Within seconds they were firing on him.

Dahlgren tossed the bullhorn into a patch of kudzu next to the gate, emptied his magazine in the direction of the oncoming men, and then jumped into the car and threw it into reverse.

“I am under fire,” he shouted into his mic as he floored the gas and steered backward down the gravel road. “Previous order countermanded. Teams One and Two, engage threats at will. Rendezvous with me on the gravel road and seal the perimeter.”

Even as he steered down the road, bullets whacking into his car, all he could think about was the headlines that would follow. The nut jobs in the blogosphere would be calling this another Ruby Ridge, another Waco.

Gideon goddamn Davis. This is all his fault, Dahlgren thought as he retreated. He also had a dawning realization that the only way his career would survive this situation was to make sure the president understood that Gideon was responsible for everything that had happened and everything he feared would happen very soon.

19

ANDERSON, WEST VIRGINIA

Tillman pounded down the trail toward the house, Lorene a few steps behind him, the barrel of her rifle aimed at the center of his broad back. There had been a lull after the first few shots. Now, a full-on firefight was happening.

Near the barracks at least a dozen guns were firing at a black Crown Vic backing into the trees. A cop car.

Tillman understood there was only one possible conclusion. Gideon had warned him that Nancy’s boss was coming to look for him. He must have been surprised at the gate. Tillman needed to find his brother. Then they both needed to get the hell out of here.

Within minutes, the FBI had returned in force. He could see muzzle flashes in the tree line. Slow, measured fire. Like somebody shooting a bolt gun. And if he was hearing it correctly, it was a deeper, louder thump than the higher crack of the .223s down by the barracks. Something in the .30 cal range. Probably .308s.

Sniper. There was a sniper in the tree, which meant they needed to find cover fast.

Tillman saw the muzzle flash again, this time on the near side of the woods, the side he and Lorene were running on. The sniper was about two hundred yards east of the gate, only a couple of hundred yards from the house.

“Lorene,” he shouted, “we have to find cover!” He pointed at the woods.

“You stay right where I can see you!” Her eyes were glazed with adrenaline, and if the sniper didn’t get him first, she might.

“No, there’s a sniper in the—”

A red mist suddenly exploded from her back. Lorene screamed and fell.

Tillman knew the smart play was to haul ass for the trees. But he couldn’t leave her here.

He scooped her up and began charging toward the trees, hoping that the sniper would move on to richer targets. His heart pounded from exertion. Lorene was a big woman, close to six feet, probably 150 pounds.

Tillman staggered toward the woods. He could see the sniper’s hide now, a few pieces of misplaced vegetation, a dark splotch of something that didn’t match the background. Another ten yards and he would reach cover—a creek bed that had eroded a cut in the earth. He picked up a black circle in the dense vegetation. A scope lens. The sniper’s scope swiveled, trying to track him.

He plunged over the edge, then the black circle was gone, hidden behind the lip of the creek bed.

“You okay?” he said.

Lorene winced. Her face was gray, and he could tell she was in danger of going into shock. “I don’t know. I can’t . . . I think . . . those motherfuckers. Fuck those goddamn piece-of-shit motherfuckers.”

“Let me see,” he said, tearing open her shirt. The wound was pretty bad. Survivable, but bad. It had entered her side just under one rib and exited her back about an inch from the spine and a couple of inches below her bra strap. Fortunately the bullet appeared not to have deformed much, so the exit wound was clean. “Wiggle your toes,” he said. “Can you wiggle your toes?”

“Eight years,” she said. “I haven’t cursed in eight years.” She shook her head vaguely. “Feels kinda good.” She smiled fiercely. “The goddamn shit-sucking motherfuckers.”

“Wiggle your toes.”

“My toes are fine. There’s no spinal injury.” She drew a Glock 17 from her hip, passed it over to him. “I’m sorry I didn’t trust you. Now go find ’em. Kill those fucking motherfuckers before they kill us.”

He heard a whizzing sound over their heads. Someone was firing on their position, trying to pin them down in the creek bed.

She was right. If he was going to get out of here alive, he was going to have to figure out a way to neutralize them. There’d be a sniper and a spotter. The sniper was probably still firing at the guys near the barracks.

So it must be the spotter, lying down suppressing fire, hoping to preserve their position.

He’d have to flank them. He press-checked Lorene’s Glock. The chamber was loaded.

“Stay here,” he said.

Then he ran along the little ridge in a crouch, looking to flank the snipers and drive them out of their hide.

Dahlgren had left two teams as backup at the head of Verhoven’s driveway. The sniper was already in position. The second team took about half a minute to reach him. When they did, Dahlgren slammed on the brakes and leapt out of the car.

“Sir, are you hit?” shouted the head of the team.

“Don’t worry about me,” Dahlgren shouted back. He could feel blood running down inside his shirt. The .223 had penetrated his vest near his left shoulder. It hurt like a son of a bitch, but he sensed that he was okay for now. No bones smashed, no major nerves or arteries damaged.

“That’s a hell of a volume of fire coming from the camp,” the HRT man shouted. “All we’ve got up there is the sniper. If they pin him down and we can’t help out, he’s fucked.”

“So let’s reinforce him,” Dahlgren said.

“Yeah. Thing is, we’ve got eight men, half of them armed only with shotguns or sidearms, and they’ve got twenty, all of them armed with military-grade weapon rifles. If we go up there now, we’ll take casualties. Do you want that?”

Dahlgren scowled. If FBI guys died in this op, it would be the end of his career, no doubt. There was only one thing to do. He put his radio mic to his mouth. “Sniper team retreat to your rally point. We’re falling back to consolidate our position. Repeat. Retreat to your rally point at this time. Copy?”

“Roger.”

Dahlgren turned to Agent Ferris. “Secure the perimeter. Call for additional backup from Charleston. Every spare agent they’ve got.” He pulled out a map, spread it out on the hood of the car, pretending not to notice that he dripped blood on the paper. “We’re okay here on the south perimeter. But look, there’s a logging road on the south perimeter. We need a unit on that road to block them or they’ll retreat out the back and we’ll be combing the hills for the next thirty years looking for these assholes.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And call DC. We need HRT up here yesterday. We need air support. We need . . . Hold on.” He felt a gloomy, corrosive anger pouring over him, but he knew the boys were counting on him to stay cool, so he concentrated on keeping his voice commanding but conversational. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed a number. “Director Wilson? Yes, sir, Dahlgren here. I’m afraid things have gone sideways on us up in West Virginia. Yes, sir. Yes, sir. We’re probably looking at a standoff. It’s that moron Gideon Davis. He provoked this entire thing, I’m afraid.”

Tillman trotted up the creek bed in a crouch, hoping to turn the sniper’s flank. In about fifty yards the cut through which the creek flowed began to flatten out, decreasing the amount of cover available to him. He went to his knees, then to a low crawl, finally slithering out behind a clump of rhododendron.

It took a moment for his eyes to pierce their camouflage, but eventually he was able to make out the sniper and his spotter. They wore ghillie suits with vegetation shoved here and there to break up their outlines and make them blend into the surrounding woods. The suit was hiked up enough on one of the men that he could make out big white letters on the back of his shirt: