by Rhona Weaver
Johnson’s black SUV roared to life and was backing out as Win closed the passenger door. They sped up the nearly empty road in the spitting snow, past a large, multistory frame building Win recognized from internet photos as the Mammoth Hot Springs Hotel.
Johnson talked as he drove. “The guy on the hill is a local named Luke Bordeaux. We suspect he poaches deer and elk in the park. He’s from Louisiana—been here a few years. Had a run-in with us last year, but no convictions. Generally carries a rifle, a handgun or two, and a knife.” He accelerated to pass a slower vehicle. “Some hikers reported an armed man near Snow Pass on Terrace Mountain, skinning out a deer, and Chief Randall hiked up a closed trailhead to try to catch the poacher. Now they’re in a Mexican standoff and we’re the backup.”
Win never had the chance to visit Yellowstone as a kid, but he’d always imagined buffalo, wolves, and bears. Heavily armed bad guys didn’t fit into his expectations.
Johnson steered past another carload of gawking tourists and kept talking. “Guns are in the usual spot. You take the MP5. It’s fully automatic—we’ve got a Bureau exemption to carry automatics, since we’re in the middle of nowhere. Let Chief Randall run the show. It’s his deal.”
They were gaining speed going up a wooded hill southwest of the building complex. Win barely glimpsed the white, steaming terraces that made up the area’s namesake hot springs as they sped upward into a dark evergreen forest. The two-lane asphalt highway was steep and winding as it climbed the mountain. They’d covered more than three miles of switchbacks when Johnson abruptly swung off onto a narrow paved road that cut directly between two huge gray boulders. The rangers’ big SUV was parked in front of them, almost blocking the single lane.
The metal safe for the long guns and Johnson’s disorganized gearbox were in the rear of the SUV. Johnson unlocked the guns and eased his bad shoulder into a blue raid jacket as Win pulled on a bulletproof vest. He was digging in the tangled mess in the box for a raid jacket when garbled shouting from beyond the vehicles got their attention. Win stepped back and inserted a thirty-round magazine into the black submachine gun, while Johnson stuck an extra magazine into his pants pocket and pulled a Glock from under his coat.
“Sounds like Randall’s in trouble, no more time to gear up. Move parallel to me,” Johnson ordered.
The smaller ranger Win had “met” earlier on the highway into Mammoth had his handgun drawn and was crouched behind the Park Service Tahoe with two frightened-looking middle-aged guys in winter hiking clothes.
“The Chief’s pinned down in the boulder field about a hundred fifty feet up the trail,” the ranger said. “Shooter’s higher in the rocks to the right. Been firing randomly. Our other folks are at least ten minutes out.” Just then the sharp crack of a rifle rang out—everyone behind the SUV instinctively ducked.
“Well, looks like we’re the cavalry. Gus, you stay put and keep everyone back.”
The ranger accepted Johnson’s order, but his eyes gave away his distaste for the backup position.
With a quick hand motion, Johnson sent Win to the right, around the rangers’ vehicle and up the winding trail. Win moved in a crouch, dodging from one boulder to another, praying the rocks would provide adequate cover from the unseen gunman. The snow continued to taper off, but the low, grayish-white clouds hung close above him as he planted himself against the side of a huge rock.
The sharp crack of a high-powered rifle cut the air above his head and echoed off the walls of the surrounding canyon. The low cloud cover and close cliffs caused the single shot to sound like a dozen. The report reverberated through him like a rolling clap of thunder—he was keenly aware of the bullet’s killing power. He edged himself deeper into a crease in the boulder where he’d taken cover and reminded himself to breathe. While his Quantico training had kicked in even before he heard the first shot, it did nothing to tamp down the adrenaline pumping through his system. His heart was pounding wildly as his eyes swept the unfamiliar landscape for any movement. He’d made the fifty-yard dash up the faint, snow-covered trail to this position as if in slow motion. Every sense was at its highest level: His sight was crystal clear, his hearing was acute, and his mind moved in a dozen directions at once. His first armed encounter after three years in the FBI, and he wished he’d be able to say he wasn’t afraid. But that would be a lie. And Win Tyler didn’t lie.
A brown, weathered Trail Closed sign leaned toward him, marking an indistinct path that peeked through the thin accumulation of snow and snaked its way through the towering boulders on a slight incline. The massive yellowish-gray rocks, some as large as houses, looked as if they’d been casually dropped there—randomly stacked and scattered up the slope toward a ridge that disappeared in the whirling, white clouds. Win hazarded a quick glance around his boulder. He could see the back of the park ranger about thirty feet to his left. The man was leaning into a smaller rock for cover. His felt hat was near his feet, and the wind was blowing his dark-green jacket open. A pistol was lying in the snow near the middle of the trail. It looked as if the ranger had been surprised by the shooter and had fallen and dropped the weapon. Not a good position to be in—the man was way too exposed.
Win peered farther to his left and caught a glimpse of the gold lettering on Johnson’s FBI raid jacket. The agent had taken cover behind a rock the size of an elephant. Johnson raised a fist and pointed it toward Win: Hold your position!
Okay, got that. Win hugged his big rock even closer, whispered a prayer, and adjusted his grip on the MP5. He noticed his hands were shaking slightly on the hard plastic frame of the submachine gun. He didn’t think it was from the cold. He heard the ranger call out something to the shooter, but the wind carried the shouted words away. He glanced again toward Johnson, acknowledged a second raised fist with a nod, then settled in to wait while the ranger tried to start a dialogue with the gunman. While he stalled. While they all waited for more backup to arrive. But it didn’t take five minutes for Johnson’s patience to wane; the older agent had tired of the waiting game.
“Luke!” Johnson called out. “Luke, we know it’s you, dammit! Put down the gun and let’s all get out of this cold wind!”
A loud retort from the rifle was the answer.
Geez, the guy is really close! Win huddled tighter against the boulder as the rifle’s blast reverberated through him again. Despite the frigid temperature, sweat was trickling down his face. Johnson was signaling for him to move up. Win had a different idea.
He leaned into the icy rock and called out in a loud voice, “Hey, Luke! Win Tyler here! You from Louisiana? Well, either you’re a lousy shot, ’cause I ain’t seen no rounds coming in, or you’re just firing off to celebrate LSU whipping Villanova in the regional finals last month! Where you from?” Silence for a minute, then Luke’s southern manners kicked in—it might be okay to shoot at a guy, but you didn’t ignore an invitation to talk basketball, or football, or, hell, anything else, when someone asked the central question in the South: “Where you from?”
“From Ferriday. Didn’t the Tigers play a fine game! Fine game! Where you from, boy?”
“Grew up on a farm in Heber Springs, Arkansas. . . . Y’all had a great win! Program’s on the way back!” He glanced at Johnson, who was staring at him as if he were an alien. Win intended to keep up the rhetoric and give the ranger a chance to retreat to better cover.
He called into the wind, “Do you know the Glovers from Jonesville? Knew them in Farm Bureau. Big rice farmers.”
“Well, know of ’em. Daddy drove a truck fer old Mr. Glover when they still had cotton.”
“Yeah, and how about Tucker Moses from the Moriah Plantation? He was my roommate in law school. Tucker played ball at Ole Miss.”
“Sure, watched him play in high school—good people!” There was a brief pause as the wind gusted through the boulders. Then, “You a Fed?”
“Yeah, and speaking of that, how �
�bout you drop your gun and come on down. I forgot my coat and I’m freezing out here.”
There was silence for several seconds. “Well there, I ain’t actually shot no one and it ain’t a crime fer me to have a gun if it ain’t loaded, is it?”
“Bordeaux, you’re allowed to have a weapon in the park as long as it’s unloaded.” That was Ranger Randall piping in.
Who came up with these rules? Win was wondering.
“Alright, you boys stand down.” Seconds later, Bordeaux appeared from thirty yards above Win and to his right, holding a scoped deer rifle high over his head with one hand and holding a pistol by the barrel with the other. Looked like he had done this before. Randall scurried to retrieve his handgun and moved back behind his rock. Johnson kept his Glock trained on Bordeaux’s chest as the man moved down the trail toward them.
Luke Bordeaux was about Win’s size, maybe slimmer, but it was hard to tell with the heavy, dark-brown coveralls he was wearing. A brown ball cap covered thick black hair that came nearly to his shirt collar and was blowing in the wind. His face was tan, with dark eyes and a short-cropped black beard and mustache. He moved like a hunter, without any noticeable focus on the trail. When Luke reached Randall’s boulder, the ranger stepped out and took the weapons as Johnson moved to provide cover. Win stayed behind his rock with the MP5 pointed toward Bordeaux, then at the ground.
“Where’s the feller from Arkansas?” Win heard Luke casually ask. Satisfied the gunman was alone, Win stepped out as Johnson lowered his pistol.
“Smart of you to give up, Bordeaux. This could have gotten real nasty,” Randall was saying as he checked to make sure the guns were unloaded. The smaller ranger was jogging up the trail toward them with gun drawn. Win figured the two hikers would have a great campfire story to tell tonight.
Luke Bordeaux, totally ignoring the fact that he was now in handcuffs, was sizing Win up from ten feet away. “Did you play ball? You look like a ball player.”
It was casual bravado and Win went along. “Yeah, played at Arkansas four years. Played quarterback then wide receiver. You played?”
The bluster disappeared from Luke’s face and a flash of regret caused his eyes to drop. “Naw, never made it to college, but I played at Vidalia High fer three years. Went to every LSU game I could get a ticket to. . . . Miss it sometimes. I—”
“I’m really enjoying this reminiscing you gentlemen are doing, but Luke here is going to have an appointment with Judge Walters this afternoon. I’m sure you fine federal agents have better things to do than stand out here in the wind,” Randall said. Two more armed guys in green were running up the trail. The older ranger continued, “We can handle it from here, Johnson.” He didn’t even glance at Win.
Johnson raised his chin to motion Win back down the trail, leaving the rangers to find the shell casings and the poached deer.
“See ya around, Win Tyler,” Luke called after his back. The tone of voice sent a chill up Win’s spine.
He and Johnson didn’t speak as they made the short hike to the vehicles. Several other park rangers, an ambulance crew, and a small crowd of tourists were standing near the trailhead, waiting to see how the confrontation played out. After stowing his gear, Win climbed into the passenger seat to find the heater running full blast and Johnson on the satellite phone, reporting in to someone.
Johnson signed off the call, eased around the rangers’ SUV, and turned the Suburban back onto the highway. He maneuvered around several parked vehicles as he spoke. “For a guy who just got here on a LOE transfer, you’ve had a pretty good day. A little unorthodox maybe, but you did a nice job talking that fool down. Bordeaux could’ve put a bullet in Chief Randall at any time.”
Win wasn’t hearing the praise. He heard Johnson say “LOE transfer” and a sick wave hit his stomach. “Loss of Effectiveness.” It didn’t get much worse than that in the FBI. He clenched his jaw, stared out the window, and pretended to take in the scenery.
Johnson didn’t notice his discomfort. The man continued to ramble on. “Randall wasn’t too grateful to you. Embarrassed he let himself get into that position, I’d think. Probably thought the poacher was further up the slope when he headed up the trail. As Chief Ranger he wouldn’t normally be in the field, but since most everyone was at training, I guess he was filling in.”
Win tried to regain his composure as he listened. He kept his hands stuck in the pockets of his light jacket. They were still shaking a little. He slumped back in the seat as the adrenaline began to dissipate. He’d tried to act as if facing up against an armed man were an everyday event. In reality, he’d never held a loaded gun, much less a submachine gun, on anyone, ever.
“Will he actually get off? No laws against an unloaded gun?” he finally asked.
“Probably—this is the Wild West. Everyone hates gun laws out here, even the Federal Magistrate.” Johnson scowled down the highway. “Actually, most anyone can carry a loaded gun in the park. The only reason Bordeaux is restricted to unloaded weapons is his previous run-in with the legal system. And we can’t prove he was shooting at anyone, as you pointed out to him. He was just rattling some nerves. Might get him on discharging a weapon in a national park, but that’s just a rinky-dink charge. Judge would probably give him a lecture and dismiss it. If the rangers find the bullet in the deer he was skinning out and match it to the rifle, they could charge him with poaching.” Johnson frowned as he finished the thought. “Many folks in this part of the country consider poaching a far worse offense than shooting at a federal officer anyway.”
Seriously?
Chapter Two
Win awoke in the dark with a moment of panic—not remembering where he was or why he was there. Sad, confused dreams darted toward the edge of his consciousness. Dim light filtered in from under a curtain, and dark shapes in the room began coming into focus. His head was still throbbing slightly, and he feared that any movement might bring on the terrible headaches and nausea he’d experienced throughout the night. He slowly raised himself on one elbow, then dropped his head back to the worn sofa pillow and closed his eyes. So far so good. Altitude sickness. That was Agent Johnson’s diagnosis yesterday afternoon, when he dropped Win off at the old stone house that would be his home in Mammoth Hot Springs. There hadn’t been any sympathy.
“Too much activity, too fast. We’re above 6,300 feet here. Drink lots of water, take some aspirin, and sleep. I’ll do the paperwork on the incident with Bordeaux. We can both initial it later. I may be shipping out for a while, so be at the office 8:15 Saturday morning. Your first day at your new duty station, Tyler—April 12th.”
Then he’d left Win to collapse on the grungy, stained couch. Late yesterday afternoon, after a couple bouts of nausea had passed, Win had taken off his boots and wrapped up in a wool blanket his mother had packed in his truck “just in case of emergencies,” as she’d put it. He figured this qualified.
When he opened his eyes the second time, more light was coming through gaps in the curtains. There was the faint sound of vehicles starting in the distance. His breath rose in the early-morning light—he’d forgotten to turn on the heat. He guessed he’d alternated between violent sickness and sleep for about fourteen hours. A scratching sound came from the corner, then a quick scurry of motion across the floor. Oh, geez! Mice, rats . . . something moving. The current residents checking out the new tenant, he supposed. His eyes narrowed in resolve; he wouldn’t room with rodents.
More scuffling, this time from outside a large wooden door that was emerging from the room’s gloom. Footsteps on the porch, a light knock on the door. “Yoo-hoo! Hello! Agent Tyler? It’s Maddy Wilson. Hello?”
Win launched off the couch with the blanket wrapped around him, tripped over two boxes, and found a light switch. He inched the door open. A short woman with tightly curled gray hair smiled up at him. She was encased in a blue down coat that made her look nearly as wide as she was tall. A pink f
leece scarf was wrapped around her neck—its color perfectly matched her plump cheeks. Steam rose from the wicker basket she carried.
“Oh my, I hope I didn’t wake you.” Even though it was obvious she did, her soft, singsong voice continued uninterrupted. “I’m Bill Wilson’s wife. You met Bill yesterday. He hated he missed all the action. I understand you single-handedly talked that rascal down off the hill. Bill was so impressed! Well, I wanted to bring something over. . . . My, you must be freezing standing out here in your sock feet.” It occurred to him how awful he must look, but she kept talking. “No, no I don’t need to come in. Made these a minute ago and there’s hot coffee in the thermos. We’ll have you over for dinner after you’ve settled in.” She handed him the basket and was moving across the wooden porch and down the steps. “If you need anything, just call. Our number’s in the basket. So glad to have you here!”
He managed to mumble a reasonable offer of thanks before moving back into the living room, which was already feeling more like home as the scent of warm muffins filled the air. The headache had retreated to a dull throbbing, and he knew the hot coffee would go a long way toward curing that annoyance.
After two cups of Mrs. Wilson’s coffee and three still-warm muffins, Win was feeling more like himself. A glance in the bathroom’s cracked mirror confirmed his fears about his appearance: nearly three days of stubble, matted hair, and bloodshot eyes. A long, hot shower would have been nice, but the water wasn’t even lukewarm. He couldn’t get the thermostat to respond with heat either; his breath was still visible. He reluctantly retrieved clean clothes from his travel bag, braved the cold water, and set about making himself presentable.
It was closing in on 7:30 when he finally turned on his phone and heard the numerous tones for missed calls, voice mails, and texts. Yes! Cell service at my house! He smiled down at a recent text from Will, his fifteen-year-old brother: dude mom has not heard from u in 3 days. she thinks ur kidnapped on the high plains and will call cops or fbi. wait, u r fbi. give her a break call her.
