C. Box - Force of Nature

“Maybe,” Nate said. “How’s the four-wheel drive?”

“Great!” Hinderaker said. “Probably never been used.”

Nate paused, not blinking. He knew he was making Hinderaker uncomfortable.

“Mind if I try it out?” Nate asked in a whisper.

Hinderaker started to object. No problem taking it for a test drive, he said. No problem at all. But company rules required a salesman to go along, and Hinderaker was on the lot all alone until his salesmen showed up at eight…

Nate said, “There’s my Jeep. I’ll leave it here as collateral with the keys in it. Registration and pink slip are in the glove box.”

Hinderaker sighed.

By the time Nate walked to the Tahoe, out of Hinderaker’s sight, Haley had transferred the gear and weapons from the Jeep.

As they cleared Saddlestring once again en route to Crazy Woman Creek in the Bighorns, Haley said, “White Tahoe. Got it. That’s what they all drive.”

Two miles past the Bighorn National Forest sign, Nate gritted his teeth and spoke through them.

“There’s this condition elite falcons get when all they can think about is to fly, fuck, and fight. It’s called yarak…”

While Joe pulled on his uniform in the darkened bedroom, he fought the growing feeling of dread that seemed to fill his empty house. It was odd being there without Marybeth and the girls, and he questioned his decision to stay, although not the reason for it. But there were so many loose threads, so many possible scenarios…

He retrieved his weapons from his gun safe-two long rifles, his shotgun, and his holster-and went back outside to brush the snow off his green Ford Game and Fish Department pickup.

He swung out onto Bighorn Road-noting several sets of tire tracks already there-and did a mental inventory of his gear. Everything he might need was locked in the equipment boxes in the bed of his truck. Or at least he hoped so.

For the hundredth time that morning, he checked his cell phone for messages from Sheridan, Nate, Brueggemann, or Chuck Coon. Nothing.

He speed-dialed Coon, and after four rings the special agent picked up. “What now, Joe?” He sounded irritated.

“Is everything under way?” Joe asked.

“Yes, sir!” Coon said with sarcasm. “I’ve left urgent instructions in my office for them to start researching this Nemecek guy and rattling cages to find him, and I myself am in my comfortable government sedan just about to leave the city limits en route to Laramie to scare your daughter’s friend.”

“Great,” Joe said. “Thank you. Will you call me the minute you can?”

“Probably,” Coon said.

“There’s something else,” Joe said, ignoring the epic sigh from Coon’s end when he said it.

“Of course there is,” Coon said.

“I got more information last night after I talked to you. Something big is about to happen up here, I think-a major break in the case. I’ll know within a couple of hours if we’ve located the bad guy. So in the meanwhile, can you get a team together and have them ready to fly up here on your chopper? We’ll need lots of firepower.”

Coon moaned and said, “At least it’s just a small favor you’re asking.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Look,” Coon said, his voice rising, “I can’t put together a request for that kind of operation without probable cause, and you haven’t given me any. I need an official request for assistance from your sheriff or police chief. You know that, Joe. I can’t just send my jackbooted federales on raids all over the state of Wyoming.”

“I didn’t say send them,” Joe said. “I asked you to get them ready.”

“We need an official request, Joe. You know how this works.”

“Okay,” he said, frustrated. “I’ll work on that.”

The usual vehicles were parked outside in the lot of the Burg-O-Pardner, and Joe turned in beside them. This was the every-morning coffee gathering of the movers and shakers of the city and county. Discussions were off the record, and the public was never informed of what business was transacted. It had been going on since Joe first moved to the area, and he’d never been invited to coffee and wouldn’t have shown up if he was.

He strode past the line of vehicles-the chief of police’s SUV, the mayor’s Lincoln Town Car, the one-ton diesel pickup belonging to the county commissioner, and Sheriff Kyle McLanahan’s stupid old beater truck, which he tapped on as he walked past.

Inside, it was warm and close, and the small restaurant smelled of coffee, bacon, and burned toast. Five beefy faces all swung in his direction when he entered, and the conversation stopped. The sheriff had come with Deputy Sollis, who smirked at Joe with his piglike eyes.

Joe said to Sheriff McLanahan, “Got a minute?”

McLanahan looked tired and worn-out, despite the early-morning hour. There were dark rings under his eyes, and his skin seemed sallow and gray.

“I’m eating my breakfast,” McLanahan said. “Can’t you see that?”

Joe nodded. “Yup.”

“Hold your horses and I’ll be with you when I’m done,” McLanahan said, dismissing Joe and stabbing the point of a piece of toast into his egg yolk.

Joe asked no one in particular, “How many days until the election?”

McLanahan looked up, scowling. The others looked from Joe to the sheriff and back again.

After a beat, McLanahan made a show of tossing his toast down on his plate and pushing away from the table. Sollis pushed back from the table as well.

“Not you,” Joe said to him.

The deputy looked to McLanahan and was hurt when the sheriff nodded for him to sit back down.

“Just a few minutes of your valuable time,” Joe said, stepping aside so the sheriff could walk past him toward the door.

Outside, McLanahan turned around and put his hands on his hips and glared at Joe like a bull about to charge.

Joe said, “You know I support Mike Reed for your job, right?”

McLanahan nodded slightly.

“So you know it would be better for Mike if you continued to screw up all these investigations and nobody got caught or arrested, right?”

McLanahan’s face flushed and he looked like he was about to take a swing, but he growled, “Get to your point, Pickett.”

“Appreciated,” Joe said. “I need you to do three things this morning, and I mean this morning. If you do them all, we might just crack this thing and get the guy responsible for all the crimes around here. If you don’t, we can be pretty much assured of Sheriff Mike Reed and your unemployment.”

McLanahan didn’t move, but he didn’t object.

“First,” Joe said, “you need to assemble your SWAT team as fast as you can. Make sure Mike Reed is on it.”

McLanahan did a little head bob-not an overt agreement but more of an I-acknowledge-that-you-just-said-something-but-I’m-waiting-for-more gesture.

Joe said, “Do you want to get out your notebook and write these things down?”

“I think I can remember them, goddammit,” McLanahan spat.

“Okay, second, get the SWAT team over to the TeePee Motel, room 138. The target is my trainee Luke Brueggemann.”

The sheriff arched his eyebrows at the name.

“You remember him,” Joe said. “He was with me when you called me down to identify the murder victims.”

“I remember,” McLanahan said. “A young pup-a little wet behind the ears.”

“That’s him,” Joe said. “But he isn’t who he seems. You need to get him in custody and start sweating him. Find out who he’s working for. Confiscate his phone and turn it over to your best tech people to find out who he’s been calling and texting. But most important, get him behind bars for the rest of the day so he can’t warn anyone or muck anything up.”