Joe Gores - Glass Tiger

‘I’ll just leave you men to it.’

When she was out of earshot, O’Hara said, ‘The FBI and my Secret Service agents have initiated a security sweep of the survivalists and ranchers on the list of those vocally opposed to the release of grizzlies into the Bitterroot Wilderness Area.’

Wallberg had to remember that the conventional FBI and the Secret Service were paddling around over there in the lilypads, chasing terrorists domestic and foreign, not knowing that it was no terrorist, but Hal Corwin, who had tried and failed.

‘Our other main focus is of course Al-Qaeda. They could have used a mercenary from some former Iron Curtain country as their assassin. If they did, we’ll quickly vector in on him.’

‘Ahh... Who’s handling the on-site investigation?’

O’Hara leaned back; for the first time, his heavy red features were almost relaxed. The buck was about to get passed.

‘We know the shot came from up on the eastern rock face. Hatfield insisted that he and his Hostage/Rescue lads cover it. It makes sense. They are highly trained, and they were already up on the mountain.’

Out of shape from all of those Washington months, Hatfield hauled himself up, panting, to an open rocky V that was shielded from below by scrub pines. Just another possible site, this one impossibly far out. He jerked his Glock from its holster before realizing that the man squatting with his back against the smooth rock wall was Thorne, not Corwin. Thorne looked exhausted, drained. His hair was wet, as was his shirt down to mid-chest. A Winchester Model 70 rifle rested butt-down on the ground between his knees, the muzzle pointing up past his left ear.

Hatfield’s voice was squeaky with adrenaline.

‘What in the fuck are you doing here?’

‘I’ve been on site since I left D.C., but what difference does it make? Wallberg is still alive, no thanks to you.’

‘My men were in place seven hundred-fifty yards out—’

‘Facing the wrong way. You assholes maybe, just maybe, if any of you can shoot for shit, could have killed the bears from there. You sure as hell couldn’t have killed Corwin. I did.’

‘Where’s the body?’

‘In the stream.’

Hatfield was enraged. He wanted to smash Thorne over the head with a gunbutt, but refrained. Refrained from calling in the rest of his team, too. At the moment, only Thorne — and soon, he — would know what had really gone down here. He wanted to keep it that way if he could.

So he went looking, prowling the little V-shaped ravine, noting the rifle on its tripod, the laborious blood trail back to the noisy torrent rushing by. A lot of blood. It looked arterial to him. But still...

He returned to Thorne. ‘Again. Where’s his fucking body?’

‘I told you, in the stream. He looked dead, but when I started to check his vitals, he rolled into the water.’

‘So you don’t know he’s dead, you just think he’s dead.’

For the first time, Thorne showed emotion. ‘He’s dead, dead, fucking dead, Hatfield. And I killed him. Another five years of lousy dreams.’

‘We’ll bring in the bloodhounds—’

‘Bring in whoever you want. Maybe they’ll find him. Or maybe’ — he gave a grim chuckle — ‘those bears they just released will find him first. I took him in the chest cavity — what the Rangers call a target-rich environment. There’s so much in there to mess up. Heart, kidneys, arteries — hit any of them, the target suffers an immediate and catastrophic loss of blood. Same with the liver if my shot took him lower down. Unconscious in ten seconds, dead in fifteen.’

Hatfield was stubborn. ‘He got to the stream and went in.’

‘So, a lung shot. It would incapacitate him but might not kill him right away.’

Hatfield wanted to show his own expertise. ‘Sometimes they survive a lung shot even without treatment.’

‘Maybe so, but hypothermia would kill him before the stream took him a hundred yards.’ Thorne repeated, ‘He’s fucking dead, Hatfield, and I wish he wasn’t.’ He made a weary gesture. ‘Fuck it. Wallberg’s alive, so I’m getting out of here and—’

‘You’re going into federal custody to face a board of inquiry into why you didn’t fire a warning shot when you realized Corwin was here on this mountain.’

‘You sure that’s what you want, Hatfield? Right now, nobody knows I was here except you. If I keep my mouth shut, who is to say who took out the man who tried to kill the president?’

Hatfield hid his elation. The damn fool was going to hand it all to him. He asked casually, ‘Where have you been staying?’

‘The Super 8 in Hamilton. Under my own name.’

‘You’ve got some balls, I’ll give you that.’

Thorne pushed himself erect against the rock face. ‘I’ve still got to hike up over this mountain and down the other side before dark. I left my rental car there.’

He started away, but Hatfield caught his forearm.

‘You weren’t here today, get it? You aren’t in Montana. You’re in Fort Benning. Just go to your motel in Hamilton and stay there.’ He let go of Thorne’s arm. ‘I’ll make my report to the President at Camp David. If there are no leaks of your presence here in the meantime, I’ll send you a one-way ticket, coach, to Nairobi. Do we have a deal?’

‘Deal.’

‘Leave the rifle.’

He wanted it to match up with any slug they might find in the ravine, but Thorne said, indifferent, ‘Sure, except how do you explain Corwin’s having two Model 70s on site?’

He left with the rifle. Hatfield called his team to come up and join him.

When they arrived, panting, Baror asked, ‘Where’s Corwin?’

‘Dead. I shot him just as he shot at the President. He crawled to the stream and rolled in just as I got here.’

‘Should we bring in the bloodhounds?’ asked Perry.

‘You bet. We want that body. Now let’s secure the scene.’ He took Franklin and Greene aside. ‘I just got word that Thorne flew into Montana this afternoon. He’s staying at the Super 8 Motel in Hamilton.’

Walt Greene squawked, ‘I thought he was at Fort Benning.’

Hatfield looked quickly around. Nobody else had heard.

‘Go to a motel close to his where you can monitor the shit out of him. Where he goes, what he does, who he talks to. He’s driving a rental car, I don’t know what kind. Ray, I want a GPS transmitter on that vehicle soonest. Walt, I want his phone bugged and miniaturized transmitters in everything he’s not wearing — his luggage, his clothes — everything.’

Franklin asked, inevitably, ‘Personal surveillance?’

‘Electronic only, for now. We don’t want him to have any idea we’re monitoring him. Don’t go cowboy on me, guys.’

‘Shit,’ said Franklin. ‘He walks away free and clear?’

‘Flies away.’ Hatfield couldn’t help grinning at them. ‘But not free and clear, believe me.’

Did I?

The voice whispering in Thorne’s memory brought him up from a light and troubled sleep. The covers were swirled around his waist, he was pouring sweat. Christ, the dead Corwin couldn’t come crowding into his nightmares along with the dead Alison and the dead Eden. Just couldn’t.

He sat up against the headboard, squinted at the green digital numerals of the bedside clock. Four-thirty a.m. For the first time he regretted registering at the motel under his own name. But still, if there were no leaks that he was here in Montana, he could be on a flight to Kenya within a few days.

Hatfield would have his glory, Thorne would have his bad dreams. A lousy exchange, but back in Tsavo, with time, the dreams would cease. He’d have his small life back. He had killed yet again, and Jaeger was also dead. But the president was still alive. Mission accomplished. Sort of. Except...