Shooter got news that the helicopter was meeting us in nearby Tyler County, and Warden Terradas offered us a ride.
I looked to Shooter, who had driven here. “The warden knows the area,” I said, and we both climbed into the cab of Terradas’s truck.
“You got any idea where Ethan Nolan went?” Shooter asked.
My mind was spinning, stuck on what Poulton had offered. Could I prevent PAR from being shut down? Run it, even? Did I have the skill to be Frank, if Frank was “dumping us,” as Ethan Nolan had put it?
“Not yet,” I said. “But wherever it is, it’s faster to get there in a bird.”
As Terradas fired up the truck, Shooter’s phone buzzed. It was Cassie, and Shooter put it on speaker.
“Nolan Senior was Special Forces,” Cassie said. “Part of SOG.”
This was the Studies and Observation Group. They placed soldiers in Vietnam for secret missions. Tunnel clearing. Long-term reconnaissance. Assassinations.
“Apparently he was embedded with a team of locals in Central Vietnam,” Cassie said.
I had studied every detail of the Vietnam War for my master’s dissertation, a dual degree I’d received alongside one in information sciences. To me, the study of data and the study of war were closely related.
“The Montagnard Bowmen,” I said, my brain immediately going to work. “They lived in Vietnam’s Central Highlands and were experts in archery. Nolan may have shot with them. Maybe even learned about poisons from the group.”
“He also earned a silver star for saving the life of a soldier,” Cassie said. “Now go ahead, Gardner. Ask me who.”
“William Banning,” I said.
“Winner, winner. Chicken dinner.”
And Banning had repaid Jack Nolan by blocking him from the FBI.
I shook my head.
Warden Terradas made a hard right turn, and we were back on the state highway.
“Cassie,” I said. “The house you’re at—how well have you gone through it?”
“I’m still underway.”
“These guys are more than casual hunters,” I said. “You see any indication of places they visited, other than Big Thicket?”
“There’s a den with a bunch of photos on the wall,” she said. “The same place is in a lot of them.”
We waited a moment while Cassie moved to this room.
“It’s a ranch,” she said. “In eight or ten pictures.”
“What kind of ranch?” Shooter asked.
“The kind you’d like,” Cassie replied. “Has a shooting range. Bows. Rifles. Ethan is decked out in camo pants. Same with his dad.”
“The terrain in the photos,” I said, thinking of Big Thicket, “is it swampy?”
“No,” Cassie said. “It’s hilly. A few high points. Ethan is a preteen in some of these. Then a teenager. There’s a bunch of guys around them.”
“Weekend warriors,” Shooter said. “Must be some sort of training facility. Maybe a hunting preserve the family ran?”
Cassie didn’t answer; for a moment, it sounded like we’d lost her.
“Guys, there’s a big framed photo that was taken off the wall. It’s on the table in here. Older men in it, sixtyish. A reunion. Banning and Nolan Senior in the photo. Looks like five or ten years ago, maybe. Everyone’s got the same logo on their shirts. A circular shooting target with crosshairs, then the letters NTX.”
“He’s headed there,” I said.
“Nolan?” Cassie asked.
“Banning too,” I said.
Shooter looked shocked. “The director wouldn’t do that,” she said.
“Banning came back to the FBI for a farewell tour, Jo,” I said. “The Bureau is his life. His identity. And Ethan Nolan’s whole game is to make a fool of him.”
“How would Banning even know where to go?”
A synapse fired. In Banning’s office, there was a glass table. A piece of wood under it. Texas black gum with a carving on the side. NTX.
“That reunion,” I said. “Wherever that is, that’s our location. Banning came to it. Took back this giant piece of wood to make a table in his office.”
Terradas’s truck hit a bump, and I lifted the phone closer. “Check Nolan Senior’s records, Cassie. Property taxes. Former addresses the military has on file. We need the location of that ranch.”
We hung up, and Terradas slowed into a concrete lot where three helicopters sat. Closest to us was an MD 530, its blades whipping at the wind.
Hopping out, Shooter grabbed her gear from the back of the truck, including a long duffel that held her rifle. We lowered our heads and moved across the open space.
It took the pilot five minutes to fill up the tank. We waited in a single-room building next to the helipad and checked in with Richie. He’d stayed the night in Dallas and was following up on the murder in Keller. The one that matched Tignon’s MO from Florida.
“I’ve been trying to confirm if Ethan Nolan knew Tignon was active again,” Richie said. “But there’s nothing definitive here.”
A memory came to mind. “There were ten glasses on a bar cart in Tignon’s home,” I said. “Two were turned upright. An inch of water in the bottom.”
“Ice cubes,” Richie said, solving the riddle. “They melted. What does that mean?”
“He’s a talker,” I said.
“A talker?”
“Nolan Junior spoke with Tignon before he killed him. He wanted to know about the girl. Wanted to confirm Tignon was active again.”
“Justice,” Richie said, repeating the theme that had been consistent with Ethan Nolan. “Same as why he sent that priest to visit Fisher in prison. He wants to talk to his victims before he kills them.”
Richie was on speaker, and Shooter jumped in. “You think he’ll want to do the same with Banning? Have a chat before he tries to take him out?”
“Wait. He’s going to kill Banning?” Richie’s voice spiked. He’d been out of the loop for the last hour.
“He’ll want to talk even more,” I said to Shooter. “Banning is personal.”
Outside, the helicopter pilot removed the fuel hose from the copter.
I thought of what Poulton had said to me. Wondered again if it was within my power to save PAR. To keep us all together. And what the cost would be.
“Our problem,” I said, “is that we might not get there in time.”
Shooter’s nostrils tucked in, and her eyes pinched to a point. “Wait a sec,” she said. “When Poulton took us off speaker, he didn’t offer that, did he? For you to slow-play this? To keep PAR open if you did?”
The helicopter pilot waved at us, and I told Richie we had to go.
“Wait,” Richie said. “Guys, I know what’s going on with PAR.”
I glanced at Shooter, and she silently shook her head from left to right, letting me know she hadn’t told him what we’d heard in the elevator.
“You can’t let Poulton do this,” Richie continued. “I know Banning’s a hard guy to like. He’s curt. Arrogant. But underneath it all, he’s a good man. I know this about him.”
Richie, defending William Banning. Why?
“Richie?” I said.
“He’s my grandfather, Agent Camden.”