“Jesus Christ,” McLanahan said with irritation, “they’ve got an eye in the sky. Those bastards sent an unmanned drone to look for him.”

Farkus had never seen one before, and it was moving so quickly in the distance he couldn’t get a good look at it now. The front of the drone was egg-shaped, and there were no windows. It was tough to tell how big it was, although it stood out against the dark sea of trees.

“If the drone sees him,” McLanahan said, “we’ve lost our advantage. He’ll take to the trees again, and we might never see him again. Plus, the Feds will know where to look.”

“He’s got to hear it, too,” Farkus observed.

“What a bad fucking break,” McLanahan said, angry enough that his West Virginian drawl came through.

“He’s standing up,” Sollis said quietly. “Nobody talk or breathe. I may get a shot.”

Farkus thought, Run, you hardheaded son of a bitch. Don’t let them see you. And don’t come our direction . . .

—

FOR A BRIEF MOMENT, Farkus assumed the popping noises were coming from the drone itself. They were measured but rapid, one after the other.

Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop.

Before he could open his mouth and ask what it was, the drone shivered, dropped in altitude, tilted to its left, then readjusted severely back the other way, and the right wing tip caught the top of a pine tree and exploded through it with a burst of needles and branches.

“Wow,” McLanahan said.

The drone cart wheeled through the sky on the other side of the canyon and dropped into the timber with the violent sound of sheet metal buckling and tree trunks snapping. It was swallowed by the dark forest as if it had never been there at all.

And suddenly there was silence.

“He shot it down,” McLanahan said with awe. “Our boy shot that bastard out of the sky.”

Farkus barely heard Sollis whisper: “Shut up, please,” then BOOM, his 6.5x284 rifle rocked and sounded even louder in the narrow confines of the wall crack.

Through ringing ears, Farkus heard Sollis say with triumph: “He’s down.”

16

JOE SADDLED TOBY AWAY FROM THE CHAOS OF A COMMAND center of sorts that was slowly morphing from too many disparate vehicles and law enforcement officials. Two large canvas tents were being erected by members of the sheriff’s department—they’d borrowed them from local elk outfitters—next to two high-tech portable tent structures marked EPA on the sidewalls. The location for the FOB was on a bench less than two hundred yards from the Forest Service boundary fence. Within the scrum of tents and vehicles moved EPA special agents, sheriff’s department deputies, Forest Service rangers and special agents, BLM employees, and other men and women Joe couldn’t identify and didn’t want to meet.

He could feel the tension and excitement from the FOB as he cinched the saddle tight and Toby glared back at him in faux discomfort. Voices were pronounced and high and talking over one another, laughter was barked, and flare-ups of anger punctuated the hum. It was the same combination of anticipation and bloodlust he’d witnessed at elk hunting camps or from within the vehicles of hunting parties setting out on opening day of the season.

Joe kept his eye on a group of four men in the temporary corral set up on the edge of the FOB. They were black-clad and sober, unlike the others, and going about their business with quiet gravitas. They seemed to have no interest interacting with the others in the camp. The men stood in a knot, intently listening to a local wrangler who had brought the horses as he outlined the personalities and problems with each mount. It was obvious they were unfamiliar with horses, Joe thought. As they climbed into their saddles, the wrangler adjusted stirrups and walked each horse away from the corral to await the others. Heinz Underwood shadowed the wrangler, muttering things into his ear and to his team. When all the agents were mounted, the wrangler helped Underwood stuff gear into the panniers of a set of packhorses. It looked like too much gear to Joe, who kept his distance even as Underwood spotted him and walked his horse over.

Joe watched him come with bemusement. Underwood obviously didn’t know his way around horses, and the agent didn’t want to show it. But by the way he held the reins too tight and overcorrected his direction with aggressive yanks, it was obvious.

“First time on a horse?” Joe asked, as Underwood rode up.

“I’ve been on horses before.”

“Fine,” Joe said. “You’re just lucky it’s a brain-dead trail horse, or he might get feisty, the way you’re jerking on his mouth.”

Almost imperceptibly, Underwood eased up on the reins.

“Are you ready?” he asked. “My men are getting impatient.”

Joe nodded and said, “What’s the plan? You’ve got enough equipment there to last a few weeks, it looks like.”

Underwood ignored the question. “You’re going to lead us to where you last saw Butch Roberson, and we’re going to try to determine where he went from there. At that point, you might be released from service.”

“Fine by me,” Joe said, but he had immediate reservations about agreeing so quickly. The team of special agents was armed with semiautomatic weapons, sidearms, shotguns, and communications equipment. They looked, he thought, like they might shoot first and ask questions later, although he was sure Underwood wouldn’t admit it. If he were along, Joe thought, there would be a better chance of bringing Butch back alive. Underwood seemed to sense his concern.

“We’re the advance team,” Underwood continued. “If we find his track—or locate him—we’ll call back and get orders and backup before we proceed.”

“I’ll bet,” Joe said sourly.

Underwood surprised Joe by grinning.

—

JOE SWUNG into the saddle at the same moment a murmur rippled through the men and women at the FOB. He looked up to see most heads turned toward the road that led to the FOB through the hay meadows. Joe followed their gaze to see a huge black new-model Suburban tearing their way, sending a fat cloud of dust into the air behind it.

Before he could see the license plate or the man behind the wheel, he knew who it was. Only one man drove a new car that recklessly over bad roads.

“Do you know who that is?” Underwood asked Joe.

“Yup,” Joe said. “My governor.”

—

THE BLACK SUBURBAN hurtled at the FOB as if the driver’s intention was to plow right through it, Joe thought, and he saw a few of the special agents within the tents start to sidle away. The big vehicle braked short of the parking area and skidded to a stop. Governor Spencer Rulon flew out the driver’s-side door and left it open while he bellowed, “I’m the governor of this state, and I want to know who the hell is in charge here!”

A few beats after the governor, Joe saw Lisa Greene-Dempsey tentatively open the passenger door and step out. She appeared to have no intention of following her boss into the crowd.

Joe and Underwood exchanged glances, then both urged their horses forward toward the Suburban. Joe watched Rulon stride through the crowd of law enforcement—which parted to let him through—straight toward Julio Batista, who had come out of the EPA tent with a cell phone in his hand and a quizzical expression on his face. LGD trailed the governor. She saw Joe and nodded. She looked worried about what was going to happen next, he thought.

Underwood said quietly, “I’ve heard your guy is a nutjob.”

Joe had seen the governor in a rage before—too many times, in fact—and fought an urge to say to Underwood, This is gonna be good.

Batista introduced himself and held out his free hand, palm up, to ward off the approach of Rulon, and turned away to end his call. Rulon stopped short of the outstretched palm but stood hands on hips, glaring at the EPA administrator with his upper body pointed forward and his eyes enlarged.