C. Box - Force of Nature

But not the bars. Nate located the white Tahoe parked at an angle on the side of the Wort Hotel. He drove past it, with Haley pointing out the Colorado plates, and kept on going.

“Aren’t you going after them?” she asked, confused.

“Yes.”

“Then where are we going now?”

“I’m taking you to the airport so you can fly back to North Carolina, or wherever.”

She sat back hard in her seat as if slapped, and crossed her arms over her breasts. “I’m not going anywhere,” she said.

“Sure you are,” he said. “Do you need money for the ticket?”

“I need you to shut up and turn around. I was there when these guys destroyed my world. I’ve got to see this through.”

He took a long look at her. In response, she set her jaw and tipped her head back. Her eyes caught and reflected passing lights. Lovely, he thought.

He said, “If you stay with me you’ll either get killed or wind up in prison. This isn’t a lighthearted choice.”

She waved his words away and clamped her hand back under her arm. “But I’ve made it. I’m sticking with you and seeing this through. I want to see the men who did this. I want to see them go down.”

He slowed the Jeep but kept it rolling down the highway. They were clear of the southern town limits, but the lights of the town sparkled in his rearview mirror. The National Elk Refuge was on his right, and he could see the first of the arrivals out on the moonlit pasture.

“If you stay,” he said, “you have to do whatever I tell you. This is my operation, and I’m good at these things. I don’t want or need your advice or your questions.”

She didn’t respond immediately. After a beat, she said, “Okay. But you have to understand I’ve never done anything like this before. Never. Cohen was trying to teach me how to use a handgun, but I didn’t like it.”

“I’m not letting you near a weapon,” Nate said. “And remember to fight against your first instinct.”

“My first instinct?”

“To talk,” he said. “When things get hot, I need you to listen to me and do what I tell you, and not yammer on. Repress that first instinct. Can you do that?”

“Of course,” she said, obviously insulted.

“Good,” he said, slowing down to begin a U-turn back to town, “because I think I like your company.”

As they drove, she shot her arms out and settled back in her seat. “I thought for a brief moment I liked yours,” she said, “then I found out what an asshole you can be.”

The Wort Hotel stood on the corner of Glenwood and Broadway in the heart of Jackson, and it stretched the length of the short block. Constructed of rough stone with eaves and gabled windows, it looked like a regal 1940s matriarchal ghost amidst the gussied-up faux-western storefronts. The Silver Dollar Bar had its entrance on Main, and as Nate and Haley cruised by, they could see men with cowboy hats at the bar and smaller groups of hunters sitting at tables. They didn’t slow down as they drove by.

“Did you see our boys?” she asked.

“No.”

Nate turned on Glenwood and passed the Tahoe and continued on across Deloney and backed into a dark alleyway and turned off his motor. From there, they could look out the front window and see the back bumper of the Tahoe jutting out into the street. There were fewer than ten other cars parked, and plenty of spaces. It was an entirely different feel from the busy summer and winter months.

“How can you be positive it’s the right car, or that the bad guys are inside?”

Nate shrugged. “I can’t.”

“Do you want me to go in the bar and look around?”

“No. They might recognize you. Those bastards were up there in the trees for days looking down at the compound through binoculars or a spotting scope. They might have seen you.”

“Oh,” she said, then hugged herself. “It creeps me out to think they were up there all that time. Just waiting for us to finally open the curtains.”

“Lots of patience,” Nate said. “But no surveillance is perfect. The longer it goes on, the more there’s a chance for a mistake. Like not seeing me come down to the house this morning.”

After ten wordless minutes, he could tell it was killing her not to talk. She squirmed in her seat, and took deep breaths that ended in long sighs.

Finally, she asked, “Have you thought about calling the sheriff again? Telling them you might have found the killers?”

He shook his head.

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want them arrested. I want them dead. But not before I get some intel.”

After ten more minutes, she said, “So are you going to tell me what this is all about? Why those… men… are after everyone?”

“Maybe later,” Nate said, opening his door and swinging out. “One thing at a time.”

“I deserve to know,” she said. “Gabriel and all my friends…”

He looked up sharply. “Remember what I said about talking? I meant it.”

She sat back quickly as if he’d threatened her with a knife.

He said, “Stay here, be quiet, and keep your eyes open. If you see anything hinky, flash the headlights once.”

“Hinky?”

“You’ll know it when you see it.”

Nate rattled around through gear in the small back floor well and came out with an eighteen-inch crowbar and a two-foot length of stiff wire.

“Back in a minute,” he said, and walked across Deloney with the tool pressed to his thigh so it couldn’t be seen in silhouette. Dime-sized snowflakes sifted down through the orbs of streetlights and began to gather like goosedown in the cracks of the wooden walk.

He didn’t need the crowbar to get into the Tahoe, and he was grateful, because he feared setting off an alarm. A car alarm blasting in the quiet night would be a small disaster. He kept low as he cased the vehicle, looking in all the windows but not standing tall enough to be seen over the roof.

The front seat was uncluttered except for a sheaf of folded maps and documents crammed down between the driver’s seat and the console. The backseat was loaded with duffel bags and gear bags. Not unusual in a mountain location if the occupants were mountain climbers or trekkers.

The back compartment had a couple of suitcases, plastic tubs with lids, and a heavy blanket spread across the carpeting from one wheel well to another. The blanket didn’t lie flat, but was rounded down in the center. It was obviously covering something long and bulky.

Nate held the wire up to the light and bent the tip into an L shape. He made another bend about eighteen inches from the L. After checking the walks for passersby-there were none-he glanced down the street to where his Jeep was parked. He couldn’t see Haley in the passenger side because of the shadows, but she was not flashing the lights. Quickly, he stood and jammed the pointed tip of the wire through the rubber seal on the back window. He had to work the wire up and down until the pointed tip found the edge of the glass in the channel. With a shove and twist, the wire poked through the seal on the inside and he could see it on the other side of the glass.

The rubber seal squeaked as he raised the butt end of the wire and shoved it farther into the back compartment. No alarms went off. He pushed it until it reached the rear bend, then farther raised the back end. The L-tip bit down into the fabric, and he pulled the wire from left to right, drawing back the blanket, revealing the black heavy barrel of a rifle. He pulled it back far enough to see the bipod, legs folded, mounted to the undercarriage of the front stock and the blunt snout of the scope.

A Barrett M82A1M. 50 sniper rifle, all thirty pounds’ worth. It shot 690- to 750-grain. 50 caliber Browning machine-gun cartridges, each nearly five inches long. The murder weapon. Just as he’d guessed.