Chapter 2
“He’s a cop.”
That one short sentence, three words long, echoed around Russ’s head like the chorus from some unlovely, inescapable Christmas song.
It stayed with him as he sat, under guard, in a corner of the camp.
It rang in his ears while he ate a lukewarm dinner off a paper plate.
It kept him company all night long in a stuffy single tent, vacated for his use by a man who left behind a too-short cot and the lingering smell of Axe body spray.
And now, as he sat in the same darkened tent, waiting to find out his fate, he wondered if he was going to pass out of this world with Kevin Flynn’s accusation still slicing through the cold air.
He thought he’d been doing a decent job scouting the camp.
After settling Hadley in position, he’d dropped back, hiking uphill and northward, following the trip line as best he could, because you didn’t waste manpower patrolling an area that was going to tell you if there was a breach anyway.
He was pleased when it started to snow; he had confidence in his ability to maneuver through it, and though it would reduce his sight line on any patrolling militia, they seemed to go out in numbers, and it would be easier for him to hear them than for them to notice one guy moving carefully.
He didn’t worry about tracks; at the rate the snow was coming down they’d be blurred in half an hour.
His plan was to circle clockwise, looking for any sign of wider-scale movement in and out of the camp—vehicle tracks or a well-beaten path.
He also wanted to surveil the side of the camp he hadn’t been able to see from his original approach.
For all he knew, they could have a whole depo and armory tucked away on the other side of the moraine.
He had zero idea what they were up to, but any hope the militia were just a bunch of racist wannabes playacting in the woods had vanished when they’d discovered Pierre’s body.
Russ hadn’t spotted any significant break in the perimeter by the time he made it to the halfway point.
He’d moved farther away from the trip wire; the snow was piling up fast and the last thing he wanted to do was step on it unseeing.
He slung his rifle over his back and slowly, carefully, began approaching the rear of the camp.
A flash and flutter of red caught his eye and he dropped into the snow, only to see a pair of cardinals and a half dozen red caps settling into a sheltering mountain laurel.
He sighed to himself, clambered up out of the snow—and discovered what had disturbed the brilliant birds in the first place.
“Stop right there. Put your hands up.”
He did so. The man behind him pressed the barrel of a rifle into the center of his back, clunking against his own longarm.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?”
The truth—or at least a portion of it—seemed the safest thing. “I’m trying to reach Kevin Flynn.”
There was a brief, whispered conference. More than one man. The first voice spoke again. “That’s not what I asked. Who are you?”
“I’m a friend of Kevin’s. Take me to him, he’ll vouch for me.” There was a pause, then another series of whispers. Russ focused on the birds, crimson feathers against green leaves and white snow.
“Stay still.” A second voice. The pressure against his back went away. “There’s a rifle aimed at your head.” One of them grasped his gun and pulled it upward. Russ obediently raised his arms higher so they could get the strap.
“I’ll take it, Dillon.”
“Just keep a bead on him, for chrissakes.”
“I’m just sayin’. Jeez.”
Russ was getting the feeling these two hadn’t been the ones who laid out the professionally designed camp or had been involved in Pierre’s death—unless through a panicked accident. “This is getting kind of tiring, guys. Can I let my arms down?”
There was a pause. “Yeah, okay.” The second voice—Dillon—continued. “You’re going to walk straight ahead, up the hill. If you fall down, or run, or—”
“Try anything funny.”
Dillon made a frustrated noise. “Try anything funny, we’ll shoot you. Understand?”
“Understood.”
Russ started forward, stepping slowly and carefully to avoid an accidental roll. Behind him, Dillon hissed, “Just let me take care of it, Austin.”
“I don’t remember you getting put in charge.”
Russ had been seething at himself for being dumb enough to get caught; now he was starting to feel embarrassed these two clowns had been the ones to do it. On the other hand, up at the top of this hill there were surely men who would have shot first and asked questions later—if at all.
When they moved out of the tree line, he could see the expanse of cleared ground wasn’t just due to the stony moraine—tree stumps and the amputated limbs of brush poked above the snow. He wondered if this desecration was what Pierre had seen, and been silenced for.
To his left, he could see evidence of the movement he’d been looking for—a pair of Arctic Cats parked almost out of view. Of course. There were snowmobile trails running through the Santanoni Preserve in winter; while these might be running off-trail, the noise wouldn’t draw any attention.
As they drew closer to the camp, a crowd began to gather. Russ could hear voices and barked orders and the eerie, barely there sound of a dozen rifles being unslung and pointed in his direction.
“We caught this guy!” Austin shouted. “He says Kevin knows him!” A short, lean man, beardless unlike most of the others, pushed his way through the gawkers. He tore off his knit cap, revealing a buzzed-flat tonsure around a gleaming head.
“For Christ-frigging sake, you idiots, you brought him up here without covering up his eyes? So he can see absolutely everything and everyone? Why didn’t you just give him a map and tour?”
“What were we supposed to put over his head?”
“You can’t walk up the hill if you can’t see where you’re going!” Russ’s two captors tumbled over themselves explaining.
“I think Austin and Dillon need a little more training in opsec, Master Sergeant,” Russ said, pitching his voice to be heard above the fray.
The bantamweight man closed his eyes for a moment. “He knows your names. Jesus.” He shook his head before turning his laser-focused gaze on Russ. “Master Sergeant?”
“Or Chief, if you were navy. I was army for twenty-two years, I know an NCO when I hear one.”
“Huh.” The man looked past Russ. “What were you saying about Flynn?”
“He knows him. Said he’d vouch for him.”
“Sergeant.” The small man didn’t turn away from Russ. “Find Flynn and bring him here.”
“Cap’n.” One of the crowd spun and disappeared toward the large tent.
Russ tilted his head. “My apologies, Captain.”
The man bared his teeth in what might have been a grin. “No, you got it right the first time. We just elect our officers, like they did when the militias were fighting against the British.”
Russ nodded. “I knew a few officers who would have been privates if we’d been allowed to vote on it.”
The militia captain grunted. Behind him, the gathered men began shuffling themselves, and Russ spotted the distinctive copper-penny-red hair he and Hadley had been hoping to see.
Despite the dangers of the situation, he felt his chest lift when Kevin Flynn pushed forward to stand by the militia leader.
He looked good; healthy, bearded, which was a surprise, dressed in hard-wearing outdoors clothing and the pricey Christmas-present boots his father had told Russ about.
“Captain?”
The smaller man nodded toward Russ. “Flynn, do you recognize this man?”
“Yessir. His name’s Russ Van Alstyne.”
“He says he came here looking for you. How do you know him?”
Kevin didn’t hesitate. “He’s a cop.”
What the hell? Russ hadn’t known what to expect, but it wasn’t that bald truth.
“I used to work under him. He was the chief of police at Millers Kill.” Kevin turned toward the militia leader. “I ought to say he was a cop. He was forced to resign due to town politics. There’s an international business that’s got a resort in the area, and they wanted Chief Van Alstyne gone.”
The captain pursed his lips and nodded. He seemed utterly unsurprised by the news Kevin had worked in the police department, which meant, of course, that it wasn’t news at all.
So much for cover stories. He was going to have to step very carefully until he found out how Kevin was positioning himself.
“I’d like to get verification of that before we go any further,” the smaller man said.
“In the meanwhile, Chief Van Alstyne will be a confined guest. Austin, since you, ah, caught him, he’ll take your tent.
You double-bunk with Dillon. He turned to another man.
“You take first watch. He shares food and water rations, and gets regular turns at the latrine.”
He knew his POW conventions, at least.
“Van Alstyne, we’re not going to bind you, but if you give my men any trouble, you’re going to be restrained. Understand?”
“Copy that.”
Which is why the next morning, he found himself waiting for word of his fate.
He wondered how they were going to get that verification the militia captain had wanted.
Snowmobile down the mountain to the town, and a phone call once they were in range of a signal, but to whom?
Someone tasked with searching for the news stories about Russ’s resignation?
For once, he felt grateful for the Post-Star’s interest in him.
The tent flap zipped open, and a big, dumb face peered in. Dillon. “Cap’n says to come out.”