The woods were dark and frightening. Now that he was moving, he had warmed up a little. But still he was freezing. It occurred to him that he could hike right out of these woods, climb in his car, and head home. If he left right this second, he could be lying next to Kate before the sun even cracked the horizon.

But of course he wasn’t going to do that. Not to Tillman. Not after dragging him here against his will.

He sighed. He couldn’t tamp down the creeping feeling, though, that this might be a total waste of time. And a dangerous one at that.

Tillman reached the shooting range around 5:30 A.M. On one side was a two-hundred-yard rifle range, while the other was a smaller pistol range surrounded by a U-shaped berm. Between them was a small metal shed, chained shut and padlocked. He tried briefly to jimmy the lock. He’d taken a lock-picking course once when he was in the Special Forces. But apparently lock picking was a perishable skill, and he hadn’t practiced five times since the class was over.

He finally gave up and worked his way around the building. The shed was built on a concrete pad, with a tiny gap underneath. If he shined his flashlight under the gap, he’d be able to look around inside the shed. He also might wake the sleeping guard.

It was taking a chance, but he was close to half a mile from the house by now. He lay down, probed the interior of the shed with the light. There were some steel shooting plates, some target racks, a couple of five-gallon buckets—probably filled with range brass. But no Mixon. And no sign he might have been here.

There was only one more structure in the area, a tiny concrete shed about four feet high. He was puzzled until he reached it. The far side of the minuscule structure was open. It was a trap house: inside was a small machine for throwing shotgun clays into the air. Only then did he see that the field behind it was littered with smashed bits of orange: thousands and thousands of shattered clay pigeons, barely visible in the moonlight.

He looked at his watch. He realized he needed to be getting back. He would have to get back inside Verhoven’s house, and then make some excuse to leave early—before Nancy’s boss showed up.

It was two hundred yards back to the shooting range, and another four hundred to the house. No way he’d have time to crawl it. He circled behind the berm at the back of the rifle range, putting himself out of view of the house, then jogged quietly to the rear of the shooting range. When he reached the far side of the berm, he spotted something that made his heart shift into high gear.

Lorene was walking swiftly up the trail toward him. And she was carrying a rifle.

He barely had enough time to remove his radio earpiece before Lorene raised the gun and pointed it at him. “Lorene?” Tillman said.

“Why are you sneaking around the property?” The carbine in her hands was still pointed at him.

“Thought I’d get up and take a look at the terrain before maneuvers started,” he said.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” she said.

“I told you—”

“What are you really doing?” Lorene’s crazy two-tone eyes narrowed as she stepped toward him. “And don’t feed me some bullshit. My husband’s a good man, but he can sometimes be a bit naïve.”

Gideon's War and Hard Target

Tillman held her look, but before he could answer, a sharp...

Lorene turned on him. “You set us up! I told Jim not to trust you!”

“Hold on,” said Tillman, raising a hand in self-defense, when he saw three tiny flashes of light down at the gate on the far side of the house. Muzzle flashes. The sound reached them half a second later. Ba-bang . . . bang. It sounded like a heavy handgun, probably a .45.

She motioned with the gun. “You’re coming with me,” she said. “If something’s happened to Jim, I swear I will kill you with my own hands.”

He didn’t give a shit about Jim Verhoven, or Lorene’s threats. But if the gunfire had anything to do with Gideon . . .

With Lorene’s carbine at his back, Tillman moved swiftly toward the sound of gunfire.

When Gideon heard the gunfire, he had already searched half the trails along the western portion of Verhoven’s property but had found no structures or subterranean bunkers anywhere in the woods. When he heard the shot, Gideon tried to reach Tillman on the radio, but got no response. He hurried back toward the shooting range, where he knew his brother was checking. But he couldn’t see Tillman anywhere. Peering through the night-vision spotting scope, however, he saw two figures in the distance. One of them was definitely Tillman. The other looked like a woman with a gun.

In his zeal to find the elusive hidden room, he had left his brother exposed. Now he heard more gunfire, and the woman was taking Tillman at gunpoint toward the main house. Gideon drew his pistol and began running through the trees.

18

ANDERSON, WEST VIRGINIA

Sixty seconds earlier Deputy Director Ray Dahlgren had been driving up the long steep gravel drive toward the Verhoven house. The rutted washboard road made the entire body of his Crown Vic vibrate so that even with the windows rolled down, it was impossible to hear anything from outside the car. He had killed the lights, hoping to approach stealthily. But with all the racket the car was making, he now knew there was no point to it.

If anybody was paying any attention at all, they’d hear him coming.

As he was thinking, a gate swam up out of the murky half-light of dawn. He slammed on his brakes—though not in time to prevent the car from thumping into the gate.

He saw movement out of the corner of his eyes, made out a figure bounding up out of a chair. It was a young man dressed in camo, an AR-15 hanging from his neck on a single-point sling.

“What the fuck!” the young man said, looking around wildly.

Dahlgren opened the door and started to climb out.

“Hey, whoa. You’re in the wrong place. Get the fuck out of here.”

Dahlgren continued to exit the car, hands in the air. “Easy,” Dahlgtheeeee d‡ren said. “Take it easy. My name is Deputy Director Raymond Dahlgren with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I’m here to see Colonel Verhoven.”

“The fuck you are!” The young man’s entire body was twitching. Dahlgren could see he was scared shitless.

“Young man, pull yourself together,” he barked. “I’m here to see Jim Verhoven.”

“Bullshit,” the young man said. His voice was high, and his hands were shaking as he pointed his AR-15 at Dahlgren.

“Look, I’m here to talk to Colonel Verhoven about a man named Gideon Davis.” Dahlgren reached into his coat pocket to retrieve a photograph of Gideon. He didn’t make it. Apparently the kid thought he was reaching for a gun. Or maybe he was simply so nervous that he pressed the trigger by accident.

Whatever the case, the AR went off with a sharp crack. Dahlgren felt a thud in his side, like he’d been hit with a baseball bat.

Ray Dahlgren had spent a great many years training with his weapon, until its use was so instinctive that he didn’t have to think.

He drew and fired blindingly fast. Bang bang, two shots center mass, bang, a third shot to the face. It wasn’t until he’d let off the third shot that his eyes even became aware of the three greenish white dots of his tritium sights. But by then it didn’t matter. His third shot had drilled a very large third nostril in the boy’s face, then tossed a torrent of red muck out the back of his head.

The boy fell in a heap.

“Shit,” Dahlgren muttered.

Gideon's War and Hard Target

Down the road, two cars were waiting, containing four more...

It took Dahlgren a moment to respond. “Threat neutralized. I want you to stand down and stand by.”

“Copy that, sir.”

Dahlgren reached into the cruiser, pulled out a bullhorn. He realized his hand was shaking as he raised it to his mouth. “Colonel Verhoven. This is Ray Dahlgren of the FBI. I have been fired upon and have returned fire. I do not, repeat, do not seek any further engagement.” Even as he launched into his speech, though, a horrible feeling was sweeping over him. He’d come up here to defuse a potential situation, and now he realized he may have ignited one as he saw dark figures spilling out of a long low building a hundred yards away. It had the look of an old chicken coop. But the men pouring out of the building were not chickens. They were armed.