RACHEL SAT in Mark Paulson’s office, the aroma of Ashley’s lunch still lingering in her nose, waiting for him to reach the end of the memo she’d quickly thrown together after her call with Janet Fordham. “This is the beginning,” she said, impatient for him to finish reading. “This is how we close it down.”
She wasn’t sure Paulson had heard her, but there was no point saying it again. The information spoke for itself.
Finally, he said, “Where’s Butte La Rose?”
“Louisiana. In the Atchafalaya Basin.” In answer to Paulson’s blank stare, she said, “The bayou.”
That was enough for him. “And how old is this intel?”
“Three hours.”
He nodded. “We could have a team there in twenty-four.”
“Bishop isn’t there. Mittag isn’t either.”
“But eighteen members are right there, waiting to be rounded up,” said Paulson. “Those other houses—they might be empty now. This is an assured capture.”
She’d worried about this before handing him the report. Paulson’s background in banking left him, on occasion, surprisingly ignorant. Which was why she didn’t share OSWALD’s role in the shooting of Diane Trumble. She tried to make it simple for him. “If we sweep in now, it’s bound to expose OSWALD.”
Paulson sighed.
She knew what was on his mind—the press. Now that Sam Schumer had revealed to the world the four hundred missing followers, grieved family members were shouting to the press about FBI secrecy. That afternoon, a Wall Street Journal editorial had castigated the FBI as symptomatic of a bloated federal system that was as fat as it was ineffectual. The Massive Brigade, the paper argued, was too nimble to be caught by bureaucrats. Paulson could feel the hot breath of his critics on the back of his neck and was waiting in terror for the president to call his direct line. So she threw him a bone. “Look at the third page.”
He turned to it, scanning the other safe houses Kevin had identified for them. She said, “I’ve asked our field offices to surveil them. We’ll have choices. We can pick off an earlier one. It won’t expose OSWALD, but it will show the press we’re not sitting around doing nothing.”
Paulson returned to the first page and sighed. “OSWALD’s still in contact?”
“He’s going to try for daily reports, but no promises. It’s not easy getting away.”
Paulson rubbed an eye with his pinkie, and finally nodded. “Let’s go put the fear of God into them, then, shall we?”
By five thirty, the Denver field office had struck gold—at least a dozen Massive followers were still living in the safe house near the base of Black Mountain in Wyoming. She told them to fly a SWAT team up there. Before heading out to Ronald Reagan Airport, she stopped by Paulson’s office to give him the news. The man seemed positively giddy.
A Bureau jet flew her five hours to Sheridan County Airport, and, upon landing, a local agent picked her up in a black Suburban and drove her through the redbrick center of Sheridan. The bars were closing, and a few tall men in cowboy hats wandered down the sidewalks, wobbly from drink. Independence Day signs, already starting to fade, advertised steer roping and bronc riding.
“They’re in position?” she asked the agent.
He checked the time on the dash: 12:42 A.M. “Should be.”
On their way up I-90, north of town, her phone buzzed. It was Owen Jakes. “It’s all ready?” he asked.
“Just about. What’s up?”
“Can’t sleep. Wish I’d come along.”
“There’ll be plenty of raids soon enough.”
“May I suggest something?” he asked.
“Sure.”
“Keep your finger on the trigger tonight. These people are psychopaths.”
The next call was from Commander Stephen Reyes, and she told him she would be there in twenty.
“There are some lights on,” he replied.
She knew what he was getting at; all evening he’d sounded nervous. “They can’t all be asleep, can they?”
“Are you sure about your plan?”
Given the armaments inside that house, she’d decided that instead of surprising them, she would announce herself from a safe distance. Give them a moment to think through their options and consider surrender. A sudden attack would result in a confused gunfight and a lot of blood. Reyes disagreed—an announcement, he contended, would only give them time to arm themselves and draw out the fight. He’d been in Waco for the disastrous Branch Davidian raid, and he didn’t want a repeat performance.
But these weren’t members of a religious cult. They were young people who, no matter what they thought of the government, didn’t want to die. There was nothing waiting for them on the other side.
“We’ll talk when I get there,” she said, and hung up.
“He wants to be a hero,” the agent said as he drove through blackness under a white moon.
“What?”
“Reyes. He wants to do it himself. With stealth. Doesn’t want any bureaucrats standing in his way.”
“I don’t see any bureaucrats in this car.”
He laughed. “Just keep telling yourself that, Agent Proulx.”
They cut the lights and rolled at half speed until they reached the outer edge of the property, then pulled into a ditch. She took a bullhorn from the trunk and walked to meet Reyes farther up the road. Because of his black outfit, she didn’t see him until he was right next to her. He shook her hand, then led her through spindly trees to where the land sloped; in the middle of an open field lay the large ranch house. A couple of lamps glowed in windows along the wraparound porch. As they walked, he reported in whispered tones that earlier that evening a woman had left the property, and his men had tracked her all the way to a previously unknown safe house south of Nephi, Utah.
“Great work,” she said. “That’ll be our next one.”
He pointed across the field. “There’s twenty-seven of us scattered out there. We can be at the front door in sixty seconds.” He touched his ear, listening. “A female is in the kitchen. Making coffee.”
Moonlight lit up the craggy path between Rachel and the house. She’d gone over maps to figure her best approach, but here, actually preparing to approach the house, her plan to stand at a safe distance and shout to them through the bullhorn … it felt wrong. How would a group of paranoid kids react to the sound of an amplified voice telling them to lay down their weapons and surrender?
Alternately, what would they do when black-clad agents smashed through their doors with battering rams?
“Take this,” she said to Reyes, and handed him the bullhorn. “There’s been a change of plan.”
It was nearly two o’clock when she walked up the long gravel driveway, then stepped onto the cracked stones that led to the porch. She walked steadily, careful not to hurry, but also making no effort to be quiet. By the time she reached the steps she’d noticed curtains parting. She was surprised she even had to knock on the door, and more surprised that it took them a full minute to open it.
A young woman cracked open the door and showed her face. “It’s kinda late, lady,” she said.
“Sorry,” Rachel said, “but we need to take care of this before dawn.”