C. Box - Free Fire

“Do you know how far the conspiracy goes within the Park Service?” Joe asked.

“No. But Cutler was starting to think it went pretty high. At least to the chief ranger.”

“Bingo,” Joe said.

“And of course Layborn is involved, that prick. He spent way too much time asking about me around here after my friends got killed. He has informants, but luckily none of them knew to give me away. But I’ll tell you, I spent a lot of sleepless nights in that room back there.”

“Was this before or after your dates with Scarlett Johansson?” Nate asked.

“Hey,” Olig said, “that’s cruel.”

“I’m a cruel guy,” Nate said.

“So here’s what we need you to do,” Joe said, interrupting.

They were nearly to the lobby when Joe heard the radio crackle on his jacket. He plucked it off and turned up the volumeslightly.

“I see someone coming,” the FBI ranger stationed on the road said. “They’re driving one of those snow coach things they use in the winter up here. ETA is ten to fifteen minutes.”

“Joe, did you hear that?” Portenson asked from somewhere.

“Got it.”

“We need you down here now.” His voice sounded shaky.

“On our way,” Joe said. “And we’ve got Bob Olig with us. He’s agreed to help.”

“Jesus Christ,” Portenson said.

In the darkness of the gift shop adjacent to the lobby, Joe crouched down behind shelves of stuffed bears and snow globes and watched through the window as the snow coach descended the hill from the highway interchange toward the Old Faithful Inn. The boxy vehicle ran on steel tracks and was lit up with red running lights. Its headlights illuminated the swirling snow in front of it. Soon, he could hear the motor and clanking of the tracks. He got a close glimpse of it as the snow coach maneuvered under the overhang, but he couldn’t tell how many people were inside. While he doubted there was enough snow accumulation outside to make the snow coach essential, he guessed they had erred on the side of caution when they chose to bring it.

Portenson, Nate, Ashby, Olig, and McCann also huddled in the gift shop. One of McIlvaine’s assault team crouched behind the front counter, watching the black-and-white video monitor, switching smoothly between cameras one, two, and three. Joe couldn’t see the snipers behind the railing on the second level, but he knew they were there. McIlvaine checked in with each of them, and they either whispered or clicked a response on their radios.

Joe thought, The bad guys don’t have a chance in hell to get out of this one.

He looked over to see Olig glaring at McCann with naked hatred. McCann seemed oblivious to it. He looked bulky and nonthreatening in his parka. They’d both been briefed; both had agreed to perform their roles.

As if finally feeling the intensity of Olig’s death stare, McCannturned to him, asked, “You must be Bob Olig.”

“The only one you didn’t kill that day,” Olig said.

McCann shrugged. “It wasn’t anything personal.”

Olig started to reach for McCann but was stopped by Ashby. “Later,” Ashby said.

Portenson said to McCann, “Don’t fuck this up or I’ll do more than rip your ear off.”

Again, McCann shrugged. Joe watched him carefully. If anything, McCann looked calm, which unnerved Joe. Was the lawyer planning something, trying once again to stay ahead of everyone around him?

McIlvaine’s voice came over the radio: “Everybody ready? My guy in the woods says they’re getting out of the vehicle. He counts four men.”

McCann smiled at Olig. “Showtime,” he said.

With that, the lawyer sauntered across the lobby toward the blazing fireplace. Olig walked stiff-legged behind him. Joe guessed Olig was scared out of his mind, as Joe would be in the same circumstances.

The lawyer turned one of the big rocking chairs around and sat down, his back to the fire, framed by it. Olig stood nervouslyoff to the side where, if necessary, he could duck and hide behind a stone column.

Joe felt his heart race and tried to keep his breathing steady. He flicked his eyes from the monitor to the lobby outside the window, as if trying to decide whether to watch what was about to happen for real or on TV.

The heavy front door squeaked as it opened a few inches. A curl of snow blew in.

“Come on in,” McCann called. “It’s warmer in here.”

The brain trust of EnerDyne Corporation entered the Old Faithful Inn.

Layborn was first, slipping through the door rapidly and flatteninghimself against the wall near the door, weapon drawn and aimed at McCann with two hands. The ranger flicked his eyes around the room, trying to see if anyone else was there. As planned, he could see no one else in the dark.

“Clear,” Layborn barked. James Langston, Layton Barron, and Chuck Ward followed. All wore heavy winter suits. All glanced around suspiciously. When Langston recognized Bob Olig standing near the fireplace, he cursed.

“Yeah,” Olig said, “I’m still here.”

“So,” McCann said, “did you finally bring my money?”

Barron said yes at the exact same time Ward said no. Joe cringed at their lack of coordination.

“What was that?” McCann said.

“We brought it,” Barron lied, as Ward deferred. “Does this mean you haven’t contacted the FBI?”

“Oh, I contacted them,” McCann said. “They’re on their way. I was hoping we could come to terms before they get here.”

The FBI microphones were good, Joe thought. These guys were good at this kind of technical stuff. He could even hear Langston mumble to Ward out of McCann’s earshot, “Not in this storm they aren’t.”

“It can all still work, gentlemen,” McCann said cheerfully. “It’s not too late to come to terms.”

“What do you mean?” Ward asked. Ward looked anxious, scared, looking for a way out, something he could grasp. Joe stared at him with morbid fascination. It seemed so odd to see him in this light.

“You pay me what you owe me and let me run the operation from here on out,” McCann said. “You guys have really screwed everything up with your endless plotting and meetings. You’re like the worst kind of mid-level managers trying to launch some crappy brand of soap. You overthink everything and make poor decisions, like isolating me. I’m your best asset, and always have been. That you couldn’t see that shows you’re a bunch of amateurs, that you’re out of your league in a game played for keeps. None of you has ever faced a jury or a judge when it’s just you, naked, standing there. None of you knows how to think on your feet.”

The four of them were momentarily entranced by him. Joe was too. McCann had decided to take this in another direction.

“That bastard,” Portenson whispered. “He’s out of control.”

In the lobby, whorls of fire roiling behind him, McCann said, “If we’re going to get all of this behind us and make a lot of money, which is all I’ve ever cared about and the only reason I associated with dolts like you, I need you idiots to shut up, quit having meetings, and listen to me. We’re going to do things differently,which means smarter. For once.”

He paused to let his words sink in. Joe tried to read the four men both through the glass and on the monitor. Langston looked angry, defensive, struggling with his first impulse to pull rank and ream someone out. Barron tried mightily to distance himself from Langston without physically moving, and appearedready to concede. Ward stared at the floor, confused and resigned to the bad choice he’d made. Layborn sneered at Mc-Cann’s words.

“He’s fucking us,” Portenson moaned.

“Hold on,” Joe said, “I think he knows where he’s going.”