The agents pulled up and were soon forty yards behind them. Not far enough, though, that Joe couldn’t hear them complain.

“I can’t say I blame them,” Underwood said to Joe. “This isn’t the kind of thing they’re trained for. Those guys are trained to storm into buildings and secure evidence of pollution and noncompliance and crap like that. They don’t get any instruction on riding horses or doing this cowboy Wild West bullshit in the middle of nowhere.”

Joe nodded. He was surprised at Underwood’s tone. It was soft and coconspiratorial, if not exactly friendly. As if they were all on the same stupid exercise together.

“Okay, what?” Underwood asked Joe. “I’ll listen to your questions, but don’t expect me to answer ’em. No offense, but you’re nothing to me. You’re just another redneck local from the sticks.”

“Gotcha,” Joe said. “I guess you missed those sensitivity meetings the Feds are always holding.”

“I didn’t miss ’em,” Underwood said. “I just don’t give a shit.”

Joe took a deep breath, trying to keep on track. He said, “I work for a state bureaucracy, and you work for the Feds. I’ve got a pretty good idea how slow things go for the most part. Getting government employees to take action isn’t usually the fastest thing in the world. It’s like trying to make an aircraft carrier make a sharp turn around.”

Underwood shrugged, as if the statement was so obvious it didn’t require any more response.

“So how is it,” Joe asked, “that two agents of the EPA out of Denver would jump in their car and drive four hundred miles north to jump a landowner the day he starts to move dirt? Nothing happens that fast.”

Underwood snorted but didn’t look over. He said, “It is a little . . . unusual.”

Joe waited for more.

“I already told you I’m not going to answer every question.”

“That tells me something right there,” Joe said. Then: “How long have you worked for Julio Batista?”

“I don’t work for Julio Batista,” Underwood said. “I just go to work. He just happens to be the director of the regional division right now. There have been assholes before him, and there’ll be other assholes who come after.”

Underwood sighed. “When I transferred out of the Defense Department a few years ago I looked around for a soft landing—some place where I could take it easy until retirement. So I thought—the EPA. Denver. They’re harmless, I thought. I could just ride out my days. That’s before we got this new director.”

When Joe looked over, puzzled, Underwood said, “You want to know who I work for?”

“Sure.”

There was a slight smile on Underwood’s face when he said, “I work for my pension, and my insurance, and my accrued vacation and sick time. I work for me. I show up and do whatever I have to do to get through another day. I don’t give a shit what I have to do as long as those things are protected.”

Joe shook his head.

“What?” Underwood said, mocking Joe’s disbelief. “You expected me to say what? That I work for the American people? That I’m saving the goddamned environment? Is that what you expected? Look, I live in a great condo in LoDo with a view of Coors Field, where I’ve got season tickets for the Rockies. I have a time share in Boca. I’ve got a hot babe up the road in Evergreen and another babe in Florida who doesn’t know anything about the one in Evergreen. That’s what I work for. I could give a shit about everything else, including you or Julio Batista.

“Look,” Underwood said, “I grew up in a little podunk town in Colorado near Glenwood Springs. My parents had a florist shop—Underwood Flowers. I watched them get up every morning at six, go to work, and not get home until eight or later. Seven days a fucking week, because people need flowers for all kinds of things. They worked their asses off and never took vacations. They thought they were building the business for me—thinking I’d take it over when I graduated from college. But that was never in my plans, you know? Why would I want to bust my ass for the rest of my life like they did? I could see the writing on the wall, and I wanted to live my life for me. I didn’t want to be chained to some mom-and-pop store in the middle of nowhere.”

Underwood looked over his shoulder toward the distant team of special agents.

“I don’t know those guys very well,” he said, “but if you asked them the same question, I’d guess you’d get pretty much the same answer.”

Joe said, “You don’t think any of them or the people back in the FOB have any doubts about what we’re doing up here?”

“Why should they?”

“Because it’s over-the-top,” Joe said. “Why not let local law enforcement handle this? Sheriff Reed is competent, not like that idiot McLanahan, who used to be the sheriff and got himself caught by Butch. Reed has a different approach, and things might go a whole lot smoother if he was talking to Butch instead of Julio Batista.”

“Like we care,” Underwood snorted. “Grow up and look around you, Game Warden. Do you know how hard it is to find a job these days, much less a lifetime job with the government with no risk and all the security in the world?”

“You’re a bunch of lifers,” Joe said.

“And what a life it is,” Underwood said, warming to it. “I make good money, I have great benefits, and they’ll never fire me. I’m set, baby. I’ll retire making four times the money my father made the best year of his life. Tell me what’s not to like? You know how it is.”

“It’s not such a sweet deal on the state level,” Joe said.

“And it shouldn’t be,” Underwood said. “You people are jokes to most of us, out here getting your hands dirty for next to nothing. No offense.”

“Of course not,” Joe said, gritting his teeth. “So what you’re doing here—shoving aside the local sheriff and doing this paramilitary operation—that doesn’t bother you?”

Underwood said, “No, why should it? I’m doing my job. If I wasn’t here, somebody else would be. I’ve got nothing personal against the sheriff or that Roberson schmuck. He’s a killer, after all. I’ll get bonus pay for this since we’re way over forty hours this week, and if I’m lucky I’ll get ever so slightly injured so I can take some time off and get disability. I just don’t want to get killed, because I’ve got a vacation planned to Hawaii with the babe from Evergreen in November. Getting killed would really ruin my plans, so I’ll make sure I come out of this okay.”

Joe quickly changed tacks so he wouldn’t feel compelled to knock Underwood off his horse. He almost smiled when he thought how Nate Romanowski would have likely reacted to Underwood’s little speech. If Nate heard it, Joe thought, Underwood would be without an ear or even his head.

Joe said, “If they’re not sending a helicopter, what are they doing to find Butch Roberson? Another drone?”

“My lips are sealed,” Underwood said, but smirked to confirm Joe’s speculation.

“Why so heavy-handed?” Joe asked.

“I’m not the boss.”

Joe felt his neck get hot. Underwood was playing with him.

“So if it’s not you, and it’s obviously not,” Joe said, “who is driving this operation in such a frantic way?”

“Guess.”

“Julio Batista,” Joe said. “But why?”

Underwood scanned the trees on each side and the horizon in front of them, as if to see if there were agency spies lurking who might overhear him. Joe expected another nonanswer answer, but Underwood said, “The man has a bug up his ass. Actually, quite a few bugs. He’s vindictive as hell, and he really loves his power. Before him, I was used to military guys. They can be assholes, too, but there’s usually a sense of duty and tradition that keeps the really petty stuff out. This guy is different. It’s like he’s lived his entire life keeping a list of anyone who dissed him or disrespected him. He uses his position to get even. I’ve helped him do that, which is why I am where I am today.”