Gideon's Corpse

35

Stone Fordyce paused, swiping the sweat from his brow, and checked his GPS. They were approaching an altitude of nine thousand feet, the ponderosa pines giving way to fir trees, the forest getting heavier. The powerful halogen beams of his men’s flashlights swept through the trunks, casting stark shadows, and the pair of bloodhounds bayed their frustration at the pause. He held up his hand to listen, and all movement behind him ceased, the men falling silent. The dog handler hushed the dogs.

He knelt, examining the trail. It was getting fresher, the crumbled edges of dirt sharper and more defined. All day and through the evening they had steadily been gaining on the trail, and now they were very close: the dogs were frantic and straining at their leashes. Slowly he stood, keeping his hand up for silence and listening intently. Above the sighing of the wind in the trees he thought he could hear something else—the repeated sound of measured footfalls. The horse was moving laterally on the steep slope above them.

It was almost over.

“They’re up there,” he murmured. “Five-meter separation. Flank them on the right. Move!”

They exploded into action, the dogs baying loudly, the men fanning out and surging up the hill, weapons drawn. They were exhausted, but the closeness of their quarry gave them fresh energy.

Fordyce drew his own .45 and started up. Once again he felt a surge of self-blame. He should have seen it days ago. Gideon was a con artist par excellence—and he’d taken Fordyce for the ride of a lifetime. But all that was over now. Once they got Gideon, they’d make him talk and the plot would be blown open.

Make him talk. Screw the Geneva Convention—there was a live nuke out there. They would do what it takes.

Gasping but still pushing, they topped out on the ridge, Fordyce in the lead. The trail went right, and Fordyce jogged along it, keeping low and using the cover of the trees to good effect. The others surged behind.

He saw the glint of something ahead in the light, heard a flurry of movement, a shape moving in the trees. He threw himself behind a trunk, crouching, waiting—and a horse came into view, stamping and eyeing them nervously. The woman’s paint horse.

Riderless.

The men fanned out, surrounding the nervous animal, which pranced about, flaring its nostrils and backing up.

Fordyce realized what had happened. A fury seized him for the moment before he got his breathing back under control. He rose, holstered his pistol.

“Lower the lights,” he said evenly. “You’re spooking it.”

He approached the horse, hand out, and the horse came closer, nickering. He took the halter. The horse was missing its saddlebags, and the bridle had been tied to the saddlehorn. This was a horse that had been deliberately turned loose.

Once again, he had difficulty breathing and had to make an effort to hide his rage. It wouldn’t do to show weakness in front of the men. As the men and dogs came up, he turned to them. “We’ve been following the wrong trail.”

This was followed by a stunned silence.

“At some point back there, probably way back, they turned the horse loose and continued on foot. We’ve been following the horse. We’ll have to backtrack and find where they turned off.”

He looked around. His team consisted of NEST officers, some in bad physical shape, soaked with sweat. There were FBI agents detailed to NEST, the dog handler, and some local law enforcement that somehow managed to tag along. The group was too big.

“You—” He pointed to the least-fit local lawman—“and you, and you, take the horse back down. It’s evidence, so keep chain of custody and turn it over to the forensic team.”

He looked around. “We’re going to have to move a lot faster. There are too many of us.” He ruthlessly cut out some more deadwood, sending them back with the horse, waving away murmurs of protest.

Kneeling, he spread out the USGS topo maps, then took out the sat phone and dialed Dart. God, how he hated to make the call. As it rang, he looked around at the group he’d just dismissed, still standing around like cows. “What the hell are you waiting for? Get going!”

“Status.” Dart’s thin voice spoke, no preliminaries.

“We don’t have him yet. They decoyed us away with the horse. We’re going to have to backtrack.”

A sharp exhale of displeasure. “So our choppers are in the wrong area?”

“Yes.” Fordyce glanced at the map he’d spread out. “They should be redeployed deeper in the mountains. My guess would be an area called the Bearhead.”

He heard a rustle of paper. Dart was looking at the same maps.

“We’ll shift our aerial teams over there.” A pause, then Dart asked: “What’s his plan?”

“I’d guess he’s just running. Simple as that.”

“We need him. And there’s something else. I’ve gotten reports of your people firing indiscriminately at them. This is totally unacceptable. We need them alive, damn it. We need to question them.”

“Yes, sir. But they may be—probably are—armed. They’re terrorists. The FBI rules of engagement are crystal clear that deadly force may be used in the case of preservation of life under the doctrine of self-defense.”

“First of all, there’s no proof that she’s a terrorist. She may be…temporarily under his influence. And as for the rules of engagement, you deliver me two dead bodies and I will be very, very unhappy. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” said Fordyce, swallowing.

“Agent Fordyce, the only reason you’re where you are right now is because I don’t have anyone else on scene. Just you and twelve other special agents who were unable to make a simple collar. And who can’t find him despite overwhelming advantages in manpower and equipment. So I ask you: are you going to get him or not?”

Fordyce stared hotly into the darkness of the mountains. “We’re going to get him, sir.”