David Morrell: The naked edge

"But their records indicate they were street criminals. So how, all of a sudden, did they get to be… 'Operators' you called them? Unusual word. I don't often hear it. That car of yours. When I got a close look at what was left of it, I found bullet-resistant windows, armor plating, tires within tires… Tell me again what you used to do for a living."

"I was in the security business."

"The bodyguards I see around here-"

Cavanaugh hated the word.

"-are usually hired by entertainers and sports stars on vacation. Mostly for show in a quiet community like this. To remind us how important they are. But you never fit the profile of the thugs some of those celebrities use for bodyguards."

"I'm an unassuming guy."

"Obviously, you don't like being called a 'bodyguard'."

No answer.

"Are you holding back anything I need to know?"

Cavanaugh hesitated. "Yes. I was what's called a protector. I worked for an international security firm called Global Protective Services. I used the professional alias of 'Cavanaugh'."

"Professional alias?"

"I saved the lives of people who show up on CNN and the front pages of the Washington Post and Wall Street Journal. These are the kind of people who need the reassurance of knowing they can absolutely trust me with sensitive information, that nobody'll come around later and persuade me to answer questions about them."

"You mean like the police asking questions?"

"My former clients will stonewall you."

"It's been tried."

"And they'll never trust me again."

"Again? I got the impression you'd retired."

"My retirement just ended."

"Is that another way of saying you intend to run your own investigation?"

"If a former client decided that he or she can't let me live with certain information, I have ways to find out."

"You're not a law enforcement officer. Keep that in mind."

"I will."

"I'm serious. I wouldn't want to see you in front of two grand juries. 'Cavanaugh.'" Garth tested the sound of the name.

"The idea was to keep my private life and my professional life separate."

"Looks like it didn't work."

A state trooper came over when Garth escorted Cavanaugh from the interview room.

"Did you find any of them?" Garth asked.

The trooper looked at Garth, as if to suggest that they speak in private.

"It's okay. You can talk in front of him."

In the background, Jamie and William listened to the trooper's reply.

"No sign of the shooters."

"They were dressed as campers," Cavanaugh said.

"Which makes them fairly invisible around here," Garth pointed out. "Even so, how do you suppose they got out of the area near your property so fast?"

"When you drove me from the ranch, I noticed that the van that had blocked the lane was gone. Did any of your team move it?"

The trooper shook his head no.

"Some of the shooters probably drove it away. The tires were low from weight in the back, but even so, they could have driven it. As for the rest, I'm guessing a couple of cars picked them up as they emerged from the trees. Using two-way radios, they could have easily coordinated it so they didn't show themselves if there were police cars or emergency vehicles in sight. Plus, you didn't know what you were dealing with and didn't start searching until thirty minutes after the explosion. Plenty of time to get away. They could have been in Jackson by then."

Another trooper entered the room. "A lot of reporters and a TV crew in the parking lot."

"Swell," Garth said.

"We can't assume they're all legitimate," Cavanaugh warned. "That hit team isn't going to fade away. They'll watch the building. They'll try to follow us when we leave."

"Spend the night here."

"There's nothing I'd rather do. But in the morning, we'll still have the same problem. Not to mention, they'll be organized by then. No, the best time to leave is when they least expect it. As soon as possible."

"How? And where will you go? What will you use for transportation?"

"I already made the arrangements," Jamie said.

In the harshly illuminated parking lot, dozens of reporters straightened as the barracks door opened. The lights from within silhouetted Garth, who stepped from the building and walked toward them. The weather had shifted, cold enough to bring frost from his mouth. Garth had no idea how the media had gotten word of the attack so quickly. If one of his officers was responsible, he swore to find out who it was and give him the worst duties imaginable. Since Jackson didn't have a TV station or a large newspaper, most of the men and women converging on him must have come from Idaho Falls (a drive-able 180 miles away) or from Casper, Laramie, and Cheyenne (much farther away-to get here this soon, the reporters would have needed to charter planes). Then it occurred to Garth that the person who alerted the media might have been somebody on the hit team. Get as many reporters and TV cameras here as possible. In the ensuing chaos, the gunmen could blend. Any of the supposed news people shouting questions at him could be a killer.

"Is it true that six men were shot-"

"Ranch thirty miles north of-"

"Explosion destroyed-"

"Sniper-"

"Helicopter-"

"Okay, all right." Garth gestured for quiet. "If all of you talk at once, I can't hear your questions." The television lights glared at him, hurting his eyes. "I have a brief statement. At four-thirty this afternoon-"

Suddenly, the front door to the barracks banged open. As Garth turned, he saw a trooper hurrying toward him, a concerned look on his face.

"What's the matter?" Garth asked.

Cameras flashed as the trooper motioned Garth away from the reporters and spoke in urgent hushed tones.

Garth spun toward the reporters. "This'll have to wait. There's been a-"

"Captain!" a trooper yelled from the front door.

A siren wailed in the fenced-off parking area behind the barracks. Roof lights flashing, a highway patrol car rounded the building and skirted the reporters. An officer was silhouetted in the front seat as the car reached the main road and sped north toward Jackson, disappearing around a curve in this sparsely populated section of the valley. Moments later, a second patrol car followed, lights flashing, siren wailing.

Some of the reporters raced for their cars.

Or possibly they aren't reporters, Garth thought.

Others stayed, demanding to know what was going on.

"Tell us what happened this afternoon!"

"Are these incidents connected?"

Headlights blazing, a state police van hurried past, reached the road, and followed the three civilian cars that chased the cruisers.

Opening and closing his knife, the man who'd shot the sniper watched from a road on a bluff across from the police barracks. He was forty years old, tall and lean, with an etched face. His powerful forearms resulted from years of pounding a hammer onto an anvil, forging blades. He used various names. Currently, his devotion to knives had prompted him to choose the alias of Bowie. Sitting in his car, he used a night-vision magnifier that wasn't affected by the stark contrasts of light and darkness in the parking lot a quarter mile from him. While he listened to the sirens, he studied the sequence of vehicles speeding away: the first cruiser, the second cruiser, the three civilian cars, then the police van.

Damned smart, Bowie thought.

He spoke into a two-way radio. "It's a shell game. The target's in one of the police vehicles. The question is which."

A voice from one of the pursuing civilian cars said, "I vote for the van."

"Or maybe the target's still in the barracks," Bowie replied. "Maybe those police vehicles are decoys. We don't have enough personnel to follow everybody."