was Kydex, nylon, and Kevlar, Raife was leather, brass, and walnut.
The men’s athletic physiques were obvious to the most casual observer, with broad, thick chests and powerful arms built by decades of intense physical training. Though their wardrobes were nearly identical and their builds similar, no one would mistake them for brothers. Reece’s hair was dark with flecks of gray in his stubble. Raife was two inches taller than his friend’s six feet and his build was leaner, with broader shoulders and a narrower waist. His longish hair was a sun-streaked blond that hung from the back of his cap and nearly touched his collar. His eyes were an almost iridescent green that stood in contrast to his tanned face. A discolored scar swept the length of his cheek. Raife stopped short of stepping up onto the planked wooden porch and made a sweeping gesture for Reece to take the lead.
The door was made of local Douglas fir and bore the scars of more than a century’s exposure to the elements. Reece pressed the refurbished iron latch and the solid door swung open easily on new hinges. The two-story open space was bathed in natural light thanks to the large windows on the wall opposite the front door. The floor was Montana slate, a mosaic of grays and browns that contrasted with the blond planks that paneled the walls. A stone fireplace rose toward the open fir rafters. Reece’s throat went tight when he saw what hung above the hearth.
“Is that my dad’s bull?”
“Indeed, it is. He passed away before we could ship him the mount. We thought this would be a good spot for his elk.”
The families had become close when Reece and Raife’s friendship blossomed at the University of Montana. Reece’s father, Tom, had visited the ranch in the fall of 2000 when both Reece and Raife had already graduated from BUD/S and been assigned to SEAL Teams on opposite coasts. Tom Reece, himself a frogman veteran of Vietnam, had elk-hunted during the visit and had taken the six-by-six bull that hung in his son’s new home. It had been the last time they’d hunted together. The 9/11 attacks struck the following year and Reece had spent the next decade and a half chasing Al Qaeda, ISIS, and their ilk to the far corners of the globe. Tom Reece had passed away suddenly and tragically while Reece was deployed to Iraq in 2003, killed in an apparent mugging in Buenos Aires, Argentina, while working for the CIA.
A comfortable-looking nail-head leather sofa faced the fireplace and a tawny hair-on cow rug covered the stone floor, framing a sitting area. Reece noticed it bore the raised keloid scar of the Hastings family brand. Raife hung back a step as his friend toured his new home, humbled by the generosity shown to him by the Hastings family. There was a large kitchen with what looked to be the original cast iron stove, surrounded by modern appliances, a comfortable bedroom with a rustic pine-framed king-sized bed, a guest bedroom, bathrooms, and a loft area that was set up as an office. Nearly every room in the home had a view of the lake.
“I have one other thing to show you.” Raife broke the silence and motioned toward the door that led outside from the kitchen. He descended the steps and strode toward a small barnlike structure. He pulled open the two large doors and stood aside wearing a rare grin. Inside the detached garage sat a perfectly restored 1988 FJ62 Toyota Land Cruiser, its bluish gunmetal gloss clear-coat paint gleaming under the room’s overhead LED lights. The vintage paint scheme contrasted tastefully with the flat black aluminum wheels, off-road bumpers, and roof rack.
Reece’s eyes widened at the sight of the custom off-road vehicle. He’d been forced to abandon his beloved Land Cruiser more than a year earlier as part of a one-man mission of vengeance that had left a trail of bodies that stretched from coast to coast. Since then, he’d driven Land Cruisers while working anti-poaching patrols for Raife’s uncle in Mozambique, but he hadn’t had a vehicle to call his own.
“It comes with the house. You know I’d never drive it so you may as well.”
“Now I really don’t know what to say.”
“All of a sudden you’re the quiet one?” Raife joked, referring to Utilivu, a Shona nickname given to him by the trackers in Africa. “Don’t just stand there like a bloody idiot, hop in.”