by Rhona Weaver
Wes Givens summed it up. “If either of those two scenarios is correct, given what we know about the group’s makeup and capability, we now have an imminent domestic terrorism threat and I think we need to declare it as such to Washington. It’s sounding as if Daniel Shepherd’s group is planning an armed assault against someone or some part of the park. We’ve been severely limited on the actions we could take up to this point, but Bordeaux’s comments give us the leverage we need to get wiretaps authorized.”
They spent the better part of the next two hours going back over parts of the tape and addressing specific issues. ASAC Givens was on and off the teleconference, making calls and taking calls from various other FBI offices, ATF, the Marshals Service, and other agencies to consolidate resources. They broke at about the one-hour point, and SAC Strickland put a call in to the Deputy Assistant Director for Counterterrorism in Washington. Chief Randall did the same with his respective higher-ups. To say that some serious marshaling of counterterrorism assets was going on was an understatement.
Strickland’s final remarks came down to the apparent threat on Win’s life. “At this point, Win, we have to consider the threat credible. Could be those militia types are blowing smoke, but we can’t take that chance. I’m sure Chief Randall would be willing to provide security for you until we can get more of our people up there, and pull you out.”
Win wanted to stay on the case, and he was ready with his response. “I appreciate the concern, Mr. Strickland, but as Bordeaux said himself, it’s not likely personal; it’s the badge. I don’t think it would matter who the case agent is. They aren’t coming after me, they’re coming after the Bureau. I’ve developed some informants who may be able to break this open. We can’t afford to lose momentum, and our time frame may be closing. I want to stay on the case.”
“Your points are well taken. We’ll talk some more about this tomorrow. In the meantime, I’ll ask Chief Randall to provide you with security.”
As the teleconference wound down, the SAC asked Win one last question. “I should have asked this earlier, but Win, was there anything in tonight’s encounter with Bordeaux that wasn’t on the recording?”
“Yes, sir, at the beginning, when I walked into the dark room—into his ambush—he said something like, ‘Win Tyler, you ain’t a quick learner.’”
“See that you prove him wrong, Win.”
* * *
Win was still at his desk an hour later, working on the Title III affidavits for the phone taps they’d request for Bordeaux and several others at the Arm of the Lord Church. He sat back and calculated the time back home. It was 2:20 a.m. in Arkansas. Way too late to call, but Blake would catch his text early the next morning. He sent a quick text to his younger brother and was surprised when his cell rang almost immediately.
“Hey, Bubba, what’s up?” It was a silly private joke they had. Blake, who was two years younger but had grown an inch taller, had been calling Win “Bubba,” the southern equivalent of “brother” or “little brother,” since his growth spurt in high school.
“What are you doing up so late? Sick cow?” Win asked.
“Naw, don’t you people have the Weather Channel out there? Thought that might be why you’re texting, concerned about us and all. It’s springtime in tornado alley!”
“Bad there?”
“Has been, but the folks down around Little Rock are gettin’ the worst of it. I’m sitting on the porch watching it move past. Put all of ’em to sleep in the basement a few hours ago, after we lost power. You should see the lightning to the south! Miss you, Win. You weren’t really here when you were here last month. You gettin’ better?”
Win drew a deep breath. “I think so. I hope so.”
“Well, if you end up happily married to Shelby let’s forget this conversation, but I’m okay seein’ that girl move on. She was high-maintenance, and she got more self-centered and more selfish as time went by. Someone who’s gonna be your wife oughta be building you and your dreams up. You and her—well, it shouldn’t be so much work. Hey, isn’t this the same advice you gave me about ten times before I met Rachel?”
“Easier to give advice than take it,” Win answered.
“Suppose so. . . . Other than girl problems, why are you texting me in the middle of the night?”
“Got an issue here. Part of a case, so I can’t say anything specific, but Big Brother will be listening in on my personal phone for a while, so you might want to tone down the humorous messages and such, and maybe pass that on to Will.”
“Dang, and I thought they were already listening in! Okay, but no worries about Will calling you anytime soon. He’s suddenly discovered girls, or maybe it’s they’ve discovered him. Comin’ out of the ugly duckling stage. Granny says he may end up being the best-looking one of the litter.”
“Lordy!” Win laughed and tried to picture his skinny fifteen-year-old brother with a girlfriend.
“Okay, let’s cut to the chase—this call ain’t about Shelby or visiting or whatnot. Can tell in your voice. What’s up?”
“Got some dangerous things going on here. Some serious bad guys. I . . . I wanted you to know how much I love you.” Win sighed. There, I said it!
Blake paused a long time before he responded; Win could hear the thunder rolling in the background. He suddenly felt very homesick and alone.
“The bad guys in the FBI or outside?” Blake finally asked.
“For a change, they’re on the outside. They’re for real.”
“Got anyone there you can talk to?”
“Well, weird as it sounds, I seem more inclined to open up with a fella who may be one of the bad guys.”
“Uh-huh. You know what Daddy says, ‘The only difference between the good guys and the bad guys is often just some poor judgment along the way.’ But still, sounds like you need to expand your circle of friends.”
“Yeah, I was thinking that too. I just can’t seem to bring myself to trust anyone. Can’t bring myself to trust my own judgment of people right now.”
“Well, Bubba, I’m betting ninety-five percent of the folks you’re dealing with are good, decent people. Most of the Feds are wanting to do the same thing you are: make a real difference in people’s lives and make the world a better place. As you always said, a noble calling. You got gut-kicked by the FBI and your girl, right about the same time. It’s only been a few months. I think you might be pushing it. Give yourself some slack.”
“If I get myself killed in the meantime—”
“Hey, you got some premonition about dying out there?”
“No, not at this point. No.”
“Good . . . good. You want me to tell you what you’d say to me? Well, here it is . . . ‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for You are with me; Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.’ The Twenty-Third Psalm. God’s watching over you, Win.”
“I know . . . I know.”
“Not gonna dissuade you from calling the folks and telling ’em how much you love ’em, but just know it ain’t necessary. We know it already. It’s who you are, brother.”
“Appreciate you saying that. . . . But you know, I’ve been a little out of touch these last two years,” Win said softly.
“Well, sounds like it’d be a darn good time to get your head back in the game, as old Coach Stewart would’ve said.”
“He’d said it a good bit stronger than that, but yeah, you’re right. Need to get back to work too, I suppose. Thanks for calling me back.”
“Hey, Win, we all love you too. Be careful.”
The call ended and he sat staring at the framed picture of his two brothers and himself that sat on top of his oak bookcase. The photo had been taken back home on a trout-fishing trip on the White River last fall. It had been a perfect morning. If there were going to be other perfect mornings, he knew he needed t
o follow the advice he’d been given tonight by two men: Get your head back in the game! Blake’s words and Luke’s message.
Chapter Thirteen
Three of the FBI’s surveillance agents were still meeting in Johnson’s office as Win finished the affidavits and hit the send button to get them to Denver. Soft footsteps on the stairs told of a visitor. Win moved away from his desk to the door, rested his hand on his holstered handgun, and waited for the newcomer. He’d never liked the FBI’s policy of closing off their offices from the public with locked doors and security systems, but tonight he could sure see the need for it. Rationally, he knew whoever was coming up the stairs at 1:45 a.m. had the office’s keypad number—still, he kept his hand on his Glock.
The park ranger who appeared at the top of the stairs looked to be early thirties. He was decked out in a dark-green tactical uniform. A small mobile radio dangled from his darker body armor. He wore a dark-green Park Service ball cap and his black helmet, a Sig Sauer handgun, clips, a Taser, and who knows what all hung from his web belt. He was not as tall as Win, but he had an athletic, solid build. He removed the cap as he topped the stairs, brushed his short blond hair forward, and cut his eyes toward Win. Those gray eyes were just short of hostile.
“U.S. Park Ranger Hechtner to see Special Agent Tyler, sir.”
A none-too-friendly voice, either.
“I’m Win Tyler.” Win held out his hand and the man did return the firm handshake, but his less-than-cordial manner remained.
“Chief Randall has assigned our team to you until your security people arrive. I’m the park’s Mammoth District Ranger and the Special Response Team Leader. I’m one of the officers on the Joint Terrorism Task Force, and I have top secret clearance, so I’m authorized to be in your offices. I have two men guarding this building and two at your house.”
“Well, U.S. Park Ranger Hechtner, I’m not familiar with your agency’s protocols. How do you prefer to be addressed?” If this guy was going to get all formal with him, he could throw it right back.
“You can address me as Ranger Hechtner, sir.”
“You can call me Win. And you don’t need to call me ‘sir.’”
Win left the man standing in the hall as he stuck his head in the office next door to tell the other agents there were armed guards outside. He grabbed his coat and followed the ranger to his Tahoe for the short ride to his house. The man didn’t say a word, but on the positive side, he seemed alert and watchful. If the ranger could keep him from being harmed, why should he care how much personality the guy had. A man in the same SWAT gear, wearing night-vision goggles and carrying an assault rifle, emerged from the darkness outside Win’s house as they pulled up.
Ranger Hechtner killed the vehicle. “My men will do a sweep of the house’s interior. When that’s clear, two men will be outside and I will stay inside. May we proceed?”
“Uh, sure—there’s a cat inside. I appreciate your help tonight.”
“That’s our job, sir.” He said it with a little too much edge.
Oookay, so no thawing this guy out.
After the sweep came back clean, the other rangers moved to their guard posts, where Win hoped they wouldn’t freeze in the twenty-five-degree weather. Ranger Hechtner unlatched his Remington 870 from the SUV and took up a spot in the den while Win fed the cat and made a pot of coffee.
“Coffee in the kitchen if you or your men want it. See you in the morning—I’ll need to leave for the office at six o’clock.” Win closed his bedroom door without waiting for a reply.
Remembering Luke’s question from earlier in the night, he slept with his gun on his nightstand. He’d never done that in his life. He also slept with the Twenty-Third Psalm in his heart—he’d done that hundreds of times. The Scripture brought him a lot more comfort than the gun. He was up at 5:30 and grateful for the three hours of sleep. Several hours of standing guard in a dark house hadn’t improved Ranger Hechtner’s mood. Win warmed up a cup of the hours-old coffee in the microwave and asked the ranger if he’d care for any. Nope, he is all business.
Hechtner was stone-faced. “We’ll exit the house from the front. There are clear shot avenues from the barren ridges to the northeast above the rear of the house. Always use the front entrance.”
Okay, got that. Being aware that someone wanted him dead, and thinking through the possible ambush points, was a surreal and unwelcome experience.
The night-shift supervisor for the surveillance guys handed Win a stack of messages when he got to the office. No matter it was a Saturday morning; there would be plenty of company coming to town. The field office had chartered a large jet, which was leaving Denver with the office’s supervisor for domestic terrorism, Emily Stuart; ten FBI SWAT guys; and a bunch of other folks on board. Jim West was taking a private flight into Bozeman rather than drive the seven-hour, circuitous route to Mammoth from Jackson, avoiding the park’s closed roads. A full-blown command center would be set up in the vacant space within the Justice Center. Analysts, technicians, and portions of Denver’s Domestic Terrorism and Violent Crime Squads would be en route tomorrow. The FBI’s super-sophisticated Nightstalker surveillance plane and its support group would arrive in Livingston, Montana, before noon. Black Hawk helicopter support from the Wyoming National Guard had been approved at the highest levels in Washington. The Denver office was coordinating the delivery of those assets.
Win started working the phones with the Marshals, the U.S. Attorney’s office, and the Federal Magistrate to see if warrants could be pulled together for a preemptive takedown if DOJ decided that was the best course to take. If there was an imminent threat, it might be more prudent to raid the church and Bordeaux’s trailers and round up the suspected bad guys before they could launch any type of attack. They’d probably end up charging the suspects with relatively minor offenses and parole violations, but if bloodshed could be averted, that might be the way to go. Preventing acts of terror on American soil counted more with the FBI in this day and age than building a case for trial. It would be great to do both, but protecting the public was job number one.
When Janet Swam appeared at 7:00 a.m. with a huge box of muffins, Win remembered that he hadn’t eaten since yesterday at noon. He was at his desk, working on his second blueberry muffin and sorting priorities, when Ranger Hechtner, still in his SWAT getup, made another appearance.
“Sir, we’ve rotated two more men at your house and two here at the office. They’re in civilian clothes and will blend in with the visitors. For your information, we call the tourists ‘visitors.’ You need to close your window blinds—keep them closed until this threat is over. My orders are to stay with you until your people relieve us.”
His point on the window blinds was well taken, but he said “your people” a little too sharply. Win didn’t like his tone or his surly attitude. He left the ranger standing in his office doorway as he finished the rest of the muffin, downed half a cup of coffee, and decided to get serious about getting his head in the game, as his brother had put it. He looked straight into the ranger’s eyes and raised his voice a notch.
“Ranger Hechtner, close the door and sit down.” That seemed to catch the guy off guard; his chin came up and he cocked his head slightly to look down at Win from the doorway.
“Do it now.” Win didn’t say it with a raised voice, but there was no doubt he expected his order to be followed. Hechtner closed the door and sat down.
“Now, it’s real obvious to me you’re not enjoying this job of watching my back. But I don’t care what you think about me or the Bureau or whether I’ve wrecked your weekend plans, or whatever is going on with you. We both have jobs here. I need you to keep me alive while I do mine. It is our job, and I mean our job, to protect the public and the interests of the United States government. Do you get that?”
Hechtner’s gray eyes dropped to the front of Win’s desk for a moment, then he straightened in the chair
and slowly nodded. “I’m sorry—you have my apology, sir. I’ve let some personal feelings get in the way. You can call me Trey.”
“Apology accepted, Trey. Please call me Win, and don’t hesitate to point out anything you see me doing or not doing that’s going to impact your job or my life. I appreciate you being here.” Win smiled as he stood and moved to shake hands with the ranger, who then left the office to take his post downstairs. The handshake was strong, and Win had a sense of the strength of the man as he stood next to Trey’s broad shoulders. He reflected a little as he moved back to his desk. Within the last twenty-four hours he’d received formal apologies from two men, either of which could beat him like a yard dog in a fight. He made a mental note to get to that gym and hit the weights again when this mess was over.
* * *
It was nearly noon that same day, and two of Ranger Hechtner’s plainclothes rangers were watching him and the surroundings from a reasonable distance. Win stood on the concrete landing outside the entrance to the Mammoth Hotel Dining Room and watched the arrival of the lady who would be his new boss for this operation.
Supervisory Special Agent Emily Stuart was slowly getting out of the back seat of Johnson’s black Suburban. The vehicle had been picked up by Jim West and their little group of higher-ups at the Bozeman airport and commandeered for their use while Johnson remained on leave. Jim nodded to Win and stayed in the driver’s seat, talking on his phone. SSA Stuart was struggling to pull on a heavy coat while continuing to hold her phone to her ear with one hand. She was of medium height and build, with frizzy orange-reddish hair. She wore gold metal-rimmed glasses and quite a lot of makeup. He was guessing her age to be early forties, but it was hard to tell. Her gray business suit was stylish, complete with high heels; she looked completely out of place in Yellowstone.
She kept her eyes on her phone as she walked up the concrete steps leading to the landing at the restaurant’s entrance. Win opened the door for her, and that act of chivalry suddenly seemed to awaken her to her surroundings.
