He slowly shook his head. “That’s what this looks like to you?”
“Yup. Or something like it.”
“I’m FBI.”
Pickett raised his eyebrows with doubt. “You don’t expect me to believe that.”
He dug out his wallet badge from his jacket and showed the game warden his credentials.
“I’m undercover.”
“Undercover for what?” Pickett asked.
He took a deep breath, then quickly rose up and checked the perimeter to make sure the shooters weren’t sneaking up on them. Assured they weren’t, he lowered back down and said, “I’m based in Jackson when I’m not on assignment. It’s a good place to get my bearings back and recuperate.”
“Recuperate?”
He didn’t address that. “A few days ago I got a call from my boss, a guy named Hamilton. Real asshole.”
“Bureaucrat?”
“As I said. Anyhow, he told me that four really bad actors—white supremacists who call themselves One Nation—escaped from a raid on their compound in West Virginia last month. I’ve known One Nation was on the bureau’s radar for a long time, but I wasn’t involved with the case.”
“What’s their mission?”
“To incite a race war by gunning down white cops in largely black neighborhoods. These rednecks knew that if that happened, the local cops would likely overreact and trouble would spread. They put their whole manifesto on the Internet like so many of these mouth breathers do, but no one really thought they’d follow through. But they did. A couple of cops got shot in South Philly. And all hell broke loose. Riots, vandalism, looting, people on both sides killed, including some grade-school kids. I’m sure you saw it on the news.”
Pickett nodded.
“So the bureau raided the One Nation compound outside Wheeling. They arrested a dozen guys and a couple of women, but the four men in leadership got away. No one knew where they went, or whether they’d split up or stayed together. But one of the group in custody said one of the four guys had some familiarity with Wyoming, because he’d been elk hunting out here. Specifically, Jackson Hole. So my boss asked me to poke around, without alarming the locals.”
“And you did,” Pickett said.
He nodded. “I needed a distraction, so I jumped all over it. It took me a few days before I found a clerk at a hardware store who told me about two guys who fit the description buying up ammo and heavy-duty hand tools. He said they had West Virginia accents and one of them had a long beard like those yokels from Duck Dynasty.”
“Our man in the doorway,” Pickett said.
“I started making forays into the mountains. I didn’t think I’d actually run into them. It was really more an accident than intentional. I walked into their camp this morning, before I realized who they were.”
“That’s when you gave them your phone?”
“It wasn’t like that,” he said, annoyed. “I told them I wanted to join up. I told them everything I thought they’d want to hear about the country going to shit and the way to finally fix it. They liked what I was saying, but they didn’t greet me with open arms. I could tell they were thinking about it, though. If nothing else, they needed help with the building before winter rolled in. These guys aren’t exactly geniuses when it comes to construction, as you can tell.”
“Most criminals I’ve dealt with are just idiots,” Pickett said.
“I’ve known many who were fuckin’ smart. But these guys are idiots, with a cause. And even though they were friendly at first, they started getting suspicious. To prove I wasn’t a threat, I gave them my phone when they asked for it. I wasn’t worried because I’d deleted everything on it.”
Pickett nodded. “Go on.”
“It all went pear shaped when a fat guy with a WHITE PRIDE sweatshirt and a skinny guy who looked like he’d just walked off the set of Deliverance decided they’d pat me down to see if I was packing. I was, of course. I started backing off, but that didn’t sit well with Duck Dynasty over there, and the next thing I knew he was locking and loading his rifle and aiming it at me. I ran for the trees as the three others went for their weapons. I was able to throw myself into the shelter of a big root-pan, when they all opened up. It sounded like D-Day.”
“I heard it,” Pickett said.
“Finally, when they paused to reload, I was able to take out Duck Dynasty. That caused the others to strike out on foot. I chased them for a while and then decided it made more sense to see if I could find my phone and call it in. Unfortunately, that’s when you showed up.”
Pickett raised his hands in a what-are-you-gonna-do? gesture.
“But now that I’ve had time to think about it, I think I have a plan to take these guys on,” Coburn said.
“Oh, really? This should be interesting.”
He pretended not to notice Pickett’s skeptical tone. “I keep them engaged until dusk, like I’ve been doing. That way, they’re on the defensive and they won’t have the wherewithal to overrun us. Then, you’ll replace me. I’ll give you my .45 so they’ll think I’m still the one firing.”
“Then what?”
“You’ll do what I’ve been doing. Playing the . . . what was it?”
“Whac-A-Mole.”
“Right. Popping up every fifteen to twenty minutes to take a shot at them. Keep them guessing when you’ll appear and where you’ll shoot.”
“Meanwhile?” Pickett asked.
“I’ll use your cover fire to run out of this building. I’ll take your shotgun and get up into the trees and outflank them. Then I’ll take them out one by one. They’ll be dead before they know what hit them.”
Pickett seemed to remain doubtful.
“The best thing you can do to the enemy is keep him off balance,” he said. “Given the odds, they won’t expect me to take it to them.”
Pickett grinned. “I’ve got a buddy named Nate Romanowski. We butt heads from time to time. I think he’d approve of your plan. But I’m not sure I do.”
“You have a better one?” Coburn asked with some heat.
“I’m thinking.”
“That gives me absolutely no confidence.”
Pickett continued to ruminate. Why did it take this guy so long to form a thought? A glacier could have thawed by the time the game warden said, “So you’ve been hiking around these mountains all by yourself for weeks until you found these guys?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Must be running from something yourself.”
His hackles rose. Pickett might be slow, but he sure as hell wasn’t thick. “That’s none of your goddamn business.”
“What are you recuperating from?”
He didn’t respond.
“You said you were recuperating. What from?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Just wondering. Concussion? Chickenpox? Ingrown toenail?”
He gnawed the inside of his cheek and finally said, “Gunshot.”
Then he sprang to his feet and ran along the wall toward the corner of the building, his .45 at the ready. The burly white supremacist in the filthy WHITE PRIDE hoodie had just cleared the trees to the south and was working his way toward the unfinished lodge. The man carried a Ruger Mini-14 rifle with a thirty-round magazine.
“Drop it,” Coburn shouted.
WHITE PRIDE raised the rifle.