Prey

by William W. Johnstone

Stormy received the call from New York about Congressman Madison’s decision to start his vacation early and was advised that Coyote’s affiliate in Memphis would cover his landing. She and Ki left to do a prearranged interview with the mayor and the city council.

  Barry glanced at the clock on the mantel. Just past noon. He felt in his guts that matters were about to pop wide open in this area, and decided he’d better get ready for it.

  He got out his .375 Winchester and carefully cleaned and oiled the lever-action rifle. He propped the rifle in a corner of the bedroom and decided to take the hybrids out for a walk in the woods. At the back door, Barry paused, and reflected for a moment, his expression hardening. Then he returned to the bedroom and picked up the rifle, slipping a few extra rounds into his jeans pocket. The feeling he’d suddenly developed of impending danger was building strong within him. Every fiber of his being was screaming get out get out.

  But he knew he wouldn’t do that. He’d already made up his mind he was not running. Not this time. At least not yet.

  Barry took the hybrids for a short walk, then put them back into the house and locked the doors. He returned to the woods and began making a slow circle of his property. His highly honed senses rarely failed him, and he was certain they were accurate now: somebody, or something, was on his property . . . and he, it, or they did not belong here.

  He squatted down behind a huge old tree and remained rock-still. His eyes caught a quick flash of movement, a burst of blue denim that was gone as quickly as it came. New blue denim, Barry thought.

  Barry did not move a muscle. He waited. If the person was a hunter, he was poaching, for no season was open. And Barry hated poachers.

  Moments later, he spotted the flash of blue again. It was much closer to his location. Barry slowly laid the rifle on the ground and tensed his leg muscles, ready to jump. The person came closer until he was only a few yards from Barry’s position. Barry emerged from concealment in a burst of motion. He slammed into the man, knocking the intruder sprawling on the ground. He jerked the man to his feet and stopped his right fist just a split second before he made contact.

  Only it wasn’t a man.

  It was a woman. Her cap had fallen off, spilling a shock of auburn hair. Barry stared at her in amazement for a few seconds. She tried to knee him in the groin, but he blocked the move. He gave her a hard shove, and she landed on her butt, on the ground. She cussed him and reached for the pistol holstered at her side. Barry none too gently kicked the autoloader from her hand. The gun went sailing off into the brush.

  “Oww!” she hollered, her eyes flashing anger. “That hurt, you son of a bitch!”

  “It isn’t nice to point guns at people, lady. Who are you and what the hell are you doing skulking about on my property?”

  “I wasn’t skulking!”

  “Yes, you were. And you aren’t a very good skulker either. Now get up and behave yourself.”

  The very attractive lady slowly rose from the ground and brushed herself off. “I’m Susan Green, United States Secret Service. You’re in big trouble, mister.”

  “That’s crap!” Barry popped right back. “You were the one trespassing on posted property. Let me see some identification.”

  The woman took a leather case from her back pocket and did the famous federal badge flip. Before the two leather halves could meet, Barry jerked the case from her hand and looked at it.

  “Well, it looks genuine,” Barry conceded, handing the leather folder to her. “What the hell are you doing here, lady?”

  “That is none of your business.”

  “Really? Well, I understand. I guess you were inspecting these old nuclear missile silos on my place.”

  That shook the woman, widening her eyes. She looked all around her. “What nuclear missile silos?” Then she saw the grin playing around Barry’s mouth, and that put a disgusted look on her face.

  “Gotcha, didn’t I?”

  “Very funny, Mr. Cantrell. Cute.”

  “You know my name.”

  “And that’s about all I know.”

  “Does that make me a criminal, Ms. Green?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Well, obviously it makes me some sort of suspect about something or you wouldn’t have been snooping around my property.”

  The woman said nothing in reply. Barry stared at her for a moment. She was dressed all in denim: blue jeans and cowgirl shirt with pearl snaps in place of buttons. Auburn hair cut fairly short. Hazel eyes. He guessed her in her late twenties. Very pretty. Very well endowed.

  She met his gaze for a moment, then suddenly flushed in embarrassment.

  “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable, Ms. Green. Forgive me. But you are a very pretty lady.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Cantrell.”

  “Call me Barry, please. Look . . . let’s go up to the house where it’s cool. I’ll get you a soft drink or water or coffee and we’ll talk. I’ll answer any question you might have. How about it?”

  Susan opened her mouth to speak just as Barry twisted around at the sound of a faint click from the woods around them. Susan turned just as a rifle slammed, the bullet passing between the man and woman. If Susan had not turned with Barry, she would have caught the bullet in her chest. Barry threw himself against the woman and rode her down to the ground.

  “Next time, you federal cunt!” the voice ripped out of the deep timber. “Remember Waco and Ruby Ridge!”

  The woods fell silent. Barry scrambled over to where Susan’s pistol had hit the ground, scooped it up, and tossed it to her. They both knelt on the ground, listening intently. But whoever had fired the shot was gone as silently as they had come.

  “You’ll want to call this in,” Barry said, still kneeling. “I have a phone in my house.”

  “I would hope so,” the Secret Service woman said drily. “Most people do.”

  Barry grinned and helped her to her feet. Susan’s face was flushed, but other than that, she showed no signs of being very shaken. “You’ve been shot at before.”

  “Just one other time. A gunfight isn’t very pleasant.”

  Neither is a battle with spears, lances, swords, or bows and arrows, Barry thought.

  “Where is your car?” Barry asked her.

  “Parked on a gravel road over that ridge,” Susan said, pointing. “Why?”

  “I’ll make a bet you’ve got four flat tires, among other damage.”

  “No bet, Mr. Cantrell.” She took a small transceiver from a belt pouch, inserted a tiny plug into her ear, and called in. She spoke only for a few seconds, then listened. “They’ll meet us at your house,” she said. “Now, I’ll take you up on that offer of something cold to drink.”

  “You’re not going to pursue the attacker, Ms. Green?”

  She shook her head. “There are people throwing up a cordon around this area now.” And she would say no more.

  A few minutes after they arrived at the house, two cars pulled up and three men got out of each one. Barry left Susan inside with Pete and Repeat and opened the sidewalk gate, waving the men inside. They did not offer to shake hands and neither did Barry. They didn’t smile, either.

  “You boys take life entirely too seriously,” Barry told the six agents. “Lighten up, you’ll live longer.”

  “Thank you for the health tip, Mr. Cantrell,” one said, walking toward the house.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Is Agent Green all right?” another asked.

  “She’s fine. She’s inside, playing with my dogs. And speaking of my dogs, don’t make any sudden moves until they get a chance to sniff you and see that you’re not here to harm me or them.”

  “Those big bastards move toward me and they’re dead dogs,” an agent wearing a very surly expression popped off.

  Barry had sized that one up as an iron pumper; his neck was about the same size as his head. Which, under a thick mop of hair probably came to a point, Barry concluded.

  “And should that happ
en,” Barry told him, stopping the walk toward the house and facing the government agent, “I can guarantee you that you will be dead approximately two seconds later.”

  “Are you threatening me?” the agent almost shouted the question.

  “As a matter of fact, yes,” Barry replied in much softer tones.

  The mouthy agent opened his trap to retort, and an older man said, “Close your mouth, Ray. You’re out of line.”

  “I don’t have to take that kind of crap from—”

  “Shut up, Jones!”

  “Yes, sir,” Ray said.

  “What a fun afternoon this is going to be,” Barry said, stepping up on the porch and opening the door. “My tax dollars at work are coming in, Susan. Pete and Repeat, stay.”

  Barry had cut his eyes to the older man, and saw a small smile play at the corners of his mouth and a twinkle spring into his eyes at Barry’s words.

  The hybrids sniffed the men, then, at Barry’s command, went out into the fenced backyard. But Barry could tell that both hybrids had taken an instant dislike to Agent Jones.

  He could certainly understand why the dogs reached that decision. So far, there wasn’t very much about Agent Jones to like.

  The older man took Susan off to one side and spoke in low tones for a moment; then they rejoined the group, taking seats.

  “Sorry for any inconvenience we’ve caused you, Mr. Cantrell,” the older man said. “Let me assure you that you have not been singled out. As a matter of precaution, we’re checking out a number of people in this area.” He stuck out a hand. “I’m Chet Robbins, Secret Service.”

  Barry took the hand; then Chet began introducing the others. One name jumped out at him: Special Agent Don Branon. Branon had been one of the agents in Idaho who had come in after the rogue agents, and the man was studying Barry with a very careful and critical eye, his brow furrowed in concentration.

  “Found anything interesting about me, Agent Robbins?” Barry asked.

  “We can’t find out much about you at all, Mr. Cantrell,” the senior Secret Service man said. “That’s really why we’re here.”

  “Maybe there isn’t very much to find out, Agent Robbins. I live a very quiet life. My grandfather left me with a small inheritance, and I get by on that.” He gave them the name of the San Francisco law firm that handled his estate. “Would you like for me to call them and clear the way for you to check me out?”

  “Oh, that won’t be necessary,” Chet said evenly. “But it’s kind of you to offer.”

  “Anything to help.” Barry met the eyes of all the agents sitting in his living room. He could not understand why they all seemed so unconcerned about the shooting.

  As if reading his mind, Chet said, “This area has been sealed off, Mr. Cantrell. Not that it will do us much good. I’m sure the person who shot at either you or Agent Green—and that has not yet been determined—is long gone. The thing that bothers us is this: how did they know Susan would be here, and how did they know Susan was a federal agent?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know the answer to either question.”

  Chet stared at Barry for a moment. “Perhaps,” he finally said.

  Barry shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t really give a good goddamn whether the federal agent believed him or not. He’d been questioned by agents of kings, queens, princes and princesses, potentates, Indian chiefs, premiers, prime ministers, presidents, and every type of royalty in between. None of them had been able to intimidate him.

  “The sheriff tells us you moved here from Idaho, Mr. Cantrell,” Special Agent Branon said. “What part of the state?”

  Barry smiled. “The part where all the action took place last year. It got just a little bit noisy around there for me.”

  “How come your name never came up from any of the teams who went in there?” Branon questioned. “Everybody who lived in that area was questioned.”

  Barry smiled. “Friend, you people didn’t talk to one tenth of the folks who live in there. People move into the wilderness to avoid human contact.”

  To Barry’s surprise, Branon nodded his head in agreement. “Yeah, you’re probably right about that. That op was a screwup from the word ‘Go.’ ”

  Chet put a hand to the plug in his ear and then lifted his handy-talkie and keyed the talk button. “All right. That’s about what we expected. I’ll be around there in a few.” He turned to the room full of agents. “The shooter slipped out before our people could get into place. No surprise there. But we do have some good boot prints we’re casting now, as well as some tire tracks. We could get lucky there, but I wouldn’t count on it. We’ll call a garage to tow your car in, Susan. It’s got four flat tires.”

  Susan Green said several very ugly words, and the other agents laughed.

  “I didn’t hear any vehicle leave,” Barry said.

  “Neither did I,” Susan added.

  Chet shook his head. “The tire tracks probably don’t belong to the shooter. But he could have been there earlier checking out the area. A team is coming in now to try to find the slug.”

  “Good luck,” an agent said softly.

  Chet cut his eyes to Barry. “May I use your phone to make a credit card call, Mr. Cantrell?”

  “Of course. There is a jack in the kitchen if you’d like more privacy.”

  “Someone pulling up outside,” Branon said, glancing out the window.

  “Stormy,” Barry said.

  “Stormy?” Chet questioned.

  “Stormy Knight. The reporter.”

  “No kidding?” Agent Jones said. “What’s she doing here?”

  “She’s staying here while covering the Speaker’s visit. The lady with her is her camera-person. Ki Nichols.”

  New respect for Barry sprang into the eyes of the male agents in the room while amusement danced in Susan’s eyes. “My, my,” Susan said. “I thought I detected the scent of perfume in this house. I didn’t think it belonged to you, Mr. Cantrell.”

  Barry said nothing in reply.

  Stormy pushed open the front door and stepped inside, questions in her eyes as she looked at Barry.

  Before Barry could speak, Agent Robbins said, “Don’t be alarmed, Ms. Knight. We’re federal agents. Somebody took a shot at Agent Green and Mr. Cantrell. Nobody was hurt.”

  Stormy kissed Barry, much to the envy of the men, and said, “Big news in town, Barry.”

  “What news?”

  “The president is coming into Little Rock for a fund-raiser, then taking a helicopter up here to visit for a few hours with the U.S. representative from this district. Steve Williams. They’re old friends.”

  “What?” Agent Robbins almost shouted the one-word question.

  “It was on the radio,” Ki said. “The president and first lady will officially begin their vacation in this area.”

  “Shit!” Agent Robbins said, and quickly moved to the phone. He didn’t bother with privacy. When the call went through, he said, “Will somebody kindly tell me what in the hell is going on? I have to get the news secondhand about The Man coming into this area.” He listened for a moment. “I see. That really makes my day, people. Can somebody up there impress upon the President that this trip is very unwise? We’ve got a volatile situation building here, and I don’t think it’s a good idea for the president to be here. As a matter of fact, it’s a lousy idea.” He listened for another moment. “I see. The First Lady and Mrs. Williams were sorority sisters in college. That’s wonderful. Can’t this reunion take place in Little Rock?” Again, he listened. “Yes, sir. I understand, sir. Perfectly, sir. And a good day to you, too, sir.” He stood looking at the buzzing phone for a moment before slowly replacing it in the cradle. He sighed heavily, then turned to face the group.

  Before he could speak, Susan asked, “The President and First Lady are really coming here?”

  “Yes,” Chet said. “They really are.”

  “Well, goddamn!” she said.

  That seemed to sum up the feelings of all the f
ederal agents in the room.

  Fifteen

  On the day that Congressman Madison was due to arrive, Barry awakened before dawn with a morbid feeling of dread. Not even Stormy lying warm against him, breathing evenly in very deep sleep, could wrest the feeling away. Their lovemaking had been long and satisfying, and afterward Stormy had wasted no time in successfully reaching the arms of Morpheus. Barry had slept his usual few hours and was wide awake long before dawn.

  He slipped from her side and, from countless years of habit, dressed as silently as a spider spinning a web. He let the dogs out in the backyard and quietly made a pot of coffee, filled a mug, and sat on the back porch.

  Get out of here, Barry, the silent urging popped into his brain. Head for Canada and get yourself lost up there. If you stay here, you’re going to get involved in this deepening mess.

  But as he had pondered this very thought a few days past, he knew he was not going to leave. And he was certain that deep in her heart, Stormy realized he would not run away.

  Barry was working on his second cup of coffee, the hybrids lying peacefully by his side on the back porch, when he heard Stormy moving around in the house. A moment later, she stepped out onto the darkened porch and sat down beside him, a cup of coffee in her hand.

  “How long have you been up, Barry?”

  “About half an hour or so. Just sitting out here thinking.”

  “I don’t have to ask what you were thinking. You really believe there is going to be some sort of coup within our government, don’t you?”

  “It’s the only thing that makes any sense, Stormy. You said yourself that you didn’t believe Senator Holden’s death was suicide. From what I’ve read and heard about Senator Bowman, I think the woman is very dangerous. I suspect there are power plays that go on every day in Washington—most of them relatively harmless. But not this one. This power play is going for broke, as folks used to say. This nation is ripe for revolution. Seeds of discontent are sprouting everywhere. I’ve seen and heard the same scenes and words in dozens of countries over the years. President Hutton walked into a powder keg when he took office. And I believe the fuse is now lit.”