Joe paused to hear the rest, and saw the faces of the team turn to Underwood. One of them said, “Holy Christ—a Hellfire missile?”

“Our drone used night-vision technology to pinpoint Roberson and transmit the video back to the FOB,” Underwood said. “He was standing in the middle of a small clearing, talking to Director Batista on the satellite phone. He didn’t have the hostages with him and he was in the clear, so the determination was made right then to fire.”

“Is he dead?” one of the agents asked.

“Deader than dead,” Underwood said. “With no collateral damage we know of. Director Batista is concerned Roberson might have killed his hostages before he was located, but our job is to confirm that. We’re supposed to establish a perimeter around the kill zone and keep everyone away until the FBI can send their forensics team to get a positive DNA identification.”

“Hold it,” Joe said to Underwood. “If they got video of him and determined it was Butch, why do they need to send in forensics to the site? Can’t they do the work later in their lab?”

“I don’t know the answer to that,” Underwood said. “I wasn’t the one who issued the kill order.”

“Who did?”

“Director Batista,” Underwood said. “He made the call himself. That much I know.”

“It’s over,” one of the agents said. “Riding horses, sleeping in the open—all this bullshit for nothing.”

“At least he won’t be shooting at us,” one of the agents said with relief.

“Let’s get ready, guys,” Underwood said. “We need to be at the kill zone as soon as we can. I’ve got the coordinates, and Batista said it’s about eight miles away.”

He looked up at Joe. “How long do you think that will take?”

Joe said, “Two hours if we can stay out of the down timber, a lot longer if we get tangled up in the forest.”

Underwood grimaced and nodded. He said, “Let’s not do that. Let’s get this over so we can get the hell off this mountain.”

—

AS UNDERWOOD PAINFULLY climbed up into his saddle, Joe said, “So this is how it happens now?”

“What?”

“You don’t even bother with making an arrest or taking them to court. You just see them on a video screen and push a button.”

“Wasn’t my call,” Underwood said. “But I can’t say I’m all busted up about it. Better they blow him up than risk any of us getting hurt.”

Joe said, “And here I always thought part of the job of law enforcement was the risk of getting hurt.”

Underwood smirked and shook his head. “You and your old-school crap.”

“Let me borrow your phone again,” Joe said, reaching out.

“Not now. We have to stay off the line in case . . .” Underwood’s argument petered out as he saw the illogic in it. “I guess Butch can’t use his phone if he’s blown up in a million pieces.”

“Yup.”

Underwood sighed and unslung the lanyard for the phone over his head. “Why do you need it?” he asked.

Joe said, “I need to quit.”

“What—this mission?”

“My job,” Joe said.

“Then you can’t have it,” Underwood said, pulling the phone back before Joe could grasp it. “I need you until we find the kill zone. You know these mountains better than anyone here.”

Joe took a deep breath and expelled it slowly through his nose. He felt the need to be a witness at the kill zone since he’d already come this far.

“That and no farther,” he said.

“Don’t worry,” Underwood said. “I’ll be as glad to get rid of you as you are to leave.”

Joe could see the reflection of his grinning teeth in the moonlight.

That’s when Underwood’s phone lit up again and trilled. Joe expected it to be Batista with more orders or more self-congratulation.

He was close enough to hear Butch Roberson’s bass voice ask Batista, “What the hell did you idiots just do?”

Joe looked up at the night sky and was a little surprised and ashamed by his sense of relief.

Then it hit him: If it wasn’t Butch Roberson who’d been hit by the missile, who was it?

28

MOMENTS BEFORE, DAVE FARKUS HAD BEEN JOLTED BY what he thought must be a gunshot, and he spun on his heels and writhed and held his bound hands out in front of him as if they’d ward off an oncoming bullet. The sound was a big CRACK! that seemed to split open the very night itself and he was surprised that it took a second for the trees to the northwest to sway as shock waves blew through them.

Behind him, Butch Roberson hissed: “Get moving!” and the three of them sprinted across a rock- and grass-covered field toward the shelter of a broken cirque of rocks that looked to provide cover.

Farkus had glanced over his shoulder as he ran and saw a rose-colored ball of flame roll up from the dark sea of trees several miles away to the northwest. The explosion looked to have happened in the timber short of the valley floor they’d come through the afternoon before.

Safely in the rock formation, Butch ordered Farkus and McLanahan to get down. They sat with their hands bound and resting between their knees while Butch Roberson climbed up a coffin-shaped outcropping with a squared-off top large enough for him to pace back and forth. He seemed to be planning their next move, Farkus thought. Either that, or Butch had been seriously thrown by the explosion.

As Butch paced on the top of the rock, his reverse silhouette could be seen only because he blocked out the wash of creamy stars in the sky. Then Farkus could see a glimpse of the ambient light of the satellite phone lighting up Butch’s cheek.

“What was it?” Farkus asked McLanahan.

“Something big.”

“Thanks, expert,” Farkus said.

McLanahan gestured toward Butch, who was activating his phone.

“Maybe he’s had enough,” McLanahan said. “Maybe Butch is ready to give himself up.”

“What the hell did you idiots just do?” Butch yelled into the handset.

—

BECAUSE BUTCH WAS ABOVE HIM holding the handset tight to his face and walking back and forth on the rock, Farkus could only hear one side of the conversation.

“Don’t try to tell me that was the helicopter, Batista. What do you take me for? I was a Marine. I flew in helicopters. I know the hell what one looks like and sounds like, and that wasn’t a helicopter . . .”

Then: “Stop it with your lies. You sent another drone, but this one was loaded for bear. Don’t deny it, you liar. Do you know what you did? You blew up a miserable loser I’d sent away. I can’t say he was an innocent man, because he wasn’t. His name was Jimmy Sollis, and he’s the one who gut-shot that hunter. But you killed him, Batista . . .”

Then: “I had a feeling you’d try something like this, but I was stupid enough to think you’d just divert your men to the signal and chase the wrong guy. I never thought you’d be stupid enough to blow him up with a missile because of a phone he carried in his backpack. Now you’ve got real blood on your hands, Batista. How does it feel?”

Then: “Stop it, just stop it. There was never going to be a helicopter, was there? The whole thing was a lie, wasn’t it?”

Then: “You’re treating me like a goddamned terrorist—firing missiles at me without ever looking at me face-to-face. That’s how you people are, isn’t it? You don’t return calls, you don’t talk to actual citizens because what they say might make you uncomfortable. And you do this the same way, don’t you? Everything at a comfortable distance, where you never have to get your hands dirty or worry about someone actually fighting back . . .”

Then: “So what’s next? Are you going to drop bombs on me? Hit me with a nuke? The drones I’m familiar with are MQ-1 Predators and they can only pack one Hellfire missile, and that’s the one you used to blow the hell out of Jimmy Sollis . . .”