Hunted

by William W. Johnstone

  The spokesman from the Justice Department smiled. “That’s such a crude term, Doctor. But, frankly, yes.”

  The expression on Karen’s face was a mixture of disgust and loathing.

  “And if we don’t deal?” Ray asked.

  “Your son killed two federal agents,” another Justice Department official said. “It’s not nice to kill people.”

  “The second man was shot in the leg by his partner and fell off the bluff,” Ray replied. “Paul shot a man who was preparing to kill his mother.”

  “You say,” the first man spoke with a smugness that made Karen want to slap his face.

  “That’s right!” Ray popped back, his temper rapidly reaching the redline. “We say. There were witnesses.”

  “Shaggy-haired, dope-smoking, hippie trash. Drop-outs from society. We’ll tell you right now, they won’t testify for the defense. We did a thorough search of their filthy cabins. We found all sorts of dope. Enough to put them all behind bars for years.”

  “I don’t believe that!” Karen said.

  The two men and the woman from the Justice Department smiled. The woman said, “I assure you we have the evidence.”

  “If you do, you planted it there,” Karen said, her eyes burning with anger.

  “Now, Mrs. Collier, that is a very serious accusation. Your government does not ‘plant’ evidence.”

  “Sick and evil.” Terri Collier spoke for the first time. “That pretty well sums up our government.”

  “Why don’t you run along outside and play, dear,” the woman said.

  “Why don’t you kiss my ass!” the teenager popped right back.

  Both parents were suddenly very proud of their youngest chick. Three weeks back, Ray and Karen would have been appalled and would have immediately grounded her for saying such a thing. Now they smiled.

  The woman from Justice did not lose her composure. She was too skilled a stooge for the government . . . among other things. “Awful things happen to young, sweet boys behind bars. But I’m sure you both know about that.”

  “You . . . filth!” Karen spat out the words. She had sensed immediately and accurately that this severely dressed woman was a man hater from way back.

  The three from Justice stood up as if controlled by one mind . . . which, of course, they were. Programmable robots with brown spots on their noses. “Do think about it,” the parents were told.

  A few hours later, when the mail arrived, Ray and Karen Collier received a registered letter from the Internal Revenue Service, informing them that their assets were frozen and they were under investigation for defrauding the government . . . among other charges.

  * * *

  For several decades, certain members of the government, who belonged to a certain political party, had taken the entire press corps for granted for too long. They became complacent. Certain government officials were well aware that the press was sickeningly over-loaded with hanky-twisting, foot-stamping, boo-hooing liberals who knew just how far to push elected and appointed members of the government . . . unless they were conservative, and then, in most cases, it was open season on them—any—thing goes . . . humiliate them . . . dig up bones and expose them. And we’ll help you do anything you can to shut up those nasty ol’ conservatives who don’t know when to back off.

  Even murder?

  Well . . . let’s not phrase it in such a vulgar manner.

  Extreme prejudice sounds so much more civilized.

  After all, one must remember, we’re only doing this for the good of the country.

  Right?

  * * *

  Stormy gently hung up the phone after speaking with Karen Collier. Karen had called from a pay phone, certain that her own phone in her home had been tapped by the government. Stormy had put the call on speaker so all in the suite could hear.

  “It sucks!” she said to Ki and Craig. The three were staying at a Los Angeles hotel.

  The camera-person and the network reporter sat and stared at their friend. They both knew they were witnessing a dramatic metamorphosis. They also knew that when Stormy sank her teeth into a story, only death would break the bulldog grip.

  “We’ll be putting our careers on the line,” Craig reminded her.

  “So I go back to work in Springfield,” Ki said. “Big fuckin’ deal. Maybe I’d sleep better at night.”

  “It’ll be us against them,” Craig said. “You both better realize that right now.”

  “Maybe we could get Darry in on this,” Ki said.

  “Darry hates all governments,” Stormy replied. “Every aspect of big government. And he’s had the time on earth to see that they all eventually turn rotten. Don’t think for one instant I’ve forgotten Darry Ransom.”

  “The problem is—one of the problems, that is—will the network back us?” Craig asked. “Considering the FCC can shut them down at a whim.”

  “If it’s a big enough story, they’ll almost have to back us,” Ki said.

  “We’ve all got vacation time coming,” Stormy said. “So let’s take it and get to work.”

  “I’m in.” Ki held up a thumb.

  “Me, too,” Craig said. “And may God have mercy on our souls, because the goddamn government won’t!”

  22

  “Well, I should be angry, but I’m not,” Robert Roche said to Mike Tuttle. “None of us had any knowledge of a government raid in the area.” He waved a hand. “It’s done with. We won’t speak of it again.”

  Mike and his mercenaries had split from Sam Parish and his bunch shortly after getting clear of the hot zone. Mike had promised to hook up with the survivalists in the near future, and then promptly forgot about them.

  “You say you lost one man and one quit?”

  “Yes, sir. Al Jenkins was killed and George Eagle Dancer quit us.”

  “Ten should be sufficient. Five teams of two each. Find Darry Ranson.”

  “Yes, sir. We’re on our way.”

  “Mike?” Roche’s voice stopped him.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “The Indian . . . he’ll keep his mouth shut about this?”

  “Oh, you can be sure of that. If it’s one thing mercenaries have, it’s honor.” Mike walked out of the office.

  “Indeed!” Robert snorted, and returned to the paperwork on his desk.

  * * *

  “I have it all on tape,” Paul Collier said, pointing to an 8mm camcorder placed on a shelf. “I taped over the recording light so they wouldn’t notice and turned it on just before they walked in.”

  “Is there anything they said that you can use in court, honey?” Ray asked his wife.

  She smiled. “Just about everything they said. Drive down to a pay phone and call Stormy. Tell her to come out here. She’s going to love this.”

  * * *

  Within twenty-four hours of their leaving the wilderness area, Major Pete Cooper was sent to Germany, Major Lew Waters was shipped off to Turkey, and Lt. Commander Jay Gilmore received orders to depart immediately for a long cruise on an aircraft carrier.

  Johnny McBroon called in and was told his services were no longer needed. His assignment had been terminated.

  Johnny smiled as he hung up the phone. Then he went out in search of a bar; he wanted a tall drink and something to eat. That would prove to be a very bad mistake on Johnny’s part.

  * * *

  Stormy sent a fax to Rick Battle: “Advise Kevin Carmouche and friends to relax. Someone from network will be out to see them in a few days. We’ll beat this thing.”

  “What the hell?” Alberta mused.

  “I don’t know. But it sure looks like Kevin has the press on his side.”

  “I don’t understand what’s going on, Rick. The government can’t deny they screwed up big-time in here. What are they trying to do now?”

  “Sending signals.” District Chief Tom Sessions spoke from the open door, for the day had turned warm.

  “Welcome back, Tom,” Rick said. “This is Al Follette.”
>
  He shook hands with Alberta, but the serious look never left Tom’s eyes.

  “What do you mean, ‘sending signals’?” Rick asked.

  “Let’s just say that your jobs are secure for the next couple of years. After that . . .” He sighed. “You screw up just a little bit, you’re both history.”

  The two young rangers exchanged glances. “We both talked about the possibility of that happening,” Alberta spoke. “But we didn’t think it would.”

  “Think again,” Tom said, walking to the coffeepot and pouring a cup. “And it’s not just the government who does things like this. So does big business.”

  “That doesn’t say much for the ethics of our country, Tom.”

  Tom smiled a humorless curving of the lips. “Don’t put ethics in the same sentence with big government, boy. The two will automatically clash.”

  “So you’ve had the word put on you?” Alberta asked.

  “In a manner of speaking. I’ve been told I’m retiring, effective 31 July of this year.”

  * * *

  Sheriff Greg Paige had about as much use for the DEA as he did for the FBI ... which meant he would rather drink a bucket of buzzard puke than be in the same room with them. He sat in his office and glared at the two men. Greg had called Deputy Don Shepherd in for the meeting. The feds hadn’t asked for this meeting; they had commanded it.

  “Say what’s on your mind and then get out of my office,” Sheriff Paige told the federal officers.

  “There is no need for any hostility, Sheriff,” the FBI said. “We’re only here to help.”

  “I don’t want your help, I don’t need your help, and I didn’t ask for your help.” Greg’s county was huge, taking in part of the wilderness area where the recent “incident” occurred, as the government was now calling the killing, wounding, destroying, burning, and roughing up of citizens. “Haven’t you people done enough in this part of the state. Why don’t you go back up north and kill some folks up there.”

  Many people in the state were a bit more than slightly fed up with the government’s high-handedness. And if the networks and the major newspapers and magazines would take accurate polls, they would find that a very large number of Americans feared, distrusted, and/or openly hated the federal government,. But it was the widely held belief of many that these so-called public opinion polls, while not necessarily rigged, were very carefully conducted. To ask someone who lived in public housing and had been slopping at the public through for years, then ask the same question of a hard-working, law-abiding, over-burdened taxpayers who was worried about playing the mortgage and putting food on the table and shoes on his kids’ feet (without government assistance), the answers would be diametrically opposite.

  “We’d like to see any files you might have on Kevin, Carmouche, Vince, Clayderman, and Todd Noble,” DEA said.

  “I don’t have any files on them. They’re good, decent, law-abiding people who chose to live in the wilderness, which, I might add, is their right.”

  “Large quantities of drugs were found in their cabins,” FBI said.

  “Horse shit, bull-dooky, and skunk-piss,” the sheriff replied. “This is my county, people. I know what’s going on in it. And I am fully cognizant of the fact that the federal government is now engaged in a cover-its-ass operation, after another of the government’s gigantic fuck-ups. Is there anything else I can do for you . . . people.”

  The accusations and sarcasm bounced off the feds. “What do you know about a Darry Ransom?” the agent continued.

  “He came into this area about two years ago, leased land from the government, a ninety-nine-year lease, built a very nice cabin with his own hands, and has not, to my knowledge, broken a single law of God or man since arriving. I wish we had more like Darry and less like you. Now why don’t you people get the hell out of my office and leave me alone?”

  The federal agents had done their homework on Sheriff Paige. They couldn’t threaten him with a cut-off of federal money because the sheriff wouldn’t take any. Nobody would run against him because the last person who did received only twelve votes. Sheriff Greg Paige was a very good sheriff, who ran a very tight and fair department, and he was a very popular man, due in no small part because he would stand up to the feds and speak his mind.

  “We’ll be in this area for a time,” BATF said.

  “That news just overjoys me,” Greg replied. “I can’t tell you how thrilled I am about that. I think I’ll drive over to the radio station and get on the air. I’ll tell the people they can sleep well tonight with the knowledge their government is in the area protecting them. Of course, should I do that, about half the population would immediately pack up and leave for the duration of your stay. The other half would stockpile ammunition, board up their windows against possible government assault in the middle of the night, and pull in their pets, since you people seem to enjoy killing family dogs.”

  FBI, BATF, and DEA stood up as one mind (which they were) and left the office without another word. At the door, DEA turned around and said to Greg, “Asshole!”

  Sheriff Greg Paige solemnly gave the man The Finger.

  * * *

  Darry drove back to the wilderness area, George Eagle Dancer with him.

  “I understand why you are doing this,” George said. “You do not run because you don’t want innocent people hurt. And in here, the odds of any innocent getting hurt is greatly reduced.”

  “That’s certainly part of it, George. But are you sure you want to stick with me?”

  “I am certain. Your hybrids like me, and I them. You will need someone to look after them during the times you’ll be gone.” There was a twinkle in the man’s eyes. “And I think that will be often.”

  Darry smiled. “Let’s just say I plan on staying busy.”

  * * *

  The director of the FBI was still furious when his plane landed, and he was quickly hustled off to the Hoover Building. He was no sooner in the car and the door closed behind him than he was on a secure line.

  “Who the hell authorized Max Vernon to pull this stunt?” he demanded.

  “Nobody,” the deputy director said. “He did it all on his own.”

  “That’s bullshit, Roger. Bullshit. Stop playing CYA. Max isn’t that stupid. He had to have the Go sign from somebody. I don’t want this blowing up in our faces somewhere down the line.”

  “Max snapped, okay?”

  The DIR/FBI cussed, loud and long. His driver could hear him through the glass separation and cringed. “Snapped? Snapped? Is that the story you’re handing out to the press?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Great Jesus Christ! How many agents involved?”

  “Max had forty bad ones. All agencies included. The rest were just following orders. Of those forty, nearly half were killed during various assaults and by a lone assassin named Jody Hinds. Mr. Hinds is insane and being confined in Idaho. He is a raving lunatic.”

  “Is that the man whose wife had her face shot off in front of him?”

  “Ah . . . yes, sir.”

  “Goddammit, Roger! There is more to this.”

  “When you get here, sir.”

  A half hour later, the director slammed the door behind the group that had followed him into the office, tossed his briefcase on the floor, and slowly turned to face the men and women. “Who fucked up?” he asked, his voice low and menacing. “And by God, I better get the truth.”

  * * *

  The White House was already working damage control on the “incident” in Idaho. But the President did not know about the visit to the Collier family by members of the Justice Department, or of the letter from the IRS and its contents.

  The government used to be pretty good with cover-ups, back when its officials would just blandly and very convincingly lie about things. Then somebody got the bright idea to use threats and coercion and muscle by various government enforcement agencies—and the IRS—to whip its dissident citizens into line. Bad mistake.
It had to backfire, and in this case, it did. Big time.

  Already, the more astute of the American public were beginning to realize that Big Government was developing more and more a bully-boy attitude toward its citizens. By the mid-1990s, even the less astute were no longer wondering about the government’s attacks and raids on so-called survivalist camps around the nation (many liberals not included; they thought the raids were simply wonderful). But others began to see them as raids against the right to dissent, to peacefully gather, and a direct challenge to the many hard-fought-for rights of American citizens... that were slowly being deliberately and insidiously taken away. Conservative and right-wing radio and TV commentators found themselves targets of the government. Big Government felt the mood of many Americans shift and decided to come down hard (very selectively and as hard as they could without attracting a lot of attention) on any who would not fall in line with the ruling party’s tenets. Property seizures under vague drug laws and by the IRS had drastically increased by the mid-1990s. Investigations into the private lives of citizens by the FBI and the Secret Service reached ominous proportions. The Fourth Amendment to the Constitution became a joke.

  But the “incident” in Idaho brought it all home to the American people.

  * * *

  “Greatest government that was ever formed,” Darry muttered, heating his coffee over a hat-sized fire. “Now it’s no better than the one it fought to free itself from.”

  Darry had boldly driven right back into the contested area and left his pickup in Chuck’s barn. George Eagle Dancer would stay with the old outfitter and take care of the hybrids. Pete and Repeat had taken to Chuck immediately, both sensing that the man was more like them than the two-legged form he had evolved into over the years.

  Darry put together a pack and looked at Chuck and George. “I’ll be back. I don’t know when, but I’ll come back.”

  “All them rogue agents, boy,” Chuck told him. “The government thinks they pulled out. But they didn’t. They’re all within twenty/twenty-five miles of this spot.”

  “Yes. I sensed that.”

  “That fine-lookin’ female reporter; you figure she’ll be back here, too?”