C. Box - Free Fire

“Tell him to lower the gun,” Ashby said. “I’ll listen.”

“You can tell him,” Joe said, able to breathe again. “He speaks English, you know.”

When he put Lars’s truck in gear and plowed forward in the untracked snow, Joe had trouble getting the image of Ashby’s face out of his mind from a few minutes before, when the ranger sat in the truck and listened to the tape. It was the stricken face of betrayal, and what he heard caused Ashby to slump against the door as if all the fight had been punched out of him.

“I know how you feel,” Joe said.

“Langston doesn’t surprise me as much as I would have thought,” Ashby said. “But Layborn. .”

“Really?” Joe asked, surprised.

“I thought Layborn, despite his faults, was a true believer in the Park Service, in our mission here,” Ashby said. “I thought he was loyal to me.”

“Sorry,” Joe said, meaning it. “Why is it some bureaucrats always think they deserve more?”

Ashby shook his head. “I don’t,” he said.

Nate said, “That’s why you’ll always be poor like Joe. And I say that with compassion.”

Ashby still had the look on his face when he got out and trudged back to his Explorer to follow Joe, Nate, and McCann to the Old Faithful Inn.

“Do you think this plan is going to work?” Nate asked Joe as they picked up speed again and steered straight into the maw of the storm.

“Maybe not,” Joe said truthfully. “A lot of things could go wrong. And I didn’t count on this weather.”

Nate jerked a thumb at McCann. “Do you think they want him bad enough to follow us?”

Joe said, “I do. He’s their loose cannon, and they can’t afford to let him follow up on his threat to talk. Especially if they think he’s somehow hooked up with Bob Olig, who can corroborate much of his story.”

“That’s a hell of a wild card to play, isn’t it?” Nate said, referringto Olig. “We don’t even know for sure if he exists.”

“I’m trusting your instincts,” Joe said.

“Remind me not to play poker with you, Joe,” Nate said, grinning.

Joe shook his head. “You might want to rethink that. Both Sheridan and Marybeth always clean me out.”

Joe was thankful for the high clearance of Lars’s pickup by the time they took the turnoff to Old Faithful. It was early afternoon, completely socked in, ten to twelve inches of snow already on the ground, the lodgepole pine hillsideslooking smoky and vague in the falling snow. When they cleared the rise they could see the Old Faithful Inn below-a boxy, hulking, isolated smudge on the basin floor.

His growing fear that Portenson didn’t or couldn’t make it due to either bureaucracy or the weather was relieved instantly when Nate pointed out the single Suburban in the parking lot with U.S. Government plates. The agents-Joe counted six- huddled under the portico of the inn near the massive front door. Joe pulled up under the overhang as if he were a bus disgorging tourists. Portenson was there, nervously inhaling a cigarette as if trying to suck it dry. Butts littered the concrete near his feet. His team of five wore camouflage clothing with black Kevlar helmetsand vests, and looked competent and alert. Cases and duffelbags of weapons and equipment were stacked against the building. Two of the assault squad were smoking cigarettes and squinting through the smoke at Nate Romanowski, as if sizing up an adversary. Nate nodded at them without blinking as Joe shut off the motor of the truck.

“Glad you made it,” Joe said to Portenson, getting out. “I’m not sure that camo stuff will work all that well in the snow, though. You guys look like a bunch of bushes.”

Portenson was instantly around the truck in front of him, his face red. “Do you realize what will happen to me if this doesn’t work out? I put my career on the line for you and brought these men up here without authorization. This kind of operation requiressign-offs all the way to the director of Homeland Securityhimself.”

Joe nodded. “We couldn’t risk that. If it went federal up the chain of command, somebody might tip off Langston, since you’re all in the same happy family.”

“We are not,” Portenson said hotly.

“Sure you are,” Joe said.

Ashby had pulled up behind Joe and was watching the exchangeclosely.

Joe asked Portenson to send one of his men to drive the Suburbanup and hide it behind the inn, out of sight. He asked Ashby to do the same with his Explorer.

“They won’t come in if they get any kind of indication that anyone is here besides us and Clay McCann,” Joe said.

“How do we get in?” Portenson asked, nodding toward the massive front door of the inn.

“I have a key,” Ashby said, handing it to Joe.

“Will you leave your Kevlar vests?” Joe asked Ashby.

Inside, it was dark except for the tiny red glow of dots from the emergency backup system mounted high on the walls. Normally, Joe found the lobby of the inn impressive, but with the lights out and the snow covering up any light leaks, it was oddly intimidating. As the men entered, with every footstep echoing, Joe felt as if he were desecrating a cathedral. All the windows had been boarded up for the winter, and the temperaturewas colder inside than outside. There was no power or water.The building was completely winterized.

Nate went about starting a fire, rolling logs the length of small cars into the massive stone fireplace. Within twenty minutes, the fire threw sheets of orange light on the walls and started to warm the place. The FBI assault team unpacked their weapons and equipment using the light from the fire and from headlamps they’d brought. Several of them scrambled when a deep-throated whoosh ing sound seemed to shake the walls, and Joe said, “It’s just Old Faithful erupting outside.”

Joe noticed how the assault team spoke to one another in whispered voices or via radio mikes strapped to their shoulders, even when they were all in the same room. He got the distinct feeling that despite Portenson’s overall command of the operation,these men were in their own tight universe. The squad commander, a beefy and intense man with a breast patch that read “McIlvaine,” kept up a low monologue with his men while flashing quick, suspicious looks at Nate, Joe, and Portenson.

After pulling a dust sheet off a table, Joe sat down at it with Portenson, Ashby, and McIlvaine. McCann, still bound and gagged, was seated across from Portenson. Nate hovered nearby, pretending to tend the fire. He fed it with wood the length and girth of rolled-up Sunday newspapers.

As the fire crackled and the snow fell outside, Joe outlined his plan to Portenson and played back sections of the recording of McCann that implicated Langston, Ward, and Layborn. While he listened, Portenson rubbed his hands together. At first, Joe thought the agent was warming them. Then he realized Portenson was growing more excited the more he heard, apparentlyconfirming that the case was solid after all and soon he would be making headlines, receiving commendations, and requestinga transfer to Hawaii. McIlvaine, meanwhile, shook his head. The assault commander smiled wolfishly, obviously not surprised by the corruption of his brethren. McCann looked bored as he heard his own words played back.

“So we can arrest them in one fell swoop,” Portenson said, nodding. “That’s the part I like. We’ve got video and audio equipment with us, so we’ll get it all down.”

“I assume they’ll all arrive together,” Joe said, ignoring the camera crew comment.

“If they can get here at all,” McIlvaine said. “The weather’s gotten worse, not better.”

“What kind of lead do you think we’ve got on them?” Portenson asked Joe.