Ridley Pearson - Killer View

Forty minutes into the experiment, Crabtree used a look to call Walt to his side. The boy raised his finger to the screen, pointing out several peaks. Then he pointed to the same peaks on the enlargements of the photographs from the collage.

“Uh-huh,” Walt said, noting the similarities. Excitement rose in his chest, but he said nothing more. There had been five false alarms prior to this.

“These shacks,” Crabtree said, indicating objects in two of the photographs, “are here… and here.” He pointed to the screen, helping Walt to spot the small geometrical shapes created by roofs, mostly hidden beneath the abundance of conifers. Two triangles. A piece of a rectangle. They looked like little more than shadows. Walt would never have seen them.

“And these shots,” Crabtree continued, “look to me like they were taken back here. There’s a field about a quarter mile behind the cabin. This creek is on one side.”

Walt’s nephew, Kevin, was out of his chair, also looking over Crabtree’s shoulder. He picked up a coordinate and then quickly found the same location on his screen. Walt stood between the boys, watching the two screens fill with images. Kevin’s locked onto a view that perfectly matched one of the snapshots, while Crabtree obtained a perspective where the computer-realized mountain peaks on the computer matched point for point with those in the photograph.

“Write down the coordinates,” Walt said.

He leaned into Crabtree and whispered, “Don’t look now but you just bought yourself a free pass.”

BY TWO P.M., WALT HAD NOTIFIED THE FBI THAT HE WAS leading an exploratory team into a remote area of the Challis National Forest. He did this out of necessity: he needed the Bureau’s assistance in arranging air support and he hoped to gain political backing for his decision to hold back the information about the raid from the Challis sheriff, as he feared there was a mole in that office.

The timing of this announcement was critical. He made it far enough in advance of the operation to allow the Bureau to feel included but not enough time for the Bureau’s direct participation. Having recruited a team of eighteen by cherry-picking the various police and sheriff departments in the valley, he had assembled a formidable group. But the final decision of who was to accompany him on the lead attack had yet to be made.

The eighteen did not fit well around the command center’s table. Half of the men were standing. Walt directed the group’s attention to a PowerPoint presentation put together by Nancy.

“Our challenge,” he said, now halfway into his briefing, “is accessibility and, therefore, timing. There are no roads within six miles of the cabin. In the summer, there must be trails, but that doesn’t help us. You either know your way in or you don’t. Given the probability of a hostage and the physical layout of the terrain-note the surrounding hills-there’s no easy way to advance assets on the ground without risking being seen or heard and therefore putting the hostage at risk. For this reason, we will divide into three groups-Alpha, Bravo, Delta-and take a different approach.

“Snowmobiles can be heard nearly two miles off in the backcountry, as many of you know. Helicopters, well beyond that. For this reason, and because we anticipate sentries, teams will abandon the snowmobiles in these three locations,” he said, pointing to the screen, “and snowshoe in from there along these routes. The leaders will have GPS coordinates to follow. These routes are through difficult terrain but take the teams away from the most likely routes used to access the compound. We expect those routes may be under guard or even trip-wired.

“I, and one other, will be flying in, in a glider, just ahead of you, in an effort to secure the hostage in advance of a possible firefight.”

“So the feds gave it back?”

Walt didn’t catch who’d said that. A half-dozen heads hung, to mask snickers.

“My glider happens to have been confiscated, yes,” he allowed. “But Luke Walen’s stepped up and offered his. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll continue the briefing?”

The heads came up and a sense of mirth filled the room. He didn’t mind it coming at his expense. He thought they might pay more attention now.

“We will land here, in this open field, and proceed on foot, north-northwest, toward the cabin. If possible, using infrared, I will have identified the number and position of warm bodies down there, providing intel that should aid your advance. Radio traffic will be limited. Just remember: at least two, hopefully three, of us are friendlies. We’ll bring a vest for the hostage, but do me a favor and verify your targets.”

A nervous chuckle passed around the room.

“The individual team leaders will brief you on your group’s route and your role in the operation. Some of you are perimeter control, some a strike force, and some are holding back for extrication. There’s a shock and awe component to this that I want you to all be aware of: once our attack has begun, at least one helicopter, possibly two, will secure the airspace above the compound. They’re there to help get us out, but my hope here is also to confuse and intimidate the enemy. Our teams need to be braced for that. We don’t want anyone made jumpy or trigger-happy by the noise and chaos that follows. Questions?”

Walt fielded a dozen routine questions. It was to be a night raid. Some of the team would be wearing night vision equipment; others would not, and the mixture made clarification important. He appreciated the nervousness and tension that filled the room; better that than overconfidence. He still had to pick his partner for the attack. Together, they would attempt to reach the cabin and rescue Mark Aker, or at least position themselves to do so, ahead of the main assault. It gave Mark the best chance of survival and hopefully would preempt his being used as a bargaining chip.

Walt scanned the group for the right person. Then, through the glass, he saw Tommy Brandon enter the building and approach reception. Brandon, who had likely aided Gail in the abduction of his daughters. He was wearing street clothes, not his uniform. He’d removed the sling.

Walt excused himself from the team, turning it over to his deputy, and met Brandon in the foyer. For a long moment, the two just stared at each other.

“It wasn’t my idea,” Brandon said.

“I want them back,” Walt said.

“I think she knows that.” Brandon hesitated. “Look, I want to help on this.”

Walt took a deep breath. “What about the arm?”

Brandon showed he had range of motion, though it clearly hurt him to move it. “I’m fine,” he said. “Good enough, at least. I want to be part of this.”

“She had no right,” Walt said. “Did you drive her?”

“I had nothing to do with it.”

“And I’m supposed to believe that?”

“We talked about it, if that’s what you mean. I told her to talk to a lawyer. She didn’t want to hear that. She was all freaked-out about you having a girl in there. You know how she is.”

He looked the man over: Tommy Brandon, the deputy he wanted in the glider with him; Tommy Brandon, his wife’s lover, a man he wanted nothing to do with.

“How are you in small planes?”

“I hate ’em.”

“Good. Get dressed.”

FIONA KENSHAW HAD BEEN GREETED WITH SUSPICION, AS she arrived at the Tulivich’s front door. Someone-from the hospital, perhaps-had leaked to the local press that the sheriff had interviewed their daughter, Kira, in connection with the Mark Aker disappearance, and so the family had put up with several unwanted visitors over the past week.

Fiona’s county employee ID, which she carried in order to enter and photograph crime scenes, put off those suspicions and granted her access. A few minutes later, she was on a leather couch, in front of a log fire, awaiting Kira. The girl looked sheepish and shy but not at all bruised or damaged.