Assuming, of course, that the object of their exercise was to capture and not to kill.
There was a second set of raps on the front door, this a little brisker.
I left the gun where it was, and went to answer the door.
Three men stood waiting for me on the porch outside, none of them obviously presenting weapons, but if two of them hadn't come heavy, it was because they'd been ordered not to. Those two wore blue jeans, boots, and bulky down parkas, flanking the third on either side. The third one broke the mold, in a suit and overcoat and gloves.
Of the three, I recognized two, one of them immediately. One took a second to place, and it wasn't his appearance so much as the shared recognition that came from his eyes when they met mine. The last time I'd seen him, he'd worn a black watch cap and been flat on his back in a Citgo lot.
"Sean," I said, surprising myself that I could recall his name so easily, and he started, possibly just as stunned by my use of it. "How's the shoulder?"
Then Matthew Bowles, in his navy blue suit and black overcoat, stepped forward and looked me up and down, as if checking stock in a back room.
"Son of a bitch," Bowles said. "It really is you."
"It really is," I said.
Bowles smiled at me, and it was the same strained, thin-lipped smile I remembered him using when Scott Fowler and I had seen him last, three and a half years earlier. It was the smile he'd produced while listening to us explain everything we knew about Oxford. It was the same smile he'd used when he'd picked up the phone, and given the order to cut Oxford loose. It was the kind of smile smug in its assurance that he knew more than you, that all of your assumptions were incorrect, and that he'd be there to see it when you learned so yourself.
I hated that fucking smile.
I hated it all the more when Bowles said, "Take him."
Sean and the other one came forward, and I heard a crack, then a crash, from inside the house, and I didn't resist, just raised my arms to my sides. I thought they'd go for cuffs, but it turned out that was naive of me, and Sean eagerly set me straight with a punch to my left side, just beneath my ribs. It came hard and mean, but I'd like to think I could have shaken it off if I'd wanted to.
Then the other one got in on the act, and I went down on my knees on the porch. From behind me I could hear movement, voices, the perimeter team reaching us. Someone put a boot in, and then a second one followed the first, and another fist, or maybe a baton, and my vision flared and the familiar taste of my own blood came into my mouth, and then there was nothing else but the cold of the snow that had settled in drifts on my front porch.
CHAPTER
"Patriot," Bowles said. "How's that for a fucking irony?"
I used my tongue to probe the inside of my mouth. All of my teeth seemed to be intact and in place, though blood still leaked from what felt like a good-sized tear on the inside of my right cheek. I spat what had gathered onto the floor, and discovered in the process that my lower lip was numb, and consequently it wasn't so much a spit as a dribble. The floor was wood, finished planks, rustic and shiny. My blood and saliva shone where it landed.
Matthew Bowles moved into the seat opposite where I'd been positioned at the table, unloading his laptop from its black nylon case and setting the machine beside him. He always had a laptop; it was his security blanket. It chimed as he switched it on, began to hum into the boot cycle.
I looked around the room. My vision was clear, and I was mildly surprised to discover that my contacts hadn't been knocked free in the beat down. The beat down, as much as I could recall of it, had been sincere, and I suspected there'd been a few extra free shots added as a bonus after I'd lost consciousness. Most of me ached, and I was pretty sure that the parts of me that didn't only declined to do so because, like my lower lip, they'd gone numb. That said, I didn't think anything had been broken. At least, not yet.
The room itself wasn't much to look at, ill furnished, walls finished with knotted pine planks and a floor that hadn't known care. Not much in the way of furniture, a couch with upholstery that had started as red and had since faded to a pinkish brown, a couple of wooden craftsman chairs, and the rickety table I was seated at now. Sconces were set irregularly on the wall, their dusty glass in the shape of large candle flames, the wattage of the bulbs weak. To my left were two small windows, curtains drawn, and through the gaps in the fabric I could see nothing beyond. Presumably it was night outside, though I supposed the windows could have been painted over. Opposite me, to the right of the couch, what was either the front or back door to the cabin.
Sitting on the couch were the two who'd been with Bowles when I'd answered the door, Sean and the other one. Both had their jackets off, and each wore a holster with a pistol at his hip, and against Sean's side of the couch had been propped a shotgun. Of them, Sean had the clean seniority, both in age and manner. When my eyes ran over them, the eyefucking I received from each in return was severe.
I continued to look around as Bowles continued to tap on his keyboard. A moth-eaten Indian rug hung on the wall over the fireplace, its colors faded. There were no tools for the fire, and I wondered if that was because they'd been moved, or because they'd simply never been. That was it for the decor.
Off to my right ran a short hallway, carpeted in a thick orange and brown shag, doors along either side. There was a kitchen down that way; I could make out the sounds of movement, the scrape of a pan on a stove. The scent of frying bacon reached me, mixing with the weaker scent of dust and disuse. Behind it all lurked the cloying musk of mold, probably from the carpet.
The cabin was, in its own way, oddly reminiscent of the one to which we'd taken Illya in Sunriver, and that made sense to me. Far easier to keep me in Montana, perhaps to move south, further from the Canadian border. Certainly deeper into the woods, to someplace secluded, and God knew there were plenty enough places like that to be found. In the steady throb of pain, I couldn't discern anything that felt like a narcotic trying to wash out of me. So I hadn't been drugged, which made it more likely that we hadn't left Whitefish that far behind.
"So," said Bowles, still focused on the laptop. "Are you? Are you a patriot?"
One of the doors on the hall opened, and two men emerged, both apparently acquired from the same supplier who had delivered the two on the couch. The variations were cosmetic. They were zipping closed their down parkas, and one already had a watch cap on his head. Both were armed, another shotgun and an AR-15. They passed the table without sparing me a glance, moving straight to Sean, who was getting to his feet. There was a brief exchange, kept to whispering so I couldn't overhear, and then Sean led them to the door. When he opened it, a puff of snow blew inside, driven by the icy air. He let the two out, closed the door once more, and resumed his seat.
Bowles, who had turned to watch, brought his attention back to me, explaining, "Perimeter."
I didn't say anything.
He slid the laptop aside and set an elbow on the table, leaning forward and resting his chin in his hand, grinning. He'd removed his overcoat and suit jacket, but the knot on his necktie was as tight and perfectly centered as ever. He was roughly my age, perhaps a year or two older, with straight black hair combed neatly back, and a pale face that was so smooth as to appear almost prepubescent. His eyes were so dark I could barely discern his pupils against the irises.
"Nothing to say for yourself?"
My hands were in my lap, and I brought them up slowly, felt pain stabbing through my fingers. They'd been bound with black Flexi-Cuffs, and whoever had done the binding had pulled them tighter than they needed to be; I could see the plastic biting into my skin, slowly killing my circulation. When my hands were at eye level, I showed them to him.