Free Fire - C. J. Box [126]
“I know how you feel,” Joe said.
“Langston doesn’t surprise me as much as I would have thought,” Ashby said. “But Layborn . . .”
“Really?” Joe asked, surprised.
“I thought Layborn, despite his faults, was a true believer in the Park Service, in our mission here,” Ashby said. “I thought he was loyal to me.”
“Sorry,” Joe said, meaning it. “Why is it some bureaucrats always think they deserve more?”
Ashby shook his head. “I don’t,” he said.
Nate said, “That’s why you’ll always be poor like Joe. And I say that with compassion.”
Ashby still had the look on his face when he got out and trudged back to his Explorer to follow Joe, Nate, and McCann to the Old Faithful Inn.
“Do you think this plan is going to work?” Nate asked Joe as they picked up speed again and steered straight into the maw of the storm.
“Maybe not,” Joe said truthfully. “A lot of things could go wrong. And I didn’t count on this weather.”
Nate jerked a thumb at McCann. “Do you think they want him bad enough to follow us?”
Joe said, “I do. He’s their loose cannon, and they can’t afford to let him follow up on his threat to talk. Especially if they think he’s somehow hooked up with Bob Olig, who can corroborate much of his story.”
“That’s a hell of a wild card to play, isn’t it?” Nate said, referringto Olig. “We don’t even know for sure if he exists.”
“I’m trusting your instincts,” Joe said.
“Remind me not to play poker with you, Joe,” Nate said, grinning.
Joe shook his head. “You might want to rethink that. Both Sheridan and Marybeth always clean me out.”
30
Joe was thankful for the high clearance of Lars’s pickup by the time they took the turnoff to Old Faithful. It was early afternoon, completely socked in, ten to twelve inches of snow already on the ground, the lodgepole pine hillsideslooking smoky and vague in the falling snow. When they cleared the rise they could see the Old Faithful Inn below—a boxy, hulking, isolated smudge on the basin floor.
His growing fear that Portenson didn’t or couldn’t make it due to either bureaucracy or the weather was relieved instantly when Nate pointed out the single Suburban in the parking lot with U.S. Government plates. The agents—Joe counted six— huddled under the portico of the inn near the massive front door. Joe pulled up under the overhang as if he were a bus disgorging tourists. Portenson was there, nervously inhaling a cigarette as if trying to suck it dry. Butts littered the concrete near his feet. His team of five wore camouflage clothing with black Kevlar helmetsand vests, and looked competent and alert. Cases and duffelbags of weapons and equipment were stacked against the building. Two of the assault squad were smoking cigarettes and squinting through the smoke at Nate Romanowski, as if sizing up an adversary. Nate nodded at them without blinking as Joe shut off the motor of the truck.
“Glad you made it,” Joe said to Portenson, getting out. “I’m not sure that camo stuff will work all that well in the snow, though. You guys look like a bunch of bushes.”
Portenson was instantly around the truck in front of him, his face red. “Do you realize what will happen to me if this doesn’t work out? I put my career on the line for you and brought these men up here without authorization. This kind of operation requiressign-offs all the way to the director of Homeland Securityhimself.”
Joe nodded. “We couldn’t risk that. If it went federal up the chain of command, somebody might tip off Langston, since you’re all in the same happy family.”
“We are not,” Portenson said hotly.
“Sure you are,” Joe said.
Ashby had pulled up behind Joe and was watching the exchangeclosely.
Joe asked Portenson to send one of his men to drive the Suburbanup and hide it behind the inn, out of sight. He asked Ashby to do the same with his Explorer.
“They won