C. Box - Nowhere to Run

“Jesus,” Farkus whispered, slowing his pickup to a stop twenty yards from the site.

Rifle barrels poked out from piles of gear on the forest floor. A quick glance at the rifles revealed them to be automatic assault-type weapons with long magazines, the kind known to Farkus as “black rifles.” Cases of electronic equipment were stacked, along with duffel bags. Farkus never spent much time on horseback but he knew a major expedition when he saw it. He craned his head out the window to try to catch a glimpse of the license plates on either the pickup or trailer, but because of the angle of the vehicle and the trees in the way, he couldn’t see either.

He didn’t like the looks of what he’d stumbled upon. These men didn’t belong, and Farkus didn’t want to find out why they were there. The presence of these men in the trees was jarring and unnatural. Cowboys, fishermen, campers, hikers, even bow hunters-sure. But these men didn’t jibe with a bucolic late-summer afternoon.

The tall red-haired man in black approached Farkus with his hand on the grip of his pistol, like a cop. The others fell in behind him at first, but fanned out, taking a step to the side with every two or three steps toward Farkus. Spreading out, making it impossible for him to keep track of them all at once.

“Can I help you with something?” the redhead asked in a way that belied the actual words.

“I was about to ask you the same thing,” Farkus said, voice cracking. “You fellas seem to be in my elk camp.” Then he quickly added, “Not that there’s any problem with that.”

“Your elk camp?” the man said, not really asking like he wanted to know more but instead to buy time while his compatriots took positions on all sides of the pickup.

Said Farkus, “Never mind. I’m sure you’ll be gone by the season opener. So I’ll just be going now.”

Before he could jam his truck into reverse and hightail it out of there, his rearview mirror filled with the chrome grille of a black SUV with smoked windows.

“Hey,” Farkus said, to nobody who cared.

The SUV eased up so closely behind him that he felt the bumpers make contact.

Farkus saw the red-haired man turn to whoever was driving the black SUV and arch his eyebrows. Like awaiting the word. In the rearview, Farkus could see a single occupant in the SUV, but he couldn’t make him out too well. He saw the driver nod once.

Instantly, the red-haired man in the dark uniform mouthed, “Get him.”

The driver stayed behind the wheel while the men in position broke and streaked directly at him from all four directions. The lead one, the redhead, had drawn his pistol and held it flat along his thigh as he ran.

Suddenly, the open driver’s window was blocked by the body of the linebacker. He’d leaped on the running board and was reaching through the open window into the cab for the wheel. Farkus got a close-up view of a veiny bare hand as it shot across his body and grasped the steering wheel. The man’s other hand grasped the shifter and shoved it into park.

Farkus said, “Jesus, you guys!”

The passenger door flew open and the redhead launched himself inside the cab, scattering empty beer bottles across the bench seat and to the floor. Farkus felt a sharp pain as a high-topped fatigue boot kicked his leg away from the accelerator and brake pedals. The man plucked the keys out of the ignition and palmed them.

Farkus felt the springs of his truck rock. He looked up. In his rearview mirror, the mustached man in camo climbed into the bed of his pickup directly behind him with his pistol drawn.

A cold O from the muzzle of a pistol pressed into his temple from the linebacker on the left. He squirmed as the redhead in the cab jacked a cartridge into his handgun and shoved it into Farkus’s rib cage. The pale man in camo now stood directly in front of his pickup, aiming a scoped AR-15 at his face.

Farkus thought, No one is ever going to believe this in the Dixon Club bar.

Farkus got out of his pickup at gunpoint. The red-haired man told him to put both hands on the hood of his truck and spread his legs. He was patted down by the black-clad linebacker, who found and pocketed his Leatherman tool and Buck knife. The sharp-featured camo man rooted through the cab of his pickup and found his Charter Arms 9mm in the glove box.

The man who’d been driving the SUV left it parked behind the pickup, and Farkus realized with a start that he knew him. It was that state guy, McCue. What was he doing here? He stood back with his hands in his pockets, watching silently. He wore a rumpled and ill-fitting suit, a pair of reading glasses dangled from a chain around his neck, and he looked tired.

“What’s this?” the camo asked, holding the gun up.

“My handgun. You know, for snakes.”

“Snakes?” The man laughed.

“I always have it with me. Everyone is armed around here. This is Wyoming, boys.”

The red-haired man in black said, “We’re going to cuff you to your vehicle until we get back.”

Farkus said, “How about you guys just let me go about my business and I swear I won’t say a word? I don’t know who you are or why you’re up here in the first place. I can keep a secret. Ask my wife if you don’t believe me,” he said, hoping like hell they’d never take him up on that offer.

The red-haired man said, “What makes you think you’ve got a choice in the matter?” He turned and said, “Got a second, Mr. McCue?” To Farkus, “Don’t move a muscle.”

“Okay,” Farkus said. Then pleading to McCue: “Aren’t you supposed to be with the state cops? Shouldn’t you be helping me here?”

McCue rolled his eyes, dismissing the notion. Farkus felt the floor he thought he was standing on drop away and, with it, his stomach.

But as the two men walked out of earshot, Farkus rotated his head slightly so he could see them out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t have to hear them to get the gist of what they were discussing: him . The “cuffing him to his vehicle” statement was a feint. It didn’t pass the smell test. He’d obviously stumbled onto something he wasn’t supposed to see. Farkus felt a shiver form in his belly and roll through him. McCue gestured toward the trees beyond the camp. The red-haired man shook his head and squinted, looking off into the woods as if they’d provide the answer.

Farkus knew his life rested on the decision McCue would make. He wondered how-and if-he could influence that decision. While he searched for an angle-Farkus’s life was an endless procession of angle location-he craned his neck around farther and sneaked a look at the back of their vehicle and the horse trailer. Michigan plates. Vehicles and visitors from that state weren’t unusual in the mountains during hunting season. But this wasn’t hunting season.

“Damn,” he said. “You boys came a long way. Where you from in Michigan?”

They didn’t answer him.

But he had his angle. He said, “Boys, I don’t know what you’re doing here, but it’s obvious you’re about to head off into the mountains to find something or somebody. I know these mountains. I grew up here and I’ve guided hunters in this area every fall for twenty-five years, and let me tell you something: it’s easy to get lost up here.”

Farkus felt like whooping when McCue turned to him, actually listening and not looking at him as if measuring his body for a coffin.

Farkus said, “These mountains are a series of drainages. The canyons look amazingly similar to each other when you’re in them. People get lost all the time because they think they’re walking along Cottonwood Creek when it’s actually Bandit Creek or Elkhair Creek or No Name Creek.”

He nodded toward the piles of equipment in the camp, and the red-haired man followed his gaze. Farkus said, “Even with a GPS it’s easy to get rimrocked or turned around. You know what I’m saying here. I can help you find what it is you’re looking for. Trust me on this.”