Sully
We opted to leave the horses and do some old-fashioned tracking on foot, which has been a while.
One of the benefits of doing this on horseback is that your vantage point is higher, and therefore the ability to scan a larger area faster than the more myopic view from the ground. It also means overall progress tends to be slower, but there’s less chance we miss anything.
Still, we’ve not been on the ground for fifteen minutes when James calls out.
“I’ve got something.”
He’s about two-hundred feet from the location we suspect the shooter was firing from. We spread out from that point but now all congregate around James. He’s pointing at what looks like a toe print—only the upper ridge of a shoe sole—in this case of a boot. The deep groove visible in the soft dirt right beside a boulder looks like the tread of a hiking boot. The toe is aimed downhill.
We’re like a well-oiled machine and, without discussion, recalibrate using this spot as a center to spread out from. I spot the next track, about twenty feet downhill. The snapped branch of a sapling, low to the ground with its young leaves pressed into the dirt by what appears to be another partial footprint.
The same routine follows; we use the track as the new center to continue our search from. Ten minutes later we hit on a trail, no more than two tire-grooves cutting through the forest.
“It doesn’t make sense,” I remark. “We’re maybe two-hundred yards from the campsite and I would’ve heard a vehicle out here, but I didn’t. Not until I heard you guys driving up.”
“Electric car? Hybrid?” Bo offers.
“You won’t find many of those out here,” James counters.
It’s quiet as we start moving down the trail. I’m sure we’re all trying to think of people we know who drive hybrids. Especially hybrids that can handle this terrain. Following the dual tracks for a quarter of a mile, we hit the main forestry road we came in on, and suddenly it comes to me with the impact of a lightning strike.
“Montana Fish, Wildlife, and Parks uses hybrids. Toyota Highlanders.”
I remember seeing one just yesterday.
“Fucking son of a bitch,” Jonas explodes.
“You’re shitting me,” James contributes. “That’s why the guy was right behind us.”
Bo simply nods his head. “Makes sense to me. Definitely has the skills and plenty of opportunity, but what about motivation?”
“Not sure, but I’ll be damned if it doesn’t feel right, and I’m saying that after not even considering him a possibility.”
“Fucking Woody Moses,” Jonas mumbles, shaking his head. “We’ve known the guy for years. Hell, we’ve worked with him plenty of times.”
“You’ve gotta call Wolff,” I urge him. “And Ewing…I don’t think Moses is on anyone’s radar. He’s fucking part of the task force.”
I also have to get in touch with Pippa right now, because Woody could walk right up to her and she wouldn’t blink an eye.
“I’ll let Fletch know,” I announce, checking my phone for bars.
But before either of us have a chance to call out, my phone vibrates in my hand with an incoming call.
Pippa
“Where the hell are you going?”
I ignore Fletch yelling behind me as I fit myself behind the wheel of my pickup. I’d done my bit, the moment I found out Sloane had gone off to meet up with Woody Moses I ran to the barn to find Fletch. He heard my story, told me to stay put while he made some calls, and then disappeared inside the main house.
Dammit. I tried several times but Sloane wasn’t answering her phone and I need to get to her. I’m not going to wait around and do nothing when she has no idea the kind of danger she is walking into. Ira said she was supposed to meet him at the game warden station and had only just left. I’m about ten minutes from the garage and she’s minutes ahead of me, but I’m hoping maybe she stopped somewhere in town, or was held up somewhere so I can intercept her.
The passenger door is suddenly wrangled open when I start backing away from the cabin. Fletch sticks in his angry face.
“Are you fucking insane?” he barks.
“Get in or get out, Fletch. Either way, I’m going.”
I give him a few seconds to decide, even though I already know which way he’s going to go.
“Fucking crazy reckless women in your family,” he mutters, as he climbs in. “I swear you’re as bad as your sister.”
“What did Sully say?” I ask, pointedly ignoring his complaints as I drive away from the ranch.
“They’d come to the same conclusion you did but via a different path. They’re on their way to the warden’s station.”
“Should we call the sheriff? The FBI?”
“The team will take care of that,” he says before falling silent.
But a few minutes later he pipes up again when I pass a slow-moving truck on the highway, narrowly squeezing back in my lane before hitting oncoming traffic. Almost literally.
“Why don’t you let me drive before you fucking kill us both?”
“No time to lose,” I tell him, as my heart still beats in my throat.
That was a close call.
It’s a good thing my doctor can’t see me now, or she’d have me strapped to a hospital bed so fast I wouldn’t know what hit me. What’s worse, she’d have Sully backing her up all the way. I’m sure my blood pressure is through the roof, so I try to do some deep breathing as I drive into town.
“Keep your eyes peeled for a white, older Honda Accord,” I tell Fletch. “Hopefully she stopped off somewhere.”
We look but see nothing as we drive through town and out on the other side. The station is along the Kootenay River, a few minutes out of town. We’re about to come up on it when Fletch’s phone rings.
“Tell me you’re fucking driving Pippa’s truck.”
I have no trouble hearing Sully and my eyes immediately flit up to the rearview mirror. The truck the team piled into earlier is right on my tail.
“Brother, I’m shotgun, and trust me I tried to—”
“Fucking hell, put me on speaker.”
I’m about to tell him there’s no need, I can hear every yelled word, but I figure it’s best not to poke the bear. Instead, I flick on my blinker, indicating my left turn, right as I hear Sully’s voice full strength, swearing profusely.
“Goddammit, Pippa, keep driving. Don’t you dare think of…”
There’s an opening in oncoming traffic and I make quick use of it. No way I’m going to drive by, especially now I can see Ira’s old pickup parked beside Sloane’s Honda, right outside the station. I noticed when we drove by the Pit Stop the ‘Open’ sign wasn’t lit, but I thought maybe Ira already had left for the day. Clearly, he heard the worry in my voice when he told me Woody’s name and decided to come and investigate himself.
“…Turning in there. Fuck me, woman. The feds are right behind us, turn the fuck around!”
“Watch your language in front of the baby,” I snap at his litany of curses.
Still, I pull through to the farthest corner of the parking lot, where I back into a spot so I’m facing the back of the building. The only other vehicle, aside from Ira’s truck and Sloane’s Honda, is the SUV with the Montana Fish, Wildlife, and Parks logo on the side. Woody’s cruiser.
I watch as Sully jumps out of the rear of the truck, a gun at the ready. Immediately a shot is fired from inside and I scream when I see Sully hit the deck.
“He’s fine,” Fletch says, drawing his own weapon from an ankle holster as he indicates Sully, who is crawling behind the truck. “You need to get down, Pippa.”
He swings open the door and slides out of the truck, using it as cover.
I try to duck down but I don’t have a lot of wiggle room; already I have the seat back as far as possible. I’ve been driving with nothing more than the tips of my toes on the pedals. As best I can, I lean over the center console and rest my upper body on the passenger seat. My stomach is in the way though.
“This is the bes—” I start saying when a loud yell cuts me off.
“Moses!”
I peek over the dashboard, seeing the two FBI agents shielding themselves behind their vehicle. With them is Sheriff Ewing, his hat easily recognizable. He’s the one with the megaphone, which initially surprises me, but now that I think about it, it makes sense. Those two have worked together for years, there’s already rapport built so Woody is more likely to respond to him.
“Go fuck yourself, Ewing!”
“Can’t do that, my friend. I might consider it if you let your hostages go.”
While Ewing is keeping Woody distracted, I notice Sully and Bo crouching low behind the vehicles and moving toward this end of the building.
“And let you mow me down after? No fucking way.”
As Woody yells, Bo and Sully duck around the corner and out of sight. When I look toward the other side, I notice both agents have disappeared from sight as well.
“How are you seeing this end, Woody?” Ewing asks.
Something I’d like to know as well, because not only is the man presumably holding Sloane and Ira hostage—and I hope to God they’re both still in one piece—but now Sully is putting himself in harm’s way as well.
“How can we resolve this situation?” he adds.
“With Congresswoman Yokum right here, admitting responsibility for the death of my sister. I want to hear her admit she knew of her son’s illegal bear baiting on her property. You deliver her to me, and I’ll let these two go.”
“Holy shit,” I mutter.
“Crazy fuck,” is his reply.
“He’s got to know that’s never going to happen.” When Fletch doesn’t answer, I prompt him, “Right?”
“Let the boys do their thing,” he finally says.
It’s the equivalent of a pat on the head, which doesn’t make me feel any better.
Sully
I hope to God Ewing has him sufficiently distracted, because climbing through this window isn’t exactly quiet.
At least not for me. Bo is like a giant cat, moving on surprisingly light feet for the solid man he is. I’m not quite so limber and light-footed, not anymore.
The moment my feet land on the linoleum floor in the small office we find ourselves in, Bo motions for quiet. I freeze and listen to Woody ranting on the other side of this door. The man I know doesn’t waste words and has a calm, quiet demeanor, but this guy yelling his outrageous demands is someone I don’t recognize.
And somewhere out there with him is my niece. If he’s hurt her in any way, if she is injured or worse, I am going to rip him apart, limb by limb.
“What would your sister say, Woody?”
Shit. That’s Sloane talking.
Bo turns to me, his eyebrows raised in question and I nod a confirmation. Goddammit, Sloane, be careful. It shouldn’t surprise me my nosy niece dug up that bit of information but since it’s what appears to be the man’s motivation, she may be juggling nitroglycerine.
“Shut up,” he barks.
From outside I can hear Ewing over the megaphone. I can’t make out what he says, but it’s Sloane demanding Woody’s attention in here.
“What about your mom?”
“I said, shut up!”
“I’m sorry you lost her as well. Is that what made you—”
“Grief killed her.”
He sounds unhinged, his voice high-pitched and almost hysterical. Both Bo and I move closer to the door. With hand signals we communicate how we’re going to proceed. From what I can tell, Sloane is to the left of the door and Woody to the right. The problem with that is this door opens out and from left to right, which means we’ll be able to see my niece, but won’t have an eye on Moses until the very last minute.
Bo carefully pushes the door open a crack. A sliver just big enough for me to be able to see Sloane. She’s sitting on the ground, about six feet from the door, with her back against the wall. From the way her body seizes up, I guess she’s aware of the door opening but to her credit she doesn’t look, keeping her eyes fixed on something to my right.
They’re in the reception area, an open space you walk into when you enter the station. From my recollection, there are a few stands with flyers to my right and I can see a corner of the reception desk through the crack. I don’t have a visual for Ira though, and I haven’t heard him speak at all.
The silence on the other side is becoming a little unnerving, but when I reach out a hand to push the door open farther, Sloane must’ve seen the move and gives her head a sharp little shake.
“Grief killed her,” Moses suddenly repeats as he starts talking again. “And yet that woman still doesn’t take responsibility, still gets herself elected to Congress. She needs to pay for what she did, they all needed to pay.”
“What about Marcie?” Sloane probes, at the same time a loud crash sounds.
I react immediately, kick open the door, and catch Woody turning his gun toward Agent Powell, who is standing in a doorway on the opposite side of the reception area. Before either can start shooting, Sloane makes use of the moment of hesitation to launch herself across the room, taking out Woody’s legs and knocking him to the floor. I don’t think and rush in, dropping my full weight on the man’s upper body as I reach for his hand still clutching the gun.
I’m aware of the others crowding in around me until I hear Bo behind me.
“Weapon secure, you can let go. We’ve got him.”
I lift myself off the guy, grab Sloane’s arm, and pull her back with me. As soon as we get to our feet, I scan her tip to toe for injuries.
“You hurt? Sloane?”
Her head is turned away, her eyes fixed on a pair of work boots sticking out from behind the reception desk.
Shit. Ira.
“Stay,” I order her as I hurry over to him.
He’s lying face down in a puddle of blood and I drop down on my knees beside him, reaching out to feel for a pulse.
“Bo! Need a medic here!”