Chapter 12

"Big news from Colorado tonight Peter? A fugitive shot a police officer trying to take him into custody?" The attractive brunette newswoman looked incredulous.

"That's right, April, and World Information News Network has all the details!" The anchor shifted his chair to face camera two.

"Department of Justice spokesman Ryan Ezell announced today that a four-man team of law enforcement officers has been shot at by fugitive Miles Underwood in the mountains of South Central Colorado. According to Ezell, one of the officers was badly wounded when the officer surprised Underwood on a remote trail in the wilderness. After the shooting, Underwood allegedly caught the other three men off guard and held them at gunpoint for some time before allowing his hostages to go free. The wounded officer was taken to a hospital in Pueblo, Colorado where he is in critical condition tonight.

"On the heels of the first reports of this incident, the Justice Department announced new charges of attempted murder, assault with intent to do bodily harm, kidnapping, theft, possession of an illegal weapon, and arson will be filed in connection with the latest incident. These are in addition to Federal warrants already issued for unlawful flight to avoid prosecution from state charges in San Antonio and kidnapping charges resulting from an incident in southeastern Colorado last year.

"Sounds like this Underwood person has managed to irritate a lot of people, doesn't it? It'll be interesting to follow this story as it develops," April remarked.

World Information News Network
"Late News Wrap Up"
April 24

FBI Special Agent Jack Randall stood as tall as he could manage, stiff and motionless in front of Assistant Director Pat Reilly's broad mahogany desk. If he had been a soldier, his fingers would have been cupped and aligned along his pants seam with the toes of his shoes spread at a precise forty-five degree angle from the point at which his heels touched. Other than those minor discrepancies, and the lack of a severely cut uniform, there was no doubt Agent Randall was at the position of attention before a very senior and very irritated officer. That the officer was also his father-in-law was of absolutely no advantage to Randall at the moment.

"You mean to tell me that you had a known felon in front of you ... in plain sight ... and the best the four of you could do was get one of you shot and the rest of you kidnapped? What the hell is going on, Agent Randall?" Reilly strained to keep from bellowing his questions at the junior Special Agent.

"Sir, we found him ... it took us a while but we caught sight of him finally. We didn't know it but there was a problem with the briefings given the two Marines. Apparently, one of the marines understood he was to kill Underwood if he had a chance. He shot at him with a sniper rifle, but missed. Underwood somehow found him later and got in a shot that hit Corporal Peterson under his body armor. It tore him up pretty badly." Randall took a deep breath, giving his boss a chance to interrupt if he wanted to. The Assistant Director motioned Randall to continue.

"We had to carry him on a stretcher for eight miles before we got to a place where a helicopter could land. He almost didn't make it." He paused again, thinking of the nightmarish trek across the mountain wilderness. "Between the damage, the loss of blood, and the jolting he got, the surgeons were barely able to save him. I talked to his doctor last night. He'll be in the hospital for months."

This time, Reilly did interrupt.

"And you surrendered your weapon to this ... this madman?" Reilly had gotten a call from FBI HQ earlier that morning and he'd had the riot act read to him. The Director was getting heat from the Department of Justice and he'd been careful to let Reilly know it. Shit rolls downhill ... and in this case, it was going to cascade all over Special Agent Randall.

"No, sir, I did not!" the agent replied crisply. "Sir..." He hesitated, trying to find the right words. "Sir, the man might as well have been a ghost for all that we could have done about it. He came into our camp and took everyone's gun while we were in our sleeping bags. And that includes our Indian guide and a Marine Recon veteran trained to operate in hostile areas anywhere in the world."

Reilly was skeptical--it showed on his face--but he let it pass. The reports he'd seen from the Marine's commander indicated much the same thing when you sorted through all the guff. He leaned forward in his chair.

"And this ... ghost ... threatened to kill you if you kept on trying to find him?" he said sarcastically. For the first time, Randall looked directly at his boss.

"No, sir ... not exactly." Randall glanced out the big windows at the foothills of the Rockies that could be seen from the Assistant Director's office. Somewhere out there, south and west of where he stood, Underwood was waiting--no, not waiting ... just ready. He faced his supervisor.

"It didn't feel like a threat, sir." He tried to explain. "A threat has something of a boast ... some arrogance ... in it," he mused, his eyes losing their focus. "He was just making us a promise, sir ... laying it out on the table, calmly and totally serious."

He was about to add more, but thought better of it. He'd been about to underscore what he'd already said, remarking that he believed Underwood meant exactly what he said, but it wouldn't have gone over very well. The Assistant Director hadn't been there and he couldn't possibly understand Randall's perception of an implacable rage emanating from the fugitive. The junior FBI agent stood silent, waiting for his boss to resume the conversation.

"Yes ... well, the Director called me an hour ago," Reilly said after a long silence. "He and the Attorney General aren't going to stand for someone promising to kill a Federal officer. But just how the hell..." He sighed. "This whole thing is going to blow up in our faces ... I can see it now." Reilly tapped his pen on the desk pad, debating his next words.

"Alright, Jack." His voice was kinder, his anger blunted a bit after having shared some of the wrath that was coming down the pipeline. "Get your report done in final copy and let me have it by this afternoon, okay?"

"You'll have it before lunch, sir." Randall walked out of the office. Reilly thoughtfully watched the young man leave and close the door firmly behind him. He sighed. That had been the easy part.

Now he had to call the Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation to fill him in on the details. Washington already had the DOD report and the Director was one unhappy man. He had wanted to know more and there really wasn't much Reilly could give him to placate the hierarchy in DC. FBI Assistant Director Reilly pressed the button on the intercom to get his secretary's attention and asked her to make the connection for him. It was going to be one of those days.

A week and a half after the shooting, still a few days walk outside the valley of the People, Miles stopped to hunt. There was no good reason to reenter the valley with the horses able to carry a good sized load of meat in addition to their current burden and every reason to hunt game as far from the valley as possible. Every animal he killed outside the valley was one more left inside to breed.

He was uneasy. Since the ambush, he'd stayed in deep woods and kept to thick brush whenever possible in addition to keeping close watch on his surroundings. Two days ago the edginess had intensified.

At first uncertain of the cause, he soon found it. It wasn't necessary for Zeb to point out he had company on the broad lower slopes of the unknown mountain. Miles could see for himself the big fire that was a bright red eye winking in the darkness. In the morning, the slender column of smoke was visible for miles in every direction. There was a big party off to the northeast and there shouldn't be anyone there at all--certainly not so many people as to need a fire that size.

He was tempted to pack up and change course for home immediately ... but his curiosity got the better of him. And too, he needed more time to smoke and jerk the meat from the two elk carcasses. Taking care to keep the fires banked low, he made sure the light smoke was filtered by tall trees above the smoke pits. The camps of the strangers were different. They built big fires every night that lit up the surrounding forest ... and every evening, they were in a new place. Whoever it was seemed to be traveling leisurely, and quite randomly, about the region north of the valley he called home.

A week later the meat was cured and he had to make a decision. Someone was still out there making big fires at night for no good reason he could think of ... and it bothered him on an instinctive level. Cursing himself for being stupid ... this could easily be a trap ... Miles separated the meat and hides into easy loads for the four horses on top of what they already carried and inserted the new items into their existing packs. Ensuring the M-4's bolt was locked back and a full thirty round magazine loaded, he set off in the direction of the column of smoke to find out who was intruding upon the People's hunting grounds.

Moving carefully, keeping to the densest cover he could find, he approached the knoll where he'd seen the last fire. Taking the packs off the horses, he hobbled them in a small meadow deep with new grass and shoved the packs inside a shallow cave. A small boulder pushed into the entrance and rocks jammed into the gaps around the boulder would serve to keep bears, cougars, and small scavengers from appropriating the meat and supplies. Carrying only his weapons and the small canteen, he jogged through the forest toward the outsiders.

He found an abandoned campsite easily enough, last night's from the temperature of the coals in the fire pit. Walking a wide circle around it, he looked for indications of an ambush. He found nothing but traces of five people and triple that number of horses. They were apparently wandering through the mountains with no particular purpose in mind. The people, three men and two women, by their boot tracks, roamed aimlessly and made camp on high ground when they reached a particularly pleasant site whether it was time to stop for the night or not.

Retracing their route, he found nothing to indicate these people had contact with any one except among themselves and whoever they could call up on a satellite phone. Most of them were hopelessly unskilled in the woods, though one man did seem to know what he was doing. If this was their guide, he had his hands full. Studying the guide's tracks, Miles felt a familiarity in them he couldn't quite identify.

There was no sign of anyone resting a rifle butt on the ground ... no places a pistol holster had scuffed the dirt where a person had squatted. That wasn't conclusive, but it fit other information he gleaned from their trail.

He finally determined this crowd couldn't have organized an ambush to capture a sleeping turtle. Miles was intrigued and more wary than ever. After observing the five strangers from a distance for most of the afternoon and evening, he slipped closer.

The Deputy Attorney General of the United States was fuming as he read the report. Christ, Almighty!!!

Two Marines and an FBI agent should have been more than enough to get Underwood and there'd been a dozen other teams out there. Why hadn't any of them gotten into position to help with the capture. Now they couldn't find any sign of the fugitive even though they'd had a clear beginning point for their search. Underwood was only one more dirty savage living on grubs and roots out in the woods, dammit all. What the hell was going on?

Carl Brady didn't see what the problem was ... except that some people weren't trying hard enough. That much was obvious. Didn't they see this bastard was thumbing his nose at the entire law enforcement community? It was high time someone kicked some butt and got things moving.

He let the report drop to the top of the polished desk and leaned back in the high-backed chair to think. Slouching into the comfortable cushions, his fingers laced themselves over the annoying little potbelly that was becoming more prominent with every luncheon he attended. He sensed an opportunity ... something that could be turned to his advantage. This time he would make sure he got the right people involved instead of making a vague request to other agencies.

Ideas coalesced into the beginnings of a plan. Jumping to his feet, he strode to the windows overlooking the busy Washington DC street. He stared unseeing at the traffic below while he considered his best bet to get his idea set in motion. Absentmindedly, he fingered the right side of his neck where the little scar was hidden under his shirt collar. Few in Washington knew about the mark. If it didn't happen this morning ... and inside the Beltway too ... it was old news. Fewer still knew it was a bullet wound. His mind raced as he mulled over the situation.

He held the number two position in the Justice Department. Though he was far beyond where he thought he'd ever be a couple of years ago, his aspirations had inched upward of late. This case was far too important to leave to the chain of command. He was going to work it himself ... even harder than he had been.

Deciding, he turned back to his desk and punched the unlabeled button on the telephone console that would ring his driver. He'd become a regular at the Quantico firing ranges, shooting a high-powered rifle and tonight his trainer was going to show him how to use the military's M-16 assault rifle. He couldn't abide pistols--they turned into vicious, twisting snakes in his hands. He didn't trust them at all.

A weapon of some kind was necessary though. Lately, it seemed to him he needed to be able to protect himself ... only God knew how many criminals there were like Underwood out there who might one day take it into their mind to kill him.

White-hot hatred surged inside him for the man who'd shot him. Caught in the depths of intense passion, he couldn't speak for a moment when his driver answered. It took three tries to croak an order to bring the car around.

Cal MacPherson was getting damn tired of listening to the grumbling from the skinny woman. She was mighty proud that she was an associate producer of a major network news program and eager to tell everyone how important she was. He decided listening to her voice was like hearing someone scratch their fingernails on a blackboard.

He tried to shut her out, tamping the tobacco securely into the bowl and lighting his pipe with a twig from the fire. He puffed vigorously to see if a smoke screen between him and the shrill-voiced woman would help any. It was only moderately successful.

Across the fire, April Cantrell studied the man who had been introduced to them as a Nez Perce hunting guide. At times he looked exactly like pictures she'd seen in books of old plains Indians hunted by blue-coated cavalry. A minute later he would look just like any other man working his way into late middle age, a little fussy and growing intolerant.

They'd been lucky to find him though. He'd only recently come out of the mountains after the party he'd led in to capture Underwood had clashed with the fugitive. It had taken several hours of persuasion and considerably more money than they'd anticipated to convince him to turn around and head back into the wilderness. She patted her producer's knee and held a finger to lips she curled in a smile to show she wasn't upset, but also that Cal wasn't the only one tiring of the scratchy voice. She turned back to the guide.

"Tell me about Underwood," she asked the relaxed guide.

He glanced at her from beneath the floppy hat he never seemed to take off. A puff of cherry-blend smoke drifted on the evening air. Sharp eyes glinted in the shadows beneath the floppy wide-brimmed hat.

"Not much to tell. Only saw the man for a little while and he was not a happy camper. He'd been shot at twice that afternoon and he was kinda aggravated with us. Can't say as I blame him none," Cal concluded, waving the glowing pipe in the air.

"Reckon I'd have been a mite irritated myself." He resumed puffing away for a bit. He chuckled softly. "We took off out of there too fast for any real deep conversation you might say." He lifted his head minutely at a subtle difference in the sounds of the night. His eyes lost focus as he strained to decipher what he heard ... or didn't hear.

No animal can move without revealing its movement in tiny ways. When Miles stepped around the rotted tree stump, the blacksnake sensed the human's presence and lost his concentration on the field mouse he'd been about to clamp in powerful jaws. The mouse took advantage of the snake's hesitation to scamper off through the leaves on the forest floor.

The tiny rustle the mouse made in the undergrowth disturbed a squirrel who'd already been aroused by the commotion in the night. His chattering stopped while he crouched lower on the branch and waited to see if he was to be attacked. The owl on a nearby tree saw the squirrel wasn't as vulnerable as he had been and the owl's head swiveled to bring staring eyes into alignment on the place the mouse had disappeared.

The packhorse's ears flicked toward the mouse and then to the owl as the night hunter prepared to pounce. The mare shifted her feet while she decided whether the owl presented a danger or not. Thoroughly frightened, the mouse dropped into his burrow, safe for the first time in many minutes. Frustrated at the loss of a dinner, the owl settled on the branch again. The snake slithered toward the creek, hunting easier prey.

An adjustment had been made in the night and the change was apparent to anyone who cared to take notice.

Outside the circle of firelight, Miles knew the old man was aware of him. Stepping carefully, Miles worked his way a bit further around the circumference of the fire to put himself well away from the Indian guide.

"I understand you met him for only a few moments ... but tell me what your impression of him was," April continued.

Cal cupped the bowl of the pipe in his hand while he thought and listened. He puffed another cloud of aromatic smoke over the camp.

"Well, he struck me as the kind of man who pretty much followed his own nose, Miss April ... don't see much chance of anyone making him go any place he don't want to go." Cal cocked his head slightly as he tried to orient an ear in precisely the right direction. A katydid had stopped sounding now ... there was a hole in the night where there should be small noises.

"But decent ... real decent ya understand. A real reasonable man ... someone you can talk to," added Cal. He took three slow puffs on the cherry blend. He made up his mind.

"Why don't you ask him yourself?" he said, taking the pipe from his mouth and setting it on a flat rock near the fire. He spread his fingers wide on his thighs and waited.

"Excuse me? Whadda ya mean?" April was confused. She frowned. Not only was she accustomed to being the one 'in the know', she also hated that tendency she had of slipping back into speech patterns from her heartland origins when she was surprised.

She sensed something was happening but didn't know what. It was infuriating.

The low chuckle from the darkness forestalled Cal's reply. His head snapped around to the source of the sound. He'd known someone was out there and had been pretty sure it was Underwood. The man made his introduction a long way off from where Cal had thought he was though.