by Rhona Weaver
“Kirk Phillips wants you to meet with some of his HRT guys at 7:30. They’ve already settled into the park’s Annex Building. HRT wants to operate somewhat independently from our field office until the leak is stopped. I sometimes think the Bureau’s Critical Incident Response Group doesn’t appreciate the importance of case agents being in charge of these types of operations. In my experience, HRT has a tendency to try to run the show, even in the best of times.” He smiled ruefully. “Not that anyone would call in HRT in the best of times!”
Win sat down across from him and grinned at the comment.
“Hmmm, well, Tom is flying in . . . if they can get through this weather to Bozeman this afternoon. Emily may be shipping out, we’ll see. But then, there may be no time to realign. This may all go down in the next couple of days, if the lousy weather doesn’t complicate things. You’ll be answering directly to me till we get it sorted out. If HRT borrows you, you may be answering to them part of the time. Are you good with that?”
“Sure, whatever you need me to do, sir.”
“You’ll still have to keep up with the False Prophet case from this office. If it starts to overwhelm you, let me know and I’ll pull someone in to help you and Deb. You’ll get your personal phone back this morning. The technicians still don’t know what caused the delay in alerting you to the warning text before the sniper hit. Everything seems a little harder here. Transmission delays—awful infrastructure. I guess being on the fringe of the wilderness has its attractions, but I couldn’t handle it for long.” He glanced out the window. “Look at that! It’s snowing harder!” He shook his head in disbelief.
Win started to rise from the chair when the ASAC added one last comment. “Also, one of our surveillance teams saw Mrs. Bordeaux drive to their place yesterday afternoon. That’s the first time she’s been seen since May 3rd. Didn’t look like the children were with her. You’ll need to really monitor your personal phone in case she calls you again.”
“Yes, sir.” Win frowned at that bit of unwelcome news.
After the brief meeting, Win jogged back up the wooden staircase and closed the door to his office. There was something he had to tend to before activity overwhelmed the place. He spread out a cleaning cloth over his desk and set about his work. After he finished, he leaned back in his chair and stared into space. His thoughts wandered in random directions, then settled on his most recent task.
Daddy always said it was simply a tool. Just like any other tool, you could use it correctly and get something positive done or you could use it incorrectly and screw something up. But those tools from his youth were long guns: shotguns to chase blackbirds out of the cornfield, rifles to bring home dinner from time to time, precision guns used to compete in contests. In his more innocent past, they’d been tools, just like Daddy said. But not any longer. Now they were weapons. This new Glock was a .40 caliber—same as the one he gave up to Johnson at the bridge yesterday afternoon. Big difference between this new one and his gun. His gun had killed a man.
He’d finished cleaning the new Glock and the smell of Hoppe’s gun oil had settled in the room. Win rammed the loaded magazine into the open grip, then racked the slide to chamber a round. The new weapon had the same comfortable feel in his hand. It was solid, balanced, and steady. Highly reliable. A familiar companion. Five thousand two hundred and twenty-six—that was how many rounds he’d fired a Glock handgun at Quantico. Two thousand eight hundred and eighty-one rounds during his quarterly firearms training sessions since the Academy. He’d kept count. The FBI didn’t skimp on firearms training for its agents. He knew he was good with it—he’d won all the marksmanship awards in his class at Quantico. His name was on the marksmanship plaque back at the Academy.
But he’d never pulled it from its holster with the thought of using it until yesterday. He didn’t remember reaching for it, or sighting, or pulling the trigger. He did remember the sharp report of the blast, the acrid smell of the discharge, the hard push of the recoil against the back of his hand, the man staggering backward. He remembered the bright-red blood pooling on the pavement. And when he allowed himself a moment to peer into his soul, he remembered a millisecond of intent. Not rage. Not anger. Just pure intent to kill. There was an unusual emptiness in his chest as he stared down at it now—the gun resting on his desk. A new gun, a new weapon . . . a new tool. He drew in a deep breath as his mind formed its conclusion. Daddy had been right. The gun was only the tool. The tool hadn’t taken a life—Win Tyler had.
Chapter Twenty-One
At 7:20 a.m. Win was leaning into an onslaught of freezing precipitation as he walked down the icy sidewalk to the appropriated headquarters of the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team. Their two nine-member tactical teams, dozens of support staff, and on-scene commander, Kirk Phillips, had taken over a large two-story building that had been used for seventy-five years for park offices until federal budget cuts shuttered it recently. It was convenient and practical, and far enough out of the way to allow them to do their own thing. Win pulled the collar of his heavy coat up higher and pulled the brown felt hat down lower on his head. The wind and biting snow were unwelcome visitors after so many relatively nice days. His security guys were both dutifully skidding along behind him on the slick sidewalk, trying to appear inconspicuous.
Win ran into Kirk Phillips as he entered the old building. Phillips was on his way out, but he stood inside the entrance and greeted Win with a nod. The commander’s tone was decidedly cooler than it had been yesterday afternoon. The awful weather had everyone in a foul mood. Phillips surprised Win with his first comments, “Thought maybe you and Ranger Hechtner could work on some of the local recon and intel for us. What do you think?”
“Yes, sir, Hechtner knows the area. He’s got the tactical training—”
Phillips interrupted. “But we have a leak—a significant leak. You heard my opinion of Bordeaux’s capabilities, and we both know Hechtner has a lot more history with the man than he’s letting on. Hechtner has top secret clearance . . . he could be the leak.”
“You told me to trust my instincts. Well, they’re telling me Trey Hechtner is a stand-up guy. He saved my life yesterday,” Win said.
“Actually, your smarts saved your life yesterday; that, and maybe a lot of good karma. You used the ranger as a part of your play. True, he was paying attention, and that counts for something, but don’t get all sentimental about it and lose sight of other possibilities.” He started to turn for the door, but then stopped. “I don’t trust him. But my job is to get our team into that compound and arrest the bad guys, so if I have to use someone I’m leery of, I’ll do it under the right circumstances.” His eyes focused even more sharply on Win. “Maybe he can explain what’s gone on with Bordeaux. May not be as big a problem as I think. Maybe we can use him.”
“Sir, I would hope we could work with Trey and his agency rather than use him.”
The man raised his eyebrows slightly. “Point taken. Go get him. I’ll be back.” He was still talking as he walked away. “I want something set up within the hour.” He pushed through the heavy doors, with two large men in tow, and disappeared into the snow squall.
Win walked one block back up the street to the park’s Administration Building as the blowing snow transitioned to heavy sleet. Win had never been to Trey’s office, but his security guys pointed him in the right direction as they huddled inside the front doors of the grand stone building and stomped their feet to get warm.
Trey was working on his computer, his back to the open door, when Win knocked. He stood when he saw Win and smiled easily. “Come in. . . . Have a seat. You alright today?” He noticed Win seemed rushed. “You shipping out?”
Given the time crunch, Win kept his coat on and skipped the usual pleasantries. He got right down to business. “Doing fine today—so far,” he said as he arched his eyebrows. “And no, they’re letting me stay.” He eased into the metal chair across from the desk. �
�I don’t trust the phones—came over here to see if you want to help HRT get a better handle on the terrain, trails, infrastructure. . . . Help us develop our ops plan.”
“Sounds interesting, but why me?” Trey asked as he sat down.
“’Cause it’s the quickest, smartest thing to do. You know the area and the people. . . . There is a catch.”
Trey cocked his head to the side and leaned back in the chair. He motioned Win to close the office door. “What catch?”
“Commander Phillips didn’t buy your story on your limited relationship with Luke yesterday. He wants to get a better feel about it before you start working for us.”
“He wants to make sure I’m not the mole—that’s what he wants and you know it.”
Win shrugged. “Yeah, well, reckon he’s got to start somewhere, but I also suggested you help us with the intel.”
Trey took a deep breath and brought a hand across his eyes. Win leaned forward in his chair with his hat in his hands and lowered his voice. “You don’t have to do it. But you were willing to take a huge risk yesterday in getting me to Luke. I would say this is a risk—especially if anything illegal went on with you and Luke when y’all were tight.”
Hechtner seemed taken aback at Win’s directness. “Nothing illegal”—his hand came to his chin, and he looked down—“but when it started falling apart for Luke over a year ago . . . there were lots of things . . . right on the line.” He was staring down at his desk, focused inward on the past. He looked back up at Win. “Nothing I have a bad conscience over, that’s for sure.”
“Well, having a bad conscience and having the Bureau and the U.S. Attorney come down on you are two different things. You know what they say: ‘You don’t have to do anything wrong—they can find something to get you on if they want to badly enough.’”
“I saw that firsthand with Luke! You don’t have to tell me how that works!” His usually calm voice held more than a hint of anger. “And why is it you’re so quick to say ‘they’? What badge are you wearing today?”
Win leaned back in his chair. “I’ve wondered if I’m carrying the right badge lately. But we’re not here to discuss my job issues. I believe you want to get the bad guys as badly as I do. We’re all taking risks. You’ll have to decide if it’s worth it to you. If you do come over, stay on your toes—Phillips is really sharp. Do not fudge on anything with him. He’ll smell it out. He wants to meet within the hour.”
“Alright, I’ll think about it. I’ll go get with Gus and Chief Randall. They’d have to approve it. I’ll call you in a few minutes with a yes or a no.”
“Do what you think is best.”
Win rose slowly and scanned the office. He always thought you could tell a lot about a person by their office. Trey’s was neat as a pin; he would have expected that. The large window behind the desk overlooked trees. There were framed Montana State diplomas on the wall, two or three framed professional designations—he could read Advanced Emergency Medical Technician on one from where he stood. A photo of an attractive blond woman and little girl on the desk—the wife and daughter Trey had mentioned. Books on everything from forestry to trauma medicine. The antique coat-tree held the ranger’s flat hat, a Park Service field cap, and an assortment of dark-green coats, vests, and jackets to match the ever-changing weather conditions of Yellowstone. Two large professional-looking photographs of striking mountain landscapes hung on opposite walls—one looked very familiar. It was a sunrise photo from the spot where Win sat yesterday morning with Trey holding his gun on him. A lot had changed in twenty-four hours.
* * *
Win and his bodyguards slid back down the street into the improvised HRT headquarters. Even after the shooting yesterday afternoon, no one in the federal government was broadcasting the fact that an elite unit of the FBI was within the park. The cover for the operation was a company they were calling U.S. Seismology Testing Services. A nice sign to that effect was at the door’s entrance, and several SUVs sitting outside had the company’s name stenciled on their sides. The HRT guys were all in civilian clothes. The general public would think the large group was simply doing earthquake research at the park’s thermal features.
The humorless agent, or operator as HRT called its members, who was guarding the front door, made an attempt to confiscate the side arms and phones from Win’s protection detail. The two plainclothes rangers were protesting when another HRT operator appeared and explained to everyone in no uncertain terms that only FBI special agents could keep their weapons or phones in the building. Compared with Phillips, this guy was more in line with Win’s imagined super-warrior—more than a little scary. Win negotiated some chairs and coffee for his rangers and tried to smooth over the obvious efforts at intimidation. He was getting more than a little tired of running positive PR for the Bureau with others in the law enforcement community.
After the five-minute delay at the front door, Win finally headed up the interior staircase with an escort. The operational center he saw was surprisingly functional considering it had been vacant office space less than twenty-four hours ago. The teams’ forward operations staff had video, photo, and audio rooms, a mapping room, and a tactical operations center, or TOC, in place. They’d set up bunkrooms on the first floor and were using the second level for offices and the TOC. The old building smelled of mildew, disinfectant, and strong coffee. There were serious men and women everywhere he turned.
A few minutes later, Trey was escorted up the stairs by one of the more macho-looking operators, an African American guy who looked like a heavyweight wrestler. Trey was grousing to no avail about having his cell phone and handgun confiscated, especially since they weren’t in an FBI-designated secure compartmented information facility, or SCIF, area. Apparently the Hostage Rescue Team had their own rules, and based on what he’d seen so far, Win didn’t think they looked like a group you’d want to argue with if you were smart.
Commander Phillips’s personal office wasn’t large, and it was certainly Spartan in furnishings. They were apparently using any discarded office furniture they could find in the building. Trey took off his coat and hat, shook hands with Phillips, and took a seat in front of his desk. As soon as Trey sat down, two HRT guys entered the rear of the small office. Win wasn’t liking the feel of this. Phillips introduced the newcomers as Supervisory Special Agents Stoddard and Smith, his two team leaders. No one moved to shake hands. Win assumed he wouldn’t be a part of the meeting with Trey, and he moved toward the door. Agent Smith closed it. Trey glanced nervously toward Win. There was a decidedly tense feel to the air, and Win suddenly felt trapped. That was exactly what Phillips intended.
“Win, why don’t you have a seat there beside Ranger Hechtner.” Phillips’s voice was smooth and cold.
As soon as Win complied, he continued, “We came across some interesting footage late last night after we took over the drone control from the folks who were attempting to handle it.”
Uh-oh, this is going to get ugly. Win realized then that he’d led Trey into a trap—and it might well be a trap intended for both of them.
“I want you men to tell us about some photos that were taken yesterday morning, at 0957 hours. Wasn’t that when you were meeting with your informant on the mountain south of here?”
Win was sitting a little behind Trey and couldn’t see his eyes. He watched as the ranger straightened in the chair and swallowed hard. Win still had his weapon, which implied that Phillips didn’t think he was a threat. That was the only positive Win could come up with, and with two armed HRT operators standing directly behind him, his weapon was almost irrelevant—the positive factor didn’t count for much.
Phillips was half-sitting on the edge of his metal desk. He handed Win and Trey several remarkably clear eleven-by-seventeen black-and-white photos of a man holding a gun on another man. The first few photos showed the men walking up a trail on a ridge. Other photos showed the same me
n seated in a small clearing on large rocks—one man still holding the gun. There were close-ups of the Glock handgun, of the Park Service’s arrowhead patch on the gunman’s coat, and of the individuals. Win was guessing the series of photos were taken in a couple of slow passes by a high-altitude drone and the close-ups had been enhanced when the technicians found something interesting. Given Win’s recollection of events yesterday morning, they’d been shot within a five-minute span. The last photos should have shown Luke—but Luke had stayed in the shadow of the rocks.
Win felt he had only two options here: either panic or turn this one around on Phillips. He went on offense. He leaned forward with the photos. “These are great! They support our report on Bordeaux’s knowledge of our surveillance assets, and they clear Hechtner of any suspicion on the intel leaks!” Win sounded excited and pleased.
It was not the reaction Phillips or anyone else in the room, including Trey, was expecting.
“What?” Phillips was caught off guard. Trey turned halfway in his chair toward him, and Win heard the two HRT operators shift their stance behind him.
“Look carefully at the photos.” Win continued his upbeat tone and went into his old courtroom mode, slowly standing, holding two of the photos side by side so everyone in the room could see them.
“I see Ranger Hechtner holding a weapon on someone who appears to be you, an FBI agent,” Phillips commented dryly.
“Exactly! Hechtner had no way of knowing we had drone surveillance in the general area of Mammoth. If he’d known that, he would have had us under cover. I knew about the drone coverage, and I intentionally sat down in the clearing, hoping to be spotted. If Ranger Hechtner was the one funneling intel to the bad guys—who did know about the drones—he wouldn’t have been sitting out in the open with a weapon in plain sight.”
