“What is he talking about?” Lacroix asked. “I didn’t see any woman.”
“You didn’t see, you didn’t know?”
Something tugged at the corner of Malloy’s mouth, and his voice was stronger.
“I took her with me to get her out of the way,” he went on. “She’d stumbled into our operation when we were getting ready to ship out, and figured everything out in a hurry, or close enough. I had no idea what I was going to do with her when I got back, but she’s your problem now. Oh, and she’s got two children with her.” Malloy sounded delighted as he dropped this last bit.
“Who is this woman?” Jim asked.
“The prophet’s wife. Fernie Christianson.”
Fernie Christianson. Wife of Jim’s enemy. Two summers ago, when Jacob Christianson was living in Salt Lake, working on a medical residency, the McKay brothers hounded him from his job and convinced the Christiansons’ landlord to throw them in the street. Fernie had stormed into the attorney general’s office making demands. Then, when that failed, had sicced her pitbull father-in-law on him. That was the end of Jim’s presidential ambitions.
Jim had followed events in Blister Creek the last couple of years. It was hard not to, when they were in the news every six months as a violent struggle played out for control of the Church of the Anointing. He had no idea why—he didn’t want to find out, either—but he remembered reading somewhere that Christianson’s wife had been injured in a car accident during the conflict and was partially paralyzed. At the time Jim wondered if Christianson ever blamed the McKay brothers for his wife’s injury. After all, if he’d never been fired from the hospital and forced back into his polygamist community none of that would have happened.
But Jim never expected to run into the woman herself again. And now Malloy was claiming that she was outside in the abandoned car with her children?
Malloy didn’t need much prodding from the general to get the rest of it out, how Fernie Christianson had been wheeling around town that evening, sounding the alarm that the USDA was moving their grain.
A few minutes later Lacroix led the governor out of the office, leaving Malloy with a single guard. The governor and the general made their way from the empty warehouse offices toward the front door.
“That was a profitable interview,” Lacroix said. “I can’t believe nobody secured Malloy’s car, but I guess she wasn’t going to come running after us, screeching and scratching.”
“It sounds like Blister Creek is stirred up and ready for a fight. Maybe you should let it cool for a couple of days before you drive in.”
“And wait until Christianson gets back? No.”
Jim thought of Alacrán’s hints. “He might not be coming back. I understand he’s run into some trouble on the road. Nothing is certain, but…”
“All the better. But if he slips through you’ll have his wife.”
“I will?” Jim said.
“I’ve got enough to worry about with the USDA officials. Civilians are your business. Fly her back to Salt Lake.”
“What about her kids?”
“I don’t know, strap them to the rotor for all I care.”
“I guess I could put them in the grain trucks. My drivers will love that.”
Jim gave Lacroix a suspicious look as he said this last bit, waiting for the general to pull the pin on another grenade and tell him that no, state officials couldn’t have the grain. Wouldn’t you know that it was needed here, in the refugee camps?
But Lacroix gave an indifferent shrug, and it appeared he would follow through with his promise. “Fine, fine. Just keep the woman and her kids out of sight. They’ll make good leverage. If Christianson comes back and plays difficult, we’ll have something to force his cooperation.”
Except last time Jim had messed around with Jacob’s family, the elder Christianson showed up with a gun. Abraham Christianson may be dead, but what would his son Jacob do with his paralyzed wife and his two children being held hostage? Jim didn’t want the woman. Didn’t want the responsibility or the risk.
“What about Malloy’s men?” Jim said. “Got a plan for them?”
Lacroix pushed open the door and they stepped onto the cement. The rain was gone, replaced by a miserable sleet now mixing with snow. It coated the ground with a slushy layer already half an inch thick.
“It so happens I just took an urgent call for men with their background to deal with the Nebraska corn raiders. That should keep them busy for a couple of weeks. Once this blows over and I’ve got a battalion stationed in Blister Creek—” Lacroix stopped abruptly.
Tire tracks swung in a U-turn across the slush and headed back toward the front gates of the warehouse complex. Fernie Christianson was gone.
Lacroix grabbed for his radio. It only took a minute to verify that none of his men had taken the car, and that nobody had seen the woman or her children. He shouted orders and then waited, fuming, until the radio buzzed his answer.
“Some idiot at the gates opened up and waved her through,” he told the governor.
“I don’t understand,” Jim said. “She’s paralyzed. How could she drive?”
Lacroix looked like he wanted to hurl the radio against the wall. He placed another call, this time to seal the refugee camp. He ended the call with a string of oaths. Then he looked at his watch.
“I don’t have time for this. My men are waiting. I’ve got to go.”
“You’re giving up?”
“Don’t be an idiot.” The man lifted his radio. “This is Lacroix again. Governor McKay is coming through. I want three MPs waiting when he hits the gates. Put Horowitz in charge… I don’t know, you imbecile. Find someone else, then.”
“What’s that about?” Jim said.
“Are you hard of hearing, or what?”
“You want me to find her? I’ve got grain to move, and I don’t know the first thing about where to look in this place. Why don’t you have your men—”
Lacroix grabbed the governor by the lapel and gave him a shake. Jim fell back, stunned. Nobody touched him like that. You didn’t assault a state governor. You just didn’t.
“Listen to me, you piece of garbage,” Lacroix said. “You find that woman or you don’t see your grain. No, that’s not enough. You find her or the next time you’ll see me will be a tribunal to hang you for high treason. I’ll put this goddamn state under martial law. You got that?”
Jim straightened his jacket with as much dignity as he could muster. He refused to drop his gaze, but stared back at Lacroix with his rage at a near boil.
“One thing,” Jim said.
“Don’t push me, McKay,” Lacroix said. A vein pulsed on his neck.
“I want state police on the search. Call the mayor of Green River. I want his entire force to meet me at the rail depot.”
The general calmed down. He took a deep breath and nodded. “Okay, you’ve got it. I’ll make the call. Start walking toward the gate. The military police will meet you partway.”
“You’re leaving now? Driving all the way to Blister Creek tonight?”
“Not exactly, no.” He pointed toward the exit of the warehouse complex. “Go.”
Afraid to force his luck, and guessing he would get no more concessions, Jim turned on his heel and walked away from the general. As he walked, he mulled over Fernie Christianson’s disappearance. A cripple with two children inside a sealed, military-run refugee camp. Where would she go?
A closed-top Jeep approached so he stepped to the side and waited, but it wasn’t coming for him and kept going. It was a good twenty minutes before a military police vehicle pulled up. By then he was almost to the gate and his shoes were soaked, his pant legs wet halfway up the calf, and his cheeks numb. The driver was a grim-faced, square-jawed soldier named Corporal Jones. The man pushed open the passenger-side door for the governor to climb in.
As Jones backed up and turned around to follow the tracks toward the front gates and into the camp, the vehicle gave a shudder, like the e
ngine had thrown a rod. But then Jim realized the sound was coming from outside the Jeep. He rolled down the window and squinted into the falling sleet and snow as a line of helicopters swept overhead, lights out, picking up speed as they cut south.
A formation of Black Hawks. Headed for Blister Creek.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Miriam slid her KA-BAR knife from its sheath. It felt comfortable in her hand. Razor sharp, weighted. A tool for killing.
She stood in front of the tent, which glowed through her night vision goggles. She reached out her left hand to sweep open the flap. Her heart thumped.
What if it was empty? Or what if the men inside were awake and listening to sleet drum against the canvas, talking in low voices about when they became masters of the town across the bridge and its people once they were allowed to take it; how they would have warm beds and full bellies. They would see her shadow against the sky as she appeared. Reach for weapons.
A million possibilities. She could run through them all, or she could get to it.
Don’t think. Act.
A rumble from inside. A snore. She suppressed a tremble and slipped into the tent.
There was only one man inside. He slept in a mummy bag, lying on his back with only his face exposed. A second, empty sleeping bag lay next to him. He was young, maybe mid-twenties, with several days’ growth on his face. But in sleep, peaceful, not a murderer.
She wondered what drove him to this point. Maybe he looked around, didn’t think he had a choice. A refugee camp? The army? Or join the bandits and get a full belly. Satan was abroad in the land, whispering in people’s ears. For every man who bent a knee and took his problems to the Lord, a hundred more would be deceived by the Adversary.
Point was, the sleeping man didn’t look like a thug and a violent criminal, but more like some rancher’s kid. She had no stomach for it.
Don’t be naïve. He’s a terrorist and a murderer. Think about Alfred’s wives.
She crept forward until she was standing above him. Come down hard, draw the knife across his neck with a violent slash—over in an instant. So why didn’t she do it?
A crack sounded in the night air, like the flail of a whip. It was a shot from Krantz’s sniper rife. A man groaned outside and a body fell and knocked into the main pole. The tent listed.
The man in the mummy bag stirred. “What was that?” he said. “Evan?”
He was unzipping the mummy bag from the inside as Miriam turned. He hadn’t noticed her yet, standing motionless in the darkness, but he was groping for a flashlight, which she could see through the night vision was sitting next to his boots. His hands closed around the handle. Miriam fell on him.
It would have been a simple enough thing moments earlier, but the man was now awake and alert. He bucked and flailed.
“Evan!” he shouted. “Help!”
Evan was most likely outside the tent, dead with a 7.62 mm bullet through the chest, but she couldn’t let this kid keep screaming or he’d have the whole camp on her. She shoved her forearm in his face, ignored his bite, muffled by her jacket, and slashed with the knife.
He had the bad luck to be craning back, trying to bring around the flashlight, and he lifted his chin and exposed his neck as the blade came down. It bit deep and she pressed down as she drew it across his throat. He let out a horrible, gasping, burbling noise.
When it was done, Miriam backed out of the tent, horrified and shaking. She managed not to drop the knife. The sniper rifle thumped a second time.
Flashlights illuminated the top of the ravine. Three men came down the hillside, half running, half sliding. Krantz’s rifle fired a third time, and one fell. The other two spotted her silhouette rising from the tent in the darkness and gave a shout. They came at her. Another man crawled out of the tent to her right. Miriam shoved the bloody knife into its sheath and drew her pistol.
“Over there!” a man shouted.
A fresh set of lights swept her position. She threw herself forward, even as two men snapped off shots with their pistols. She fired back and they threw themselves flat on the ground. Another shot from Krantz’s sniper rifle.
A cry of pain to her right. A machine gun fired wildly into the night from the same direction.
They were all around her now, moving, trying to pin her down with flashlights. Krantz fired again. Another man fell. Thank heavens for Krantz’s steady hand. She’d be dead already without him on the other end. Except now she was running away from his protective fire as she tried to gain the ridge.
She surprised two more men when she got to the top. They’d tossed down flares and were feeding a belt of ammunition into a .50-caliber machine gun set up behind a pile of volcanic tuff. But someone had rather foolishly parked a pickup truck next to the emplacement. Miriam ran by them as they shouted in alarm. She plucked a grenade from her pocket as she passed, pulled the pin, and rolled it beneath the truck.
The gunner pulled the trigger as he swung the machine gun in her direction. The grenade detonated. Light blinded her night vision, and she pulled the goggles from her eyes. Men screamed in pain. One staggered out, burning.
The van sat next to the bridge to her left and she thought briefly about attacking it straight on, but by now gunfire lit up the night, flashing all around her. And so she sprinted straight through and continued running until she was a good two hundred yards beyond the van by the bridge. She scrambled over a hillock of sagebrush and volcanic rock then threw herself to the ground.
Her heart was pounding, but only from exertion. The fear was gone. It had disappeared the moment she backed out of the tent to see the flashlights and realized people were searching for her. Reflex and training swept everything aside, and those next few minutes had felt as though someone else had taken control of her limbs. A corner of her mind wondered what had terrified her. You couldn’t control a situation like this, you could only act and react and hope you were better prepared, luckier than your enemy. If not, and you fell, it could only be the Lord’s plan at work.
Her hands were numb from cold, and she stuck them under her jacket to her armpits to keep them warm and flexible. Flashlights and headlamps cut across the desert, and the gunfire chattered in all directions. Jeez, how many were there?
Alfred Christianson had been no coward. There must be a small army of bandits out there, at least forty or fifty well-armed men. For reasons she couldn’t fathom they had picked Colorado City to test their abilities.
But they were bandits, that much was clear, not professionals. Trained soldiers wouldn’t make those kinds of mistakes—setting up guns near fuel tanks, spreading forces along an exposed ridge and unguarded to the rear. No night vision in a situation when the ability to see ruled. Two professionals had infiltrated their ranks and they’d turned into a disorganized mob. If only she had an FBI SWAT team.
How long since the initial gunfire? Five minutes? Jacob would be rolling toward the bridge by now. He’d hit it with everything he had, but there were still too many bandits to make it across. And machine guns. Miriam had to spread more chaos. She rose to her feet.
This time she swept south, continuing a hundred yards through the darkness. Lights and flares and gunfire lit up the sky to her left. When she was well beyond the camp, she pulled east until she reached the ravine and followed it at a trot back toward the enemy camp, but this time coming from the opposite direction.
The gunfire continued, mostly across the ravine, but also to the north in the direction she’d attacked on her first approach. The van and two pickup trucks were backing up on the road, and for a moment Miriam thought the enemy meant to abandon the battlefield, but they were lining up to cross the road in the other direction. They must be going after Krantz.
Every twenty or thirty seconds another thump sounded from the sniper rifle. Many of those shots would be killing bandits. They meant to drive over and flush him out.
Miriam squatted to study a machine gun on the near side of the bridge that was firing across to support
the bandits. It fired short bursts, followed by longer squirts. Seen through the green glow of her night vision, tracer bullets cut a gleaming white knife from the muzzle and it moved back and forth across the road under a steady hand. No pauses to reload, so there must be a second man there, feeding fresh belts into the gun.
Unlike the rabble she’d faced earlier, these two knew what they were doing. Deserters from the National Guard maybe, or army vets.
A light flashed to the east, from the direction of Colorado City. That would be Jacob, David, Trost, and the refugees. Miriam’s sense of time was skewed by the flush of battle, and she could hardly believe it had been more than a few minutes since the first gunfire. So many men dead, so many thousands of rounds spewed into the night.
The gunner spotted the caravan and swiveled back to the center of the road to fire down the highway. They were too far away to hit yet, but if Jacob kept rolling forward, he’d soon enter that murderous fire.
Miriam rose to her feet, pistol in hand. Her thumb moved automatically to the safety as she broke into a run. Her other hand removed the second grenade from her jacket.
They’d set up the gun behind another makeshift bunker of volcanic tuff, which formed a wall of hard, jagged black stone. It looked like a mini-caldera, with an opening in the back for entry. Two men squatted at the bottom, one working at the gun, the other peeling out another belt of ammo from a half-empty crate. Hundreds of spent shell casings littered the ground.
Miriam pulled the grenade pin with her teeth and threw on the run with an underhand scoop. Drop it right in the middle of that bunker and blow her enemies to hell. The walls would protect her from shrapnel. The throw felt good when it left her hand, looked good, but it sailed long, bounced off the far side of the bunker, and dropped into the darkness on the other side. The men shouted in alarm. The machine gun swung in her direction.
The grenade detonated. Light flashed, and a fist of air hit her chest. Something burned on her leg, and she dimly realized she’d been hit by a piece of shrapnel. The machine gun muzzle jerked skyward. Miriam kept running and hurdled the wall. She landed in the middle of the bunker, where the two stunned men were regaining their senses.
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