Breaking Point

Dave Farkus, and some pudknocker named Sollis as hostages sitting right here in front of me. I need to talk to the man in charge of hunting me down, or these three aren’t gonna see another sunrise.”
    After five minutes of scrambling on the other end, Butch said, “Julio Batista, you said?”
    Farkus could hear the man named Batista making the case for Butch to turn himself in, to spare the hostages, to not make this difficult or dangerous to anyone else. He said he had the authority to make a deal, and the power to make sure justice was done.
    “I know you,” Butch said, cutting off Batista. “You’re the director of Region Eight, aren’t you?”
    “Have we met?”
    Butch snorted. “No, we haven’t met. My wife and I left about twenty messages for you to call us over the past year, but we couldn’t get past your secretary. We sent you registered letters that were signed for, but no one responded. Now you want to talk?”
    “You can trust me,” Batista said. Farkus thought he heard desperation.
    Butch said, “I trust you about as far as I can throw you, you son of a bitch. Get Joe Pickett on the line. He’s the local game warden.”
    Batista said: “I know who he is, but why can’t we keep this between us?”
    “No way. Get Joe on the call or I’ll pop Farkus or Sollis first and the ex-sheriff second and it’ll be on you.”
    Farkus looked up in alarm, but when he saw Butch’s face he knew the threat was hollow. But Batista wouldn’t know that, which was the point.
    When Batista started to explain why it couldn’t be done, Butch said, “You have five minutes.”
    —
    F ARKUS REALIZED his knees were shaking as he sat, so he cradled them between his arms. He blamed the hard climb, but he knew that wasn’t all it was. Butch had a hard set to his face, and when he checked his watch he then looked up to assess Farkus and McLanahan. Butch shifted his weight so his rifle swung up and Farkus could see the black O of the muzzle.
    When Butch had made the threat, Farkus thought he was bluffing. Now he wasn’t sure it was a bluff. Not at all.

20
    UNDERWOOD COVERED THE MICROPHONE ON THE satellite phone and whispered to Joe, “We’re going to agree with whatever he says, got that?”
    Joe nodded, but it was more of an acknowledgment of the words than agreement with them. With that, Underwood leaned over in his saddle and handed Joe the satellite phone. When Joe took it, he heard Butch Roberson say, “Is he on?”
    “Butch, this is Joe Pickett.”
    “Hey, Joe.”
    “Butch.”
    “Is that asshole still with us?”
    Joe’s first urge was to say “Which one?” but Batista broke in: “This is Regional Director Julio Batista. I’m still here.”
    Out of the corner of his eye, Joe saw Underwood stifle a smile. He could clearly hear the conversation in the silent and dead forest.
    “Is anybody else on the line?” Butch asked.
    “Just us three,” Batista said quickly. Joe knew he was lying. He could picture a team of agents with headphones in one of the communications vans at the FOB, listening to every word and coordinating with technical experts to triangulate the satellite phone transmissions and pinpoint the exact location of Butch Roberson.
    “I’ve got Dave Farkus and the former sheriff here,” Butch said.
    Joe shook his head.
McLanahan.
Joe and the ex-sheriff had never seen eye to eye. Joe considered McLanahan all foam and no beer.
    Butch said, “I don’t want to hurt them, but I’ve got to have some leverage with you people. I found out over the past year that you play a rigged game, so I need some insurance.”
    Batista said, “Butch, there’s no need to take hostages. You’re already in enough trouble, but that doesn’t mean we can’t talk it out and figure out a way for you to turn yourself in. This can all end now. You’ll get a fair trial and the ability to make your case—”
    “Bullshit,” Butch said, cutting him off. “
Bullshit.
There’s nothing fair about any of this. I’m through with thinking you people play fair, not after what you did to me and my family.”
    “Butch, listen . . .”
    “You put up a reward like I’m some kind of desperate outlaw,” Butch said, his voice rising. “Then you sent a damned drone up in the sky to look for me. I hope you know I shot the son of a bitch down.”
    He knows,
Joe thought.
    “Look, Butch . . .”
    “Quit using my name like we’re friends,” Butch barked at Batista.
    Joe guessed that over the past few minutes,