The Bitter Past, page 7
“I think you must be blind. Do you ever qualify with that gun, or is it just for show?”
It’s a fair point. For it is nighttime, inside and out, and I cannot see in the dark.
Well, I can see a little, my central vision is decent, but once the sun goes down, it narrows dramatically like I’m looking through a long tube. It’s a condition called retinitis pigmentosa, and it’s been getting progressively worse. Caused by a gene mutation, it’s passed from mother to son. I’ve often wondered if, in addition to the cancer she probably got from being a Downwinder, my mom had some chromosomal damage from all that bomb fallout which caused me to get RP. My ophthalmologist, a top-notch guy down in Vegas, assures me RP cannot be caused by exposure to radiation, but like many of the people who grew up in an area that is like living next door to Chernobyl, I have my doubts about what is and what is not possible.
At any rate, this night blindness thing is a real bugger. It caused me to leave the Army before I wanted to, and it’s not the best medical condition to have when you’re a cop. And yes, I’m cognizant of the fact I haven’t shared the details of this affliction with anyone in my department or my constituency, mostly because when I took the job it wasn’t this pronounced and I thought I could treat it with massive doses of vitamin A. So, when I have to run out of a house in the dark of night shooting at something, I’m very lucky if I don’t stumble and shoot myself, or in this case, Special Agent Sana Locke.
Thankfully, Sana quickly comes around to my way of thinking, and we decide to wait for backup. And the sun. We need light. What I can do now is dispatch some of my crew to patrol the highway from Hiko, about twenty miles to the west, as well as the dirt road that abuts the west side of Big Rocks itself. Our shooter is on foot, which means he’s up in those rocks and has nowhere to go, especially in the dark. He’s got one hell of a hike in front of him if he wants to escape. Which makes me wonder how he got to Atterbury’s in the first place. Was he camping out up there and watching the house on the off chance we would find what he couldn’t?
I can generally get a fixed wing Civil Air Patrol plane to help with a search and rescue, but not to help run down a fugitive, and as I suspected, we’re too far south for the Bureau of Land Management’s helicopter to be of use, but that’s okay. Our shooter is up there somewhere, wounded and hiding no doubt under a very big rock. Sometimes my county’s geography works to my benefit.
In the next few hours, I have a full posse on site, literally just like you see in the movies. It’s mostly support personnel for manning the command post and making sure the search team has what it needs, but inevitably word gets out about things like this and the Good Samaritans start arriving, some with their horses. We can always use the extra manpower and often enlist the locals to help us search for lost hikers or the occasional mountain lion that is terrorizing some of the county’s sheep or cattle. But as I explain to Sana, “This isn’t a search and rescue. It’s a search and arrest. It may be a search and destroy. We’ll see.” I send the Samaritans home with my thanks. It pays to have good neighbors.
Our base of operations is Atterbury’s house, and everyone takes caution to stay out of any line of fire from the rocky hills above. I formally introduce Agent Locke to my team and let them know that I believe we are chasing a Russian intelligence operative who is a trained killer, at which point Sana interjects. “This is highly sensitive information. I can’t emphasize enough the repercussions that will follow should this get out.”
Wardell shows her his middle finger, which makes everyone laugh. We pass the night drinking coffee and fighting to stay awake, looking at a map of the area and discussing the best way to drive the fugitive, as Isaiah said, like a peg into a firm place. We’ve also carefully moved Atterbury’s files from the secret room to one of our trucks, which is now on its way back to the main station in Pioche.
“Too bad you didn’t keep the horses,” Sana says with a tremendous yawn, as the sun breaks over the earth’s curve, its earliest rays dancing on the rooftops of Big Rocks and incrementally returning that which is stolen from me each night. It’s all of twenty degrees out here, and the stiff wind from the northwest makes it feel more like ten.
“We’ll have to wait for another time to give you the full western experience,” I tell her, handing her an extra down camo jacket I keep in my truck. Tuffy passes out radios to everyone, and I’m happy to take every advantage I can get, thank you very much.
Sana laughs, stuffing her cold hands inside the big pockets and pulling out a knit hat and some gloves. “I knew you were a cowboy.”
“I prefer a motorcycle, but you’d be surprised where a horse can take you that nothing else can. You ride?”
“Does a pony on my eighth birthday count?” Sana motions to the toy hauler and some four-wheelers and more snowmobiles inside. “Are we taking those?”
I point north to the mineral skyscrapers that pepper the land as far as a good pair of eyes can see. “The four-wheelers will secure the western edge of this place like a picket line. Where we’re going, it’s on foot or nothing, I’m afraid.”
“No helicopters?”
She’s not crazy about hiking in, and I don’t blame her. “Too far out. They’d have to turn right back as soon as they got here or run out of fuel. If you prefer, you can stay here.”
“Oh, hell no. I’m going with you.”
Wardell and New Guy Pete are fully decked out in camos and are already armed with AR-15s and a .308 Remington respectively. They also are strapping on small packs, as we never know how long we will be out on a hunt like this, so it’s food and water for everyone, an emergency blanket, and plenty of extra ammunition. I continue to hope the cold is wearing on Ivan the Terrible up there in the rocks.
Sana checks her Walther has a full magazine. “Got another AR?”
I yell over to Tuffy to grab the one out of my truck. When she brings it over, I hand it to Sana. “I imagine you’ve used this before.”
“Once or twice,” she says, looking down the sight.
“Uh-huh, well, we’re likely to get spread out a bit up there. If you have to shoot, don’t shoot the guys wearing what we’re wearing. The guy we’re hunting was wearing a gray pullover last time I saw him.”
“Hey,” Sana says. “I can’t promise anything.”
Since this will be New Guy Pete’s first manhunt with the team, I ask him if he’s comfortable carrying the .308.
Wardell answers for him. “He’s checked out on it, Beck. Jesus.”
I like New Guy Pete. He’s growing on me. Wardell, not so much. I send Johnny and Jimmy Green, along with a couple friends from the Forest Service, out on the Commander ATVs north on the narrow road to the west. “Keep line of sight with each other, about a quarter mile distance,” I tell the Twin Peaks. “You’re the wall. Don’t let him past you.”
They reply in unison, of course. “Yes, sir.”
“Are we ready?” Sana asks.
Just as I’m about to say that we are still waiting for the dog, Tom Harker pulls up in his truck and climbs out, along with Bugsy, a basset hound with the longest ears and most pitiful face you’ve ever seen.
“What the hell is this?” Sana asks.
I scratch Bugsy behind the ears. “This is the best damn blood tracker in the county,” I tell her. “Aren’t you, Bugs?”
Sana looks at me in disbelief as Bugsy lifts his head and gives me a big, slobbery kiss.
Tom Harker looks over at Sana. “He’s not fast, ma’am, but if this boy’s bleeding, he’ll find him. He can track a wounded deer or mountain lion to hell and back.” Hopefully, we’re not going that far.
Tom is a good man, like most people here. A solid citizen and a great hunter. He runs a taxidermy shop in Caliente, and the inside of his home looks like a hunting lodge with the heads of every big game animal he’s ever killed mounted on the walls.
I place a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Tom, we’re after a pretty dangerous guy here. Why don’t you let me take Bugsy?”
“He won’t go unless I do, Beck,” says Tom, scratching at his gray beard. “I’ll be fine.”
In accordance with my authority, I deputize him on the spot, which consists of the old tracker raising his right hand and agreeing to a round of beers after this whole thing is over. If Tom were to get injured or killed, he would be considered a county employee and he or his family would be able to collect benefits. I don’t like putting a civilian in the line of fire, but I don’t have much choice right now.
“You got some blood for us?” Tom asks.
I take a handkerchief from my jacket and hand it to Tom. It’s got the shooter’s blood from inside Atterbury’s office. Tom puts the cloth up to Bugsy’s snout, and the dog takes a few good whiffs.
“He’s ready,” Tom says.
“It’s your show, Tom. We’ll cover you the whole way.”
We start out, coming around to the back of Atterbury’s house and moving quickly to the huge rocks above. Bugsy, like the Russian, is likely to follow any number of game trails, which will take us into the jumbled boulders known as Mecca to the rock climbers who frequent the area. With the first real morning light, I can see the posse stretching out along the road to the west. If our Russian is just waking up, he’s not going to like his odds in that direction.
I hear Tuffy in my earpiece. “Base to Jolly Greens. Base to Jolly Greens. Our party is headed into Big Rocks. Report any sightings, please, and look for any squirters coming your way.”
In no time, the team begins spreading out a bit. New Guy Pete is on point, and then Tom and Bugsy, followed by Wardell and Sana, who sweep back and forth with their ARs. I have the rear. The light snow cover on the ground adds a little caution to our steps, but it’s not enough to slow our ascent. And even now, twelve hours since this bastard almost killed me, I can see his red blood trail speckled over the cold ground every few feet. Maybe he’s already dead, I think. That would be nice.
Feeling cocky about my vision now—I can actually make out shapes and sizes and colors—I move closer to Sana, reaching to my throat and switching off my radio mic. “How we doing?”
She never takes her eyes from the rifle sight. “Beautiful morning for a walk,” she answers. A minute later, “I guess I haven’t thanked you yet. You know, for saving me back there. The guy had me cold.”
“Gave me a chance to jump you,” I say. “Though I normally like it to last a bit longer than that.”
“Hmm,” she says. “I’ll give that some thought.”
After thirty minutes, we’re in the heart of Mecca, slipping carefully down steep rock faces and climbing narrow cracks through the boulder field. My eyes are suddenly drawn to Bugsy whose tail is wagging at the speed of sound. He lets out a low whine and sits, a signal I’ve seen a few times. “How close?” I ask Tom quietly.
“Best guess, no more than a few hundred yards.”
Bugsy’s talent is leading Tom to a deer that’s been shot, so this isn’t much different. On a search and rescue where someone is bleeding, he’ll take you right to them. But I don’t want to risk him or Tom on this track, so I find a nice rock for them nearby and plant them there.
Pete and Wardell fold back, and the team takes cover for a moment. “Shooter close by,” I whisper to everyone.” I give the same message to the Twin Peaks on the radio and then motion Pete to the left and Sana up the middle. I tell Wardell I’m going right and he’s staying back with Tom and Bugsy.
“The hell I am,” he says, taking a step around me.
I put a hand on his arm. “Yes, you are, Wardell. If he gets past us somehow, you need to get Tom out of here. I can’t leave that to anyone else.
“We want him alive, if possible,” I tell them all. Everyone has their sunglasses over their eyes to cut the glare except Wardell. Old guy sees like an owl. Another reason not to like him.
We fan out. Five minutes later, Sana radios she’s found a stash of clothing, a sleeping bag, and some empty freeze-dried food containers along with a pair of binoculars. “And there’s some medical gauze soaked with blood. He was camping out here, Beck, watching the house.”
I ask her how long, based on the blood she’s seeing.
“Minutes,” she says. “Minutes.”
“I’ve got the suspect,” one of the Twin Peaks says over the radio. “Two hundred yards from your location, heading northwest and hurting, by the look of him.”
Shit. That’s Pete’s direction. “Pete, he may be heading your way. Sana and I will head north. Move farther west if you can. Let’s see if we can pinch him.”
I can’t see any of them at the moment, but I know they’re doing what I’m doing, moving cautiously from cover to cover behind the giant rocks. This guy is committed, I think. Camping out, patient, and apparently not dead.
I make my way west, looking for any kind of movement, my eyes picking up Pete moving like a spider over the rocks maybe a quarter mile away, but there’s no sign of the others. Suddenly, there’s movement in front of me about fifty yards out. I stand and take aim. Catching him in my scope, I see it’s just a deer. But something spooked him.
I don’t have time to consider what that might be because a bullet whizzes by my left ear just then and blows up a patch of snow a few feet away. The sound is unmistakable.
“Rifle,” Sana says, taking cover next to me.
I nod and speak into the mic, whispering. “He’s due west of me, Pete. Not far. He’s got a rifle. If you have a shot, take it. Say again, if you have a shot, take it.”
Sana tugs at my arm. “We need him alive.”
I give her a quick nod. “He knows that.”
She looks back at me with imploring eyes.
“Again, Pete, wound if possible. We would really like to question this guy.”
I’m scanning the boulders to the north, looking for any movement. Nothing. Sana and I pick up the pace, darting from rock to rock, our breath steaming out of our mouths and noses in the cold like dragons.
“Well, he’s either pretty banged up or not a great shot,” I tell her.
“Yeah, if he was on his game, I’m guessing that shot would have gone through your head.”
“Can’t plan for everything, I guess. He wasn’t planning on a gunfight out here.”
My earpiece crackles again. “Sheriff, it’s Pete. I have him below me about two hundred yards. I have a shot.”
I wonder how the hell he got ahead of the guy. Sana looks at me with a final plea, but I shake my head and key the mic. “Pete, did you copy my last? Can you put one in an arm or leg?”
“I can only see his head.”
“Copy. We’re coming. Stand by.”
Just as Sana and I move, I hear the crack of the Russian’s rifle again, and simultaneously, the bullet hitting the rock just above our heads. We dive to the ground. A second later, there’s the distinct sound of the .308, and New Guy Pete confirms over the radio, “Suspect down.”
“Copy, Pete. Toss some smoke down there if you can. Wardell, you can come up. Approach with caution.”
Sana takes off at a sprint. “He might still be alive.”
When we work our way up to him, Pete is sitting on a rock a few feet from the body, his face ashen. From the side, the dead man appears to be in his late twenties or early thirties, and is wearing a thick coat now. I carefully slide the wool beanie from the top of his cratered head and see the same silver hair I glimpsed in Atterbury’s den. His rifle lies next to him, an AS Val, a Russian assault rifle I’ve seen once or twice. So, the good news is we appear to have bagged the right guy.
Wardell arrives a few minutes later, huffing and puffing. The back of the shooter’s skull is caved in from the round it took, and what remains of it and the light snow around it is covered in red Russian blood. He is, most definitely, dead. Sana checks for a pulse anyway and then turns him over on his back. His forehead is gone as well, and his blood hit the rocks in front of him like it had been tossed from a bucket. I open his jacket and find another wound between his left third and fourth ribs, bandaged and soaked with blood.
“He wouldn’t have made it much longer,” Wardell tells me, photographing the torso with his phone camera. “You plugged the bastard good.”
Sana checks the Russian’s pockets. “Nothing to tell us who he is.”
“Not even a library card?” I gaze over at Pete. He looks numb, a picture I have seen many times over a long military career. I walk over to him. “You all right?”
He nods.
“What was your location when you took the shot?”
Pete stands and wheels in his boots and points north and west to a grouping of boulders. “He was lining up on you again, boss. I had to take the head shot.”
“You really hauled ass, didn’t you?”
He manages to meet my gaze. “Yes, sir.”
“Let me have that rifle, son.” Pete hands me the .308. “Was that your first?” He looks at me and nods, processing that he has taken a life. All his time in the military he was spared the trauma of killing another human being. “We’ll put you on a desk for a while. Or you can stay off duty. Technically, you’re on administrative leave until we clear you on the shooting.”
“Hell,” Wardell rejoices, “that won’t take any time at all. Clean shoot all the way.”
Yeehaw, you moron. “Paid time off, if you want it, Pete.”
Pete nods and walks away. “Get him out of here, Wardell. Start the paperwork.”
When they’re gone, I bend down next to Sana in the snow. “We’ll process his campsite as well. See if we can find anything that might help us identify him.”
She looks up at me. “He’s a ghost.”
She’s probably right, and I’m almost sorry about it. “I guess you’ll be heading back to Washington now. Job well done and all, catching your Russian.”
