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Over by the barn, the whirling lights of an ambulance illuminate a knot of paramedics around the SWAT team officer on the ground; a gurney waits, riderless.

Fifteen

Mike Donnato is waiting inside an interrogation room the size of an organic lentil. He wears a windbreaker with FBI across the back and greets me gruffly. The two grim sheriff’s deputies, who marched me over from the jail where we, the radicals, were held overnight, do not know I am undercover. The iron grip on my biceps makes that clear. Donnato instructs them to unlock the handcuffs, and we sit down and face each other across a small table as they pocket the keys and leave.

“We didn’t get breakfast,” I say right off. “And there are folks who need medical attention.”

Donnato just rubs his reddened eyes.

“These boondocks deputies are real redneck pigs. I saw them shove an old lady and withhold water when we repeatedly asked for some. It’s bullshit, Mike—”

“The officer who was shot last night died at the scene,” he says heavily. “His name was Todd Mackee, a sergeant on the Portland SWAT team. Single shot to the throat.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Took his head right off.”

I wet my lips. “Must have been one monster bullet.”

Donnato nods. “Fifty-caliber. Not your average shooter.”

I resist the urge to say how relieved I was last night, in my panic at hearing the shot, to realize Donnato would be here at the command center and not with the tactical team at the barn.

“Makes you sick,” he says.

“Oh God.”

I’m losing my resolve. Between the primacy of the mission and the bond I’ve made with Lillian, Dot, Megan, and the others, I’m done. After a sleepless night crammed four to a cell and with zero food, I have a killer headache and my breath could melt steel.

“This was supposed to be a controlled operation. To lose a life—” I clamp both hands over my face. “I want to go home.”

“I didn’t hear that.”

I raise my eyes. “Lillian had a heart attack.”

“Who’s Lillian?”

His ignorance inflames me.

“The lady who got trapped in the corral!” I snap. “Elderly, a bird-watcher? You don’t know about Lillian?”

He shrugs. “I heard something about a protester being taken to the hospital.”

“But you were more concerned with Officer Mackee.”

Donnato’s eyes grow hard. “Frankly…yes.”

“Let me tell you about Lillian.” Finger pointing again. “She’s close to eighty. She had a heart-valve replacement, but she didn’t tell anyone because she was afraid they wouldn’t let her come.”

“Good idea.”

“Mike! She risked her life for the horses!”

Donnato settles into himself. “Ana,” he says very carefully, “you’re sounding a lot like the other side.”

“I was on the other side, and I think the deputies responded with unnecessary force.”

He waits.

“Think again.”

He doesn’t want to report what I’m saying.

“Mackee was one of those guys, ‘proud as hell to be a cop,’” Donnato says. “The one who organizes the department trip to Kodiak Island to fly-fish for salmon, know what I mean?”

I nod, understanding the message.

“Three children, ages six through eight, and a wife of ten years who’s a parole officer for juvenile offenders.”

“Always the good people,” I murmur, and lay my head on the table, completely dissipated. “SWAT had to respond. You’re right. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Exhaustion.”

“Want some coffee?”

“Just shoot it in my arm.”

He opens the door and speaks to the deputies, giving them the message the suspect is at that point where the thing could turn on a friendly cup of joe. He comes back in and touches my shoulder, a signal to get it together.

“I’m okay.” I sit up, resuming the posture. “I’m past it.”

My partner nods. Will he ignore the lapse?

“We located the shooting site beyond the perimeter,” he continues matter-of-factly. “It was a heavy sniper rifle, an M93, something like that. You can tell from the blast-pattern plume it left in the dust. It’s a sniping rifle, not for antipersonnel use, but antimatériel. They used them from fixed positions in the Vietnam War.”

“Why