“Another ‘X-ring’,” the instructor said. “Looks like you win, Casey.”
“Not exactly fairly, though,” one of the team members, a former Army Ranger, mumbled. “We had to spot for each other. The boss got to bring his own spotter and use a special rifle.”
Casey got up and handed the Precision Sniper Rifle to their instructor, Gunney, to hold while he and Drake gathered up their equipment. The rifle was the newest and best sniper rifle in the United States Special Operations Command (USSOCOM) arsenal. It was on loan to him, as a favor from a friend and armorer still in the service.
“What can I say, boys? When you’re as good as I am, maybe they’ll let you use a rifle like this,” Casey said with a wide smile.
Amid the “ooh’s” from the other employees, the instructor said, “Let’s get down off this ridge while there’s still light.”
When the PSS employees had started down to the trail head below, Drake laughed and said to his friend, “You let them wager twenty dollars each to see who would win. Then you took advantage of your own men by using a trick rifle? That’s cold, Mike.”
“Maybe,” Casey confessed, “but it was worth it. They’re all former military, but they need to be reminded that Delta Force rules. Besides, win or lose I’m buying their dinner. Gunney, would you like to join us? We’re staying at the Alpine Ridge Ranch and they have great steaks at the Lodge.”
Gunney shook his head. “I have another training group coming in tonight. I’ll have to take a rain check, assuming the ranch is still open next year when you come back.”
“Why wouldn’t it be?” Casey asked. “The owners are friends of mine and I haven’t heard they were closing the resort lodge.”
“The news is they’re thinking of selling the ranch and the resort,” Gunney said. “Some group wants to turn it into a camp for inner city Muslim kids. They’re offering maybe twice what it’s worth.”
The three men made sure nothing was left behind and headed down the trail. They walked in silence under snow-laden ponderosa pine trees, hearing only their hunting boots crunching on the snow.
So Casey’s friends were the owners of the ranch the congressman was concerned about. Drake could understand the locals not wanting a Muslim camp for kids on a neighboring ranch, with the attempt to establish a terror-training camp on a ranch near Bly, Oregon back in 1999. But if the group checked out, and they were willing to pay a premium for the ranch, the owners might have a hard time refusing to sell despite local feelings.
When they arrived at the trailhead, two white 15-passenger GMC vans were idling in the twilight. The protection team members had loaded their gear and were scrambling into the warmth of the vehicles.
Drake and Casey shook hands and said goodbye to Gunney, anxious to escape the icy twilight and scramble into the warmth of the lead van. As soon as their gear was loaded, they climbed into the open seats in the row behind their driver.
“Next year, you’ll have to come down and take the Top Gun CQB course with us,” Casey said. “It’s not the close-quarters-battle shooting range we trained at in Delta Force, but it’s as close as you’ll get in the civilian world. It would do you good to brush up.”
“What makes you think I need to brush up?” Drake asked and smiled.
“Just saying, with the way you keep running into trouble in the last couple of years, it couldn’t hurt.”
Drake settled back in his seat and pulled off his gloves. He couldn’t argue with his friend. In the last year, he’d been involved in three confrontations with terrorists on American soil. They had all deserved to die, and he wasn’t losing sleep over any of it. They were all killers. Somebody had to stop them.
But needing to brush up in the civilian version of Delta’s “House of Horrors” was not the life he’d wanted when he left the military.
CHAPTER 5
After a rowdy and raucous thirty minute drive to the Alpine Ridge Ranch, new bets were made for next year’s training and competition before the PSS employees split up and headed to their respective cabins.
Drake and Casey shared a cabin with two other men. While the others showered and changed clothes, Drake sat on his bed using his smartphone. He searched the internet for local news about opposition to the sale of the Alpine Ridge Ranch. There was plenty of it. The Klamath Falls Herald, the Bend Bulletin and the Medford Mail Tribune all had stories and editorials about a possible buyer identified as the American Muslim Youth Camp Foundation of Washington, D.C. A quick glance at the coverage showed that none of the local media actually came out and supported the sale. All of them, however, hinted at possible Islamophobia as the reason the ranchers were opposing it.
How predictable, Drake thought about the coverage. No wonder the first-term congressman reached out to Senator Hazelton. He’d be damned by the press if he sided with his constituents, but he’d be doubly damned by the ranchers if he even hinted that racism possibly played a part in their opposition.
“You coming?” Casey hollered from the front door of the cabin.
“Be right behind you,” Drake shouted. “Save me a place.”
Casey and the other two men left to walk to the lodge. Drake showered and changed his clothes and followed them ten minutes later.
Walking alone beneath the vast star-filled sky, the crunch of snow under his Nike FSB Mountain boots made him smile. It was a long path that bordered a huge meadow and he was grateful for the silence as he approached the warm glowing lights of the lodge. He’d grown up in Oregon, skied its mountains and he loved the familiar bite of snow-cold air on his face again. It felt like home and he missed the innocent peace he used to feel.
Drake knocked the snow off his boots, using the boot scraper on the deck near the front door, and stepped into the warm bustle of the lodge. A wood fire was burning in the huge river-rock fireplace at the far end of the main room, scenting the air. Beyond the check-in counter on the right was a dining room. Casey stood under a carved wooden sign that read Buffalo Saloon beckoning Drake to join him.
As Drake crossed the expanse of the polished red-oak flooring to meet him, he noted that the dining room was nearly full. The steaks must be as good as advertised, he thought, as he hung his coat on a peg next to a heavy brown shearling sheepskin coat with a cowboy hat perched on top.
“Let’s have a drink before dinner,” Casey said. “I have a friend in the bar I want you to meet.” Casey led him to the bar and introduced him to Steve Simpson, the ranch owner’s son.
“Steve’s dad was a client of Puget Sound Security when I took over the business,” Casey said. “He manufactures avionics for helicopters in California and since I flew helicopters, we became friends. That’s how I met Steve, before he graduated U.C. Davis and his folks bought this old ranch. They’ve turned it into quite an operation since then. Steve’s come back to help them run things. He was going to take over until the two schmucks in the other room made his dad the offer he’s now considering.”
Drake asked, “Has this always been a cattle ranch and a resort, Steve?”
Steve Simpson smiled. “No, it didn’t become Alpine Ridge Ranch and Resort until about fifteen years after mom and dad bought it. It’s always been a real cattle ranch, but opening it up as a resort helps pay the bills and allows us to share it with others.”
“Why don’t we grab a drink and find a table,” Casey said waving to the bartender. “Steve, are you really thinking of selling the ranch?”
The three of them placed their orders and moved to a table under the head of a huge black buffalo mounted on the wall.
Steve sighed and shook his head with resignation. “I suppose I should ask where you got that idea.”
“Bill Reynolds, the instructor over at Oregon Top Gun,” Casey replied as they slipped into their seats.
Steve Simpson nodded his head. “Well, it’s not news that we have an offer to buy the ranch and resort. An
d it’s an incredible offer, but we haven’t told anyone we’ve decided to sell. I’ve tried to check out the buyers, been to their website and read some of the articles about the work they’re doing with city kids. They seem to be legit, but the thought of selling doesn’t go down well for me. I love this place and planned on raising a family here. But Dad’s got a point; we’ll never get another offer like this. Which is one of the things that bothers me. Why offer to pay so much more than the ranch is realistically worth?”
“Why do you think they are willing to pay so much?” Drake asked.
“Well, they’re probably right about one thing,” Simpson said. “No rancher in this area would sell to anyone who might have the slightest connection to the Middle East, even if it’s just their religion, after what they tried over in Bly, unless the offer’s outrageously high.”
“How did Congressman Rodecker get involved in all this?” Drake probed.
“A couple of the neighboring ranchers went to him when they heard we were considering selling to a Muslim foundation,” Simpson said.
“How do you know about all of this?” Casey asked Drake.
“Senator Hazelton called me yesterday. Congressman Rodecker’s been getting pressure on both sides of this thing and he asked the senator for advice. The senator’s my father-in-law, Steve,” Drake explained and turned back to Casey. “He asked me if I knew anyone down here who could provide some insight into the matter. I told him I’d look into it.”
Casey snorted. “So that’s why you decided to come down to be my spotter.”
“That and I knew you weren’t going to win without me,” Drake boasted.
Simpson leaned forward. “Look, I’m sorry this has caused such a ruckus. I don’t know what Mom and Dad will ultimately decide to do. I’ve given them my two cents. All I can do is help them make the best decision possible for all of us.”
“How are you going about that?” Casey asked.
“I’d like to know a little more about the buyer, and I’ll have my own lawyer go over the offer with a fine-tooth comb,” Simpson said. “I think that’s all I can do. Dad leaves the operation of the ranch and resort up to me, but ultimately it’s Mom and Dad’s decision.”
“Is that something I can help with?” Casey asked. “I do background checks and assessments for a number of my PSS clients. I could take a closer look at this foundation for you.”
“That’s a great idea. Dad trusts you and he’d listen to whatever you have to say.” Simpson slapped the table and stood up. “Why don’t we go get you something to eat. I don’t want you to miss out on some of our mesquite barbequed tri-tips or ribs. When they’re gone, they’re gone for the night.”
CHAPTER 6
Casey stopped at the bar to pay for their drinks, but Simpson said the drinks were on him.
“I reserved a nice table for you near a fireplace and a window in the dining hall. Bring your drinks with you,” he said.
They carried their drinks and followed their host out of the Buffalo Saloon to the room next door. There were two smaller fireplaces at either end of the long room, cheery bookends crackling softly in the casually elegant and rustic dining hall. Two massive deer antler chandeliers softly lit the room and paintings of cattle drives hung along the wall across the room facing the windows.
Simpson stopped at the hostess stand and grabbed two menus before he escorted them to their table. When they were seated, he said to Casey as he handed each of them a menu, “I need to take care of a couple of things, but order anything you want. It’s on the house. On my way out, I’ll stop at that table for a moment and ask the two men if they enjoyed their meals. It’s the table where the buyer’s representatives are sitting, in case you’re interested.”
They watched Simpson walk to a table three tables away in the middle of the room. The men were dressed as businessmen and each had a short black, well-trimmed beard and moustache. After a few words from Simpson and the men nodding their heads in response, he walked out of the dining hall.
After a quick glance at his menu, Casey looked up and studied Drake before asking, “Why don’t you offer to help Steve? You could give him a quick read on this offer before you leave.”
“Mike, I’m not going to solicit Steve’s business. He has his own attorney. Besides, I don’t need to know the details of the offer to see what’s going on down here. That’s all the senator asked me to do, not jump in the middle of this. You remember the last time I tried to help a client and wound up dealing with a bunch of angry imams?”
Their waiter arrived to take their orders, cutting off Casey’s reply. They both ordered the barbequed tri-tip steaks, garlic mashed potatoes, and small Caesar salads.
“Sure, I remember. The imams wanted your head because you happened to have killed three Muslims,” Casey reminded him. “They weren’t about to admit that the boys who tried to kill you were jihadis from their mosques. And the FBI made them back off in exchange for keeping the story out of the papers. So you won. But this is different. Look, you know how to deal with this kind of thing; Steve doesn’t. Those two guys over there might be on the up and up, but maybe they’re not. I just don’t want my friends in over their heads handling a hot political potato like this appears to be.”
Drake raised his tumbler of bourbon to his lips and turned his head slightly to see the men. They were talking quietly, and one of them nodded to Drake when he noticed he was being watched. The man made eye contact and held it until Drake turned back to Casey. It wasn’t a friendly look, more of a stare down.
“Look,” Drake said, “I know you’re just trying to help your friends, but I really don’t want to get involved. Why don’t you order us another round before our steaks get here? I’m going to visit the men’s room.”
Drake stood up and saw that both of the men in suits were now watching him. When he walked by their table, the one man raised his water glass in mock toast and muttered under his breath, “Tozz fiik.” Drake kept on walking.
Where did that come from, he wondered, and why? Drake didn’t know a lot of Arabic, but he had picked up a few words when he was deployed in Iraq and Afghanistan. The man had just cursed at him for no reason and said “Screw you!”
Washing his hands in the men’s room, his cold blue eyes stared back at him in the mirror.
The memories of captured Iraqi insurgents glaring and swearing at him as they were taken into custody came flooding back. They had the same look of murderous hatred in their eyes that had just flashed in the eyes of the man who swore at him. If this guy represented the type of person who wanted to teach young Muslims how to live their lives here on the ranch, Congressman Rodecker was right to do everything he could to prevent the sale.
Drake returned to the dining hall to have a word with the man and saw that he and his companion were not at their table.
“I know that look,” Casey said as Drake sat down. “What’s wrong?”
Drake nodded in the direction of table the two men had occupied and toasted them in absentia. “I’ve changed my mind about helping your friend. I’d be happy to take a look at the offer they’ve made. These are not good people. I was told to screw myself in Arabic when I walked by. So it’s only fair that I try to return the insult.”
CHAPTER 7
Drake left the Alpine Ridge Ranch Sunday morning to drive home to his farm in the heart of the Oregon wine country. A copy of the offer to purchase the Alpine Ridge Ranch was laying on the seat beside him. After the incident in the dining hall, he’d told Steve Simpson he would give it a thorough review, without telling him why he’d changed his mind.
Mike Casey offered to have the competitive intelligence and research section of his company dig up everything it could about the American Muslim Youth Project Foundation, the name of the proposed buyer. Together, they promised to provide him with as much information as they could about the foundation and its offer to buy the ranch.
On any other day, he would have enjoyed driving the Lake of the Woods Highway past the southern end of Klamath Lake and then on to I-5 in his old Porsche. But he couldn’t stop thinking about being called out in Arabic by the man in the dining hall. The man didn’t know that he would understand the insult. But why risk creating a scene when he was there to make a good impression on Simpson and any of his friends?
The only thing he could think of was that the man couldn’t help himself. That flash of hatred in the man’s eyes was rooted in something else. There was nothing he had done to provoke it. Except being an American, perhaps.
When he wasn’t wearing his uniform in the Middle East, you got that look from young men if they thought you were a spawn of the Great Satan. It was what they were taught in their madrassas, what they grew up believing.
And you didn’t just get the look over there, he’d seen it stateside as well; contempt and smoldering anger from American Muslims protesting about not being able to freely live as Muslims. Not being allowed to be governed by their own sharia law, and not being allowed to commit honor killings when they felt their children had become too American.
It began snowing lightly as he drove past the Lake of the Woods and white stillness settled over the car. The frozen beauty of each unique snow flake appearing briefly on the windshield before being swept away took his mind to a peaceful place. In moments, his thoughts drifted away from the bitter memory of war and a fanatical enemy.
After four hours of driving in the snow and then slushy rain on I-5, Drake was finally home. He drove up the long sloping gravel driveway and pulled his Porsche, covered in winter road grime, into the garage behind his house.
The garage was actually a building that had been built behind his old gray limestone farmhouse. It was built to serve as a tasting room and winery by a Connecticut dentist with a dream of making the best pinot noir wine in the world. After spending a small fortune preparing and planting thirty acres of pinot and chardonnay grape vines on the gently sloping tract, he grew tired of farming. He depleted the small fortune he’d inherited and abandoned the farm to return to the East Coast.
Call It Treason (The Adam Drake series Book 4) Page 2
