Bubba frowned and nodded. “Asshole. He ain’t never even been in the Army. But it’s his mountain.”
“So what are you boys doing bunkered up in the mountains?”
Bubba leaned in close; his breath was hot with the tequila.
“We’re fixin’ to change the world, podna. Big time.” Bubba looked past Ben and said, “Your friend wants more.”
Ben glanced at the mirror behind the bar and saw the big brute approaching almost at a sprint; he was wielding a beer bottle like a club. When he raised the bottle above his head, Ben spun to his right. The bottle smashed on the bar instead of Ben’s head. Ben drove the heel of his boot into the outside of the man’s right knee; a sharp pop signaled the snapping of ligaments. The man collapsed, hit the floor hard, and writhed in pain. Ben sat back down next to Bubba, who snorted at the drunk on the floor.
“He won’t be running track no more.” He held out a meaty hand. “I’m Bubba.”
Ben shook Bubba’s hand. “I’m Buddy.”
Bubba’s face brightened. “My daddy’s name was Buddy, how ’bout that? What brings you to Idaho, Buddy?”
“Hunting.”
“Well, Buddy, we got some damn good huntin’-deer, mountain lion, bear. Killed me a fine buck yesterday. Junior, he’ll let me come back in a day or two, once he calms down about his little bitch. You wanna come out, do some huntin’, meet the boys?”
Ben gave Bubba the biggest smile he could muster.
“Bubba, nothing more I’d rather do than meet your boys. How about another shot there, podna?”
John was driving the Land Rover. Ben was in the back seat with the big dude from Rusty’s; his given name was Archie, but he went by Bubba. He was puking out the window.
Bubba had been totally shit-faced when they had finally left Rusty’s. Ben had poured a bottle of tequila down Bubba but had never so much as licked his fingers himself. Bubba had no place to sleep other than the bar, so Ben had suggested he stay with them. Bubba had accepted and climbed into the Rover.
Bubba pulled his head back inside and said, “Fuck me,” then his head fell back, his mouth gaped open, and he started snoring.
An hour later, they arrived at the Moyie River Bridge spanning the deep gorge they had seen that morning from the helicopter, where Dicky had flown in circles for five minutes, bringing John dang close to barfing his guts up.
“Pull over,” Ben said.
John stopped the Rover and cut the engine. No other traffic was on the road at that time of night. Ben got out and walked around to Bubba’s side and opened the door. He slapped Bubba semi-conscious and yanked him out.
“We there?” Bubba asked.
“Gotta hit the head,” Ben said. “How about you?”
Bubba grunted. John went around to their side of the car while Ben helped Bubba over to the bridge rail. Bubba leaned against the low railing, found himself, and starting peeing on his foot. He let out a groan of relief. Down below, white water crashing over rocks was visible in the moonlight.
“What doin’… out here?”
The cold air was reviving what was left of Bubba’s brain.
“Bubba, what kind of weapons you boys got at the camp?” Ben asked.
“Stingers… grenade launchers… napalm…”
Bubba’s words came out slurred and slow, and he was swaying slightly as he spoke.
“How’s the perimeter booby trapped?”
Bubba’s head rolled around, and he laughed. “Explosives… trip wire…”
“Girl at your camp, does she have blonde hair?”
“Unh-hunh… pretty little thing.”
“Why does Junior want her?”
“Says she… belongs with him… Says she's his…” Bubba was finishing his business. “But she’s… just pussy.” He let out a drunken laugh. “Tried to get me some, too… li’l bitch kicked me right in the
… goddamn balls.” He turned around, his eyes only slits in his fat face but his mouth grinning and his penis in his hands. “Junior, he wants her for himself, but ol’ Bubba’s gonna get some of her, sure enough.”
“I don’t think so, Bubba.”
In a sudden, sharp movement, Ben drove his fist into Bubba’s Adam’s apple and knocked him back into the rail. Bubba gagged and his hands flew up to his throat. Ben grabbed Bubba’s legs and lifted hard, flipping Bubba over the rail. John’s mouth fell open as he watched Bubba’s big body drop four hundred fifty feet and disappear into the gorge below. He couldn’t believe what he had just witnessed.
“Cripes, Ben! You freaking killed him!”
Ben was looking down; he nodded. “Unless he bounces real good.”
“We gotta call the FBI!”
“We get the law involved, John, and those men will kill her. Or the FBI will kill her trying to kill them.” Ben looked up from the gorge and at John. “Son, the law’s not gonna save Gracie. We are.”
Thirty minutes later, they were stopped on the side of the highway again; they were searching the area around a dirt road leading up the mountain. John didn’t have a dang clue what they were looking for. Ben was up the road, far enough that John could only see the light of Ben’s flashlight. Ben’s light suddenly came bouncing toward him at a fast pace. Then Ben came into view.
“This is it,” Ben said.
“How do you know?”
Ben held his hand out. John shone his flashlight on Ben’s palm, on a small white object, tubular, a single word printed on the wrapping: Tampax.
“I told you. She’s a smart girl.”
The moonlight reflecting off the snow provided sufficient visibility for Ben and John to work their way up the steep mountain; they were crisscrossing at angles to the slope through a thick forest of tall pine trees, large boulders, and deep ravines.
They wore black knit caps, black greasepaint on their faces, black gloves, and black thermal overalls; they could stand still and blend in with the trees. The sniper’s rifle was slung over Ben’s shoulder; a. 45-caliber pistol was strapped to one leg and the Bowie knife to the other. His backpack was loaded with ammo, the Starlight Scope, and a power pack, an enclosed car battery used as a portable jump-starter that he had transferred from the Jeep to the new Land Rover in Albuquerque. John was carrying a sleeping bag.
Ben’s eyes searched the ground, but his thoughts were of an American soldier, nineteen years old, drafted right out of high school, walking patrol in a Vietnam jungle and thinking about his sweetheart back home instead of the ground in front of him. He swings his foot forward as he steps and just as he realizes he has tripped a wire hidden in the undergrowth, he learns his fate: a bamboo mace swinging down into him with great force; a crossbow directly in front of him discharging an arrow aimed at his chest; boards studded with fecal-infected nails springing up and slamming into his face; or a huge spiked log rigged up high in the trees hurtling down on him.
Ben spotted the trip wire fifty meters outside the security perimeter. Normally, the wire would have been all but impossible to see in the woods; but it stood out against the white snow.
“Sit,” Ben whispered to John, who immediately dropped to the ground. “Don’t move. I’ve got some work to do.”
