by Rhona Weaver
“What do you think you’re doing!” It was a sharp, nasal voice. Win thought the angry comment was directed at her phone or at someone else, but she was staring up into his face with a scowl. “You think I can’t handle a door, Agent Tyler? You think that gentleman crap is going to impress me?”
Win stood there, holding the door open. He was speechless, which was probably a good thing. He was thinking he would forgo asking to take her coat or pulling out her chair at the table. She blew through the door and confronted the tiny hostess. Jim West watched the whole scene unfold as he followed her up the steps. He was grinning at Win as they trailed Emily and the hostess from a safe distance.
“I see you’ve met Ms. Stuart.” Jim was almost laughing.
“Well, actually no, I haven’t been introduced to her. . . . She, uh, knew who I was. . . . She seems to be having a bad day.”
“Emily never has good days. Just keep your head down.”
* * *
The next morning Win was leaning against the frosty windowpane in his office, staring out at a brilliant orange sunrise. It was as if someone had repainted the parade ground during the night. How had he missed the gradual greening of the lawns or the first buds on the trees? It was Sunday, May 4th. Spring in Yellowstone had snuck up on him. No, there weren’t actually leaves on any of the trees yet—certainly no flowers. A late spring, he’d heard several folks say, but there were little inklings of it. The patches of snow were becoming few and far between, the wind didn’t have quite the same bite, and there was even a silvery-green tint to the sagebrush that populated most every open space.
He normally loved the spring. Back on the farm it had always been the season of promise. New calves, new crops, new life—hope for a good year. He’d always been an optimist, he’d always been one to look on the bright side, but this delayed spring, in this foreign place, was bringing more foreboding than joy. Someone wants to kill me. He pulled the blinds and moved away from the window as he replayed Ranger Hechtner’s warnings in his head. Maybe I should take a little more annual leave . . . or take Mr. Strickland up on his offer to go to Denver. Maybe . . . He drew a long breath. He wasn’t one to run away. The SWAT Team guys from Denver had taken over as his protection detail late Saturday afternoon. They would watch his back. He had a job to do. He breathed in another deep breath. I have a job to do.
His desk phone rang again at 7:15 a.m. and he began to recite the subject profiles of more than a dozen different church militiamen to one of the Critical Incident Response Group supervisors back at FBI Headquarters. Eastern time was two hours later; it was 9:15 in Washington, D.C. This morning he’d already been on the phone with four different Headquarters or Denver supervisors reporting on various facets of the case. The Bureau higher-ups were still waffling on which tack to take. There was clearly enough concern for an aggressive investigation, but nowhere near enough evidence for terrorism indictments. The Arm of the Lord Church was blaring out a steady stream of anti-government and anti-Semitic rancor online, and the first of the park’s dignitary visits was only days away. The Israeli Ambassador and a group of prominent Jewish leaders were scheduled to dedicate a monument in Yellowstone on May 12th. They were coming down to the wire.
* * *
At 8:15 Win was on his third cup of coffee and deep into Washington’s analysis of the Prophet’s possible funding sources when he felt someone’s eyes on him; he looked up to see a woman leaning against his office doorframe, watching him. Manners kicked in and he immediately stood up. She moved forward into his office with a smile and outstretched hand.
“Hi, Deborah Mills from the Denver office. Call me Deb. Wes asked me to give you a hand on the case file overload on False Prophet—catchy name for the case, I like that. I understand this case is not a one-person job.” She had a good handshake and an easy smile. Her eyes stayed locked on his the entire time she moved toward him.
“Good to meet you, Winston Tyler. I go by Win. Can use the help. Mr. Givens said he’d call some folks in. When’d you get here?”
“Several of us flew into Bozeman last night and drove in kinda late. They’ve got us staying in those little cabins behind the hotel. They don’t have TVs, radios, or Wi-Fi in the rooms here, and the cell phones don’t work half the time.” Her brown eyes widened in shock at the primitive accommodations.
“Some of the many charms of the place.”
He was thinking she was maybe early forties, maybe five four or so, short brown hair, sort of plain, but well dressed in casual snow boots, wool slacks, sweater, and jacket. Her jewelry was modest: tasteful gold earrings, necklace, and wedding band. She looked like an upper-middle-class lady out to see the nation’s premier national park—except for the gun. She was wearing a Glock on her belt under the jacket. She was an agent. Good, Win thought.
As he found out during the next several minutes, she was one of three senior agents in the Denver Field Office’s Domestic Terrorism Squad. She’d been in the Bureau for sixteen years and at the Denver office for seven years. She’d read Win’s entire case file and listened to the audios on his informant interviews. She seemed to know all about his background, and she also seemed to sense that he was more than a little uncomfortable with the concept of her working for him given their vast differences in experience in the FBI.
“Win, you’re the lead case agent—you know that gives you tremendous power over the direction of most aspects of this case. I’ll be assisting you. I’ve been at this for a while longer than you, so don’t hesitate to ask me questions. This is a huge case. . . . I can only remember a few other things our office has been this ramped up about since I’ve been in Denver. Plus it’s out here in the middle of nowhere. I’m here to take some of the weight off you by working with the other agencies, making sure the paperwork flows, and helping with the analysis. Plus I know the other Denver folks in our terrorism squads, so maybe I can help you utilize their skills. Actually, you and I are authorized to pull any of them up here to work with us on any aspect of the case if we need additional bodies. On a case this big, we will need additional bodies. I brought a clerical assistant and two intelligence analysts here with me.”
She shifted in the wooden chair and quickly glanced down at her phone before she continued. “I want to be near your office, so our little group will pass on the space over at the Justice Center. I’m having phones and computers installed in your spare storage room today—we’ll work out of there. The technicians will be here from Denver mid-morning. You okay with that?” She didn’t wait for him to answer. “You are my boss on this case, and from what I’ve heard about you, I think we’ll work together really well.”
Win was wondering what she had heard about him. He was also thinking Wes Givens had brought her in to make sure his new agent didn’t screw anything up too badly. He would have done the same thing had their roles been reversed, but it still stung his pride a bit.
She kept talking. “Why don’t you come back and see what I have in mind for your extra storage room, and then we can go over your current assessments of the various aspects of the case and our deployment of resources and assets. . . .” She was already out of the office. He sighed as he followed her down the hall. Even with her declarations that he was still running the case, he was getting the distinct impression that with Deb, he was just gonna be along for the ride.
* * *
“Agent Tyler! Win!” It was just after noon the next day, and a heavyset bald guy in his early fifties was calling through the open passenger window of a big tan SUV as it pulled alongside Win in the street. The two plainclothes SWAT agents who were shadowing Win started to move in, but he gave them a quick okay sign when he recognized the man’s clipped manner of speaking. Win walked across the sidewalk from the post office steps to the SUV’s open window and leaned in toward the driver.
“Hi—Stan Marniski. Deb Miller said you were going this way after lunch. Good to finally meet you in person.
Just flew into Bozeman and I’m driving out to the main surveillance site. Want to ride along?” It didn’t sound like a question.
The man’s accent was decidedly northeastern, maybe New York. The Unit Chief Win had been talking with on the phone off and on for the last two days talked fast and had the urgency of the big city about him. Marniski was way over Win’s pay grade and he’d been more than a little intimidating on the phone. Win had told him at length about the difficulties of surveilling the church compound from the perimeter: large expanses of open sagebrush cut by deceptively deep ravines with thick evergreen and aspen pockets; boulder fields; acres of old-growth forest; two limestone hillsides pocked with caves, small streams, and dangerous crevices. The church’s entire seventy-five acres was crisscrossed by dozens of game trails. Only one gravel road into the church compound, but a zillion ways out. Anyone familiar with the difficult terrain could just blend into the landscape and disappear—which unfortunately had been happening with regularity as the FBI’s surveillance teams tried to keep their subjects under watchful eyes.
The portly man was talking nonstop. “Understand there’s been more surveillance glitches.” He casually waved it away. “Gonna clean that up! You know Tom Strickland wanted me out here from Washington to deal with it.” The honcho’s sharp look dismissed Win’s SWAT guards. “I’ll be your security this afternoon. Hop in! Let’s go.”
He drove Win back to his Bureau SUV and leaned his considerable bulk against the side of the truck as Win geared up. Win changed his cowboy boots out for insulated hiking boots as he listened to the Bureau’s Unit Chief for Surveillance ramble on and on. Win was having a hard time getting a word in edgewise. He pulled the lighter version of body armor out of his truck and started to key in the gun box for his MP5 when Marniski spoke up.
“No need for the flak jackets or the long guns. We’re just doing a little recon this afternoon so that I can get a better feel for the terrain. . . . No chance of running into the bad guys.”
This dude does not know the territory, Win was thinking. Based on his experience after less than four weeks in Yellowstone, he knew there was real potential for the bad guys to be anywhere at any time. He ignored the senior supervisor’s command and pulled the body armor on under his brown parka and pocketed two extra magazines for his Glock; he left the MP5 in the truck. Marniski isn’t the one under a death threat, but no reason to be totally insubordinate.
“Need to see the lay of the land for myself.” The man was still talking. “No room for mistakes. Weather isn’t too bad today—supposed to snow again later this week. Can you believe that? I’ve got the maps, GPS, binoculars, everything. . . . Can’t screw up and get over their property line. DOJ will have a fit if one of our guys dares infringe on someone’s religious liberty. Can you believe how damn touchy everyone is about this deal? Talk about having to be politically correct—never mind that those nuts are planning an armed revolution!”
He switched topics without losing a beat. “Haven’t been out in the field for a couple of years, may be a little rusty . . . but hey, bought a pair of hiking boots in Bozeman on the way in. Need to get a picture of me hiking around the woods in these. My kids won’t believe it.” He stared down at his new boots. “Who’d thought I’d be outa Washington today, hiking miles on surveillance. . . . It’s not like I’m a field agent anymore. But, hey,”—he slapped Win on the back—“I’ve been sitting behind a desk in D.C. way too long. Let’s go have a little adventure!”
* * *
Win had just hiked around a massive boulder on the muddy downhill trail. Stan stumbled up beside him as Win froze in place. Two men in tan and green stood less than ten feet away. They’d been waiting for the agents to step around the huge gray boulder. Both in full camouflage, with camo face paint below their field caps. Both armed with scoped AR-15s that were aimed square in the center of their intended targets. Win was afraid his heart had stopped for a moment. The black assault rifles looked especially deadly from the business end. Both men had them at the ready, fingers on the triggers—it would be over long before he or Stan could clear their coats to get to their holsters. Federal Agents Killed by Fanatical Church Militiamen—a potential headline for tomorrow’s newspaper flashed through Win’s mind.
“Whata you doing out here?” the younger of the two gunmen hissed.
“Bird watching.” Win motioned toward the high-powered binoculars hanging around Marniski’s neck. It was the first thing that popped into his head.
The second man spit to the side. “Sure you are.”
Win swallowed hard. He felt Stan put a hand on his coat sleeve; the older man probably feared the younger agent might make a Rambo move. No chance of that! Just be cool. . . . Be cool. They were seriously outgunned. “Bulletproof vest” was a misnomer—he knew 5.56mm rounds from those rifles at ten feet would slice the vest he wore like a hot knife through butter. The tension that hung in the air between the four men was so thick you could cut it.
“You’re standing too near our boundary! This is our land—the Arm of the Lord Church! You’re spying on us! You think we don’t know what you’re doing? You’re damn federal police!” It was the younger man talking in a loud, irate voice.
Win was sure hoping Luke was right about the militia having no part in the threat against his life. But even if the death threat wasn’t in play, this was still a dicey situation. It had the potential to turn into a fatal confrontation if any one of the four men made a mistake or overreacted.
Stan had talked nonstop during the hour-long drive from Mammoth to the FBI’s surveillance staging site in the wooded foothills more than a mile southeast of the church compound. He’d kept up the chatter on the three-hour trek to the various surveillance posts hidden in the ravines and forests on the fringes of the church’s property line. Now, for the first time all afternoon, Marniski wasn’t saying a word.
Win tried to get his focus off the gaping muzzle of the nearest rifle as he made his best stab at a conversational tone. “Well, that’s not real nice of you to say. First off, we’re standing within the national park. Secondly, America doesn’t have federal police. We work for the FBI. We’re investigators. We’re here to solve crimes and prevent terrorism. We work for you just the same as for any other law-abiding Americans.” Never mind that you frigging yahoos are holding automatic weapons on federal agents—committing at least two felony offenses.
The younger man interrupted Win’s calm reply and frantic thoughts. “We ain’t like any other Americans—we’re patriots! Defenders of the nation! You work for the oppressors: the Jews and that bunch of internationalists who took over our government. You do their bidding! Don’t tell me you work for us!”
The younger guy was clean-cut under the war paint, maybe mid-twenties, maybe six feet, but Win was thinking he looked bigger than that. Might have had something to do with Win’s perspective being on the wrong end of the guy’s gun. Both militiamen looked plenty capable, and the younger one was getting himself all worked up.
Somehow Win’s voice remained steady and relaxed. “There’s folks around who would threaten the peace of the nation. We’re just making sure that isn’t gonna happen here. You could help us out, you know.” Win paused and looked at them expectantly.
Both men raised their chins a little. “Yeah, right. . . . And how is that?” the younger one asked suspiciously.
“Lookie here. . . .” Win slowly moved his left hand into his coat pocket and pulled out the two crumpled wanted posters he’d intended to hang in the post office after lunch. “Two more thugs made our Ten Most Wanted list this week. These men are Middle Eastern. Seen ’em around?” He held the flyers up so that the militiamen could see them.
“Hell no! No Arabs around here! You kidding me?” It was the stocky man answering.
“For real, guys. Our Ten Most Wanted list—there’s a $500,000 reward for either of these two. They’re dangerous enemies of our country and t
hey could be anywhere. We have to be watchful. You could help us keep an eye out for them.” He shrugged. “Just thought I’d ask.”
He hoped he’d talked long enough to defuse some of the men’s hostility. He hoped they’d see a little common ground. He hoped they’d realize this didn’t have to end badly. As he folded the flyers back into his pocket, he cut his eyes sideways toward Stan. The agent was staring hard at the armed men; his face was pale and tight.
Win glanced at his watch. “Geez, look at the time—we need to be moving on. We still haven’t spotted a red-throated ground grouse or a yellow-speckled warbler yet.” He saw the younger militiaman suppress a smile. The guy obviously knew Win was making up the bird species. Win felt Stan relax just a bit. The tension was easing.
Win allowed his shoulders to drop slightly, to transition to a less-aggressive stance. “I’m Win Tyler, resident agent over in Mammoth. We didn’t mean to bother you boys. No intention of coming on the church’s land.” He spread his hands out a little to his sides, palms up. “No harm, no foul.” He looked into the younger man’s blue eyes and saw him make the right decision.
“Alright, alright. . . . No harm, no foul,” the younger one said and nodded. “I’m Corporal Jeffery Shaw, church militia.” He smoothly moved the rifle into the port arms position. The corporal nodded to his companion, and the stocky one’s finger came off the AR-15’s trigger as the barrel swung downward. “You men stay away from our boundary, you understand me?”
“Got it,” Marniski answered as he took a step back.
Win nodded to the men, then turned and double-timed it around the massive boulder with Stan on his heels. He stopped behind another large, solitary rock about a hundred feet up the trail in the tree line. His adrenaline level was dropping some and his heart rate was a little steadier. He turned toward the Unit Chief and noticed the color coming back into the man’s face. Stan blew out a long breath, shook his head, and raised his eyebrows. He pulled off his ball cap and ran a hand across his bald scalp. Despite the forty-two-degree temperature, there was a sheen of sweat on his scalp and face. The senior agent leaned against the boulder and glanced back to make sure they weren’t being followed. “You warned me that getting in close wasn’t a good idea.” He shook his head again. “Man! You got that right!”
