Breaking Point

sidestepped so Underwood could catch up alongside him.
    As Underwood approached, he lowered the phone from his ear and covered the mic with his other hand. He said, “It’s for you.”
    “Who is it?”
    “Regional Director Batista.”
    “What does he want?”
    Underwood took a breath and extended the handset. “Our suspect somehow got ahold of a satellite phone of his own and he called the FOB. He’s on the line now and they’re patching it together into a conference call.”
    “You’re kidding?”
    “I’m not. He says he has a couple of hostages, including the ex-sheriff of this county. He’ll let them go, but only if we agree to a list of demands. And he says the only guy he can trust to be involved in the negotiation is Joe Pickett.”

19
    “IS HE ON?” BUTCH ROBERSON ASKED JULIO BATISTA. McLanahan’s satellite phone was pressed tightly to his face. Farkus noted Butch’s fingers gripped the handset so tightly they were nearly translucent white. And he noted the line of perspiration beads under Butch’s scalp. Since the sun was sliding toward dusk and it had cooled a quick twenty degrees in the past hour, he knew Butch wasn’t sweating because of the heat.
    “We’re waiting,” Batista said. “Hold on—it’s a technical thing. We’ve got some guys trying to patch us all on together.”
    Farkus could hear both sides of the conversation clearly. It was still and quiet, and Butch hadn’t turned down the volume of the speaker because he likely wasn’t familiar with the phone. Butch was nervous and twitchy, and his eyes burned red from exhaustion.
    “If you don’t get him on . . . where in the hell is he?” Butch asked.
    “In the field,” Batista said calmly. “It’s taking a while to bring all the parties together, so please be patient.”
    “Get him on,” Butch said.
    —
    E ARLIER, AFTER ordering McLanahan, Farkus, and Sollis to dismount and disarm, Butch Roberson had emerged from the shadowed stand of timber on the west slope. Farkus hadn’t seen Butch since he’d quit his job, and he was surprised how he looked: thinner, slightly stooped when he walked, with furrowed lines in his face and tired eyes. He looked like he’d aged ten years, and Farkus knew it wasn’t just from being on the run in the mountains for the past two days. Something had happened to Butch Roberson in the last year that had changed him physically.
    Butch held a semiautomatic rifle with an extended magazine and a tactical scope mounted on it, and used the muzzle to signal that they should walk away from the camp into a grassy clearing to the south of the alcove.
    “What about the horses?” McLanahan had asked.
    “Let them go. All except the packhorse. I want to see what you brought me.”
    McLanahan protested, but Butch didn’t care. He circled the three men in the clearing and unbuckled the cinch strap on Dreadnaught’s saddle and did the same with the other two saddled horses. Then he slapped him on his flank. Dreadnaught took off as if the bell had rung and summer vacation had begun. McLanahan and Sollis’s horse and the spare followed, leaving only the packhorse and three crumpled saddles on the ground.
    “How in the hell do you expect us to get back?” McLanahan asked plaintively.
    “Who says you’re going back?” Butch asked.
    Butch had them all sit down in the grass after he patted them down and made sure they had no more weapons. When he ran his hand over Farkus’s clothing, he said, “Dave Farkus, I’m kinda surprised to see what kind of company you’re keeping.”
    “Me, too,” Farkus had said.
    When Butch got to Sollis, he said: “Hell of a shot. Did you think it was me?”
    Sollis nodded. Butch shook his head in disgust and moved to McLanahan.
    “So you decided to freelance, huh?” Butch asked McLanahan.
    “In a matter of speaking.”
    “Tell me what they’re saying about me in town.”
    McLanahan cleared his throat. “Every Fed in the mountain west is either here or on their way. They want you for the murder of the two EPA agents. It’s a clusterfuck of industrial proportion.”
    Farkus watched Butch carefully and noted no reaction.
    “So why are you three here killing innocent elk hunters?” Butch asked.
    Farkus said, “There’s a big reward out for you.”
    Butch took that in, nodded, and said, “How much?”
    Farkus looked to McLanahan with disdain and said, “I’d like to know that myself. All I’ve been told is that it’s a big-ass reward.”
    “And you