Breaking Point

then raised the satellite phone that hung from his neck on a lanyard. “I’ve got to check in with FOB One,” he said, a hint of weariness in his voice.
    “FOB One?” Joe asked, knowing the answer.
    “Regional Director Batista,” Underwood said. “We need to know whether to proceed or go back. He’s calling all the shots.”
    Joe noted the team of special agents behind Underwood exchanged cynical glances with one another that were not meant for his eyes. But he found it interesting.
    —
    W HILE U NDERWOOD TALKED with Batista—listening much more than talking, Joe observed—Joe walked down the slope until the timber thinned and opened up and he could see the expanse of the Big Stream Ranch below. The FOB, at that distance, was a small dot on a sea of sagebrush and grass.
    He’d found over the years that he thought best when he was in the open, without being closed in by a tree canopy, or a ceiling, or the roof of a pickup. Somehow, his mind needed the open space of a vista to focus.
    Things had been moving at lightning speed since the afternoon before, when he’d encountered Butch. Hell had broken open, and hundreds of bureaucrats were gushing out. If there was a strategic plan behind the investigation, he didn’t know what it was. All he could see was a blizzard of actions and movement based on a predetermined conclusion. And now the governor was involved.
    Usually, when confused by circumstances, Joe talked with Marybeth or Nate Romanowski. Rarely was their advice similar, but it helped frame the issue for him to decide. But with Marybeth understandably preoccupied and Nate who knows where, he felt unmoored and drifting out to sea.
    For the second time that day, he felt empathy toward Butch Roberson, and could understand why the man had snapped.
    —
    “O KAY,” U NDERWOOD SAID to Joe and his team, “gather up. We have the word.” He said “the word” with slightly disguised contempt.
    One of the agents snickered, then looked away when he noticed Joe was looking at him.
    Underwood said, “We’re to engage hot pursuit of Butch Roberson. Joe Pickett will stay with us and help navigate. The director says that every hour that goes by is an hour wasted, so we should plan on being out all night at the very least.”
    One of the agents moaned but cut it off quickly after a hard glance from Underwood.
    Underwood continued: “I have the coordinates of where, approximately, the drone went down. Before contact was lost, there is some video of a man—probably our subject—in a clearing of some kind. Our job is to move swiftly toward that spot and intercept him.
    “On the way there, I need everyone to keep on full alert. Keep your eyes and ears open. Look for tracks, or disturbances, broken twigs, anything. This guy is dangerous, and he’s desperate. But he knows the backcountry and we don’t, so we can’t assume he’ll roll over or give himself up easily.”
    Underwood ordered the agents to prepare their weapons, and to mute cell phones and satellite phones. They would communicate with one another, he said, by radio. No one was to talk to anyone at the FOB without going through him first, so that lines of communication were clear.
    As the agents unpacked headsets and earpieces to plug in to their radios, the man who had snickered earlier said to Underwood, “Sir, we aren’t exactly wilderness types. All these horses . . . I don’t know. Looking for tracks? I don’t have any training in that.”
    He looked around at the other agents and two nodded in agreement. Underwood turned and pointed to Joe.
    “What about you?”
    “I’ve done it,” Joe said, “but I’m not an expert in the field of man-tracking. I think Butch is smart enough to stay low-impact when he moves.”
    “You’re the best we’ve got,” Underwood said.
    Another of the agents spoke up and said, “I don’t think we’re prepared for this kind of thing.”
    Joe nodded in agreement, although he knew Underwood wouldn’t grant him a vote in the matter.
    “I understand,” Underwood said to the agent. “But you heard me. I’m relaying our orders.”
    “Where do we sleep?” another agent asked. “Do we have tents and sleeping bags and such?”
    “No.”
    “What about food?” another asked.
    “There’s bottled water and a couple of boxes of energy bars on the packhorse,” Underwood said.
    “This is crazy,” one of the agents said, and the others agreed.
    Joe was surprised when Underwood looked to him. “What do