’s.”

“You raped Elizabeth.”

A thin smile. “Same as… those Viet gals… Difference is… I didn’t put a bullet… in her brain after…”

And now Ben understood. The major was his connection to Gracie and hers to him. He couldn’t save the china doll. Thirty-eight years later, God was giving him a second chance.

Ben stood tall.

“You’ve owned my life, Major, that’s a fact, and maybe Elizabeth’s, too. But you won’t own Gracie’s. I guarangoddamntee it.”

The major’s blue eyes flashed dark. They moved off Ben and onto the captain. Ben turned to face him. The captain advanced on Ben with the Bowie knife.

John moved around behind the cabin, hugging the exterior wall, looking both ways, his heart pounding hard enough to hear. He came to a window. He peeked in.

He pulled back quickly.

Inside, Ben was standing next to a bed; an old pale man was lying in it. Next to Ben was a young blond man holding a gun; across the room from Ben was a big man with a tattoo. The two men from the soccer game. The men who took Gracie. The big man was holding a big knife.

Little Johnny Brice’s hands were shaking. The urge to turn tail and run was building when he heard the big man say: “I’m gonna gut you just like the VC gutted your buddy Dalton.”

John touched his father’s dog tags hanging around his neck, and it was at that moment, he would realize later, that Little Johnny Brice finally found his manhood on a mountain in Idaho. His mind and body calmed. All fear left him. He was no longer afraid: not of failing, not of the bullies, not of dying. There was manly in his genes, and he had found it, or it had found him.

John raised his arms, holding the gun with both hands like Ben had showed him, then stepped in front of the window and fired. The glass shattered. John pulled the trigger as fast as he could until everything went dark.

Jacko felt a bullet impact his shoulder. Next thing he knew, Brice leg-whipped him at the ankles, knocking his feet out from under him. Jacko hit the wood floor hard. Before he could react, Brice kicked him in the mouth, bringing blood. But Jacko always liked the taste of his own blood.

Still, he didn’t remember Brice being this good.

But he wasn’t good enough. Jacko rolled with the kick and come up quickly, the Bowie in his hand.

Damn, this brought back some good memories!

He moved toward Brice, excited at the thought of disemboweling the unarmed traitor he had cornered. He glanced over at the major. His eyes were alive and he was smiling.

This is my destiny!

When he looked back at Brice, he saw the major’s bedpan flying through the air at his face. And Jacko thought, Fuck, hope to hell Junior emptied it! He hadn’t. Jacko blocked the bedpan with his arms-urine and shit splattered on the floor and on him-only to realize too late that it was a fake, that Brice’s boot was coming at him hard and he couldn’t block it. The heel of the boot caught Jacko right in the center of his chest and drove his two hundred sixty-five pounds back hard against the opposite cabin wall. Shit! Jacko was surprised at the severity of the pain that suddenly grabbed at his chest. He had been kicked and punched in the chest many times and had never experienced such pain. Shit! He figured it would go away, but it didn’t. Instead it got worse and shot down his left arm; his right hand released the knife and grabbed at his chest. Shit! And at that moment he understood: he was having a goddamned heart attack! What a time to have a fucking heart attack! And he realized the truth: Ben Brice wasn’t his destiny; he was Ben Brice’s destiny.

He dropped to his knees, sucking hard for air. He looked up at Brice and wanted to say fuck you, but he didn’t have the breath to get the words out. He took one last glance at the major; his eyes were wide, not believing what he was seeing. Jacko’s head felt light and he was suddenly dizzy. The light dimmed. For the first time in his life, Jacko didn’t have any strength, not even enough to hold himself up. He fell face down onto the wood floor. His eyes made out a boot just inches away. And he heard Ben Brice’s voice.

“Who says old soldiers never die?”

And his last thought before all life drained out of him on the floor in a cabin in northern Idaho and Captain Jack Odell Smith from Henryetta, Oklahoma, met his Maker was:

Oh, that’s real fucking funny.

Outside, John struggled to get up. He winced. He felt like someone had hit him in the head with a frying pan. He rolled over to get to his feet and- Cripes! — came face to face with another man lying beside him, his vacant eyes wide open. John was struck by the pure ugliness of the man’s face-and the ax embedded in his head.

“You okay?”

John looked up to see Agent O’Brien.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“Where’s the colonel?”

“Inside… shit! ”

John pushed himself up and stumbled into the cabin and into the bedroom; Agent O’Brien was right behind him. The big man was lying face down on the floor. Ben was bent over him, hands on his knees.

“Ben, you okay?”

Ben straightened up slowly, like it hurt.

“Yeah. You boys hurt?”

“No,” John said. He gestured at the bed. “Who’s that?”

“Major Charles Woodrow Walker,” Ben said.

“I thought he was dead.”

“He will be.”

Ben turned to Agent O’Brien: “How many did you get?”

“Two.”

Ben nodded. “It’s just Junior now.”

“Blond guy?”

“Yeah.”

“He took off in a white truck,” Agent O’Brien said. “I put four rounds in it, guess I missed him.”

“He said we’ll never find her.”

“You go after him,” O’Brien said. “I’ll look for your girl.”

Ben put the old pickup in neutral and he and John rode it down the mountain to the Land Rover parked on the side of the road to town. Ben knew where they would find Junior. A white truck, minus the back window-Agent O’Brien hadn’t missed by much-was parked in front of the Boundary County Courthouse between the sheriff’s cruiser and a black Lexus SUV with new paper plates.

They ran up the front steps into the courthouse and down the corridor to the sheriff’s office. The receptionist took one look at them-the black overalls, the face paint, and the blood-and picked up the phone. Sheriff Johnson appeared before she had hung up.

“Colonel, you okay?”

Ben nodded and wiped blood from his face. “Where’s Junior?”

“In a cell. He confessed.”

“Did he say what he did with Gracie?”

The sheriff shook his head. “He’s done lawyered up. Wants immunity.”

The sheriff motioned for them to follow and led them through a door. Behind the door were four cells. Three were empty. In the fourth, Junior sat on a bunk; his right hand was bandaged. A fat man in a sweat suit who looked as if he had just gotten out of bed sat in a chair next to Junior, a briefcase in his lap. He looked up at Ben and said, “Who the hell are you, Rambo?”

The sheriff unlocked the cell door. The fat man said, “My client will disclose the girl’s location for complete immunity.”

“Norman, only the D.A. can grant immunity from prosecution, you know that. And he won’t be back till tomorrow.”

“Then we’ll deal tomorrow,” Norman the lawyer said, slamming his briefcase shut. He stood. To Junior: “Keep your mouth shut and you’ll walk out a free man tomorrow.”

Norman turned to leave, but Ben blocked the cell door.

“My granddaughter’s on that mountain. She’ll die before tomorrow.”

Norman shrugged. “Just doing my job.”

“Not much of a job.”

“Pays good.” Norman smiled. “Sorry about your girl, but she’s not my concern.”

“She is mine,” Ben said. Then he punched Norman the lawyer in his mouth. Norman went down like a sack of potatoes.

From the floor: “I’ll sue! Sheriff, I want to press assault charges! You witnessed it!”

“You fell and hit your face on the floor.”

“ What? ”

“You heard me, Norman. Now get your butt outta my jail.”

Norman scrambled up and stormed out. “You haven’t heard the last of this!”

After the door shut behind Norman, the sheriff turned to Ben. “I hate lawyers. Had a cousin once, become a lawyer. Whole family disowned him.”

“Let him go,” Ben said.

The sheriff recoiled. “ What? Colonel, why the hell would I let him go, he’s done confessed and-”

It hit him. The sheriff eyed Ben curiously; he smiled slightly. He nodded slowly.

“All right, Colonel. Sometimes the rules just don’t work.”

Junior glanced from the sheriff to Ben and back, his eyes suddenly wide. “The hell you mean, you can’t let me go! I confessed! I’m guilty! I kidnapped her!”

The sheriff turned his hands up. “Junior, there’s no girl so I got no evidence to hold you. Son, you got constitutional rights. This is America.”

The sheriff grabbed Junior and yanked him out of the cell. He then pushed Junior through the office and out the front door. They stood on the steps of the courthouse.

“Good luck, Colonel. But you better move fast, FBI’s coming. Fella over at the airstrip called, said the director himself is flying in.”

Junior was silent on the trip back up the mountain. When they arrived, Agent O’Brien ran up to the vehicle.

“I couldn’t find her. She’s not in any of the cabins or the vehicles. I searched a fifty-meter perimeter-nothing.”

Ben pulled Junior from the vehicle. “Where’s she at?”

“Fuck you,” Junior said.

Ben punched Junior in the face. He fell to the ground. Ben yanked Junior up and felt a sharp pain in his gut.

“Junior, I don’t have time to play games. If you want to live, tell me where she is.”

“You kill me, you ain’t never gonna find her.”

“Listen to me, son, you’re not tough enough to handle what I’m gonna do to you. Now where is she?”

Junior said nothing. Ben grabbed Junior’s right arm and twisted it back until Junior fell face down on the ground. Ben put a knee in his back, then ripped the bandage from Junior’s right hand and held the hand out flat on the ground, thumb and two fingers spread.

“John, hand me that hatchet.”

John walked over to a small woodpile and picked up the hatchet. He returned and handed it to Ben. Junior’s eyes were wide, looking at the hatchet and then at his hand.

“You can’t do this! I got rights! This is America!”

“Junior, you lost your rights when you took Gracie.”

Ben swung the hatchet down hard. John turned away. Junior screamed.

When Junior opened his eyes, the hatchet was buried in the ground barely an inch from his right hand. He still had a thumb and two fingers. The first thought that entered his mind was he couldn’t afford to lose another finger because then he’d have to masturbate with his left hand.

“I won’t miss next time, Junior.”

Way Junior figured, he’d probably do two to five in a federal penitentiary for weapons violations. No way they could tie him to the murders of that judge or those prosecutors or FBI agents. Or even McCoy. Shit, if they did, he could blame it all on the major! Of course, a kidnapping conviction might get him another two to five, but he never touched her and he saved her from Bubba, that should count for something. Sure, sleazy Norman the lawyer could do something with that: brother reunites with long lost sister, show the jury pictures of her room, she’ll testify that he fixed her hot baths and breakfasts, and, best of all, Elizabeth Austin will have to testify. Sleazy Norman the lawyer will crucify the bitch, ruin her career, her family, her life. And besides, time the trial’s over, Junior might have himself a movie deal. Maybe Tom Cruise would play him.

“She’s out back.”

John followed Junior and Ben around to the back of the cabin. Junior abruptly stopped at a woodpile.

“There,” he said.

Junior was pointing at the woodpile. John didn’t understand, but Ben put his shoulder to the wood and pushed the pile over. He dropped to the ground and frantically threw the remaining logs aside. A small air vent was sticking up out of the ground.

Ben looked up. “You buried her?”

Junior shrugged. “She needed some discipline.”

John’s entire body began trembling but not with fear. A lifetime of bullies and beatings, of not fighting back, of shame and sorrow, of not being much of a man-all the humiliation and pain came rushing back and washed over John like a tidal wave. His face felt hot. Junior was looking at him with that bemused smile so familiar to John Brice.

“Hell, you ain’t even her daddy,” he said.

John’s eyes fell. He had always thought Gracie had gotten her blonde hair and blue eyes from Ben. But she couldn’t have; John had been adopted. So she had gotten her hair and eyes from… and John suddenly understood everything. It all came together: Elizabeth, her disappearance ten years ago, her sudden change of heart toward him when she returned, the quick marriage, the move to Dallas, Gracie’s birth eight months later. He knew the truth now. But it didn’t matter. The only truth that mattered was Gracie down there. He raised his eyes to Junior.

“I’ve loved her since the day she was born and I’ll love her till the day I die. That makes me her daddy.”

“Yeah? We’ll see about that when she learns the truth at my trial.”

But John’s 190-IQ mind was way ahead of poor Junior.

“There’s not gonna be a trial, Junior.”

John put the. 45 to Junior’s head and shot him dead.

“I didn’t see that,” Agent O’Brien said.

John wiped Junior’s blood from his face, then dropped the gun, fell to his knees, and joined Ben, digging with his hands. They hit metal in minutes.

Gracie was buried in a U.S. Army munitions container. A hole had been cut in the top and the air vent inserted. They brushed the remaining dirt off the top. They released the latches and opened the lid. Gracie lay still and straight inside; her eyes were closed and her arms lay across her chest. Her face was dirty. John reached down and touched her face gently. A tear rolled off his cheek and fell onto her face.

“Oh, Gracie, baby.”

“Let’s get her out,” Ben said.

They grabbed her coat and pants and gently lifted her out of the box then laid her on the ground. Ben checked her pulse.

“She’s alive. Let’s get her into town!”

Ben picked Gracie up and groaned; he carried her to the Land Rover. Her arms and legs hung limp. Agent O’Brien ran ahead, opened the back door, and got in. John jumped into the driver’s seat. Ben handed Gracie to O’Brien, and they laid her across the back seat. Ben shut the door.

“Turn this thing around and be ready to roll.”

Ben ran into the main cabin. Minutes later, he emerged, ran to the Rover, and jumped in.

“Go!”

John punched the accelerator. “Ben, where’s your rifle?”

Ben said softly, “I don’t need it anymore.”

FBI Director Stanley White loved flying about the country at five hundred miles per hour in the Bureau’s Gulfstream Executive jetnothing but the best for the United States government! — the leather seats, the burled elmwood trim, the state-of-the-art avionics, the 3,500-mile range, the six-foot-one-inch cabin height, more than enough for his five-seven height. This morning, instead of flying back to D.C. from Chicago, he was en route to Bonners Ferry, a 1,500-mile flight, three hours flight time, including a quick stop in Des Moines to pick up Agent Devereaux, who was now sitting in the seat behind Stan. His attitude hadn’t improved since their earlier conversation.

“Prepare to land, Chief,” the pilot said over the intercom.

Stan gazed out the window to the east. They were descending into a valley surrounded by mountain ridges, down to the Boundary County Airport just north of Bonners Ferry, Idaho. At that moment, one of the mountains erupted like a volcano.

“ Jesus! ”

The entire mountaintop was engulfed in a huge fireball of red-orange flames of a kind White had seen only once before when the Army had demonstrated for the FBI Terrorism Task Force the destructive capacity of napalm.

Agent Devereaux’s voice came from behind: “Kingdom come, Stan.”

They were driving across the Moyie River Bridge; Gracie’s head was in Ben’s lap. He was stroking her face. He reached inside his overalls, unbuttoned his shirt pocket, and pulled out the Silver Star and chain. He pressed it into the palm of her hand. Her hand closed around it, almost like a reflex.

Gracie is standing on the threshold of double doors as they slowly open to a bright world beyond, a beautiful world beckoning to her. She steps forward-but something shiny on the ground catches her eye. She bends over and picks it up, a Silver Star on a silver chain-and the doors close.

She opened her eyes. The light was too bright; she squinted. Something shielded her eyes. After a moment, her vision cleared and she saw Ben’s face. She smiled.

“I knew you’d come,” she said.

FBI Special Agent Jan Jorgenson pulled open the double doors leading into the sanctuary of the Catholic church. The pews were packed. She searched the congregation, but she could not spot Mrs. Brice from her location.

She walked up the center aisle.

Her legs were trembling and tears were welling up in her eyes. Heads turned her way; she realized she was still wearing her raid jacket with FBI in big gold letters. She neared the front and spotted Mrs. Brice, second pew from the front, on the aisle. The Brice boy and the grandmother sat next to her. Jan came to Mrs. Brice and stood there, tears running down her face.

Elizabeth’s gaze was locked on the big crucifix above the altar when she realized the priest had stopped short the Mass. Her eyes moved to him. He was looking directly at her. The altar girls were looking at her. Everyone was looking at her. She turned to Kate; her hands were over her mouth, her eyes were wide, and she was looking in Elizabeth’s direction, but not at her-at someone behind her.

Elizabeth spun around and saw Agent Jorgenson, tears rolling down her face. Elizabeth’s heart froze with fear. She stood and stepped out of the pew. Jorgenson wiped her face. And she smiled.

“Gracie’s safe.”

All strength left her legs, and Elizabeth dropped to her knees. Tears flooded her eyes. She again looked up at the crucifix. Their bond with evil had been broken.

But who had to die to break that bond?

“There’ll be a full investigation, Mr. Brice!”

FBI Director White and his entourage had arrived within minutes after Gracie had been brought into the hospital. Now the short bald man was pointing a finger at Ben.

“That’s Colonel Brice,” Agent Devereaux said.

“You obstructed an ongoing federal investigation!”

They were standing outside Gracie’s room-Ben, the director, the sheriff, and Agents Devereaux and O’Brien. John and the doctor were in with Gracie.

The director turned on Agent O’Brien.

“O’Brien, you had the camp staked out. What the hell happened?”

FBI Agent Pete O’Brien did not blink in the face of the director’s lethal glare. Pete had learned that morning the difference between right and wrong. He had learned that even the Federal Bureau of Investigation could be wrong and had been wrong. Now, he had an important choice to make: tell the truth, which would normally be the right thing to do, in which case Colonel Brice and John Brice would likely be arrested and charged with murder and those terrorists would live on in the media, which would be a bad thing; or, lie, which would normally be the wrong thing to do, in which case the Brices would take Gracie home and live happily ever after and the terrorists’ barbecued bodies would rot on that stinking mountain, which would be a good thing. His decision came easily.

“Shit, Chief, all I know is I’m sitting up there and suddenly there’s this huge explosion. I mean, I thought it was a goddamn volcano! I hightailed it down the mountain. These men gave me a ride to town. They must’ve gotten wind we were on to them, so they blew themselves up, committed suicide.” He shrugged innocently. “Another Waco, Chief.”

The director blinked. “Unh-hunh.”

Ben turned as the doctor came out of Gracie’s room.

“Are you the FBI Director?” the doctor asked White.

“Yes,” the director said.

“You may want to hear what she has to say.”

They followed the doctor into Gracie’s room.

“What is it, Gracie?” Ben said.

Her voice was quiet. “What day is today?”

Ben said, “Easter Sunday.”

“They’re going to kill the president.”

The director nodded. “They were plotting to kill McCoy. We wanted to insure that we had all the players, but your grandfather took care of that.”

“There’s another man,” Gracie said. “Red hair, with a black rifle. He’s going to shoot President McCoy at Camp David on Easter Sunday. Today.”

The director’s head swiveled around to Agent O’Brien.

“No one with red hair was in that camp,” O’Brien said.

The director looked funny at Gracie. “How do you know this?”

“I saw him,” Gracie said. “In Wyoming. They said something about making it look like Muslims did it.”

The director checked his watch.

“Mister?”

“Yes?”

“Hurry.”

The director ran out the door, followed by the other agents.

Sheriff J. D. Johnson was standing just inside the door to the girl’s room. Doc Sanders and the colonel and the father were over by the bed. Doc turned and came to the door. He was smiling.

“She’ll be fine,” he said as he opened the door and left.

The colonel leaned over the bed and kissed the girl, and then he came over to the sheriff. He seemed a bit pale; he was probably just tired.

“Trick to life, Colonel, is living long enough for life to work out.”

The colonel collapsed to the floor. J.D. yelled for Doc Sanders. He knelt and unzipped the colonel’s overalls and saw his bloody shirt. He heard the girl’s shrill scream.

“ Ben! ”