C. Box - Force of Nature

She didn’t react other than to continue staring ahead. But the fact that she didn’t lash back told him everything he needed to know.

“You don’t have to explain,” he said. “I can figure it out. He recruited you for this operation with the story about letting bin Laden get away. Only he reversed the players and the motivation. You don’t know how many others are on the team, and you don’t know who they are or what they’ve been told. And you’ve spent the last few hours trying to reconcile what he told you against what you’ve seen and heard yourself.”

He said, “I think you’ve got a good heart, Haley. I think your reaction to what happened to Cohen and Oscar was genuine. And I sure as hell know your passion back there with me felt real.”

Her mouth trembled, and her eyes blinked too fast.

“You’ll have plenty of opportunities ahead to take me out,” Nate said. “And if you choose, you can probably find a way to warn Nemecek I’m coming for him. I’m not going to stop you or kill you now. I’ll let fate take its course.”

In a barely audible whisper, she asked, “Why?”

“Because I think you’ll do the right thing.”

She said, “If you’re going to try to kill the king, you’d better kill the king.”

He didn’t ask which king.

The Pickett family sat in a line on uncomfortable red plastic scoop chairs in the predawn at Saddlestring Municipal Airport as the tiny cinder-block structure staggered to life. Their luggage, an assortment of mismatched suitcases and duffel bags, had been checked through by the lone ticket agent, a pierced dark-haired stocky woman of indeterminate age who had communicated via a series of grunts, and who had gone outside the double doors for a cigarette the minute she’d completed grunting as she tossed the bags on a cart.

Joe turned in his chair and watched her out there, the tiny red cherry of her cigarette bobbing in the darkness, until she returned and sulked back to her counter to check the manifest. He’d caught a glimpse of it as they checked in: only five passengers were listed. The Picketts and a local rancher named Donald M. Jones, also known as Rowdy. Rowdy Jones hadn’t checked in yet.

Joe wore civilian gear and his battered hat. No uniform shirt, holster, or equipment belt. He felt lighter than air and vulnerable without his weapons and gear and sense of purpose.

Joe hadn’t slept since he’d returned from following Nemecek into the mountains, and his sleep deprivation heightened his sense of despair. His thoughts were like too many large fish in a small tank-writhing and intertwining over one another, depleting the oxygen available, in search of some kind of blue-water relief.

Three locals dead. Bad Bob and Pam Kelly-missing. Nate gone, his only communication a cryptic warning to get his family out. Nemecek, planning his next move. Brueggemann’s betrayal. Snow, elk hunters, The Looming Tower.

He thought about the community he was leaving, the residents bunkered in their homes. And he felt like a coward.

Marybeth looked over to Joe and smiled in a worried way. He knew she wouldn’t be comfortable until they were all on the airplane and Sheridan had checked in with them. It was still an hour or two before Chuck Coon could get over the summit from Cheyenne to Laramie, and likely longer before Sheridan would awake and turn on her phone. Nevertheless, Joe reached out and patted his wife on her knee to reassure her, then stood up and paced behind the row of chairs. He couldn’t sit still until they were all on the plane, either, he thought. His stomach churned and he had the sour taste of acid in his mouth.

They’d left Marybeth’s van in long-term parking on the side of the terminal. There were only two other vehicles there, both dusted with snow-travelers who’d not yet returned. He wondered about asking Mike Reed to move the van somewhere after they’d departed, so Nemecek or one of his crew wouldn’t spot it and know they’d flown away.

“Are you going to sit down?” Marybeth asked him.

“Can’t,” he said, wandering toward a display case on the wall that boasted faded photos of famous people who had once used the local airport, including Queen Elizabeth twenty years before to visit relatives and buy locally made saddles, and former vice president Dick Cheney en route to a wilderness fly-fishing trip. He returned to the counter and waited for the agent to look up from her magazine.

“What do you need?” she asked. He felt his anger rise from her manner.

“Just wondering who has access to the passenger lists,” he said.

She shook her head, confused.

“Who keeps track of who flies in and out?”

“I do.”

“I mean generally,” he said, letting impatience creep into his voice. “Can anyone walk up and ask who flew out this morning?”

“Nobody ever has,” she said.

He took a deep breath. “What I’m asking, ma’am, is what if someone did?”

“Nobody ever has. I just told you that.”

“But if they did,” he said, his voice rising, “what would you do?”

She shrugged. She looked over at his family, assessing them. He followed her gaze. Marybeth sat primly with her hands in her lap. Lucy was slumped to the side, her chin in her hand. April slouched back with earbuds plugged into her iPod.

She said, “I don’t think it’s public information, sir. It’s nobody’s business.”

He glared at her. “Let’s keep it that way.”

She flinched and rolled her eyes in a whatever gesture. Then she looked over his shoulder and said, “I’ll need to get you to step away from the counter, sir. The other passenger has arrived.”

Joe looked over his shoulder to see Rowdy Jones enter the terminal in full western dress: boots, pressed Wranglers, massive silver rodeo buckle, string tie, fine 30X gray Stetson. He pulled a large rolling leather suitcase behind him that had been personalized with his brand burned into both sides.

“Rowdy,” Joe said as a greeting, stepping aside.

“Morning, Joe,” the rancher said, looking over the Picketts. “Taking everyone on a family vacation?”

“Kind of,” Joe said.

“Game warden leaving during elk season,” Rowdy said, grinning. “That’ll get around.”

Joe continued to pace. The eastern sky was lighting up into early-dawn cream. Snow crystals hung sparkling in the air. The sky looked as if it would clear soon. He looked at his watch, then his phone.

Joe listened halfheartedly as April mocked Lucy by saying, “I’ll miss my precious play rehearsal, boo-hoo.”

“April, please,” Marybeth said.

Joe looked out onto the road, looking for a dark Audi crossover.

Rowdy Jones lowered himself in a chair that faced Marybeth. Rowdy commented-loudly-as white-clad Transportation Security Administration employees filed in through the doors, headed for their screening station set up in front of a small departure area.

“Five of the knuckleheads!” Rowdy said, evincing a scowl from two of the agents as they passed by. “Count ’em. Five of ’em. One per passenger. Boy, I sure feel safe now, don’t you? And to think it’s my tax money that’s paying them. And from what I hear, they’ve never caught a damned terrorist. Not one!”

One of the TSA agents paused to glare menacingly at Rowdy.

Marybeth looked to Joe like she’d rather be anywhere than where she was.

Another dark fish was added to Joe’s small tank. This one represented what might have been, back in 1999, if cruise missiles would have been launched to take out the targets who later planned and approved 9/11. Would the world be better? Would those five TSA agents even exist? Would TSA exist? Would the country still be somewhat safe and innocent and intact?