C. Box - Free Fire

“I’m guessing a few hours,” he said. “It would take a while for them to get together and talk this all through. They’re big talkers, according to McCann. They like to have meetings to decide what to do. So they’ll know McCann is gone, and they’ll have his call about Olig and going to the FBI. There have been rumors up here all summer that Olig is alive and hiding out around here; no doubt they’ve heard them too. That’s why we mentioned Olig, so they’d draw their own conclusions. We wanted to get them to come here, but we didn’t want it to be too obvious.”

McCann rolled his eyes, said, “Mmff.”

“He wants to say something,” Portenson said.

Joe reached up and pulled the tape away, much more gently than Nate had done it.

“What if I don’t cooperate?” McCann asked. “There’s a big assumption being made here.”

“Why wouldn’t you?” Portenson said. “This is the best chance you’re going to get. If it all works out, you can cut a deal and testifyagainst your buddies. You might even walk. . again .”

Joe sat back and said nothing. The idea that McCann would once again go free bothered him nearly as much as his plan falling apart. He vowed that it wouldn’t happen but kept his mouth shut. When he glanced up at Nate, he saw Nate studying him as if reading his mind. Nate nodded slightly, as if to say, “McCann won’t walk.”

There had been no discussion about the arrangement Joe had made with Portenson, and Joe found it odd that after the initial acknowledgment, the agents had conspicuously ignored Nate. Again, Joe got an inkling something was going on beneath the surface with McIlvaine and his assault team that might or might not involve Portenson.

“I want some assurances,” McCann said to Portenson in his haughtiest manner. “I want a piece of paper that says if I cooperateto make the arrests, the federal prosecutor will give me immunity.”

Portenson simply stared. Even in the poor light, Joe could see that blood had drained from the agent’s face.

Ashby looked from Portenson to Joe, concerned.

“I can’t get a piece of paper here in time,” Portenson said. “You know that. We’re in the middle of fucking nowhere. It’s Sunday night.”

“Then forget it,” McCann said, sitting back. “No paper, no cooperation.”

Portenson, Ashby, and Joe exchanged looks. To Joe, it seemed as if the other two were in the first stages of panic. McCannwas playing them the way he’d played his partners, played the Park Service, played a jury, played the system.

“No paper, no cooperation,” McCann said again, firmly.

Out of the corner of his eye, Joe saw Nate suddenly rear back and throw a length of wood, which hit the lawyer in the side of his head, making a hollow pock sound. Before McCann could slump off his chair, Nate was all over him, driving him into the hardwood floor.

McCann gasped, and Nate reached down and twisted his ear off, yanking it back so the tendons broke like too-tight guitar strings.

“No cooperation, no fucking ear !” Nate hissed, holding it in front of McCann’s face like a bloody poker chip.

Ashby said, “My God!”

“Fuckin’-A!” McIlvaine said, approvingly.

Blood spurted across the floor, ran down McCann’s neck onto the floor. Nate reached down and grabbed McCann’s other ear, growled, “You want to make another threat, law boy?”

“Please, no! I’ll do what you want! Please, somebody get him off me!”

Joe grimaced, stood, said, “Nate.”

McCann shrieked, “I’ll help! I’ll help! I’ll help!”

As Nate pulled McCann to his feet, he flipped the severed ear onto the table like a playing card he no longer needed. McIlvainepicked it up and inspected it, whistling to himself.

Portenson looked at Joe, raised his eyebrows, shook his head. “We don’t do this kind of crap, Joe.”

Joe winked. “Sure you do.”

One of the assault team was placed in the woods near the highway interchange with a radio so he could call ahead if anyonewas coming. Inside, Joe had watched with interest as McIlvaineefficiently placed the rest of his men throughout the cavernous lobby: two on the second-floor veranda with automaticweapons and a full field of vision of the lobby and door, one in a room on the side of the front desk with a view of the door, another behind the glass in the darkened gift shop, next to the hallway that was the only means of escape.

While the commander checked in with his team, Ashby bandagedMcCann’s head and cleaned up the blood on his face and neck. McCann looked terrified and never took his eyes off Nate, who prowled around the fireplace like a big cat.

“Is this the way you do things in Wyoming?” Ashby asked Joe.

“When Nate’s helping me, it’s the way we do things,” Joe said. “This wasn’t his first ear.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask you about that guy.”

Joe shook his head, said, “Don’t.”

With the inn set up for an ambush, Joe and Nate prepared to go find Bob Olig. They strapped headlamps on their heads and Portenson handed Joe a radio.

“We’ll call you the second we see a vehicle coming,” Portensonsaid, “although you’ll probably hear it from the chatter. We want you back as soon as you hear because we need you to help set the trap.”

Joe nodded, clipped the radio to his jacket breast pocket, and put the earpiece in.

As they climbed the stairs into the absolute darkness of the inn, Joe could hear the assault team checking in with one another.It was pure business, he noted. He wondered again what they’d been discussing among themselves earlier.

Nate led joe up set after set of ancient, twisted knotty pine staircases into the upper reaches of the inn. The only light as they climbed was from Nate’s bobbing headlamp and his own. It got slightly warmer as they rose, but never warm enough that their breath didn’t escape in clouds of condensation. They stepped over or ducked under the chain barriers on each floor to prevent visitors from using the staircases. Joe didn’t like the way the old wooden steps creaked, and he felt a wave of sweat break over him when one of the steps cracked sharply under his boot but didn’t give way.

They paused to rest on the top landing. The ancient weather-stainedboards of the ceiling were right above them. Joe looked around by rotating his head so his headlamp would throw light. At the end of the landing to their left was one of the bizarre Old Faithful crow’s nests that extended perilously over the expanse of the lobby. It looked rickety and diabolical, something designedin a fever dream. He took a step toward the crow’s nest, felt the planks of the walkway sag, and stepped back. Below them, what seemed like a mile down, was the muted orange light from the fireplace. The combination of fear, darkness, and height made Joe swoon and lose his balance, and he bumped into Nate.

“Careful,” Nate cautioned.

Joe grunted. He didn’t realize he had a fear of heights and had never experienced this feeling before.

To their right was a heavily varnished door with a painted sign on it reading NO ENTRANCE.

Nate said, “Look.” The orb of his headlamp illuminated the rusted steel doorknob and lock. The lock looked rusted shut and wouldn’t give when Nate gently rattled it.

“I wonder where we can get a key,” Joe said. “Do you want me to call down to see if Ashby has one?”

Nate shook his head, examining the lock more closely. He ran his finger down the lock plate.

“See these gouges?” Nate whispered. “They’re new.”

Joe leaned over and could see them, a series of horizontal scratches that revealed bare metal. “Try this,” Joe said, handing Nate his pocketknife.