personal. I need to know where he is. Our one link may already be bleeding out in my truck, so we need to move. I’ll be back when it’s done. Oh, Jonathan,” Reece said. “Do you have any more of those homegrown ghost peppers?”
CHAPTER 47
INFANTRY BATTLES ARE UNCOMMON in Flathead County, Montana, despite an extremely high rate of gun ownership. Because of this, the law enforcement response was predictably substantial. Every available deputy made their way either to the ranch or the scene of the attempted roadside ambush.
The entire family was seated at the kitchen table along with the Hastingses’ attorney, Brad Cahill, when the authorities arrived at the house. Cahill was a former Army Ranger and U.S. attorney for the Montana District and was a close friend of both the Hastings and Thornton families. Cahill’s trademark white Stetson sat on the table but, at his suggestion, the rifles were tastefully relocated. A regional SWAT team from the FBI field office in Salt Lake City arrived shortly after the deputies in a pair of Bureau helicopters, having been alerted by a call from Vic Rodriguez of a possible ambush in progress. Within hours, the ranch was crawling with armed agents, and a mobile command center was set up near the main house. With everyone they came to fight already dead, the SWAT team took on a force protection role while the Evidence Response Team went to work.
Vic had spoken to the on-scene supervisor while inbound, citing a slew of legislation passed in the wake of 9/11, so the investigators were sensitive to a national security angle. Having an attorney and a respected and wealthy family on scene didn’t hurt, either. Vic’s phone calls prompted the decision not to alert the media. The last thing that anyone wanted was a bunch of conspiracy theorists from either end of the political spectrum camped out in front of the ranch’s gates.
One by one, each of the participants gave statements to the investigators, with Cahill ensuring that both the questions and responses were appropriate. One member of the ensemble was conspicuously missing: the quiet bearded man who had been staying on the ranch for the past month. Crime scene technicians were scattered across the ridges and valley floor, marking, photographing, and cataloging every piece of tangible physical evidence.
It was nearly six when a black Tahoe pulled up to the ridge. Jonathan and Raife Hastings watched as a man in tan cargo pants, hiking boots, and a dark fleece jacket emerged, shaking hands with the lead investigator, who pointed him toward the main house.
Vic Rodriguez was a Miami native and the son of Cuban exiles. After college, he had served as an Army Special Forces officer before being recruited by the Agency, where, in the midst of the War on Terror, he achieved a well-earned spot at the top of the CIA’s paramilitary food chain. He was the rare Washington animal who was respected by those both above and below him in the chain of command. It was Vic who had seen the potential in Reece and arranged for him to be recruited into Ground Branch in exchange for a pardon of his past transgressions.
Vic was in his late forties with closely cropped graying hair and blue eyes that belied his Castilian heritage. He spoke in broadcast neutral English, yet he could flip to his parents’ native tongue midsentence.
Jonathan and Raife met him at the door.
“Mr. Rodriguez, welcome to our home. It’s not usually this shot up.”
“Mr. Hastings,” Vic said warmly. “And you must be Raife,” the Agency man said, extending his hand.
Raife hesitated, then took the outstretched hand. After his experience with a CIA asset in Iraq that had caused his unseasonal departure from the SEAL Teams, he was not a fan of intelligence officers.
“Can we get you anything?” Jonathan, ever the host, inquired. “Beer, wine, liquor?”
“No, thank you, I’m fine. Is there a private place we can talk?” The question was clearly directed at Raife.
The father and son exchanged words in Afrikaans.
“Use my office upstairs,” Jonathan offered. “I’m here, if I can be of service.”
The pair ascended the stairs and took seats in an office off the master bedroom. The walls were adorned with pictures from the Bush War days, and the shelves were packed with books from and about the old country. A monstrous Cape buffalo shoulder mount extended from one corner, and a full-body leopard mount was situated on the limb of a tree on the opposite wall.