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SHEPARD GAVE WIDOW a satellite phone that should work during the calmer phases of the snowstorm. There wasn’t much more information he could give him. He didn’t know any names or the location of the terrorist cell on Red Rain Reservation.
Widow was going in blind, which was something he was used to.
“I can’t tell you how much we appreciate this,” Shepard said.
About fifteen minutes after he and Widow had walked out of the diner, they headed back up the winding road to the reservation. They drove in Shepard’s gray Ford King Ranch truck. Widow had seen nice trucks before, but this was really something. It was fully loaded with dual captain’s chairs in the front cabin. It was the most comfortable ride Widow had had in a long time.
He gazed out of the window, mostly because he didn’t want to get caught staring at Shepard’s scar.
Snow blew in a slow arch across the road, creating a dreary gloom. It wasn’t a whiteout but certainly the beginning of one. Widow could see old powerlines, but only the stumpy treelike bottoms. The tops vanished in the grey. They looked like the long, bony legs of some unseen creature high above him.
The truck drove steadily over the snowy terrain with no problems. They took it slow because the traffic in front of them was slow. Shepard sped up every chance he got. He’d slow down behind a slow-moving vehicle, and then he’d pass around and speed up again. The King Ranch had a big advantage over most of the vehicles because it sat up high, and Shephard could see much farther ahead than the cars they’d passed.
Shepard turned the wheel and moved around a small yellow Beetle with whining sounds coming from the engine like it was desperate to survive the terrain. The petite car was buried to the tire rims in the snow.
Shepard swerved around another car. The driver blared his horn.
Widow asked, “Why not alert the real FBI?”
“I wish I could, but we can’t let it be known we’re responsible for the virus.”
Widow nodded. Made sense. The CIA had let some homegrown terrorist cell get their hands on the virus, and now they need to recover it, all the while keeping the whole thing a secret.
“The government is okay with bombing and killing a bunch of innocent people over letting out an embarrassing secret?” Widow asked, a little skeptical.
“Look. It won’t make anything better if we make it public that there’s a terrorist threat involving Indians. Every place that has an Indian reservation would be targeted by hate groups. Plus, if we tell this community about the Ebola, everyone will panic, and the terrorists will be forced to release the virus. Then we’ll have to mobilize the National Guard and quarantine a huge area. And even then, there’s little we can do for them. A lot more people will die if we inform the public.” He paused. “So go in there. Investigate. Find Jacobs for me. You don’t need to interact with him. Just find him. We can go in after the storm and get him out. If he’s dead, then get me a location or a name. Hitting one target will make it a lot better for everyone than hitting the whole community. We just need to either recover the case or destroy it.”
“Do you have the manpower for an assault?”
Shepard switched the wipers to the highest setting, and the blades scraped across the glass, solving the problem for only about ten seconds. Then he said, “I have a small team waiting.” He paused a beat and stared at the entrance to the reservation coming up on the left.
He said, “Make sure to call me as soon as the snowstorm passes or when you know something. If I don’t hear from you by morning, I’ll have no choice but to have this place leveled. It’s better to sacrifice a few lives over thousands.”
He slowed the truck and turned without stopping onto the track that entered the reservation. They passed the sign and drove up to the community center. He pulled into the parking lot and made a U-turn and pulled the truck right up to the curb. He clicked the button on his door’s armrest, and Widow’s door unlocked.
Shepard said, “Open the glove box.”
Widow grabbed the handle to the glove box and popped it. The door fell open like a crocodile’s mouth, and he saw a Walther P99 staring back at him. It was black with a matte finish. It had a manual decocker and rear slide serrations. The whole gun was nonslip, including the ergonomic grip. It was a small gun, a 9mm with a 7.1-inch length from nose to butt. The gun weighed a pound and a half completely unloaded. It was a world-famous gun that had been trusted by European and Western military and police forces for decades. And there was one other factor that made this particular gun famous.
Widow picked up the gun and tilted it in his hand and said, “James Bond’s gun? That’s a little ironic.”
“Take it. It’s fully loaded with fifteen rounds in the mag. You might need it.”
So far, Widow had heard an insane story about Native American terrorists, undercover CIA operatives, and a deadly virus. Why shouldn’t he have the same gun used by 007 in his hand? He took the gun and made sure the safety was on and slipped it into his pocket. He didn’t chamber it. He didn’t think he’d need it.
Shepard said, “My number is programmed into the phone. Good luck.”
Widow opened the door, climbed out into the snowy gloom, and watched as Shepard pulled away from the lot, drove off onto the road, and was lost to sight.