Chapter 23 - Jordan
TWENTY-THREE
JORDAN
Turn yourself in and accept justice.
—@TayCamp
The smoke was back. It poured into the shallow valley on a wind warmed by the fire itself.
The hillside to the west seethed with red and orange, the glow sometimes briefly illuminating silhouettes of the firefighters working desperately to halt its advance.
But the blaze had the upper hand for now: the planes and helicopters dumping retardant and water had been grounded at nightfall and wouldn’t be back until morning.
Jordan hated wearing masks but had one on now, just to give his lungs and his raw itching throat a break. Looking at the growing assembly of men and vehicles a few hundred yards down the road, just out of sight of Fisk’s place, he wished they could wait for daylight, too.
A Madera Sheriff’s cruiser parked down the road and Beto got out. He made his way up the line with a large paper bag, offering coffee and sandwiches to his fellow deputies. Not looking at the Feds.
“Narvaez got the last sandwich,” he said apologetically when he finally reached Jordan. “Coffee?”
“Appreciate it.”
Jordan took the paper cup, lowered his mask, and sipped. It was lukewarm and bitter, only marginally better than swallowing smoke.
“Can’t believe this shit,” said Beto, taking in the scene. “You OK? Heard you got a gun stuck in your belly.”
“I was honestly more worried the Feds would shoot me. Fisk’s finger wasn’t on the trigger. He’s pretty cool, even when he gets hotheaded.”
He had been so certain the man would have given up what he knew with a little more time. That changed after he saw the hair cuttings. But why was Fisk protecting Campbell? What did a grizzled off-the-gridder care about a lost-in-the-woods creature of the internet?
Jordan’s argument with Wen afterward had been as intense as it was futile.
He knows something! He was about to talk.
What was I supposed to do, let him blow your guts out?
He wasn’t even holding the shotgun until you showed up.
You’re fooling yourself if you think old meth mouth up there is going to help us, said Crosby, despite never having been close enough to get a look at Fisk’s teeth.
The man’s mouth looked normal enough. Jordan found himself wondering where Fisk got his dental work done, or if he did, a sure sign of mental fatigue.
In the end, he could find no reason not to tell Wen what he’d seen in the barn.
That’s our girl, she said. Time to call in the cavalry.
While they waited for the warrant to be issued by an off-duty judge in Sacramento, Wen ordered her team of three to “seal the perimeter.” Jordan wished them luck.
A full platoon would find it a challenge to seal off all escape routes in the rocky, heavily wooded hillsides, especially with the smoke offering cover.
But reinforcements were coming soon. Wen had commandeered Fresno PD’s SWAT team with their armored personnel carrier.
A new vehicle carrying more men from a different agency seemed to arrive every ten minutes or so.
The search helicopter had refueled and returned, its pilot flying high above the fire with a spotter using infrared technology.
As the minutes ticked past, the two teams—Jordan’s and Wen’s—eyeballed each other from opposite sides of the poorly maintained road.
Jordan’s phone vibrated with a text. Amber Alert.
Coming home anytime soon?
Wouldn’t count on it.
Your dinner’s in the fridge. Should I put it in the freezer?
Jordan’s stomach growled. Or give it to the dog.
Rough day here, too. I took Sydney to see Bree. The machines are the only thing keeping that girl alive.
How to answer that?
Love you both, he wrote. Miss you.
Miss you, too. Stay safe?
I’ll do my best.
Across the road, there was a flurry of activity as men and women began to stand and check their equipment.
“Guess the search warrant came through,” said Beto. “Things sure move faster when the almighty Feds get involved. Looks like they’re about to go Full Metal Jagoff.”
When he heard the groaning engine of the APC coming up the road, Jordan poured the rest of his coffee into the dirt and went looking for Wen.
When he found her, she was huddled with a half-dozen Feds he didn’t recognize. He was pretty sure a couple of them were officers from CDCR’s Fugitive Apprehension Team. One man’s jacket said BATF on the back. What next, Homeland Security? It was madness.
Jordan touched Wen’s elbow, pulling her away from the group. “Let’s talk him out. We don’t know what he has up there. The guy’s a vet. He could have land mines and mortars, for crying out loud.”
“You’re right, Sheriff. We don’t know. That’s why we have armor, men, and superior weaponry.”
“So it’s one guy against an army. Ever heard of Ruby Ridge?”
“I’ve seen the PowerPoint.”
“We don’t even know if she’s in there. Maybe she just used his shears and kept running.”
Doubt flickered across her face, quickly replaced by certainty. “He caught you on his property. How would he miss her?”
“I’m just saying we don’t know. Let me go up there again, alone, to try talking to him.”
“I’m not letting this hick disappear into the woods.”
A man with a pockmarked face and a gray stubbled head glared at Jordan. “Need you, Wen.”
“We go in ten,” Wen told Jordan. “Your men follow our lead.”
“I’m going to tell them to hang back, take it slow, and not do anything stupid,” he retorted. “I don’t want anyone getting shot by a gung-ho clerk from the BLM.”
“Black Lives Matter?” she asked, clearly confused.
“Bureau of Land Management.”
Jordan recrossed the road with a sinking feeling.
“Will sanity prevail?” asked Beto.
“We’ll find out. They’re going in ten minutes, and I want our guys in the rear. First, I’m taking a leak.”
Stepping into the trees, Jordan took a wide loop around the compound, aiming to drop in from the thickly forested hillside.
He moved from tree to tree, watching for trip wires, pausing periodically to make sure he didn’t surprise one of Wen’s nervous men.
Eerily, the helicopter’s searchlight when it passed made the smoke almost white and the shadows blacker than black.
Five agonizing minutes later, he was at the edge of the trees, a stone’s throw from Fisk’s barn.
“Fisk!” he hissed, not willing to risk full volume. “Fisk!”
No reply. He had to move fast.
Zigzagging to the safety of the barn, he turned his headlamp on red and scanned from side to side. It was empty.
As he army-crawled past the chicken coop to the trailers, he heard excited voices over revving engines.
Then the chopper dropped lower, lighting the compound brighter than day.
Jordan had never been to war, but imagined soldiers’ hearts must pound like his was now.
That their pupils would dilate and their throats would dry out, too.
Everything felt hyperrealistic—or maybe it was surreal. He wasn’t sure he knew the difference.
What the hell was he doing?
The front porch was in full view of the approaching troops. Jordan ran to a side door and banged on it with the flat of his hand.
“Fisk!” he yelled. “Fisk, goddammit! Let’s keep everyone alive here!”
No response. He tried the handle. Locked. Not wanting to bring the Feds in with guns blazing by shooting the lock, he put his shoulder to the flimsy door and barged it open.
His headlamp now on bright white, he swung inside, both hands gripping his pistol, sweeping the room.
The place was worn and dated but surprisingly tidy, despite the canning supplies and giant spools of twine piled against one wall.
Jordan raced from room to room until he found himself in the front trailer. On the table was a note.
Dear Feds,
Took off because I knew how this was going to go. Don’t let my chickens die.
Fisk
Jordan turned to leave. At least no one was getting shot today.
Blinding light filled the windows as a bullhorn crackled. Wen’s garbled voice gave Fisk ten seconds to surrender. Jordan lifted a corner of curtain and peered out. Impossible to see against the glare. The ten seconds was probably a bluff, but he couldn’t take that chance.
He threw open the front door and kept his body pressed against the wall. Was this what a heart attack felt like? He grabbed a light-colored jacket off a peg and waved it in surrender. Before he could yell, he heard a gun crack.
Feeling a tug on the jacket as a bullet hit it where the heart would be, he dropped to the floor and curled into a ball, expecting a hail of bullets to riddle his body through the thin trailer wall.
Instead, there was a momentary silence, as though everyone outside was as surprised as he was.
“It’s me, you assholes!” he bellowed. “Sheriff Burke! Don’t shoot!”
“Everyone, stand down!” screamed Wen. “Like, stand down!”
When nobody fired again, Jordan stood up and left the trailer with his hands over his head.
Still half expecting to die.