Long Range (Joe Pickett Book 20)(39)

Joe was sure that Sun wouldn’t be excited to see him again.

*

HE DROVE HIS PICKUP to a stop under an elk-antler archway and a locked gate that served as the entrance to Sun’s ranch. Joe pulled to the side, got out, and picked up a weathered telephone receiver mounted on the inside of a stout post.

After thirty seconds, someone picked up the other end.

“Sun Ranch headquarters,” said a bored young male voice.

“I’m Wyoming game warden Joe Pickett and I’d like to talk with Mr. Sun, if he’s around.”

“Who?”

Joe repeated it.

“Hold on. He’s out back.” The phone was dropped with a clunk.

Five minutes later, the man came back on. “He says you can go piss up a rope.”

“Look,” Joe said, “I’m not here to arrest him for another violation. I just want to talk to him.”

“Do you have a warrant to come on the property?”

“No, I don’t. But I do know a judge who would sign one in a heartbeat if I called him. Mr. Sun knows exactly who I’m talking about.”

“Hold on.”

Again, another long wait. Then: “Mr. Sun says to stay where you are until I can come pick you up and escort you on the property. He also said to tell you that he plans to videotape your conversation with him so you can’t lie about it later.”

“I don’t lie,” Joe said, offended.

“Stay where you are and leave your weapons in your vehicle,” the man said before he hung up the phone.

Joe sighed, shook his head, and unbuckled his holster. He thought that if Dennis Sun knew what a poor shot he was, he wouldn’t have even asked that he leave his .40 Glock behind.

*

TEN MINUTES LATER, as Joe leaned back against the grille of the pickup with his arms folded, a new-model full-size SUV appeared from a bank of aspen trees a half mile away. It approached at a faster speed than the dirt entrance road warranted, and when it skidded to a stop on the other side of the gate, a roll of dust washed over Joe so he had to close his eyes.

There were two profiles behind the tinted-glass windshield, and neither appeared to be Sun.

The passenger jumped out and punched numbers into a keypad that opened the gate. He was in his midtwenties, deeply tanned, thin and angular, with tight black jeans and a man bun. He did not look like a ranch hand.

After the gate was open, Joe introduced himself and extended his hand.

The man looked at it and said, “I’m Renaldo Bloom. I’m Mr. Sun’s personal assistant. You’re supposed to get in the car and we’ll drive you to him.”

“I’ve never met an actual personal assistant before,” Joe said.

Bloom shot a withering glance to Joe and gestured toward the SUV.

Joe got in, closed the door, and sat back. The vehicle was much nicer and cleaner than Joe’s borrowed pickup and it smelled of leather upholstery and Bloom’s body spray. The driver was around the same age as Bloom, but he hadn’t introduced himself or turned around.

“Are you the personal assistant’s personal assistant?” Joe asked the driver.

“He’s a team member,” Bloom answered for him.

“How big is the team?”

“Please,” Bloom implored. “Just sit back and enjoy the ride. Mr. Sun is waiting for you.”

Joe nodded.

They drove across the meadow into the aspen grove and out the other side. Joe noted a small herd of beefalos grazing near the tree line toward the mountains. The creatures were leaner than cows, dark brown in color, with dangerous-looking horns.

As they neared the ranch headquarters, he observed a long narrow chute-like clearing that stretched from a set of tables and bench rests into the distance. Metal tree-like devices were set up at intervals down the length of the chute until they were too distant to see.

“That looks like a long-distance shooting range,” Joe said, “with targets set up every hundred yards. How far does it go?”

“How would I know?”

“You’re the assistant.”

“I work for Mr. Sun in other ways,” Bloom sniffed.

“Did all of the members of the team attend the same hospitality training seminar you did?” Joe asked.

Bloom pretended he hadn’t heard Joe’s question.

“So Mr. Sun is a long-range shooter?” Joe asked.

“Mr. Sun has a lot of abilities,” Bloom said. “You’ll have to ask him what he does.”

“What does he shoot?”

“I have absolutely no idea. I don’t care for guns and I’ve never touched one.”

“You live in the wrong place,” Joe said.

Bloom sighed. He was obviously annoyed with Joe’s comments and questions.

The driver slowed after he entered the headquarters complex and pulled in next to an identical SUV in a parking lot on the side of the main house.

Sun’s home was a rambling two-story Victorian structure with gables and a low sloping roof that extended to cover a large screened-in porch. The outside was original to the rancher who had owned the property and built it in the 1940s, but the antennae and satellite dishes mounted on the side revealed it to be surreptitiously high-tech. Joe admired Sun for keeping the exteriors of the home and outbuildings authentic while gutting and modernizing the interiors.