Michael McGarity - Mexican Hat

"He said Steve Lujan had been murdered, and that he knew I had talked to you. He wanted to know about our conversation, and I told him. I didn't know what else to do."

"You did the right thing," Kerney said.

"It didn't feel like the right thing," Alan countered.

Stiles nodded in the direction of the switchback trail that led to the Double Zero headquarters. The ranch sat on a flattop mesa overlooking a confusion of deep gorges and sheer cliffs that slashed north and south.

"Any activity up above?"

"A plane flew in a little while ago," Begay answered.

"It's still there."

"Did you recognize it?" Kerney asked.

Begay shook his head.

"I just heard it. What are you guys doing up here?"

Kerney remounted.

"Stay put, Alan," he ordered.

"More cop stuff?"

"Just stay put," Kerney replied genially.

Begay grinned and snapped off an exaggerated salute.

"Whatever you say."

The edge of the mesa, thick with pinon and juniper trees, gradually opened onto a meadow that stopped at a dirt landing strip. A silver twin-engine Beechcraft was parked next to a pickup truck. Behind the plane, built on a rock outcropping that served as the foundation to the building, was a long stone house. A split-log staircase curved over the rocks and up to the porch. Old-growth pine trees kept the house in deep shade. The place had a rustic, turn-of-the-century feel to it.

They stayed in the trees out of sight watching two men unload crates from the plane and carry them to the truck.

"What do you think?" Jim asked.

"Is either one of them your man?"

"Can't tell from this distance. Let's go see. We'll stay in the trees and work our way around back."

They were halfway to the ranch house when the distant sound of choppers cut the silence. Kerney and Stiles looked up at an empty sky and back at the Beechcraft. The two men unloading cargo started scrambling-one to the truck, the other to the plane.

A third man came running out of the house and swung himself into the bed of the truck as it started to roll. The Beechcraft's engine caught and the plane turned to taxi down the runway.

Out of the sun, three assault helicopters, all in a line, popped over the east ridge of the mesa, moving at over a hundred miles an hour. The choppers swung in an orbit over the field, one dropping to block the pickup that was running for the cover of the trees. As the chopper touched down, a door gunner fired a burst in front of the truck. Eight men, four from each side, all in black SWAT uniforms, hit the ground running. It was no contest. The team swarmed the vehicle without firing a shot.

A second chopper landed almost simultaneously, cutting off the Beechcraft. Eight more men piled out.

Four surrounded the plane, pulled the pilot from the cockpit, and put him in a spread-eagle position on the ground. The remainder of the squad moved in on the house.

The last chopper circled and made a complete Jass over the mesa. The pilot spotted Kerney and tiles, veered away, and landed out of rifle range.

Eight more men spilled out and scampered into the trees.

"Nicely done," Kerney said with admiration in his voice.

"Think we should surrender?" Stiles asked.

"That's a good idea. Let's make it easy for them."

Kerney moved his horse into the open, raised his hands, and clasped them behind his head. Jim followed suit, but couldn't get his left arm above the shoulder, so he surrendered with one hand raised.

A short burst of automatic-weapon fire cut into the treetops at the edge of the mesa. Pine cones and needles rained down on Alan Begay, who stepped into view with both arms in the air as high as he could get them.

"I guess Alan wanted to surrender too," Jim said.

"No sense letting us have all the fun."

"I like a man who can follow orders," Kerney noted.

A man got out of the third chopper and scanned Kerney, Jim, and Alan with binoculars before talking into a hand-held radio.

The two guys who came out of the woods behind Kerney and Stiles wore Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms shield patches on their SWAT uniforms.

They got Kerney and Stiles dismounted, disarmed, and handcuffed before walking them across the meadow to the man with the binoculars. Another team followed behind with Alan.

The slightly stoop-shouldered man had an FBI shield patch on his SWAT jacket and an angry expression on his face which Kerney had seen before.

"You're a meddlesome son of a bitch," Charlie Perry said to Kerney.

"Let me guess, you're really not Ranger Rick," Jim remarked.

Perry ignored Stiles.

"What the hell are you doing here, Kerney?"

"Looking for Leon Spence," Kerney answered.

Spence was stretched out facedown, hands cuffed at the small of his back, with an M-16 muzzle pointed at the nape of his neck.

"I see you found him for me," Kerney added.

"What's Spence to you?" Charlie demanded.

"A murderer," Kerney replied.

"Don't play games with me, Kerney. I haven't got the time."

"I'm serious. Spence whacked Steve Lujan."

Perry laughed.

"If you can prove that, I'll personally kiss your ass."

"That won't be necessary. An explanation of what's going on here will do nicely," Kerney countered.

"Do we have a deal?"

Perry nodded curtly.

Kerney turned his back to Perry and waited for him to remove the handcuffs. Hands free, Kerney took the small tape recorder from his shirt pocket and played it for Perry. Voices carry in the thin night air, and even the noise of the car engine didn't mask the conversation between Spence and Lujan, and the sounds of the two gunshots. Kerney popped out the tape and tossed it to Charlie.

Spence stared at Kerney with one eye, his cheek ground in the gravel of the landing strip. He tried to lift up his head and spit at Kerney. The man with the M-16 poked Spence with the rifle to keep him still.

"I'm sure your technical people can do a voiceprint analysis and match it to Spence," Kerney said.

"Plus, I'll testify as your star witness. I saw the whole thing go down."

"That sure sounds like Leon," Charlie said as he pocketed the tape.

"You stay here," he ordered Alan Begay.

"Kerney and Stiles, come with me." He uncuffed Stiles, turned away, and walked toward the lodge.

As they moved toward the lodge, two large trucks | lumbered into view and turned in the direction of a wooden barn a hundred yards from the house. Some of Perry's team were hauling crates outside and stacking them in front of the open barn door.

The living room of the ranch house, a wide, deep room with exposed rock walls and an oak floor, was richly furnished. Two tan matching Italian leather couches sat on either side of a fireplace which could easily take an eight-foot log. Scattered over the floor were expensive Navajo rugs. The mantel above the fireplace, a good six feet off the ground, displayed a collection of Zuni pots. An antique side table held a Remington bronze that looked authentic.

Kerney and Jim Stiles sat together on the couch that faced the front windows of the room. High up on the wall were mounted heads of elk, deer, and antelope overlooking the room. Charlie Perry sat on the other couch. Behind him was a floor lamp made of deer horns. A bear pelt, complete with head and paws, hung on the wall next to the fireplace.

"Let's have it," Kerney said to Perry.

Charlie pushed his sandy hair up from his forehead and stretched out his legs.

"About three years ago the bureau infiltrated the Michigan Militia.

Sanderson, the guy who owns the Double Zero, a rich right-wing zealot from Detroit who made his money in insurance, stepped in and helped bankroll the organization. There was nothing illegal about it, but it made Sanderson worth watching.

"He put a hundred thousand dollars on the table and we kept waiting to see how the money would be used. Finally, the money was filtered to a national committee charged with reorganizing state and local militia groups into regional military districts. We have a mole serving on the committee. There are six regional districts already operating. The committee decided to use Sanderson's funds to finance a special project.