Page 11

Chapter Ten

The neighborhood was known as “the Avenues” in Cheyenne, a historic district established in the 1920s and largely made up of single-family brick bungalow houses, as well as a few homes that had been turned into small one- or two-person office locations. Tall mature cottonwoods bordered the avenues on both sides of the streets and the gutters were choked with dried yellow leaves. When the wind blew, which was often in Cheyenne, the fall leaves fluttered down like a golden snowstorm.

Dead leaves swirled in the wind in such volume around Geronimo Jones’s Suburban that they obscured his vision for a moment and he nearly drove by the address they were seeking.

“There it is,” Nate said, jabbing his finger at a small wooden hand-painted sign in the yard of a bungalow that read:

Cheryl Tuck-Smith

Attorney-at-Law

314 N. Reed Ave.

Geronimo slowed down and parked against the curb in front of the law office. The streets were from another era and were so narrow that the big Suburban blocked nearly half of it.

“This thing seems a little out of place in the big city,” Geronimo said to Nate as he patted the dashboard of his armored vehicle.

“It seems out of place everywhere,” Nate said.

“So,” Geronimo said. “How do you want to play it?”

“You’re the talker,” Nate replied.

“Weapons?”

“Always.”

—

As they entered the front door, an old-fashioned bell tinkled. It startled a woman sitting behind a desk, who was absorbed in doing something on the screen of her phone. Her eyes got wide when she looked up and she involuntarily pushed back a few inches on her rolling chair. Nate assumed it was unusual for two large men—one Black with massive dreadlocks, the other white and rough-looking—to enter the law office unannounced at the same time. The lobby had obviously once been the parlor of a small home before being remodeled into a business office. An elaborate stone fireplace took up the entire right wall and the left wall had built-in bookcases filled with law books, primarily the statutes of the State of Wyoming. The receptionist’s desk was just a few feet in front of them. A plastic plaque on the front of the desk identified her as Joann Delaney.

By her reaction, Delaney likely thought they were there to commence a home invasion, Nate thought. He slid in behind Geronimo’s wide shoulders, and they practically filled the small lobby.

She was a pert-looking woman in her midfifties with too much makeup. She had short reddish hair cut in a pixie style, and her long, curved, and painted nails likely clacked on the keyboard as she typed.

“I’m Geronimo Jones,” Geronimo said in his gentlest baritone. “This is my associate, Nate Romanowski. We’re here to see Cheryl Tuck-Smith. Is she in?”

“I don’t want any trouble,” Delaney said.

“And you won’t get any from us,” Geronimo assured her.

“Usually people call or email for an appointment,” she said.

“And we apologize for not doing exactly that,” Geronimo said. “But we’ve been on the road from Montana and we have an urgent matter to discuss with the attorney.”

Delaney glared at Geronimo for a beat, then chinned toward a closed door over her shoulder and said, “She’s on a call at the moment. I can ask her if she has a few minutes when it’s done. But please be aware that the conference call may take a while and that she may have other business this afternoon.”

Geronimo stepped closer to Delaney’s desk and pointed at the single line on the three-line phone set that was illuminated. “I can see when she concludes the call,” he said. “Until then, I guess we can wait. In the meantime, may I use your men’s restroom? We’ve been driving all day.”

“There is only one bathroom available to the public,” she said.

“May I use it, please?” Geronimo asked.

After a beat, Delaney gestured toward a short hallway next to the closed door. She handed him a key on a rabbit’s foot key chain from the top drawer of her desk. “It’s the first door on the left,” she said.

When Geronimo found the bathroom and went inside, Nate noticed that Delaney shot furtive looks at him standing next to the fireplace. Her hands were out of sight under the desktop and he realized she was furiously texting something on her phone without looking down.

“Stop doing that,” he said. “Who are you texting?”

Caught, her face flushed. “Just my sister,” she said.

“Your sister can wait. Our visit is unofficial. We’d like to keep it that way.”

“I don’t want any trouble,” she said again. “The only reason I’m even here is to work off a legal bill.”

“Then put your phone on your desk and leave it alone,” he said.

“Okay, okay,” she said, doing exactly that. She placed it screen-down and drew her hands away from it as if it were suddenly very hot.

“I’m not officially Ms. Tuck-Smith’s receptionist,” she said. “I just happen to be here at the moment. I don’t know anything about her clients or her business.”

Nate nodded once that he had heard her. She was scared of him, and probably more scared of Geronimo. Nate was fine with that.

“Really,” she said, to emphasize her previous contention.

“Is that why you have your nameplate on the desk?” he asked.

Caught in a lie, she broke eye contact.

“You’re pretty quick to distance yourself from your boss,” he said. “I hope you never apply for a job at my company.”

As Geronimo returned from the bathroom and placed the key on her desk, the light on the phone set went dead. Geronimo gestured toward it and Delaney hit the intercom speaker button and said, “Cheryl, there are two gentlemen in the lobby who want to see you.”

“Do they have an appointment?”

“No,” she said while giving Geronimo a withering glance. “They’re walk-ins.”

Geronimo grinned and winked at Nate.

“And they’re here concerning what?” the attorney asked. “I don’t have time for donations today.” She sounded annoyed and suspicious at the same time.

“Concerning what?” Delaney echoed to Geronimo.

“Start with C. W. Reese and Axel Soledad,” Geronimo said. “We want to discuss your relationship with them.”

Silence. Then, after a long pause, the attorney said, “What are your names?”

“Geronimo Jones and Nate Romanowski,” Geronimo said. “We were hoping to get a few minutes of your time.”

Another long pause. Then: “I have fifteen minutes.”

—

Even seated behind her very wide walnut desk, Cheryl Tuck-Smith looked out of proportion to her surroundings, Nate thought. She didn’t rise when they entered her office, but she looked very tall even while seated. She had short blond hair, a long thin face, pearls over a cashmere turtleneck, broad shoulders, and very long fingers. Her nails were unpainted. Her demeanor was wary, and all business.

“Sit,” she said to them.

Geronimo and Nate slid into hardback chairs across from her. Nate studied the items on her walls: a law degree from the University of Wyoming, a hundred-year-old map of the state, and photos of her in uniform with Army Rangers and a women’s Big Ten college basketball team, as well as photos with state and national politicians, and people he vaguely recognized as fringe personalities from the world of right-wing podcasting and talk radio. Liv would have had a better idea who they were than he did because she kept abreast of popular culture in general. In all of the photos, Tuck-Smith was extremely easy to identify. She towered above everyone else, except for one photo of her with the starting lineup of the NBA champion Denver Nuggets from 2023.

There was also a mounted length of faded barn wood with words burned into the surface: This Is the Government Our Founders Warned Us About . Bullet holes marked the O ’s.

Tuck-Smith’s desk was empty except for a phone set identical to the one on Delaney’s desk, a coffee cup filled with pens and markers, a banker’s lamp with a green shade, and a stainless steel .357 Magnum revolver within easy reach, with the muzzle pointed away from her and toward them.

“That’s probably not necessary,” Geronimo said.

“I’ll decide that,” she responded.

“I’m Geronimo Jones and this is my associate—” Geronimo started to introduce them again, but she cut him off.

“I heard,” she said. Then: “You two look rough-and-tumble. And you better get right to the reason you’re here before my next appointment. I make my living by billing for my time, and you two are free riders who showed up without calling ahead or retaining my services. So get to it. I’ll make a decision whether or not to charge you by the hour depending on what our discussion involves. And, gentlemen, my rate is not cheap.”

Nate appreciated her no-nonsense manner, although it flustered Geronimo for a few seconds. He liked to ease into conversations, and he was a master at charming people and putting them at ease. Nate was the opposite of that.

“We’re here because we understand that you’re looking for Axel Soledad and contacting people he’s been in contact with,” Geronimo said. “We got your name from Mr. C. W. Reese of Gardiner, Montana.”

Nate watched her closely for her reaction. There wasn’t one, except for a barely perceptible twitch of her fingertips on her right hand on top of the desk. She seemed to recognize it as well and she went completely still. Nate attributed her stoicism to trained courtroom technique—to never let the jury, opposing counsel, or the judge know what she was thinking.

“About us,” Geronimo said. “We’re just a couple of master falconers who happen to be small businessmen as well. Axel is of interest to us because he’s attacked our families in two different states. Mr. Reese led us to believe that you’re tracking his movements and building some kind of case against Soledad. We hope you’ll share some of that information with us.”

Tuck-Smith frowned while she drummed her fingers on the desk. Better to keep them busy, Nate thought.

“Now, why would I do that?” she asked.

“Because we’re the good guys,” Geronimo said.

“We’re going to kill him,” Nate said.

Geronimo turned to Nate and winced at the statement. Tuck-Smith’s reaction was notable. She didn’t recoil. Instead, she displayed a cold smile. She turned to Nate and said, “You, I’m familiar with.”

Nate raised his eyebrows in anticipation.

“Your name has been associated with some nasty business that occurred last winter at a cabin near Pinedale,” she said. “After that, you seemed to have vanished off the face of the earth.”

Nate didn’t respond.

“I’m very sorry about what happened to your wife,” she said to him. “It was such an unnecessary tragedy.”

She said nothing more about the discovery of the three burned bodies found in the Sublette County rental cabin. Nate was grateful for that.

Instead, she turned to Geronimo. “I hope you have good homeowners insurance so you can get your house rebuilt. It’s really a challenge to find good contractors in the winter these days. They’re all building houses for newcomers.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Geronimo said.

“I also understand that the feds are after you both,” she said. “I’ve been avoiding calls from a Special Agent Rick Orr for months now. I get the impression he’s a bulldog, and he might be operating on his own.”

Nate and Geronimo refrained from exchanging a confirming glance when they heard the name.

“You know a lot more about us than we know about you,” Nate said.

“That’s because she got access to the Bal-Chatri forums on our site,” Geronimo said to Nate. “She’s read all about us.”

Tuck-Smith agreed with that and said, “That’s why I’m good at my job. I do my homework. I was frankly a little surprised how chatty you falconers are with each other.”

“Who gave you the password to get in?” Geronimo asked.

Instead of answering, Tuck-Smith reached up and mimed a zipping my mouth closed gesture.

“Should we trust you?” Nate asked.

“That’s up to you. It’s your call. But I would point out that you haven’t retained me as your counsel, and as an attorney I’m an officer of the court. I’d also point out that you’ve come in here and admitted your involvement in a conspiracy to commit homicide, yet I haven’t called 911 to report you. So take that for what it’s worth.”

With that, she looked at her wristwatch to conspicuously remind them that they had limited time.

“Look,” she said. “I’m a pretty well-known person in certain circles that aren’t looked kindly upon by our national media or the permanent entrenched bureaucracy in Washington. I fight them at every opportunity, and I usually win. They absolutely hate that; I know I’m in their crosshairs.

“I’ve been called a rogue lawyer and a conspiracy theorist. I really don’t give a crap. My job is to serve my clients and to seek the truth no matter where that leads me.”

To Nate, she said, “That’s all you need to know about me. I believe you have some experience in being targeted by the feds yourself.”

“That’s correct,” Nate said. “Is Axel Soledad your client?”

“Ah,” she said. “Now we’re getting down to brass tacks. No, Axel is not my client.”

“Then who are you working for?” Geronimo asked. “Do you work for someone who is after Axel Soledad? Is that why you know about us? And why you visited with C. W. Reese?”

Tuck-Smith glared at Geronimo for a long beat, then said, “What I’m doing as far as Axel Soledad is pro bono. All of the time I’ve spent trying to locate him has been on my own dime.

“I’ll tell you this,” she said, her eyes flashing for the first time. “Axel Soledad is a danger to our country. He has to be stopped.”

Geronimo was temporarily speechless.

“That’s what we’re going to do,” Nate said. “But with us, it’s personal.”

“Which is fine by me,” she said. “More power to you. I just hope you know what you’re up against.”

“Oh, we do,” Nate responded.

“Do you know what he’s up to?” Geronimo asked her. “You make it sound big.”

“That’s because it is,” Tuck-Smith said. “He’s been working toward this for years, and he’s recruited enough like-minded followers to maybe make it happen. You’ve talked to C. W. Reese—you know how Axel operates. I’ve talked with a few more people like Reese who were approached by Soledad. People like you two: military background, lone wolves, men who feel betrayed by their government, disaffected…”

“I’m not sure that describes us ,” Geronimo said with a huff. “Speaking for myself, I mean.”

Nate remained silent.

“Anyway,” she said. “What I don’t know is how many people have fallen for his bullshit and have joined up with him. Or what exactly he plans to do.”

“Where will it happen?” Geronimo asked.

“Here,” she said, jabbing her index finger into the desktop. “Either in Wyoming or northern Colorado. All of his movements in the past few months have been in the region. There are so many targets of national importance here when you think about it: oil fields, refineries, power plants, our nuclear arsenal—they’re all here. All of his activities over the last few years have been designed to raise money and support for a big attack.”

“If this is true,” Geronimo said, “shouldn’t you go to the authorities?”

Nate rolled his eyes as Tuck-Smith said, “I think if I told the FBI why I’ve been doing this, they’d just look at my history and call me a crackpot. They’re too busy going after ranchers, so-called insurrectionists, antiabortion activists, parents who speak at school board meetings, and traditional Catholics these days. Plus, although I know there are good ones out there, I don’t know which agents I can trust or how to find them.”

“I understand,” Nate said, to Geronimo’s obvious annoyance.

“What about local law enforcement?” Geronimo asked her.

Tuck-Smith pursed her lips and said, “That’s a mixed bag. Some are good, some are awful. A few would probably sign up with Axel. But since I don’t know yet what jurisdiction Axel plans to operate in, how can I notify the locals?”

“What got you interested in Axel Soledad in the first place?” Geronimo asked her.

She looked at Nate and said, “You asked me if he was my client and I said he wasn’t. But that doesn’t mean he didn’t want to be. Like I said, I’m pretty well known for fighting the feds and representing clients they consider marginal or even traitorous. I think Axel figured I’d fit right in. He thought I might be able to keep him out of jail until he could pull the trigger on his big plans. I played along for a couple of meetings, but the more I learned about Axel, the less I wanted to be his attorney—even if there were a few points he made that I agreed with.

“That’s when I first heard your name,” she said to Nate. “And that’s the first time I heard of Geronimo Jones.”

Nate leaned forward, intrigued.

“He considers you two his enemies,” she said. “You are impediments to him and his plan. When he talked about you two—especially Mr. Romanowski—it was the one time I saw the crazy, irrational part of his personality on display. He wants you out of the way, and he’ll do anything to make that happen. Axel hinted to me that friends of his keep track of your movements and your families and they’re just waiting for the word to take action.”

Nate and Geronimo exchanged a long look.

“Every man has a weakness,” Tuck-Smith said. “Axel’s is that he thinks he’s smarter than everyone else. I found that if you flatter him, he can’t help but brag about himself. It’s classic hubris. He told me this when he was sure I’d be his counsel, so what I’m revealing to you is not privileged information.”

“How did he take it when you told him you wouldn’t take him on as a client?” Geronimo asked.

As a response, she patted the .357 Magnum and said, “That’s the reason I got this. Axel has a way of getting rid of people who are a threat to him. I think he just hasn’t gotten around to me yet. And it’s why Joann gets so jumpy when people we don’t know just show up.”

“It’s settled, then,” Nate said. “Axel will be history soon. Though, that was pretty much the case before we showed up here.”

Geronimo agreed.

“We’re out of time,” Tuck-Smith announced. “I’ve got a big board meeting on the docket. There’s a new sagebrush rebellion brewing, and a real effort to take back our land from the federal agencies who run roughshod over us. I’m their legal counsel. I need to be present at this meeting because we’re suing the feds and I’m writing the lawsuit.”

“One more thing,” Geronimo said. “How do we find Axel’s location?”

“What’s your cell phone number?” she asked. As she did, one of the buttons of her phone lit up and Joann Delaney announced over the intercom that the board meeting had been called to order and that they were waiting for her to join it.

Geronimo recited his number. It had a Colorado area code.

Tuck-Smith snatched up her phone and sent a contact record. Geronimo’s phone pinged.

“Russ and Jolene Anthony are clients of mine on another matter,” Tuck-Smith said. “When I met with them a few days ago, they were worried about their daughter, Allison. They talked about her like she’d been recruited into some kind of cult, and she’s been gone for a few weeks now. Then they described the man she ran off with. They said he was ex-military, a master falconer like yourselves, and very charismatic. They also said that his legs are useless and he gets around on crutches.”

“Soledad,” Geronimo said.

“You’re the one who shot him,” Tuck-Smith said to him. “Why didn’t you finish him off?”

“I thought we had,” Geronimo said sourly.

“Don’t screw it up this time,” she said. Then: “I’ll have Joann contact Russ and Jolene and tell them you’re coming. If they don’t want to see you, I’ll let you know, now that I have your cell number.”

Then Tuck-Smith stood and pulled a set of headphones on. Both Nate and Geronimo froze in their chairs as she did so. Nate had never been in the same room with a seven-foot woman before.

“Yes, I’m tall, get over it,” she said to them. “Now, go.”

She said it while she shooed them out of her office.

“ Thank you ,” Nate mouthed to her.

“ No charge ,” she mouthed back. Then: “This is Cheryl,” she said into her headset while turning away. “I’m sorry I’m a minute late. Let the games begin…”

Nate looked over his shoulder to see if her last statement was also meant for them. Geronimo caught it as well.

When she winked at them, they knew it was.

—

On their way through the lobby toward the front door, the receptionist, Joann Delany, extended her arm and handed Geronimo a Post-it note that she’d hastily scribbled on. Geronimo took it and looked it over.

He read, “?‘Russ and Jolene Anthony, 103 Cherokee Creek Trail, Tie Siding, Wyoming.’?” Then to Nate: “Where in the hell is Tie Siding?”

“South of Laramie,” Nate said. “It’s an hour or so west of here. Don’t worry—I’ve been there. It’s really off the beaten path.”

“Of course it is. What isn’t off the beaten path around here?” Geronimo said.

Nate nodded goodbye at the receptionist, who turned away and wouldn’t meet his eye.