Diablo Mesa(85)

A moment later, Lime came into her field of view. His clothes were torn and his chestnut hair streaked with dirt. In one hand he held the weapon that, just minutes before, had been leveled at her. At Watts’s barked command, he stopped.

“Toss your weapon over here,” Watts said.

Slowly, Lime lowered his hand, then tossed the gun underhand—but instead of pitching toward Watts, it landed away from the three of them.

“I said, over here.”

“Sorry,” Lime replied. “I’m not in the best of shape at the moment.” He leaned forward, lowering his head and putting his palms on his knees.

“Hands in the air!” said Watts.

“Give me a minute, will you? Let this dizzy spell pass.”

They waited in the flickering light of the wreck. Corrie looked around again for her weapon. Maybe it was still on the chopper.

Slowly, Lime straightened. He wiped a sleeve across his forehead. “I guess your friend had a death wish,” he said, nodding at the still form of Skip. “What a stupid thing to do.”

“Hands in the air,” Watts repeated.

Instead of obeying, Lime expelled a breath, then planted his hands on his hips, arms akimbo. “No.”

“You want to get shot?”

“I doubt if you’re going to shoot a federal agent.”

Corrie saw Watts hesitate. Then the sheriff turned to her. “Who the fuck is this guy?”

“I don’t know,” Corrie said. “He’s been acting as my supervisor since Morwood’s death. He’s a stranger to Albuquerque Field Office, but everyone thinks he’s an agent, sent to us on temporary assignment.”

“From where?”

“Washington,” Lime answered. “Like I said: I work for the United States, too.”

“Bullshit,” Corrie said. “You’re no patriot. You’re some sort of spy.” But even as she said this, doubts crept in. Every instinct drilled into her over the last year said obeying a senior agent should be as natural as breathing. And Lime—he’d helped her further the case, he’d believed in her when nobody else did…he’d defended her over Lathrop’s accusations. And he’d scrambled the helicopter.

“Think about what you’re doing,” Lime said, looking from Corrie to Watts. “It’s like I tried to explain on the chopper. All this goes a lot deeper than you realize.” He looked back at Corrie. “You know how the system works. We operate by compartmentalization—by need to know. There are many, many layers of security clearance.”

“Your point?” Watts asked, keeping the gun steady. “It doesn’t seem to me a genuine FBI agent would disarm and zip-tie his own junior partner.”

“That was for her own protection. My point is that Corrie knows only part of what’s going on. She’s accidentally become involved in an ongoing military operation—one that’s larger and more complex than you can imagine.”

“Like what?”

Lime shook his head in frustration. “I told you: everything would be explained at Pershing. Look, lower your gun. Please. You can see I’m unarmed.”

After a moment, Watts lowered his weapon. “Explain it now. What’s at Pershing? It’s an abandoned ruin as far as I know.”

“That’s intentional. It’s actually a classified military base doing vital national security work.”

Watts licked his lips. Corrie could see he was growing uncertain, too. “And that huge explosion at the base camp?”

“Who told you the explosion was from the base camp?” Lime asked.

Watts and Corrie exchanged glances.

“Sheriff Watts, you seem like a good man. So I hope you won’t take offense when I say you’re even more marginalized here than Corrie is. Look: I don’t expect you to believe something you don’t understand. But again, I implore you: think about what you’re doing. I have operational powers that include the FBI—and go beyond. You’ve got a choice. You can let me contact Pershing, get us a rescue chopper; we’ll get you temporary clearance, and then…then you can help us. Frankly, we need your help.” He paused. “Or you can shoot me. And you know what? After that, you’ll remain in the system—but you’ll find yourself on the other side of it. Prison is an ugly, brutal place. And it only leads in one direction.”

There was a silence, broken only by the crack of flame, the groan of metal.

“It’s not too late,” Lime said. “Holster that weapon and let’s work as a team.”

Watts hesitated. Then he slipped his gun back in its holster.

Quick as an adder, Lime’s right hand slid off his hip and darted toward the small of his back, re-emerging with a handgun that he aimed to fire. But Watts was quicker, whipping out his six-gun again and fanning two shots at Lime. Corrie heard the man cry out in surprise and pain, staggering back, as Watts grabbed her, pulling her behind a rock for cover. He waited a moment, then ventured a peek.

“He’s disappeared,” Watts said as he pulled her into a sitting position.

“You sure?”

“For now, I’m sure.” He picked up Lime’s weapon—the one he’d tossed aside—then showed her the small-caliber gun Lime had pulled out of his waistband, twisted grotesquely by one of Watts’s bullets.