Breaking Point

up on the edge of the FOB. They were black-clad and sober, unlike the others, and going about their business with quiet gravitas. They seemed to have no interest interacting with the others in the camp. The men stood in a knot, intently listening to a local wrangler who had brought the horses as he outlined the personalities and problems with each mount. It was obvious they were unfamiliar with horses, Joe thought. As they climbed into their saddles, the wrangler adjusted stirrups and walked each horse away from the corral to await the others. Heinz Underwood shadowed the wrangler, muttering things into his ear and to his team. When all the agents were mounted, the wrangler helped Underwood stuff gear into the panniers of a set of packhorses. It looked like too much gear to Joe, who kept his distance even as Underwood spotted him and walked his horse over.
    Joe watched him come with bemusement. Underwood obviously didn’t know his way around horses, and the agent didn’t want to show it. But by the way he held the reins too tight and overcorrected his direction with aggressive yanks, it was obvious.
    “First time on a horse?” Joe asked, as Underwood rode up.
    “I’ve been on horses before.”
    “Fine,” Joe said. “You’re just lucky it’s a brain-dead trail horse, or he might get feisty, the way you’re jerking on his mouth.”
    Almost imperceptibly, Underwood eased up on the reins.
    “Are you ready?” he asked. “My men are getting impatient.”
    Joe nodded and said, “What’s the plan? You’ve got enough equipment there to last a few weeks, it looks like.”
    Underwood ignored the question. “You’re going to lead us to where you last saw Butch Roberson, and we’re going to try to determine where he went from there. At that point, you might be released from service.”
    “Fine by me,” Joe said, but he had immediate reservations about agreeing so quickly. The team of special agents was armed with semiautomatic weapons, sidearms, shotguns, and communications equipment. They looked, he thought, like they might shoot first and ask questions later, although he was sure Underwood wouldn’t admit it. If he were along, Joe thought, there would be a better chance of bringing Butch back alive. Underwood seemed to sense his concern.
    “We’re the advance team,” Underwood continued. “If we find his track—or locate him—we’ll call back and get orders and backup before we proceed.”
    “I’ll bet,” Joe said sourly.
    Underwood surprised Joe by grinning.
    —
    J OE SWUNG into the saddle at the same moment a murmur rippled through the men and women at the FOB. He looked up to see most heads turned toward the road that led to the FOB through the hay meadows. Joe followed their gaze to see a huge black new-model Suburban tearing their way, sending a fat cloud of dust into the air behind it.
    Before he could see the license plate or the man behind the wheel, he knew who it was. Only one man drove a new car that recklessly over bad roads.
    “Do you know who that is?” Underwood asked Joe.
    “Yup,” Joe said. “My governor.”
    —
    T HE BLACK S UBURBAN hurtled at the FOB as if the driver’s intention was to plow right through it, Joe thought, and he saw a few of the special agents within the tents start to sidle away. The big vehicle braked short of the parking area and skidded to a stop. Governor Spencer Rulon flew out the driver’s-side door and left it open while he bellowed,
“I’m the governor of this state, and I want to know who the hell is in charge here!”
    A few beats after the governor, Joe saw Lisa Greene-Dempsey tentatively open the passenger door and step out. She appeared to have no intention of following her boss into the crowd.
    Joe and Underwood exchanged glances, then both urged their horses forward toward the Suburban. Joe watched Rulon stride through the crowd of law enforcement—which parted to let him through—straight toward Julio Batista, who had come out of the EPA tent with a cell phone in his hand and a quizzical expression on his face. LGD trailed the governor. She saw Joe and nodded. She looked worried about what was going to happen next, he thought.
    Underwood said quietly, “I’ve heard your guy is a nutjob.”
    Joe had seen the governor in a rage before—too many times, in fact—and fought an urge to say to Underwood,
This is gonna be good.
    Batista introduced himself and held out his free hand, palm up, to ward off the approach of Rulon, and