"Here we go," yelled the pilot.
The helicopter sank and Coates's belly rose in his throat. The pink sky of dawn was visible through the portholes in the fuselage. Then the view turned dark green as the Black Hawk dipped into the trees. Dust and leaves blew up and the blades gained an even deeper throb. The pilot was skilled, and Coates did not know the helicopter was on the ground until Reardon slid open the hatch.
The detective popped open his harness and crouched low to approach the pilot. He tapped the pilot on the shoulder. "Keep your engines idling." He touched the radio in his pocket. "We may have to call you in."
The pilot nodded.
Coates dropped through the hatch to the ground. He squinted against the swirling dust. The turbines still shrieked. The FBI team waited for Coates to lead off. This was his show. The detective crouched low under the spinning blades even though they cleared his head by eight feet.
"You ready, boys?"
Rafferty gave the stock of his assault rifle an affectionate squeeze. "We're always ready."
The detective brought up his wristwatch. "The farmhouse is a mile south. We've got eighteen minutes to get there. It's broken ground but fairly open. Let's go."
Coates led them away, the FBI agents running like infantrymen, their weapons across their chests, while Coates stumbled ahead, unused to traversing ground that wasn't paved. The sun had just begun its climb in the east.
The pilot watched them go. The detective and the agents crossed the meadow single-file, heading for the trees. Special Agent Ward brought up the rear, occasionally glancing back at the helicopter, checking the avenue of retreat in the best infantry-school fashion.
Dust blown up from the blades had coated the inside of the copter's windscreen. Taylor kept a soft cloth at his feet. He swatted the rag against the glass, brushing away the dust.
Just as the pilot's eyes refocused through the windshield, a red halo abruptly formed around Ward's head. Mist and light swirled and flickered. Ward crumpled to the ground and was still.
The pilot squinted. The distance and the sun reflecting off his windshield made Taylor unsure what he had just seen. All he could hear was the Black Hawk's turbines.
The three men ahead — ducks in a row — were unaware Ward had fallen. They had apparently heard nothing. They continued to cross the field to the pines. With Ward down, the last man in the single file was now Buddy Riggs. The pilot saw Riggs's head blur red. Riggs fell.
Coates and Rafferty marched ahead, the detective in the lead. They were almost to the trees.
The pilot leaned out the hatch to scream a warning, but the sound was lost in the noise of the turbines.
Then Ray Rafferty's head flew apart and he collapsed onto the cheat-grass. The three shots had taken less than ten seconds.
Panting and oblivious, Coates reached the trees. He glanced at his watch, then lifted a compass from a pocket. "Due south. We've got a lot of time." He turned around to confer with the team.
And only then did he see the horror, all three down and bloodied, a ghastly trail of bodies.
Coates dropped to the ground before he fully understood what had happened. His instinct saved his life, as the fourth bullet, the one intended for him, smacked into a lodgepole pine near where his head had been an instant before. Coates crawled behind a tree.
Taylor fought with himself. He might be able to help here on the ground, but all his training told him a helicopter was useless when idle. He decided he would get airborne, he would radio for help, and he then would try to extricate Coates.
Taylor engaged the rotors. The engines began to wind up. Twigs and grass and dirt whirled up.
The pilot yelped as the hot bore of a rifle was pressed into his neck.
A voice from behind. "Go up. Go west." The words were slow and bent by an accent.
The killer had climbed into the fuselage. He must have been shooting from behind the helicopter.
Again the careful words, "Go up. Go west. Listen to me."
The Black Hawk lifted off and gained elevation quickly, then banked away from the sun. Trees and fields slipped by below.
From behind came "Pick him up."
At first Taylor didn't know what the voice was referring to, but a hand came forward and pointed out the knee hatch.
A man was running wildly across a field, all legs and arms, churning away. The man stumbled and fell. He gazed fearfully over his shoulder, then scrambled up and started off again.
"Pick him up," the man behind ordered again. "I need bait."
The pilot narrowed his eyes. Perhaps it was a trick of the dawn light, but it appeared the runner below was wearing a tie-dyed T-shirt. Taylor hadn't seen one in twenty years. He did not know what the man behind him meant by bait.
With the rifle barrel still against his neck, Taylor put the Black Hawk down in a field near the runner, who crazily veered away, running and limping and working his arms against the air, in a panic.
The gunman leaned out the hatch and beckoned once, then again, and when Andy Ellison dared to look over his shoulder again, he saw the Russian signaling him. Ellison slowed, then stopped. He gritted his teeth with indecision. Grinning, the Russian waved at him again. Ellison bolted for the helicopter, stumbling over straw and stones, looking left and right, blowing like a bellows.
Wetting his lips with his tongue, Taylor watched. The gunman helped the hippie into the copter's waist. His Mosin-Nagant on the pilot, the killer pointed skyward. The copter lifted off again.
Ellison slumped onto a jump seat. He was unable to catch his breath. He wiped his hands across his forehead. His jeans were soiled and torn. With trembling hands he removed his spectacles to straighten the wire frame.
He managed, "The DEA. They were after me. Christ, there were dozens of them, maybe hundreds."
The Russian grinned as he helped Ellison into a safety harness. "It is dangerous being around you marijuana farmers."
Ellison barked a laugh of relief. "Good God, yes. But it doesn't look like I'm going back to prison. Today, anyway. Thanks to you."
Trusov buckled himself in, the rifle still on the pilot. "No, neither of us is going to prison."
Owen Gray lowered the M-40A1 sniper rifle to the apple box. He picked up a bowl of Wheaties. Also on the apple crate were a carton of milk, a box of cereal, and cleaning and oiling equipment. The rifle was fully assembled. He put the bowl under his chin and shoveled flakes into his mouth with a spoon. He was sitting on the porch, the apple box to one side. He chewed mechanically, his eyes on the big larch tree. The ground was damp from the rain, but a gray weeping dawn had given way to blue sky. An Idaho State Patrol car was parked on the other side of the tree. Two troopers leaned against the front hood. One carried an automatic shotgun. They were eating a breakfast sandwich brought up from Ketchum.
Adrian emerged from the cabin squinting at the morning light. She was wearing a white terry-cloth robe that had a red rose stitched over her heart. She was barefoot and wore no makeup. She ran her hand several times through her hair, then stepped toward one of the cane chairs Gray had moved onto the porch. Gray thought she looked alluringly undone.
She stopped near him. "Cereal? I thought you mountain men ate moose and moss for breakfast."
He chewed a moment more, then said, "I told you I caught the trout we ate last night, but actually I bought the fish down in Ketchum."