Vincente pulled the Honda to a stop in the shade of a grove of western pines. They got out and stayed in the shadows as they snuck toward the tree line and the edge of the rise where it fell away to the sage flat and the ag field.
Before they reached it, Butler’s radio crackled. Cortland said, “Vultures on the bait, Cap. Knives and saws at work.”
Butler had hoped to be there when they tried to cut the head off Kong. But he was a practical man and Cortland and Big DD were highly skilled.
“Take them,” he said. “We’ll be right along.”
Butler and Vincente ran laterally across the hill through the timber toward the shouting voices. By the time they broke free of the trees, Big DD and Cortland had the poachers on their knees to either side of Kong, hands behind their heads, cowering before the two AR rifles with sound suppressors a foot from their faces.
Two pistols, two butcher knives, and a bloody folding saw lay behind Cortland.
The stench from the rotting ram came and went on the shifting breeze.
“We’re good, boss,” Big DD called.
Dudley Bob Hole, the older poacher, looked fifty going on seventy and wore a filthy, bloodstained camo jumpsuit and a filthier ball cap with the logo of a turkey-call company on it. He watched as Butler and Vincente approached and stayed quiet. He’d been down this road before.
His kid, Jim Bob, had shaggy brown hair, acne scars under his face paint, a scraggly red beard, and a camo kerchief tied around his head.
“There’s no need to be pointing those guns at us, man,” Jim Bob complained in a twangy accent. “We just found that ram lying there.”
“True?” Butler said to the older man.
“Out for a hike, stumbled on him,” Dudley Bob said in a cigarette-hoarse voice. “Seemed a waste to leave him there for the coyotes.”
“Fibber,” Butler said. “One of you guys shot him last night with a custom twenty-two fitted with a thermal scope that must have cost you five grand, Dudley Bob.”
The older Hole’s jaw sagged.
“Hey, man,” his son said. “You the law?”
“Of a kind, Jim Bob,” Butler said.
“What the hell does that mean?” the old man said, squinting at them all suspiciously now. “And how’d you know our names? Show me a badge or identification, and you better have had a warrant if you went inside our rig.”
“We didn’t need a warrant,” Butler said. “The door was open and it smelled like something was burning. Probably your rocket-scientist son’s fault.”
“You idiot,” Dudley Bob said.
Jim Bob got a sour look on his face. “Nah, Pa, I locked her tight.”
His father glared at Butler. “I still haven’t seen a badge. I want to see a goddamn badge or we are getting up and walking out of here.”
“We found three bighorn sheep heads in there,” Butler said.
“That’s it,” Dudley Bob said and started to get to his feet.
Big DD took two strides and kicked him in the solar plexus with a steel-toed boot. The older man dropped like a stone and writhed.
“Pa!” his son cried and started to go to him.
“Don’t move or you’ll get the same,” Big DD said.
Jim Bob seemed torn, looking from his father to Big DD and finally to Butler. “Whoever you are, we want a lawyer, man. Call a cop, a sheriff. Whoever’s justice around these parts.”
“We were thinking of some Old West justice instead,” Butler said. He triggered his microphone. “Purds, drive the motor home up to the north ranch road. They’ll be done and we’ll be down in twenty minutes or so.”
“What do you mean, ‘They’ll be done’?” the younger Hole said, anxiety rising.
Butler said, “That ram? Kong? He might as well have been cattle to us. And you know what they do to cattle rustlers out west, don’t you?”
Jim Bob’s scraggly chin retreated as if he were trying to hide his throat. Then he laughed nervously. “Nah,” he said. “You’re just messing with us.”
“I’m going to sue your ass,” his father croaked, getting up on one elbow.
“No, you’re not,” Vincente said. “You won’t be around to do any suing or any poaching ever again.”
“People know where we are, man,” the younger Hole said.
“No, they don’t.”
“Yes, they do,” Dudley Bob said. “Tracking us by GPS from back home.”
“Really?” Butler said. “I’m actually happy to hear that. And you’ll be unhappy to know that we’ve loaded the volatile components used to cook methamphetamine in your camper, including ether, methanol, and anhydrous ammonia. No one will question the explosion or the fireball that took your lives and burned your bodies to cinders.”
“Wait!” the kid cried. “No!”
“Kill them,” Butler said. “I’ve got more important things to take care of.”
He walked away, immune to the Holes’ pleas for mercy. Two suppressed shots thudded and a pair of humanity’s least desirable elements simply ceased to exist.
Chapter 30
Washington, DC
At a quarter to six John Sampson parked his car at home and walked to pick up Willow in the church parking lot. He got there a little early so he could check the street for any sign of Hayden Brooker.
But Sampson saw no one who even vaguely resembled the former Delta Force operator. Soon, the buses arrived.
The second his young daughter came off the bus, the sense of threat Sampson had been feeling all day eased. Maybe he’d been mistaken.
He grinned as he scooped up Willow, who looked both happy and exhausted.
“Did you bring the car, Daddy?” she asked.
“Nope.”
She made a dramatic face. “I can’t take another step.”
“Need a ride up top?”
“Yes, please!”
Sampson lifted her higher and turned her so she could sit on his broad shoulders, which delighted her no end. Willow giggled and waved to her friends as they left the church.
He again scanned the area by the tree where Brooker had been earlier in the day, but he saw only harried moms and dads bringing their kids to waiting cars. He turned toward home as Willow did a data dump of her day, describing every game she’d played, all the times she’d gone swimming in the lake, and the glorious hot dogs they’d cooked on sticks over a fire.
Sampson relished every second of it and put his girl down on their front porch feeling as if he’d lived the day himself. Jannie Cross opened the door. Willow ran in and hugged her favorite babysitter, who told Sampson she’d brought over some mac and cheese and the rabbit leftovers from the night before and she was heating it up for dinner.
“Perfect,” he said.
“Do you have to work late?” she asked.
“Couple of hours? I want to be back to tuck her in.”
“That helps. I’ve got a big workout in the morning.”
“See you soon, Daddy, I’m hungry,” Willow said and tugged on Jannie’s hand.
“Nice to be needed,” she said smiling, and she shut the door.
Sampson felt as if nothing in the world could go wrong as he bopped down the stoop stairs and along the walk, heading for his car in the drive. Then he glanced across his street and spotted the silhouette of a man among the shadows thrown by a big maple. He was big and broad enough...
When the man took a step into the slanting light, Sampson had no doubt who it was, even after a decade and a half. Master Sergeant Psycho himself.
Brooker raised both palms, held them at shoulder height. Sampson walked by the car and across the street.
When he’d gotten feet from the man, he stopped. “Master Sergeant Brooker.”
Brooker laughed hoarsely at that; he sounded as if he was a smoker or was getting over a cold. “No one’s called me that in years.”