JOE DROVE HIS PICKUP AND EMPTY HORSE TRAILER PAST THE sign on the highway that read ENTERING WIND RIVER INDIAN RESERVATION. Nate sat in the passenger seat, running a BoreSnake cleaning cable through the barrel and five cylinders of his .454 Casull. The pickup reeked of cleaning solvent and gun oil, and Joe lowered his window to flood the cab with fresh air. The FedEx box from Billings was lashed to the sidewall of the pickup bed with bungee cords.
As they rolled down a battered two-lane toward Alicia Whiteplume’s uncle’s ranch, Nate said, “Is the governor aware of what we’re doing?”
“I thought it best not to tell him,” Joe said.
“Is that wise?”
Joe said, “Probably not, but I can live with it and this way he has deniability.”
“What about your director? What does he know?”
Said Joe, “Nothing. As far as he’s concerned, I’m on administrative leave.”
“Marybeth’s okay with it, though?”
“She’s the one who said go,” Joe said.
Nate grinned. “Let’s go with the higher authority, then.”
“That’s what I always do,” Joe said.
Nate said, “Something I learned years before in special operations when dealing within the bureaucracy was,
“Exactly.”
Joe said, “I’ll call Sheriff Baird as we start up into the mountains, but not before. He needs to know we’re in his county even if the news makes him blow a gasket. I can’t see him coming after us, having spent his budget and all, and he really can’t prevent us from going back up there.”
Nate loaded the cylinder with cartridges the size of cigar stubs and snapped it closed and holstered the revolver. “Okay, I’m ready,” he said. “What are you packing?”
Joe said, “I picked up a new twelve-gauge at the pawnshop.”
Nate dropped his head. “The pawnshop?”
“It’s a good pawnshop. Besides, not everyone spends their conscious hours thinking about their immediate weaponry and how they’d react if attacked. Believe it or not, Nate, but there are even people who don’t own guns.”
“I know that,” Nate said. “Don’t assume I disapprove. The more who don’t own guns, the greater my advantage. Even so, back to you. Another Remington Wingmaster?”
“Yup. I lucked out. There aren’t as many guns available these days as there used to be. Folks are hoarding them. Oh,” Joe said, reaching down and patting the .40 Glock on his hip. “And my service weapon.”
Nate narrowed his eyes. “Are you
Joe shrugged. “I’ve done some damage with it.”
“From an inch away and by spraying the landscape with slugs.” Nate snorted. “A
Joe smiled. “Every time I pull this gun, I think it’s the last time I’ll ever do it. Not because I think there will be world peace—I just never think trouble will come my way again.”
Nate shook his head in disgust. “But it always does,” he said.
Joe curled his mouth on the sides and nodded. “Yup, it seems to.”
“That doesn’t just happen,” Nate said.
“Oh, maybe it does,” Joe said.
Nate shook his head and looked away. They eventually settled into a comfortable and familiar silence.
JOE’S PHONE BURRED and he plucked it from his breast pocket and looked at the display. “Uh-oh,” he said.
Nate said, “Who is it?”
“It’s a 777 number I don’t recognize. But 777 is the state phone prefix. It’s probably the governor or one of his staff calling.”
The phone continued to ring.
“Are you going to answer it?” Nate asked.
Joe dropped the phone back into his pocket, then bent forward and clicked off his radio under the dashboard as well.
“Radio silence,” Nate said. “I like radio silence.”
“Unless, of course, Marybeth calls,” Joe said.
“Obviously,” Nate said.
“THIS ONE’S GOT a lot of moving parts, doesn’t it?” Nate said after fifteen minutes. Joe knew he was referring to the situation in general.
