Page 20

Chapter Eighteen

At midnight, Nate drove the Suburban on WYO 230 through the Snowy Range, while Geronimo hunched over his iPhone in the passenger seat. The glow from the screen turned Geronimo’s dark skin multihued as he swiped and enlarged topographical images on several navigation and GPS mapping apps to better familiarize himself with the terrain in and around Battle Mountain.

They’d stopped only twice since leaving Cheyenne. Once to buy ammo and junk food at the West Laramie Fly Store, and again to gather road-killed rabbits from the pavement of the highway to feed their falcons.

The only time Geronimo looked up was when Nate slowed suddenly to let a herd of elk run across the road in the beam of his headlamps. Later, they passed a dark collection of cabins and a log-built structure to their right that was marked with a WyColo Lodge sign constructed of short lengths of wood to spell the words.

“Where are we?” Geronimo asked.

“We’re crossing briefly into Colorado,” Nate said. “It’s a place where they’ll welcome the goofy green license plates on this thing.”

“Well, that’s good, I guess.”

“Then we’ll veer north again back into Wyoming to Battle Mountain.”

“Gotcha,” Geronimo said. “I could get a better idea where we are and where we’re headed if I could keep a cell signal for more than five minutes.”

Nate shrugged. “I have a general knowledge of the area, and I learned it without maps on a cell phone. I’ve hunted sage grouse with my birds around Warm Springs, and I was here once in the winter helping out Joe.”

Geronimo looked out the passenger window at the heavy timber that opened up to reveal a deep drop-off that went nearly straight down to a small mountain stream.

“This is some harsh-looking country. I don’t think I’d like to be here in the winter,” Geronimo said. “I suppose that’s why they call it the Snowy Range.”

“That’s right,” Nate said, leaning forward and looking around. “I once brained a guy with a frozen fish not too far from here.”

“You did what ?”

“I’ll have to tell you about that sometime,” Nate said. Then: “Do you miss your daughter?”

“Of course. Where did that come from?”

Nate shrugged again. “I find myself missing my daughter. Sometimes I think I see her out of the corner of my eye, but when I turn my head, she’s not there. Sometimes she appears in my dreams.”

They went through a narrow canyon and emerged at a junction known as “Three-Way.” The highway to the left went to Walden, Colorado, and WYO 230 continued to the right and climbed back into the mountains and led to Warm Springs, according to the sign.

Nate barely slowed down when he turned to the right.

“Now these Colorado plates will annoy people again,” he said.

“Sometimes it’s hard to keep up with where your head is at,” Geronimo complained.

—

They pulled over on the Wyoming side of the border, where the highway crossed the North Platte River, which was a wide inky ribbon that rippled with reflected starlight.

Nate gestured to the east. “There’s no moon to see it, but over there is Battle Mountain.”

The mountain loomed, a black inverted U that stretched as far as they could see north and south. The only way to delineate the dark mountain from the sky was by the fine line on top that blocked out the wash of stars and a derby-shaped hat of snow that topped the summit.

“Do you know why it’s named Battle Mountain?” Geronimo asked.

“No. Do you?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. I looked it up on my phone.”

“Okay, why?”

Geronimo said, “In 1841, a mountain-man dude named Jim Baker and another trapper were butchering a couple of buffalo cows they had shot, when hundreds of Cheyenne and Arapaho took exception and attacked them. The two of them ran like rabbits to a little fort on the Little Snake River, where there were a dozen other trappers. But the Natives kept coming.

“Baker and the other dudes killed their horses and used them as breastworks when the Indians charged time and time again. It was like a mountain-man version of the Thermopylae–Three Hundred–type fight. The only way the mountain-man dudes survived was when they realized that the attackers would always stop to pick up their dead. So, the trappers picked their targets carefully and took them out one at a time. They had one-shot rifles back then, so the trappers made sure they always kept half of their weapons loaded and ready to go at any one time. Finally, the Indians just decided it wasn’t worth it and they went home. Jim Baker couldn’t believe they’d held them off. After that, the settlers to the area referred to that mountain as Battle.”

“That’s a good story, if it’s true,” Nate said. “What did you say the name of the ranch was where they do the Centurions thing?”

“I’m not sure. Lazy-something, I think.”

“Ah,” Nate said. “Now I remember. The B-Lazy-U. It’s been around for decades. It’s isolated, but from what I understand it’s a pretty cool place. Old-school.”

“That sounds about right,” Geronimo said. “So how do we get there?”

“The entrance is straight ahead on the right.”

Nate eased the Suburban into gear and drove north.

—

Eight miles later, Nate slowed on the shoulder of the highway and pulled over. The only light they could see in any direction was from a small building to their right a hundred yards from US 230.

Nate turned off the headlights and raised a pair of binoculars, leaning his elbows onto the steering wheel to steady his view.

“It’s a kind of guard shack under the archway that leads to the ranch,” he said. “I suppose they use it to check in guests. But now what I see are a couple of guys inside and an SUV parked next to it.”

“Security?” Geronimo asked.

“Probably.”

“Are we going to try to get through?”

“Affirmative.”

“What’s our story?”

Nate shrugged. “I’ll think of something. But in the meanwhile, I think we need to get all of our weapons out of view. We don’t want them to think we’re here to storm the place.”

They got out and opened the long, hidden compartment under the floorboard in the back seat and filled it with guns and boxes of ammunition.

“The gangsters I got this unit from thought of everything,” Geronimo said.

—

The guards at the gate didn’t wait patiently for the Suburban to arrive. As Nate turned off the highway onto the gravel road that led to the facility, a pair of headlights came on and the occupants drove a shiny black Ford Expedition up the road to meet them. The SUV used the middle of the road and filled it, and it stopped so Nate couldn’t go around it. The driver didn’t kill the bright headlights, even when he and another man got out.

“Stay cool,” Geronimo said. But his voice was tense.

Nate raised his arm to shade his eyes from the high beams. He could make out the forms of the two men as they approached. They wore jackets and cargo pants, and holsters with the handgun grips jutting out. The men split up near the grille of the Suburban, one going to Geronimo’s side and the other to Nate’s.

There was a tap on Nate’s window, and Nate lowered it.

The man was in his twenties with tight military-style white sidewalls and a three-day growth of beard. He had a squared-off face and a thick neck, and he spoke in an East Texas twang.

“Are you boys lost?”

“No, sir,” Nate said. “This is the B-Lazy-U, isn’t it?”

“That’s what the sign says,” the man said. “The other sign right next to it says Private Property .”

“I can’t see either one right now,” Nate responded. “Your headlights are in my eyes.”

East Texas didn’t apologize, and he didn’t head back to his vehicle to turn off the lights, either.

Nate glanced across the seat as Geronimo whirred down his passenger window. A similar-sized man, maybe a few years older, leaned forward and eyed Geronimo. He was dark-eyed, with a lightning bolt–shaped scar on his right cheek and a neatly trimmed handlebar mustache. When he raised his hand he had a flashlight in it.

The beam flashed on and moved from Geronimo’s face to Nate’s, and then to the console between them. Looking for weapons.

“Keep your hands where we can see them,” East Texas said.

Nate placed his hands on the top of the steering wheel and Geronimo complied by reaching out and resting his on the dashboard.

“We aren’t looking for trouble,” Geronimo said.

“Then what are y’all doing out here so late?” East Texas asked.

Before Nate could respond, Handlebar moved the beam from the front seat to the back and said, “Well, look at this.”

Without turning his head, Nate knew Handlebar had found the hooded falcons perched in the back.

“We’re in the bird abatement business,” Nate said to East Texas. “The B-Lazy-U hired my company to get rid of problem starlings in their barns by flying our birds around. We’re both master falconers. That’s what we do.”

“I’ve never heard of the bird abatement business,” East Texas said. “Do you have any ID?”

Nate said, “I’m now taking my hand off the wheel to get something out of my pocket. Okay?”

East Texas stepped back from the window and turned slightly so Nate could see that he was gripping the gun on his hip. “Sure. Do it slowly.”

Nate did, then handed a business card out the window. East Texas used the light from his vehicle to read it.

“Nate Romanowski, CEO,” he read. “Yarak, Inc.” He mispronounced it “Yar-ACK,” not “Yar-ock.” Then:

“?‘We Make Your Problems Go Away.’ That’s quite the jingle.”

“Actually,” Nate said, “it’s our motto and it should read ‘We Make Your Problem Birds Go Away.’ I plan to add the word ‘birds’ when we reprint the cards.”

East Texas narrowed his eyes and squinted at Geronimo. “What’s your name?”

“Steve Richards,” Geronimo said.

“Again, I ask, what are y’all doing here this time of night?” East Texas said, pocketing the card.

“We got lost,” Geronimo offered. “This place is hard to find.”

“That’s the point,” Handlebar said.

“You boys will need to do us a solid and turn this car around,” East Texas said. “You aren’t going anywhere tonight.”

“Really?” Nate asked.

East Texas turned to Handlebar. “Are their names on the visitor or vendor list?”

Handlebar drew out his cell phone and called up a document. “Nope. No Nate Romanowski, no Yar-ACK.”

“There must be some kind of mistake,” Nate said. “We’ve come a long way.”

“You’ll have to sort that out with the management of the ranch,” East Texas said. “And you’re not going to get that done tonight, or tomorrow for that matter. This place doesn’t open back up to the public for two more days. There’s a private function going on, and you boys aren’t on the list for it, so kindly turn around and go.”

“Go where?” Nate asked. “We’re in the middle of nowhere.”

“That’s the point,” Handlebar repeated.

“And don’t come back tomorrow and try to talk your way in,” East Texas said. “Even if we’re not here, it’s eight miles to the ranch, and there are two more checkpoints before it. So just forget about showing up for a while. Take your hawks and go to Warm Springs. I hear they have a hot spring in town.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Geronimo said reasonably.

“This is going to cost me money,” Nate complained. “I can’t afford downtime.”

“Not our problem,” East Texas said, stepping back and motioning for Nate to turn around.

—

As they drove back toward the highway, Geronimo said, “That was just outlandish enough that it sounded authentic. I think they bought it, even if they didn’t let us through.”

Nate grunted. “They were obviously military guys, just like your friend. They’re probably kicking back and enjoying a few days in the mountains off the base where they don’t have to shave. I didn’t want to have to take them out.”

“Me either,” Geronimo said. “They reminded me of me back in the day.”

Nate said, “So there’s only one road in and out of the ranch and it’s through a pretty deep canyon. There’s no way to get there except on that road, and they’ve got three checkpoints set up.”

“Meaning what?”

“If Axel plans to hit them, I don’t think he’d try a frontal assault. Too much security that would stop them, or at least seriously slow them down. He’s got to have another plan if the Centurions are the target.”

Geronimo agreed.

Nate watched closely in his rearview mirror as they left. He clearly saw Handlebar approach East Texas and ask to see the card Nate had given him. Interesting, Nate thought.

—

When they were back on the highway heading north, Nate said, “ Steve Richards ? You don’t look like a Steve Richards .”

“I had to be fast on my feet,” Geronimo said with a grin. “And don’t be racist.”

“Okay, Steve .” Then: “We have to find that compound Joann Delaney told us about. That’s where Axel will strike from.”

“How are we gonna do that?” Geronimo asked.

“I don’t know yet.”

Geronimo stuck his pointer finger in the air as if to preview a profound thought. “How about we come back tomorrow and tell the Centurions what we think is going on?”

“Do you think they’d actually let us in?” Nate scoffed. “And you think they’d believe us if they did? We have no evidence of an imminent attack. We just hate Axel.”

“Well…”

“Plus, who do we tell? I’m not sure we can trust all the security guys, and we’d need to get through them. For sure, Axel will have someone on the inside and maybe more. That’s how he operates. I saw that guy with the mustache get my card from the Texas guy. I wonder who he might call to let them know we were here.”

“Man, you can be paranoid.”

“It’s served me well,” Nate said.

Geronimo sat in silence as they drove through dark ranch country. The only lights to be seen were distant pole lamps near ranch houses, and the piercing stars overhead.

“Based on what that security guy said, these guys are about ready to clear out of here,” Geronimo said. “Which means…”

“It’ll be tomorrow,” Nate said, finishing the thought. “Axel will crawl out from under his rock tomorrow.”