Fear No Evil(Alex Cross #29)(69)

“The fake ones,” Butler said. “What kind of bird?”

“Bell Jet Ranger,” he said.

“Weather?”

“On and off thunderstorms,” he said. “Nothing you haven’t faced before.”

“And how exactly are we supposed to find them?”

“Follow the river. You’re bound to spot them sooner or later. Let me know when you’ve got the helicopter down there and ready to go.”

Butler thought renting a helicopter was a little over the top, and he didn’t fully understand M’s obsession with Alex Cross, but there was no arguing with the man once he had his mind set on something. “Your money,” Butler said.

“One more thing,” M said. “Our computers managed to pick up pieces of a conversation we believe happened between Emmanuella Alejandro and her half brother sometime in the last couple of days. We didn’t get all of it because they were using multiple VPNs.”

Butler’s eyebrows rose. “You mean Raphael Durango? The Mexican Special Forces operator?”

“The same,” M said. “We believe he led the raid on the ranch.”

“Makes a lot of sense,” Butler said, going stony. “Where is the son of a bitch?”

“Again, we only got fragments, but we believe Emmanuella told him to follow Cross wherever he goes. She believes we are somehow allied with the FBI and that Cross and Sampson are going to rendezvous with us somewhere in Montana.”

“How did she get that idea?”

“No clue.”

Butler thought about that. “You think Durango is here and going into the wilderness after them?”

“Would you cross Emmanuella Alejandro?”

“Any day of the week,” he said. “And twice on Sunday.”

“You’re not her half brother,” M said. “I want you to fly in there looking for Cross, Sampson, and Durango and whoever else is with him. And when you locate them, I want them all dead, never to be found. Is that clear?”

“As the big Montana sky,” Butler said and ended the call.





Chapter





80




Pound for pound, I’d have to say that my horse, Toby, was the toughest animal I’d ever encountered. I am not as big as Sampson, but I tip the scales at two fifteen on a good day. That’s a lot of pounds to carry on a long, steep, switchbacked ride to a place like Gordon Pass.

But Toby never broke stride, not once. Neither did John’s horse. Queenie seemed to float up the trail, her gait so smooth that even with his recent injuries, John wasn’t complaining about being saddlesore at all.

I, however, was getting my rump pounded and my inner thighs chafed. By the time we reached the head of the pass, around three that afternoon, and got down out of the saddle for a rest, I had blisters. While I hobbled around trying to get the blood to return to my legs, Sampson was photographing the dramatic alpine views to our east, all forest, high meadows, and crags.

“Makes you feel small, doesn’t it?” John said, taking a panoramic shot.

“Like a gnat,” I said.

“Puts things in perspective,” he said, then called to Bauer, “Is that all the Bob Marshall ahead of us, Lance?”

“The thick of the Bob right there,” Bauer said. “All right, let’s saddle back up.”

“What, already?” I said.

“We need to get to camp in time to eat, inflate the raft, and organize your gear before dark,” Bauer said, climbing back on his horse and whistling to his dog.

I groaned as I got back on Toby. “I feel like my butt’s been spanked with fifteen cricket bats.”

Sampson looked at me. “You’ve been spanked by fifteen cricket bats before?”

“First time,” I said and winced as I settled into the saddle again.

Bauer called back, “You can sit in the river when we get there, Dr. Cross. I guarantee it’s cold enough to take the saddle ache away.”

We rode another five hours that afternoon, following Gordon Creek down its long drainage, an experience I endured by focusing on the breathtaking scenery and the idea of an ice-cold river ahead rather than on my aching glutes and thighs. When we finally reached the point where Gordon Creek met the South Fork of the Flathead, we saw three wall tents in the aspens.

It was almost eight. We’d been in the saddle for eleven and a half hours. I immediately got off Toby, tied him to an aspen tree, and waddled toward the bank, where I took off my hiking boots and pants, put on my Chaco sandals, waded out into the cold river, and sat down in frigid water up to my rib cage.

“Oh, that feels good,” I said, moaning. “Oh my God, that feels good.”

Sampson took several pictures of me sitting out there holding a tin cup containing a couple shots of Jack Daniel’s, which frankly did wonders. When I finally climbed out, my legs were comfortably numb.

Bauer smiled at me and said, “Where’s your lover?”

I looked at him, puzzled. “Uh, Washington, DC?”

“No,” the outfitter said. “Your weapon. The shotgun.”

“It’s still with our gear.”

“I want that shotgun and your bear gas where you can reach them at all times.”