In Sheep's Clothing: An Action-Packed Political Thriller (Matthew Richter Thriller Series Book 1)

by L. D. Beyer

  “Give it up, Richter! You’re fucked!”

  Ignoring Mosby’s taunt, Richter continued digging. After several minutes, he crawled back to the spot where he first dove into the snow and peeked over the edge again. He ducked back down as the snow exploded behind him and another shot rang out. Mosby was behind the woodpile.

  “You saved yourself, didn’t you?”

  He crawled back down the trench and began digging again.

  “You left him on the plane to die, didn’t you?”

  A minute later, he reached the cabin and then began to tunnel along the side, moving out of Mosby’s line of sight.

  “You’re oh for two, Richter! That’s a hell of a record!”

  Richter continued digging until he reached the corner of the cabin. Peering over the trench, he couldn’t see the woodpile any longer.

  “You froze! You choked!”

  He stood and continued digging and plowing his way through the snow around the side of the cabin.

  “I’m going to kill you, Richter!”

  When he reached the next corner, he peered around the side. There was a small covering, hardly a porch, over the front door. A trench ran from the door then curved to the right where it forked, one path disappearing around the next corner. That must lead to the woodpile, Richter guessed. The left-hand fork continued straight into the trees to what appeared to be an outhouse.

  “You couldn’t save the president, and you can’t save yourself!”

  Richter dug his way to the trench by the front door. He dropped to his knees again, and pulling his stinging hands up into the sleeves of the coat, he began crawling to the outhouse. Mosby continued to taunt him. When he reached the outhouse, he stopped and peeked over the snow. Mosby was kneeling behind the woodpile thirty feet away, his back to Richter.

  “You’re a coward, Richter!”

  Richter stood and pointed his gun at Mosby.

  “I’m coming to get you!” Mosby taunted

  Mosby poked his head above the woodpile, then stood. His gun was pointed at the spot where Richter had been when they exchanged gunfire. He turned and began to follow the trench back toward the front of the cabin.

  “Stop right there, Mosby!”

  Mosby spun, and several more shots rang out.

  ___

  Derek peered out through the branches of the tree.

  “Someone’s coming,” he whispered as he ducked down.

  There was no way they could hide; their tracks gave them away. He looked back at Dave. They couldn’t run either. The president was lying in the snow, his face contorted in pain, while Jack massaged his knee.

  Derek looked up again and watched as the shadow moved through the woods. After a moment, he recognized the coat.

  “It’s Matt!”

  They watched Richter approach, his face a mask of stone.

  “Are you okay?”

  Ignoring the question, Richter nodded toward the president. “What happened?”

  Jack gently touched Kendall’s leg. “He twisted his knee.”

  Richter nodded. “Let’s get you to the shack. We should be okay there for a little while.”

  In the fading light, Richter and Derek helped the president to his feet.

  They began to make their way to the strand of trees once again. Jack and Derek were too stunned to talk, but the president asked the question on everyone’s mind.

  “What happened?”

  “There was only one, sir.” Richter paused. “Mosby.”

  ___

  The cabin appeared to date back to the mining days; nothing more than a single room with an old woodstove in the center. Three rough, handmade chairs were arranged around a similarly constructed table against the wall. Wooden pegs on one wall held a coil of weathered rope, a two-man saw—its blade rusted brown—and an old miner’s lantern.

  There were two folded cots stacked against another wall, below a propane camping lantern hanging from a wooden peg. Two fishing poles were standing in the corner, next to a tackle box. A nearby shelf held several boxes of twelve gauge shotgun shells and a box of .22 caliber ammunition.

  Below the single shuttered window was a counter, constructed from the same rough-hewn wood as the furniture. A large sink, the enamel chipped and scratched, sat in the middle. The drain line ran into a five-gallon plastic bucket on the floor. A camping stove was set up next to the sink. On a shelf below, there were half a dozen small propane canisters, various cast iron pans and pots, and a one-gallon jug of water. Old newspapers, hung as insulation, covered the walls. Most dated to the early 1900’s, and the articles and ads provided a glimpse into mining life at the turn of the century.

  A third cot was set up against another wall, and an Air Force sleeping bag lay neatly on top. The table was covered with the food packs and assorted gear from a survival-kit. It was obvious that Mosby had been staying here.

  Richter took off his snowshoes, stood, and signaled Derek.

  “I need your help outside.”

  Derek hurried to remove his snowshoes and then stood, uncertain. Jack stood as well but, after glancing at Richter, sat back down.

  “He’s dead, Jack. There’s nothing you can do for him.”

  Jack sighed. When Richter opened the door, a cold wind blew in and both Jack and the president shivered. After the door closed, Jack hugged himself for a moment to warm up.

  The president pulled off his last shoe and tried to stand, but Jack stopped him.

  “Here, let me.” Jack stacked the shoes against the wall. “Does your knee still hurt?”

  Kendall shook his head. “It’s nothing, Jack.”

  “Let me take a look.”

  Kendall waved him away then pointed to the chair. “Have a seat and warm up.”

  Shaking his head, Jack sat. He glanced at the president for a moment and shook his head again.

  “I can’t believe I’m sitting in an old mining cabin with the President of the United States.”

  “Jack, believe me when I say that I never expected to be sitting here either. But we are here and we need to figure out how we are going to make it out of this alive.”

  “So, this wasn’t just an accident. Someone tried to kill you….?” Jack hesitated. “What are we supposed to call you now? Dave seems too weird.”

  “Dave is fine.” The president patted him on the shoulder. “And yes. Someone tried to kill me.”

  “God. I don’t know what to say. How could this happen? Do you know who’s behind this?”

  “I have my suspicions, but I think for now it’s best if I kept those to myself.”

  “But that guy outside? That guy Matt shot? He was a part of it?”

  “Yes. We believe he was.”

  “Won’t they be looking for you? You know, the Secret Service, the police, the Army?”

  “I’m sure they are. But right now, I think we’re safer here.”

  ___

  Richter stared down at the body. Mosby’s lifeless eyes stared back. There were two neat holes in the center of his forehead. He wanted to scream. I didn’t freeze that time, did I, asshole! The tension of the last few days was like acid in his stomach. What the hell possessed you to do it? You betrayed your country! You killed them all! You killed Stephanie! He felt the rage inside growing. I’m going to find out who else is behind this. I’ll find them and, if it’s the last thing I ever do, I’m going to kill them myself. He took several deep breaths and watched the flakes fall for a moment before looking back down. You’re one cold bastard. He suddenly laughed as he remembered something Brad Lansing had said: That man has ice in his veins. Well, if he didn’t before, he would soon!

  “Jesus!”

  He turned at Derek’s voice. Ignoring him, he knelt and pried the gun from Mosby’s hand and stuffed it in his pocket. As he began to undress the body, he called over his shoulder.

  “Bring that wood to the cabin and then come back and help me.”

  ___

  Richter dumped the clothes on the table a
nd began to examine them.

  “So what did you do with him?” the president asked.

  “I stripped the body and buried him in the snow.”

  The president nodded.

  Richter held up Mosby’s flight suit and parka. “Sir. I think you and he are the same height.”

  There was a stain on the hood, and the president realized that it was Mosby’s blood. He was about to say something but hesitated when he saw Richter. He saw a warrior looking back at him, a soldier on a mission. Richter had done what he had been trained to do, which was to keep him alive. He was doing a damned fine job of it especially under the circumstances, Kendall thought. Richter had no choice in shooting Mosby, but it was a brutal reality that he found tough to fathom. Kill or be killed. It was one thing to read about it or discuss it in an academic sense, but it was entirely different to be thrust into the middle of it. It was survival of the fittest. He was glad that he didn’t have to face these kinds of decisions himself. Still, to survive, he had to start thinking like Richter, to always be one step ahead, anticipating the next threat.

  As if reading his thoughts, Richter left the clothes on the table and sat down. “Sir, I don’t think we can stay here for very long.”

  He waited for Richter to continue.

  “Mosby had to have someone waiting for him, an accomplice to help him escape.”

  He frowned. “You think they may be near here?”

  Richter nodded. “This is a good shelter, for now, but we’re sitting ducks here.”

  The president considered this.

  “When the boys come back, we need to discuss our next steps,” Richter continued

  “Where are they?”

  “They’re filling the water bottles.”

  He frowned. “Jack knows who I am. I’m sure Derek does too by now.”

  Richter held his gaze for a moment. “It was bound to happen eventually, but right now, I’m not sure if that’s a good thing.”

  ___

  “You don’t really work for the Immigration Department, do you?” Derek asked. “You’re a Secret Service agent, right?”

  Richter nodded. “Yeah, I’m a Secret Service agent.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us earlier?”

  Richter glared at him; Derek flinched as if stung.

  “Hey, I’m just asking. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  Richter took a breath. “Look, my job is to protect the president at all costs. I didn’t know who you were at first. There are more people involved in this than that guy outside.” He paused. “I had to be sure.”

  Derek considered this for a moment. “I guess that makes sense. So what do we do now?”

  That was the question, Richter thought. According to Jack, the car was still a good distance away, seven or eight miles at least. The trek today, only half that distance, had taken more than eight hours. To reach the car would take them two days at least and then what? The car was still five miles from Elk City, buried below four or five feet of snow. The forest service roads would be impassable. They had no choice but to head toward Elk City. But what then? he wondered.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Monday, April 26

  President Kendall woke to the sound of creaks and groans and the whistle of the wind. His knee throbbed in rhythm with his heartbeat. He had ignored the pain yesterday, but the strain of the hike had taken its toll. As he listened to the sounds of the cabin, the pain intensified, and he realized that he wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep.

  The fire had died out during the night, and the cabin was cold. He pulled his sleeping bag up around his chin and rolled over on the cot. The movement sent a sharp pain up his leg and he gasped.

  “Are you all right, sir?” Richter whispered.

  “Yeah.”

  Richter turned on a flashlight and opened the survival pack. “There should be some painkillers.”

  Jack and Derek woke up. While Derek restarted the fire, Jack lit the propane lantern. It took several minutes for the cabin to warm up.

  “I’m sorry.” The president’s grin was sheepish. “I didn’t mean to wake everybody up.”

  “That’s okay,” Jack answered. “Let me take a look.”

  Jack slid the president’s pant legs up and studied both knees. The right knee was noticeably swollen.

  “You did this yesterday?”

  The president shook his head. “No. It’s an old injury. It’s been hurting for the last week, but I must have overstressed it yesterday.”

  Jack proceeded to examine the knee.

  “How did you hurt it originally?”

  “Skiing…” He winced as Jack probed below the kneecap. “Maybe fifteen years ago.”

  “Well, I don’t think you broke any bones, and the ligaments seem fine. My guess is it’s either a strain, which means you partially tore a muscle or tendon, or you injured the cartilage or meniscus by twisting your knee. The delayed swelling would tend to indicate that you have inflammation in the joint and might be more indicative of a meniscus or cartilage injury.” Jack pulled the president’s pant leg back down. “Either way, I think you need to rest it for a while. We’ll need to get it elevated and get some ice on it.”

  ___

  “Have you found the president yet?”

  Since Monahan arrived in Portland two days before, every phone call with Broder began the same.

  He sighed. “No sir. Not yet.”

  “That has to be a priority,” Broder continued, his voice gruff. “I know you’re leading the criminal investigation, but we have to find the president. We can’t leave the country hanging like this.”

  “I understand, Emil. As I told you yesterday, we weren’t able to land a CSAR team until two days ago. These guys are dealing with some very challenging conditions.”

  “That’s what they’re trained to do. Do you have enough resources?”

  “I think so, but you have to give them some time. There’s a lot of ground to cover.”

  “How many bodies have you recovered so far?”

  Monahan shook his head. Was Broder even listening? “Nineteen as of this morning. You have to remember that it didn’t stop snowing until early yesterday morning. The bodies we found so far were frozen and below several feet of snow. We need to be cautious so we don’t disturb evidence. It’s a delicate balance.”

  “Are you sure no one survived the crash?”

  “I don’t see how it’s possible. The teams are using some pretty sophisticated technologies to search for survivors. Did you receive the pictures I sent you last night?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You saw what the crash did to the bodies.” Monahan took a breath. “Emil, the images and the data are one thing, but I toured the crash site. Not only did I fly over with the CSAR team, but I was on the ground. It’s absolutely devastating. I don’t know how anyone could have survived this crash. And on the one-in-a-million chance that they did, there’s no way they would have survived the weather. I think we need to consider shifting our focus from search and rescue to recovery only. ”

  “Dead or not, you need to find him, Monahan. Now. Not tomorrow, not next week. Now.”

  “Okay. Okay. I hear you.”

  “Have you identified any of the bodies?

  “Only tentatively.” Monahan paused. “But I’m absolutely certain that the president isn’t among them.”

  ___

  They adopted a routine. Jack and Derek filled their time gathering wood, keeping the fire lit, and refilling the water bottles. Derek prepared the meals, careful to ration their remaining supplies. Jack periodically checked the president’s knee while Richter studied the topographical maps. Every two or three hours, Richter strapped on the snowshoes and walked a large circular trek around the cabin. The president had little to do except sit in front of the fire with his knee elevated. He kept the conversation going.

  Jack and Derek peppered the president with questions about his family, life in the White House, how Washington really work
ed, and about the many issues in recent news. The president indulged the boys, but after a while, turned the focus of the conversation back onto them.

  Richter opened the shutter and looked out the window. Although he had just returned from a patrol, he felt edgy, defenseless in the cabin. He glanced over at the president, sitting in front of the fire, his injured leg resting on another chair. Derek put two more logs in the stove, adjusted the damper, then sat next to Kendall.

  “So anyway, after high school, I had a couple of different jobs, but now I’m working in a warehouse.”

  Richter, too anxious to sit, turned back to the window and only half listened to the conversation. Jack had found a book on the mining era and was reading.

  “Did you ever consider college?”

  Derek hesitated. “I wanted to, but I was never able to make it work.”

  President Kendall nodded. “The cost?”

  Derek hesitated. “That was part of it.” He seemed to struggle with the next words. “I did some stuff back in high school. I got into trouble.”

  Richter turned, a frown on his face.

  “Stupid stuff.”

  Derek shifted in his seat. He looked at the floor for a moment, then at Richter before turning back to the president.

  “I didn’t hurt anyone. It was stupid, teenage stuff.” He took a deep breath. “Anyway, I had to go to court, then my dad got sick, and my mom wasn’t able to take care of him herself.”

  The president nodded with empathy. “I’m sorry to hear that, Derek. What happened?”

  “My dad died from cancer two years later. That was almost three years ago. I was paying restitution—I still am—but when my dad got sick, we found that his insurance didn’t cover all of the costs for his treatments. I got the job in the warehouse because it was closer to home, and it’s been just me and my mom ever since.”

  Richter was about to say something, when he caught the president’s glare.