by Rhona Weaver
He pulled on his jacket, topped off his coffee, and moved into the mudroom at the sound of a vehicle driving up. His ride was running a little late, and while he was impatient, he knew Denver’s SWAT agents on security detail outside the house must be climbing the walls awaiting their shift change. At least he’d slept in a warm bed, while they dealt with the freezing temperatures and the monotony of guard duty. The SWAT Team’s SUV pulled up and parked on the gravel area behind the house, just as it had the last two mornings. Ranger Hechtner wouldn’t approve, Win thought. Be unpredictable, he’d said. Maybe they were getting a little complacent. Today would be the fourth day since Luke’s warning of the death threat and nothing had happened.
He started out the back door and had reached the first step when he remembered the text on his personal phone. The SWAT guy was leaning out of the Suburban’s window, talking to one of his men near the old garage. He was obviously in no hurry. Win stood on the back step, holding the storm door open with his shoulder as he tried to balance his coffee mug and pull out his phone. The new text read: #2—Play is on—am—LRR
What? What! In an instant he knew it was from Luke, and in that same instant he knew he was in grave danger. He glanced toward the barren hills to the north, dropped the coffee, and dove back into the house.
The .50 caliber bullet tore through the storm door just as he let it go—glass and aluminum shattered under the impact of the huge round. Shards of glass and metal exploded against the freshly painted walls of the mudroom. Win landed on his stomach amid two sacks of cat litter. He closed his eyes tight as projectiles ricocheted though the small room, shattering both windows. When he opened his eyes, he saw thick red liquid covering his left side. He felt no pain but realized he must have been hit. He blinked in shock at the widening crimson stain on his starched white shirt. Then he smelled the familiar scent of the laundry detergent. The bullet fragments had obliterated the plastic bottle on top of the washing machine.
Thank you, God! Thank you. . . . He kept repeating his thanks under his breath as a mantra as he scooted toward the relative safety of the dining room. Before Win cleared the mudroom’s tile floor, the shooter got off a second round into the engine of the SWAT agent’s SUV. A heavy thump and small explosion erupted from the damaged engine block as the vehicle died. The reports from the rifle came less than a second later—two distant, sharp cracks few would recognize as gunfire.
The dining room’s eighteen-inch-thick sandstone walls offered him protection. At some point in the chaos of the last five seconds—he had no idea when—he’d drawn his gun. He’d dropped his phones in the mudroom. No going after them now. The SWAT agent guarding the front of the house called out that he was entering and came through the front door, moving low to stay below as many windows as possible. He was communicating with the others in the rear and with the SWAT Team leader at the Justice Center on his personal radio. He crouched beside Win with his short-barrel MP5 clutched in his hand. He looked as scared as Win felt.
“No one’s hit in the back. . . .They’re scrambling. . . . Long-range rifle . . . Got the truck, we’re supposed to hang tight—oh my God!” His eyes widened as he took in the dark-red stain on Win’s side.
“Laundry detergent. No kidding!” Win was grinning.
“That thug is gonna be ticked! Killed a Suburban and a bottle of Tide!” The SWAT guy was grinning.
Then they both leaned into the wall, laughing—a release of the intense tension and fear both men felt. When they finally got themselves together half a minute later, Win felt his emotions turning to anger. What kind of coward tries to assassinate a man with a gun that can cut a person in two! An underlying rage was boiling up at the unseen enemy. He needed to temper the powerful emotions by focusing on a response to the attack, but since he was the target, he was ordered to stay put.
The FBI reaction was swift, thank goodness. Win heard a helicopter in the distance within five minutes of the shots. Several agents arrived outside the house even more quickly. They weren’t too worried about blending in with the tourists at this point, and most had assault rifles at the ready. The SWAT agent’s radio crackled with updates. Park rangers were shutting down two nearby trails. Nearly half the FBI’s surveillance force had been called in from the field or repositioned. It wasn’t yet 6:30, but nobody even remotely connected with law enforcement was sitting this one out. The house shook as a second helicopter thundered low over them about ten minutes into their wait. Someone reported that a sniper rifle and ghillie suit had been found northeast of Win’s house. After what seemed like an eternity, the guy’s radio finally signaled an all clear. Gus Jordon and the FBI’s SWAT Team leader rushed in the front door moments later.
“What the hell!” the team leader yelled at the agent standing with Win in the dining room. Win was sure the Denver SWAT Team leader was a very articulate man, but most of what was said in the first couple of minutes were words Win would never repeat. The guy was furious with his team for giving the assassin an easy, predictable shooting lane. Somebody in the Bureau was gonna catch hell, and it was looking like it was gonna be him.
While the SWAT guys were focused on their internal “How could this have happened?” tirade, Gus put a hand on Win’s arm.
“You all right?”
Win nodded and looked away. His hands were gripping the back of one of the oak dining room chairs. He scanned the mudroom floor, which was littered with pieces of glass, aluminum, plastic, and shrapnel. He knew the mess in the backyard from the remnants of the door and windows would be worse—coulda been him in pieces when that massive round hit. Coulda been me.
“Nothing on the shooter?” he asked.
“Not yet—everyone’s on it. Got the hills behind the house covered with responders. Your SWAT Team will get you back to your office. Chief Randall is in Billings; I’m standing in. I’ve called our evidence-response folks in to tape the house off and supplement your people on the crime scene investigation. It’s been nearly twenty minutes since the shots—we oughta be good to get you out of here now.” The ranger looked down at Win’s stained side. He glanced at the mudroom and managed a thin smile. “At least you smell real good. . . . Want to change before you go?”
Win nodded. “Yeah, just be a minute.” He was glad Gus was giving him some privacy. He’d have to have his game face on when he hit the office. He wasn’t at all sure he had the emotional strength to pull that off. He was still having to remind himself to breathe.
He splashed cold water on his face and washed the sticky liquid soap off his side. He pulled on a clean shirt, tie, and jacket. The cat was peering out from under his bed, watching his every move with frightened eyes. The sounds of numerous vehicles arriving and loud, strained voices outside his windows filled the bedroom. Win directed his comments toward the cat. “You may be wishin’ you had a different roommate before this is over, buddy. You’re gonna be stuck in this room for a day or so.” The big orange cat pulled back. Win’s tone became gentle. “It’s okay, Gruff. . . . It’s okay. Don’t be afraid. . . . Nobody’s gonna hurt you.” He looked back into the mirror, into his own deep-blue eyes. He straightened his tie and was thankful his hands had quit shaking. It’s okay, Win. . . . It’s okay. Don’t be afraid. . . . Nobody’s gonna hurt you.
* * *
They filed out the front door of the house and hustled Win into the SWAT Team leader’s Suburban with the agent who’d been driving the disabled SUV. That man was slumped in the front seat, keeping his head low. Win figured either he was blaming himself for the protection foul-up or he hadn’t recovered from the shock of the attack. Win could see two Black Hawk helicopters maneuvering above the barren hills to the north of the hotel. The heavy, rhythmic thumping of the powerful military copters’ rotors pounded the high-country air. Won’t be any guests sleeping in this morning.
There were no structures in the hills behind the hotel’s cabins except a small utilities complex. There were,
however, heavily used hiking trails and a gravel road that meandered northward for five miles to the park’s north entrance at Gardiner. Based on the constant radio chatter, it appeared the gunman had taken the two shots, slipped out of the sniper suit, walked to the main trail, and blended into the early-morning walkers and hikers who were taking advantage of the beautiful weather.
Gus climbed into the other side of the back seat and followed Win’s eyes to the activity on the hills. “Without a witness who saw something suspicious on that knoll, or a description of the suspect, finding the bad guy is gonna be a long shot. . . .”
Win turned in the seat and forced a reluctant grin at the ranger. “Really? A long shot. Little early for cop humor, isn’t it?”
“Gotta keep your sanity any way you can, Sport. I’d vote for Kentucky bourbon, but hell, it is a little early for that.”
The SWAT Team leader started the SUV and eased it away from Win’s house. Bureau and Park Service vehicles were still arriving, but none had sirens blaring or lights flashing. It was intentionally low-key. In keeping with the Department of Interior’s desire to keep this whole unsavory business a secret, there was no general alarm at Mammoth. That seemed totally bizarre to Win, with heavily armed FBI agents milling around his yard and about a dozen gawking tourists, the early risers, just yards away at the thermal features. A couple of rangers were sent over to assure everyone the police were simply conducting security drills. Nothing to worry about.
SSA Stuart had assembled the FBI’s on-site supervisors, a few of whom looked like they’d just rolled out of bed, in the office’s conference room. Win could hear the commotion of voices on phones or in animated conversations as soon as he came through the old building’s back door. Everyone in the conference room was standing. Everyone was tense. Everything stopped when Win entered the room with the SWAT Team leader, Gus, and the other agent following close. Win felt all eyes swing to him. It went quiet.
Jim West finally moved to him and put a hand on his shoulder. He met Win’s eyes and his tone was low, as if he were fighting to control his anger.
“Glad you’re all right. We will get him. We’re going to throw everything we’ve got into finding him.”
Win nodded to his boss and scanned the intense faces. Jim moved to the shaken SWAT agent and spoke quietly to him.
The debrief was quick and dirty at this point. They needed to fill any gaps, hear what the victims saw; there would be time for hand-wringing and recrimination later. Win told the hastily assembled group that as soon as he read the text he knew it was from his confidential source and he knew it was a warning of an imminent threat.
“Tell me how you knew that?” Ms. Stuart asked.
“The text read, ‘#2—play is on—am—LRR.’ What it meant to me was that the second diversion the source and I talked about last Friday night—killing the resident FBI agent—had been set in motion. I believe L-R-R referred to long-range rifle and a-m was obviously the timing of the attack. If I’d read the text earlier, when it came in, I wouldn’t have gone out the door, and we might have been able to locate the shooter.”
Unfortunately, locating the shooter still hadn’t happened. The shots had been taken from a spot 2,932 feet from Win’s back door. A long shot—not a tremendous distance, but a very long shot. The bad guy was no amateur. The gunman had been concealed behind a small boulder near a desolate graveyard on top of the hill. The shooter’s location would have been well hidden from the park buildings and the trails below, but it would have been clearly visible from the air. After the threat on Win’s life had been communicated last Friday, one of the Bureau surveillance planes had flown a visual watch pattern over Mammoth beginning at daybreak each morning and periodically during each day, looking for anything out of the ordinary. But today’s plane wasn’t even in the air from Livingston yet. The Tuesday flight wasn’t scheduled to arrive over the area until nearly 7:30 a.m. because of a switch-out in pilots. It was as if the assassin knew the FBI’s flight schedule. Win tucked that unsettling thought back into his consciousness.
Ken Murray may not have made it to the shower this morning, but he had a laser-like focus on their problem. The man ran a hand through his ruffled hair. He turned hard eyes on Win and leaned across the conference table. “We retrieved your personal phone from the scene. We’re trying to find out why the text didn’t trigger an alert to you from the communications staff. It’s possible that way out here there may be gaps or delays in some of our communication feeds. Initial intel tells us the phone that sent you the text is a basic throwaway. I sent a text back on your phone as soon as I got it. No response yet, and no way to trace the original text back to any individual.” He leaned back in his chair, his eyes still intent on Win’s. “If the text was from your source, you need to touch base with him or her ASAP. We don’t have much to go on.”
Referring to Luke Bordeaux as his confidential source and not naming names was a calculated move on Win’s part. This case was strictly a need-to-know operation, and at this point in the investigation, Bordeaux’s involvement wasn’t general knowledge, even among the FBI contingent. Chief Randall and Gus were the only non-Bureau officers with that information. Win wanted it to stay that way for the time being. One informant had already gone missing since this case began; he didn’t intend to put another man at risk.
SSA Stuart spoke again before breaking up the meeting. “Mr. Strickland has been briefed by phone. He informed the Director of the shooting shortly after it happened. Wes Givens will be flying here later today to take charge. Our Hostage Rescue Team could be mobilized, but at the very least they’ll have someone from HRT here for consultation by tomorrow. We can’t be one hundred percent sure today’s incident is related to the church group, but everything is pointing in that direction. The .50 caliber rifle we recovered is probably the one Win’s source mentioned. Win, I need you to reach out to your source now. Coordinate your informant work and your 302 statement with Jim and Ken.” She paused and looked around the crowded room. “Let’s get on it! We have to find that shooter.”
Win moved to the privacy of one of the small downstairs offices and tried Luke’s cell phone number. He wasn’t expecting an answer and he didn’t get one. He left a message pretending to be an old friend wanting to talk about LSU football. C’mon, Luke, call me. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. If Bordeaux had enough information to send him a warning, he might know significantly more about the shooter. But what if Bordeaux was playing him? What if he was the shooter? Win’s mind went back to Friday night’s conversation. He’d asked Luke, “Who could use one of those long-range rifles?” What had the man said? “Except for me, you mean . . . maybe a guy in the church group . . . maybe one of the men who brought it in.” Except for me . . . geez.
The next hour was a blur. Win gave his FD-302 witness statement to two agents from Murray’s Violent Crime Squad. He glanced at his watch as he left the interview, only 8:35. It felt like days had passed since the shots at his house.
Jim West caught Win’s eye and motioned upstairs toward Win’s office. Jim and the bulk of the FBI contingent had been spending most of their time in the Justice Center since they’d hit town, but today the old stone building was crawling with agents. Ms. Stuart was still encamped in Johnson’s office. Win knew Johnson had been called back early from his leave; when the agent arrived later today, he might have to work out of the broom closet. As the case agent, Win got to keep his office—one of the pluses for shouldering that responsibility.
Win’s supervisor closed the door to the office and settled into a chair. He quickly checked his phone. “Sorry, just checking the text traffic. . . . No breaks finding the thug yet,” Jim began as he pocketed the phone and turned his attention to Win. “Probably not what you were expecting when you got the Yellowstone posting, huh?”
“No, sir, not at all.”
“Listen, Win, there is no dishonor, and I mean none, in asking to be
pulled at this point. We can have you in Jackson by tonight—or Denver, if you’d rather be there.”
“I’m fine. I appreciate you considering my request to stay on the case, sir.”
“You’ve done good work here. . . . Murray and I took it upon ourselves to override Emily on this—we’re leaving you on the case. That said, I don’t think it would be wise for you to stay at your house until we get a better handle on our security lapses. Maybe Bozeman for tonight?”
Win gave a single nod, and Jim continued. “Tom Strickland and Wes Givens are real high on you. A single-handed conversion of the office space in less than three weeks! We’re not even going to ask how you got unauthorized support from the Salt Lake City Field Office to help set everything up. Your informant development has also been outstanding, and I like how you work with people. Maybe one exception there. Win . . . don’t let Emily get to you so easily. You’re both driven, and she’s more than a little hard-nosed, but try to trust her judgment.”
“I know. . . . There’s been some friction.”
“Well, just tread lightly with her. Maybe try being less formal with her, use her first name. Not so stiff.” Jim shifted in the chair and tried to get Win to make eye contact again. “You sure you don’t want to head down to the Jackson RA? Just for a few days?”
