by Rhona Weaver
Win stood up and stretched, glad for the interruption. “Trying to pinpoint the time line of the leaks. Praying it’s a hacker—would make life simpler. Denver’s got a team of technical folks working on that end. I’m just looking at on-site personnel, and I’ll need your help with that; you know lots of these folks.” He motioned Trey into the office. “Drag over a chair. They been treating you alright?”
Trey dusted the chair off and closed the door before he sat down. “Yeah, sharp bunch, real professional. They understand the difficulties of working in remote locations, and they’re accustomed to doing a job under less than optimal circumstances. They’re not, however, accustomed to having dozens of curious tourists milling around.” He glanced down at the tan ranger hat he was holding. “Are we supposed to be pretending we’re seismologists, like these guys? Wearing civilian clothes?”
“Naw, since we’re gonna be out spy catching, we probably need to look like we do normally—otherwise it would be a tip-off. Don’t you think?” Win replied.
“Yup, guess so, but I’m gonna go with my field uniform and lose the tie. . . . On another subject, what do you suppose the odds were of that drone spotting us up on that ridge yesterday morning?” the ranger asked.
“I sure wouldn’t think too high.” Win shrugged and sat back down. “Got a little tense in there this morning, huh?”
“When those two guys came in behind me and Phillips pulled out those aerials . . . I thought . . .” Trey looked to the side and paused for a long moment.
Win finished the sentence for him. “You thought I’d double-crossed you. You know, Trey, if we’re gonna work together, it would be real nice if we could trust each other.” Never mind that I’m charged with keeping an eye on you. He ignored his internal moral dilemma and didn’t miss a beat. “I won’t ever forget the time you spent with me in the chapel after I shot Richter. We oughta be able to build some trust off that.” Uh-huh, that’s all true. Win was having a hard time reconciling his little lecture on trust with the reality of his mission to make sure Trey wasn’t the mole.
“Takes time to build trust, Win.” Trey was quiet, then he nodded and smiled. “You bailed us both out today. After watching you this morning with Phillips and his boys, well, if you do decide to leave the FBI, you’d make one hell of a lawyer. How’d you know Luke was in that last photo?”
“Didn’t for sure. Had to play a wild card. Now we have the chance to work with the A-team and make a difference in the outcome here. Oh, meant to tell you—Ellie Bordeaux was spotted coming back into their place yesterday afternoon. No kids with her. I’ll bet Luke didn’t know she was coming home. . . . That is not good news.”
“That’s for sure.” Trey looked down at his hat again. “I even sent my wife, daughter, and dog to my sister’s in Bozeman for a few days. They left before the weather turned. I’m not comfortable with what’s going on here, plus it doesn’t look like I’ll be spending much time at home for a while anyway. At least I won’t be constantly worrying about them.” A pause. “No way to warn Ellie off?”
“You know there isn’t. . . . Luke Bordeaux has enough sense to send her away again. He just needs to tell her to stay gone till this is over.”
“Just like that! Tell her to stay gone!” Trey shook his head and grinned at Win. “It’s sure sounding like you’ve never been married.”
* * *
While the team took their late lunch break, Trey made it back to his office to nail a few things down and Win did the same. Win logged on to his computer and scrolled though Murray’s updated report on the Bureau’s considerable efforts to track down the source of the contract hit on his life. While the Arm of the Lord Church was still the prime suspect, with the exception of Luke’s conversation with the Thayer brothers, there was no concrete evidence Richter had met with or talked to anyone in the church group. The Violent Crime Squad was nearly twenty-four hours out from the shooting and coming up empty.
The fingerprint results had come back on Richter. Win thought long and hard before he clicked on the section of the report detailing the life of the man he’d killed. He skimmed it while he fought off the sick feeling in his gut. It didn’t help to know Richter had killed several men who were suspected turncoats in the white supremacy movement two years ago. Richter had gone to ground after that massacre, but he was strongly suspected in several murders since that time. He’d been a professional killer in the shadowy world of racial hatred, anti-Semitism, and anti-government extremism. In Bureau lingo, Richter was a real bad actor.
Until yesterday, Win didn’t think he’d met any truly evil people in his twenty-eight years on this earth. As he thought back to those flat gray eyes—Richter’s eyes—he decided he’d met his first evil man. But he wasn’t sure it made any difference. I still killed a man. He fought down the bile rising in his throat. . . . He clicked off the screen and forced his mind to shift to other matters.
He’d nearly finished the bulk of the documentation for Luke and Ellie’s confidential human source files, but his near-death experience with Richter spurred him to complete the voluminous paperwork. He couldn’t carry out his commitment to Bordeaux if he ended up dead before the requests were approved. Neither Luke nor Ellie had asked for money, but in the workings of government, a cash payment was the cleanest route to go. He could figure out a way to get Ellie and the kids out of Montana later, if it came to that, but he reasoned they deserved a financial reward as well. The Bureau routinely paid six figures to their informants in terrorism cases, often for information far less valuable than what he’d received from Luke and Ellie. Luke was too proud and stubborn to accept any money, so he sent a request for $100,000 for the information provided by Ellie and an additional $100,000 to be held in trust for the children. The money would be transferred to Ellie Bordeaux upon the indictment of any of the numerous suspects in this case. Convictions, which could take forever, weren’t necessary.
He also drew up ironclad protections from prosecution for Ellie and Luke on any aspect of the case, DOJ commitments to drop all pending charges against Luke, and authorization to reinstate his hunting-guide license on federal lands. There were provisions for the government to provide medical care and attorneys’ fees on any matter related to the False Prophet case. Win leaned back in his chair and scanned his work one more time to ensure that no one could determine the real identities of his sources from the online forms. All human sources were given code numbers, and all source reports went into a separate Bureau online file system; someone reading these materials should not be able to determine the identity of the informant. Fulfilling his commitment to Luke was both gratifying and humbling. Without Ellie’s help, they might not have a case, and without Luke’s warnings, he might not have his life.
* * *
He’d just hit the send key on the computer when his personal cell rang. He knew the number that popped up on his phone better than he knew his own. No name appeared—he’d removed the name weeks ago. He held the phone in his left hand and stared at it with a mixture of apprehension and hope. Just seeing the number caused his breathing to stop. On the fourth ring, he slid the lock off to answer. He wasn’t even sure he could speak, but he found himself saying hello in a questioning tone, as if someone else could have been on the call.
Less than twenty-four hours ago he’d faced a man intent on killing him—he’d killed that man. Hearing her soft voice now hit him harder emotionally. He felt deeply ashamed of that.
They talked for only a couple of minutes—she had to go to her surgery rounds. She told him she’d heard about the Yellowstone shooting from a friend; he knew she never watched the news. She said she knew in her spirit it was him, and he didn’t deny it. She wanted him to know she was praying for him. Wanted him to know she was concerned. She said all the right things except for the thing he wanted so desperately to hear: that she wanted him back in her life. She didn’t say that, and it took every ounce of will he posses
sed not to plead with her to come back to him. He kept his composure, thanked her for calling, told her it was good to hear her voice, great to hear she was doing well, told her goodbye, and punched END. He sat staring at the red button on the phone and started falling apart.
“You okay?” When there was no response, Deb asked, “Win, you okay?” She was standing in his open doorway with her coat and notebook in her hands. He managed to look up for a moment. He knew he was blinking tears away. He bit down on his lower lip and knew he couldn’t say anything. No, I’m not okay. Will I ever be okay? He turned his eyes away and covered his face with his hands. She slid in the office and closed the door, calling over her shoulder to someone that she’d meet them at the Justice Center.
He fought to control his emotions. C’mon, Win! A real man doesn’t break down in tears in the office, for Pete’s sake! He’d always thought of himself as a strong, roll-with-the-punches, suck-it-up type guy. The breakup with Shelby was proving him wrong—big-time wrong.
Deb dropped her coat onto one of the guest chairs and leaned forward on the back of the other chair across from his desk. “Win, I think you’ve underestimated how emotionally devastating a shooting incident can be, and you’ve had two within two days. And the outcome . . . the man’s death. And something else is going on? The phone call?” Deb honestly didn’t get the concept of privacy, but at that moment, Win didn’t have the strength to ask for any.
He found his voice, but it was barely a whisper. “That was the girl I was engaged to. . . . First time, uh, first time we’ve talked in a long time—she’d heard about the shooting.” He pulled in a deep breath and tried again to get it together. “Uhmmm, we dated for five years—broke it off three months ago.” He stared down at the desk. “I can’t seem to move on. Just when I think I’m getting better . . .” He quit talking and closed his eyes again.
“Five years! Ohmygosh! . . . Healing isn’t a straight-line progression, Win, it’s one step forward, two steps back. Sometimes for a long, long time. Three months is nothing! And with everything else you’re dealing with—oh, man!” Deb rocked back on her heels and he could tell from her voice she was fixing to launch into action. “You wanna talk about it some? Might help?”
He shook his head no, which she somehow took as yes, and she gently starting talking about how life often throws us punches. He’d never seen her go thirty seconds without checking her phone, but she somehow managed to give him her undivided attention for more than fifteen minutes. He didn’t tell her all the details, didn’t tell her all the things he’d done wrong or didn’t do right. Instead, he let her coax out his feelings of loss and abandonment—they never even touched on his equally consuming emotions of guilt and regret. But for a first step, as she put it, it was enough. Enough to put his feet back on the ground, enough to pull his focus back to the present . . . enough to realize the world hadn’t ended quite yet. Not quite yet.
* * *
The two-block walk back to the HRT building was even tougher after lunch than it’d been this morning. The weather was as bad as Win had seen it at Mammoth, with high winds and heavy, blowing snow. He’d switched into his insulated hiking boots and warmer parka. He could barely catch a glimpse of the American flag on the fifty-foot flagpole standing between the FBI office and the park’s Visitor Center. The sharp clanging of the flag’s hardware against the silver pole was the only sound as the snow and wind tore all other noise away. When they finally entered the HRT building, he and his rangers shook themselves off like dogs shaking off water.
A few minutes earlier, the FBI’s surveillance supervisor had given Win her assessment of the day’s situation: “Surveillance has gone to hell. Aerial assets can’t get up, most of our planted GPS trackers are sending faulty readings because of atmospheric interference from the storm, and our folks on the ground can’t see a damn thing!” The Bureau’s operational capability was going nowhere fast. Win figured the HRT boys were gonna be stressed. But Win’s supposition of anxious HRT operators was incorrect. The eighteen men on the two tactical teams were sleeping on cots, listening to music on headsets, or quietly playing cards. They were apparently accustomed to the “hurry up and wait” routine. Their numerous support personnel were scurrying around doing dozens of critical tasks, but the warriors were patiently waiting for the war.
Trey and a couple of their intelligence analysts were going over aerial maps of the area surrounding the church compound, and Win started back through reams of personnel time sheets for the forty-something folks who could have had relatively easy access to the compromised intel. The only positive in his tedious job was its requirement for complete focus—he didn’t have the chance to let his mind wander back to the conversation with Shelby.
“Win Tyler!”
“Sir!”
“With me! Now!” Matt Smith sang out as he strode down the hallway past Win’s open door. Win lunged out of his little office and swung into the HRT’s makeshift operations center, four steps behind Smith. They both stopped and stared up at an overhead screen showing a bright digital readout of what appeared to be a conversation between two people, with one part of the text in blue and the second part in red.
Smith didn’t glance at him as he spoke. “This came in from Ron Chandler’s, a.k.a. Ron King’s, cell phone to Daniel Shepherd’s cell phone at 9:02 this morning. Our guys in the Justice Center screwed around with it for six hours before sending it over to us. . . . That kind of delay is not gonna happen again!”
Ken Stoddard and two of HRT’s intelligence analysts joined them in the middle of the room, while a thin, techie-looking analyst filled them in on what they had so far.
“We call this a schoolboy code—real simple and, unfortunately, real hard to break. Works great with groups who know each other well. It’s a favorite among drug dealers, illicit lovers, and junior high school boys. The folks over in the Justice Center haven’t gotten anywhere with it. It wasn’t sent up to the Bureau’s Cryptanalysis Unit until about mid-morning. No word back yet on their analysis. We’ve matched a little of it up based on earlier conversations between Chandler and Shepherd that Agent Tyler’s source reported on.” He touched his electronic tablet to highlight several words. “We believe stars is a reference to whoever they’ve got on the inside in law enforcement . . . but Legion? Don’t know. . . . The reference to a delay of two days because of the ‘fine’ weather? Could very well refer to our postponement of the raid on the church compound due to the snowstorm. Purchasing ponies?” He shook his head. “No idea.”
Smith jumped in there. “The decision to delay the raid was reached at 0745 hours, 7:45 this morning. How could they have that information that quickly? By nine o’clock! Win, how many names on your list right now? Cross-check your list with this new time line. Can’t be that many potential suspects out there on this.”
He didn’t wait for Win to answer. “Our guys will get you the tapes on this call, and other bits we’ve picked up that appear to be in code. Phillips says you’re up on this Bible stuff.” He motioned for the tech guy to highlight one section of the screen. “See here . . . this Malachi thing is obviously a game changer for them. Chandler says ‘Malachi will be with us soon. It’s happening. Malachi is coming.’ Who or what is Malachi?”
“Uh, the book of the Bible? The Jewish prophet?” Win was trying to figure out which of Smith’s questions to answer first. The others were all waiting for him to say something else. He mentally regrouped. “Okay, if they’re using words from Scripture or common usage as symbols for other things . . . they may have a pattern. What’s their pattern? If star—like a sheriff’s badge—is a lawman, then legion . . . uh, may be like five thousand, a Roman legion. No, no, they’re using it more like a name. . . . Legion was the name of the demon Jesus cast out of a man near the Sea of Galilee. The demon’s name was Legion because he was comprised of many demons in one host. That could be a reference to us—to their many enemies, all within the federal
government. Are they using Malachi as a thing rather than a name? It’s not one of those books of the Bible that you hear about much. Old Testament. Malachi was one of the Minor Prophets—an Israelite prophet.”
Smith cocked his head and raised his eyebrows. “Why would these guys use Jewish references in their code? Don’t they hate the Jews?”
“Their theology isn’t exactly consistent—that’s for sure.” Win shrugged. “Could be a code name for one of the Jewish dignitaries who are coming here . . . maybe the Ambassador?”
“I’m sure we have someone who’s up on this religious terminology at the Cryptanalysis Unit, but since no one has broken the code yet, how ’bout you give it a try.” Smith was staring at the screen, but his order was directed at Win.
Surely the guy is kidding. “Does this take precedence over my work on the intel leak?” Win asked.
Smith glanced at him, perplexed. “’Course not! Weather is supposed to be nearly this bad tomorrow. Just get on it.”
“Yes, sir. I’m on it!” He hoped his attempt at enthusiasm would cancel out his initial hesitation.
Smith paused as he started down the hallway. “Oh, I expect you and Hechtner to be sharp, so get with our logistics folks and eat dinner with the teams. They’re bringing in real food tonight. You’ll need some sleep too.”
Uh-huh . . . and how many hours are in your days? Win gave an affirmative nod. Oh well, rather be held to high expectations than low ones.
* * *
Win didn’t make it back to his office in the FBI building that day, but he and Trey made good progress on eliminating potential suspects on the leak. Every time Win came up for breath from the mounds of paper and computer-generated personnel forms, he prayed that the tech guys would conclude that some hacker had gained access to their systems. But so far, no luck there.
His security detail had been reassigned for the afternoon to rescue snow-stranded tourists after Chief Randall decided that if Win wasn’t safe among the FBI’s most elite tactical group, he wouldn’t be safe anywhere. The blizzard eased back a little as the afternoon turned to evening. Win could make out a small herd of elk wandering down the snow-covered street outside his office’s filthy window.
