"How’d he do that? Offer moonshine?" I still had a sense of humor.
"I believe he offered them the business end of his Browning 12-gauge over-under."
Gunner could tell a pretty good story.
"In lieu of that option, they could lie on the ground until the Sheriff’s posse came to save the day."
"Everything goin’ fine ‘til cops show up," Bull said. "Nice and peaceful. Bad guys all trussed up. Cops get there and all hell breaks loose."
"Why?" I asked both of them. "What happened?"
Gunner spoke first. "Freakin’ terrorist army, that’s what. They were military-types… armed to the teeth and hell-bent on destruction. Swarming all over the place. We had my crew, BCA SWAT and Lewiston County all there, and we still couldn’t put a dent in ‘em."
"Was just three guys," Bull said.
Gunner gave him the hairy eyeball.
"I didn’t see you helping out," he said accusingly to Bull.
"Hell, I figured your goddamn brigade could maybe handle three hostiles on your own. I left my hostages tied to a tree and moved to take out the pilot. Got the cockpit window when he was at the end of the runway gettin’ ready to roll. But never had a decent shot at the guy."
"Anyway," Gunner continued, wisely refusing to engage Bull further, "they were three of the meanest bastards you’d ever run into. Automatic weapons. RPGs. Probably some laser-guided shit, too."
He looked pointedly at Bull.
Bull looked at the ceiling.
"So how did you finally finish them off?"
"Actually," Gunner said, "I think you finished ‘em off for us." He gave me a look I couldn’t quite identify.
I leaned over Gunner’s desk, picked up his coffee cup and gave it a sniff. "What the heck have you been sippin’? While you were at the airport, I was busy tryin’ to save my own backside on that airplane."
"Maybe so," he went on. "But you got some buddy who’s a Special Forces C.O. who decided to do you a favor by sending us a couple freakin’ Apaches to squash the bad guys. They did a damn fine job of it, too."
"They did," Bull agreed. "Damn fine job."
"I guess if you don’t ask, you don’t get," I said cryptically.
Bull smiled.
Gunner looked at both of us. "Now what’s that supposed to mean?"
Neither Bull nor I spoke.
"Aw c’mon," Gunner pleaded. "Gimme a break. Where’d those choppers come from?"
"After I texted Bull," I said, "I sent another SOS to a guy I used to work with. I guess he decided my heart was pure and my cause was just."
"All right. That’ll do it." Gunner had had enough. "You military comrades can keep your secrets. I don’t care. We got ourselves some big time criminals. And we’re gonna go get us another one or two in just a bit."
"Honestly, Gunner," I complimented, "you did a great job!
"So is one of the hicks you caught the chemist who murdered the professor?"
"Ahem. Actually, no. But Urland and Brenda… don’t ya love those names… Urland and Brenda Umber… are gonna lead us to the terrorist hideout right now. BCA SWAT is geared up and ready to pounce."
Gunner was hyped up for more action.
"Mind if I tag along?"
"Well. Since you were a bit of a help in misdirecting the airplane… and your Special Ops buddies did save our cans… and your goofy theory of this whole nuclear thing turned out to be more than horse hockey after all, I suppose I’ve gotta let you come along. But try to stay out of the way.
"And Jesus, you stink!"
Gunner just had to have the last word.
Two deputies covered the back seat of Gunner’s unmarked car with a canvas tarp and let me sit there. Gunner had all the windows wide open the whole way to the ‘hideout.’ No one else chose to ride with us.
While we were driving, I asked Gunner if he had had any luck with my hunch concerning the possible connection between the Ottawa County plot and the Mongolians’ re-entry into my life.
"Actually, I did," he said, glancing in the rearview mirror. "And I’m afraid I owe you a big apology."
"An apology? How’s that?"
"Turns out the guy that got your daughter in the soup — and the guy who leaked our info to the terrorists — was one of my own deputies. A new guy.
"When you told me your theory that an Al Qaeda informant had been at the Lab when you were there, I ran a thorough check on everyone who’d been on the grounds that day — including my own troops.
"Turns out that Deputy Watson had a connection to Al Qaeda from his army tour in Afghanistan and somehow slipped through our screening process. We brought him in this morning.
"Watson normally handles Water Patrol in the summer. But he was in the car at the Lab when you stopped by there. And he called in your visit to his superiors. They must’ve figured out the Mongolian connection to get you out of town, and maybe out of their lives permanently. I s’pose Al Qaeda’s got connections all over the place."
Gunner checked the mirror again for my reaction.
"I’m really sorry."
His voice was definitely contrite.
"Huh," I said.
"What’s that s’posed to mean: ‘Huh’?"
"I’d’ve put my money on the groundskeeper — the guy with the Panama hat."
I knew Gunner’s eyes were rolling somewhere in his head.
"Hey. Don’t feel bad," I acknowledged. "There’s no way you could have known your deputy was involved. Don’t worry about it. One more terrorist off the streets and where he belongs."
I was just pleased to have the Mongolian saga, finally, behind me.
We were now approaching our destination.
Slowly, our parade of vehicles drove up the dirt drive to the old white farm house with the dark green trim.
Being the trained experts in this kind of thing, the SWAT team went in first, stopping their vans about a hundred feet short of the house. The vans’ back doors swung open and the SWAT officers piled out, wearing their black SWAT gear that said ‘SWAT’ plainly across front and back.
They fanned out — weapons at the ready.
As they skulked closer to the house, I was sure they would see the huge, yellow semi-truck and trailer parked around the corner in the turn-around. And they’d probably be focused on the smallish Arab man standing on top of the semi tractor holding a burning Zippo lighter in his hand.
So as SWAT closed in on the semi-truck, I ducked into one of their vans, borrowing an appropriate weapon. Then I made my way quickly forward, jogging parallel to the driveway, through the yard and on a more direct route toward the truck than SWAT had taken.
"This truck is filled with nitrogen fertilizer," the Arab man was yelling at the SWAT officers. "I have soaked it in diesel fuel. I intend to blow myself and all of you infidels to pieces. Praise be to Allah! You will all rot in Hell. And I shall receive my reward in Paradise."
No one on the SWAT team seemed prepared to shoot, lest the lighter might fall into the open trailer of fertilizer, that did, in fact, smell like diesel fuel.
While SWAT had been holding its position, I kept advancing — maneuvering ever closer to the truck. I now stood within about thirty feet of the man ranting on its top.
Out of the corner of my eye I could see Gunner back on the driveway, waving his arms wildly, and mouthing the word, "No" in my direction.
Too late to change my mind now.
"Here’s your reward!" I yelled, like some cowboy who’d had a few too many at the Long Branch Saloon. I brought up the weapon I had been hiding alongside my leg and let him have it — twice, in rapid succession.
Both shots hit him squarely in the chest. The young terrorist tumbled backward onto the hood of the semi-tractor, and then onto the ground. He was writhing in pain. But there was no blood. SWAT team members moved quickly to disarm him from his lighter, and then took him into custody.