Had he failed? And if so, by whose definition? As a SEAL, failure meant giving up, not acting, throwing in the towel. The Secret Service might begrudgingly accept a sidelined position while the FBI came in to run the investigation, but that didn’t mean he had to. The more Scot considered his options, the less he could see he had to lose.

The Senate inquiry, which was bound to come down eventually, would tie him to a stake and roast him. There would probably be other sacrificial lambs, but he knew that back in Washington they were already engraving his invitation to the party. Even if he resigned from the Secret Service before then, he would still be forced to testify at the hearing and be roasted nonetheless. They would need someone to blame. It was part of the pathological makeup of politicians.

The other thing gnawing at him was the oath he had taken to protect and serve his country and the president. As good as the FBI was, it would take them a hell of a long time to get everything coordinated. By then, evidence would be lost, and the kidnappers would be even farther away. The FBI would have to wait for demands to be made. They would continue to go through the motions of looking for evidence, and if they were lucky, they might turn up a lead, but Scot wasn’t holding out a lot of hope the FBI would catch a break. There was no question in his mind that the president was still alive. If the intent had been to assassinate him, his body would have been found along with those of the rest of his detail.

There was a lot to be said for a collective effort, but when that effort was not quickly coordinated and executed, nine out of ten times it ended in disaster. The FBI and the Secret Service were playing defense. Every cell in Scot’s body had been trained for offense, and offense called for action. Besides, he thought again, what did he have to lose?

22

Scot found Vance Boyson and Nick Slattery at the edge of the perimeter, leaning against the flatbed of a Deer Valley avalanche-control truck checking their equipment. Vance had been a friend of Scot’s from his days on the freestyle ski team, as well as an important contact during Scot’s sweeps of Deer Valley for the president’s visit.

Vance noticed him approaching and dropped what he was doing to greet him. “Hey, Scot, how you feeling, man?”

“I’ve been better, fellas,” replied Scot.

“We heard you really took a good spill down the mountain.”

“It wasn’t anything worse than I’ve ever eaten off a jump.”

Nick stopped his equipment check and turned to join the conversation. “Is there any word yet? There must be a thousand ambulances up here, but we haven’t seen any of them go down. That’s not a good sign.”

“No, it’s not good,” said Scot. “Listen, I need a favor. Now that the weather’s a little better, can we get your bird up?”

Vance looked at Nick before responding. “Sure, where do you need to go?”

“I want to go up top on Squaw Peak to get a better look at where the avalanche started.”

Nick sucked in a big breath of air between his teeth. “The sheriff has told us that area is off-limits until further notice.”

“I’ll take full responsibility. The sheriff doesn’t even have to know. If he says anything, you inform him you have been directed by the Secret Service to lift one of their agents up there for further investigation.”

“Agent Harvath, you’re a cool guy and everything, but I don’t-”

Nick was interrupted by Vance. “Of course you don’t want to interfere with a federal investigation. If Scot says he needs to get up to that peak, then he needs to get up there. We were told from the beginning to provide the Secret Service with any and all assistance they required. Well, this agent needs assistance and he’s going to get it.” Vance winked at Scot and said, “Get in the truck.”

Deer Valley’s chopper was primed and ready for takeoff when they arrived at the helipad off the main access road. Scot and Vance spent the short drive talking about the equipment they would need when they got up to the peak. Most of it was standard gear that the chopper already carried, but when they came to a stop near the pad, Vance shouted instructions to Nick above the roar of the rotors.

The chopper rose rapidly and looking down, Scot could make out the flurry of activity below. Because of the route they took to get to the helipad, they had bypassed most of the chaos. Now, though, Scot could clearly make out the battalions of rescue vehicles and news trucks parked pell-mell along the roads.

As the chopper continued to rise, Scot discussed with Vance the details of the avalanche while he slid into a pair of Deer Valley yellow-and-green ski pants Nick had brought from the truck.

Everyone had been kept away from the peak, so even the Utah Avalanche Forecast Center experts hadn’t been able to get up there to conduct any examinations yet. All they had been able to do was make assumptions. A lot of snow had fallen, and avalanches were part of the natural order of things. Only so much snow can build up on the face of a mountain before it crumbles under its own weight and falls in the only direction it can, straight down.

“It really isn’t that unusual,” replied Nick via the microphone attached to his headset.

“It’s not the act itself that bothers me, it’s the timing and ferocity,” said Scot, who noticed the peak looming up in front of them. “Can the pilot get close enough to give me a good look at the face?”

“No can do. We don’t know how unstable it is, and the rotor wash could trigger another slide. There’s a small plateau in back, near the top. He can set it down there, and we can work our way around on foot.” Vance turned around in the copilot’s seat so he could see Scot’s face as he asked his next question. “You think you’re up to it?”

“Don’t worry about me. You just get us there.”

The hike to the face hadn’t been as easy as Scot had hoped. The wind was blowing four times stronger at this elevation, and the chopper pilot needed three attempts before he was able to put down on the small plateau. Harvath was losing the feeling in his fingers from the cold, and the pain in his muscles was increasing with each passing minute.

As the wind grew stronger, Nick suggested they rope up for safety. While Vance was handing the end of the rope to Scot, he asked, “What exactly are we looking for up here?”

“Pornography,” Scot replied.

Both Nick and Vance stopped what they were doing to look at him. “Pornography?”

“It’s an expression. I can’t give you a good definition of pornography, but I know it when I see it. I’ll know what we’re looking for when I see it.”

The group rounded the narrow ridge trail and began closing on the face of Squaw Peak. Vance led, with Scot next, followed by Nick. Harvath kept looking high and low, searching for anything that was out of the ordinary. He held up his hand and called out for Vance to stop. His climbing partners closed the gap and stood on either side of him.

“You see that?” said Scot, motioning to a small crevice that had a pocket of chipped stone just above their heads.

“Sure do,” said Nick.

“It looks like someone has been up here doing a little climbing, and it looks relatively recent,” replied Vance.

“This area is technically off-limits, isn’t it?” asked Scot.

Vance was the first to respond. “It always is. Especially during the winter and even more so with the president’s visit. Heck, you were the one calling the shots. None of our guys were even allowed up here unless one of your men was with us.”

“And did any of your guys come up here?”

“They would have needed to be cleared by either me or Nick, and as far as I know, there were no requests, so neither of us cleared anyone.”