Gibson let his thoughts travel back through time, replaying almost every day, and was proud of the complex amount of planning and personal bravery he’d demonstrated, and of recognizing his destiny so early in life. He didn’t regret a thing. The day was cool, the water trickled up from an underground reservoir, and he went to sleep.
It was coming on to dusk when he rode back to the ranch, the sky painted purple and gold, and the sounds of silence telling him that everything was fine. He had given the staff a few days off, so he stabled the horse himself, then went inside and checked the security room. The sensors showed no alerts. Taking a shower, he saw a lot of improvement in his battered face, and he felt strong. Maybe tomorrow he would take a drive into North Dakota, where the atmosphere of the oil boom still existed in some places. Maybe. Maybe not. Decide tomorrow when he rode over to look around.
“He’s in there somewhere,” said Special Agent Lucky Sharif, running a red laser dot over a vast square of more than a thousand acres that straddled the U.S. — Canadian border at the juncture or Montana and North Dakota. “Back on our turf right now, but able to sprint into Canada at a moment’s notice.”
The area on the satellite map had been pieced together through a massive search of documents in both countries, from current tax payments to old land deeds written in flowing script by long-dead clerks who made entries in leather-bound record books. The combined high-resolution sat shots showed the big ranch house, a stable and barn area, and two small airstrips, one on each side of the border. Roads were narrow but navigable. “This place didn’t spring up overnight. It took decades of foresight, and the cost must have been monstrous. A bunch of rogues,” said Chief Superintendent Matthew Fox of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, who was coordinating the search in his country.
“Money was never much of an object; they made a fortune by selling information, weapons, and drugs in the guise of secret government operations. This family goes back a long way, and they built the Big Thunder Ranch as an ultimate hideaway.” Marty Atkins was at the conference table, and not a happy man.
“The important thing is that we’re closing in on him, and he doesn’t know it. So long as he doesn’t creep through the outposts around Big Thunder before we go in, he’s a walking dead man.” Kyle Swanson sipped some coffee, and the bitter taste told him that he needed a fresh pot.
“You’re speaking figuratively, of course,” reminded the Mountie. “We’re not assassinating him.”
“Of course. My goal is to crush his spirit, not to kill him, and let him spend the rest of his miserable life in some cold, dark cell moping about his failure.”
“I know a few such places,” said Atkins. “Much worse than Club Gitmo. We have a long interrogation process ready for Mr. Gibson — all perfectly legal, but secret.”
Sharif took over again. “So the F Section Mounties out of Regina have been reinforced and are in position — right, Matt?”
“Yes.”
“Highway Patrols are ready in Montana and North Dakota, plus some locals. So, Big Thunder is sealed,” Sharif concluded. “We have an FBI Hostage Rescue Team staging fifteen minutes away from the ranch house. On signal, we all go in at once and meet in the middle. Temporary border crossings for law enforcement have been authorized by both sides.”
Matthew Fox drummed his fingers on the table for a moment. “Then what are we waiting for?”
“Just the clock. We hit him at four o’clock tomorrow morning.”
34
The alarm screeched like a wounded wildcat, tearing Luke Gibson from a sound sleep, and he rolled off the mattress before his eyes were even open, groping for the shotgun under the bed. The unmanned security control room was running on automatic and had piped the unvarying, piercing whine into every room. An instant later, warning sirens began to hoot outside. Gibson scrambled to his feet and headed for the control room. Every light in the house flashed on. They were coming.
He threw open the security doors and saw that every screen was lit with alert signals. Sensor dots to pinpoint unwanted guests flecked the computers like measles, and coming from every direction. He took a moment to collect his thoughts, then dashed back to grab jeans, boots, sweatshirt, and the bug-out bag that was kept topped off for just such a situation. When he ran outside, shotgun in hand, he heard the rattle of approaching helicopters and motorcycles and trucks — a cacophony of bad news.
Gibson reacted like a test pilot in a spin, ticking off options one after another as disaster drew ever closer. The airstrips were of no use, and neither was a big 4 × 4, because the roads would be blocked. A horse was too slow. The encircling force meant that the Canadians were in on this, which wiped out the usual border trails.
Gibson took off for the trees. Darkness and cover were his allies now, and, in addition, his attackers wouldn’t know about the tunnels. He broke into a hard run, pounding down the driveway. A haze of headlights rose above the distant treetops, moving his way. The chopper was closing in fast. He reached the tree line just as some unlucky cop hit a hidden claymore mine off to the east, and the explosion shook the night.
He felt a momentary surge of euphoria as the victory virus swept through him. The ranch was full of surprises that only he knew. His path to the tunnel entrance would be clear when the automatic defenses took their toll on the unsuspecting policemen, most of whom could arrest speeding drunks but had no training in tactical combat scenarios. A white phosphorus grenade exploded up where the Mounties were coming in. He ran.
The main threat was that helicopter, probably an FBI HRT unit. Those were bad boys. He recalled hearing one pass by in the distance during the night, but had given it little notice. Choppers and small planes were frequent modes of transportation across the immense distances up here, particularly over toward the oil patch. This new one, however, was heading for the ranch house, and he saw the brilliant cone of its searchlight combing the forest and the ground. It came toward Gibson fast, and he ducked against a boulder, letting the bird pass overhead.
The tone of the attack was already changing as the ranch took its defensive toll, and Gibson knew the momentum had shifted. What had looked like an overwhelming force on the attack plan only moments ago was fizzling into disarray. There was another boom in the south, and he heard someone cry out. Breathing hard, he hunkered down beside another boulder to catch his breath. The pain in his lungs indicated that he’d probably been running dangerously hard for about a mile. He knew the trip-wire locations, but if he stumbled and broke a leg or ran into a tree the game would be over. “Hell it will,” he told himself, and a smile creased his face as he inhaled deeply and put down the weapon to take a drink. “This game is already over. I’m number one.”
“Hello, Luke,” a voice said softly in the darkness.
Gibson looked out in disbelief as a silhouette broke from the shadows and moved toward him at a lazy pace. Luke screamed and grabbed for his gun, and Kyle Swanson unloaded a blast of his own 12-guage, unleashing a swarm of miniature flechettes. Some of the needles broke on the rocks and shredded trail brush, but about a dozen punched through the clothing and skin of Luke Gibson with the power of a mad surgeon. He had never felt such searing pain, and he screamed as it immobilized him; the tiny syringes had been packed with enough chemicals to bring down a gorilla.