Breaking Point

ALWAYS STARTLING, JOE THOUGHT, HOW QUICKLY the temperature dropped once the sun slipped behind the rocky peaks of the mountains as if a switch had been thrown and the thin, warm air that hung in the trees was sucked with a
whoosh
into invisible vents. As they ascended toward the looming summit, he reached back and dug a well-worn Filson vest from a saddlebag and shrugged it on.
    “We don’t even have any goddamned
coats
,” one of the special agents complained from the back, obviously observing Joe. “No coats, no food, no sleeping bags, and no fucking plan.”
    “That’ll be enough,” Underwood said wearily, not even bothering to look over his shoulder to locate the offending agent.
    Joe kept his senses turned on high and tried to fight back mental threads that kept intruding from within, so he could concentrate on the situation before him. Although Underwood had no doubt been given coordinates for his handheld GPS of where the call from Butch had originated—and they certainly knew where the drone had gone down—Joe couldn’t simply relax and ride. Butch Roberson had sounded angry and desperate, and he’d shot Dave Farkus in cold blood, leaving a body count of three over three days in August. Butch was also on much more intimate terms with the terrain and secrets of the mountain they were on than he was.
    Joe guessed that Butch had likely figured out that the first thing they’d do was ask Joe to lead them to where he last saw him. It was logical. Therefore, Butch probably guessed that Joe was with a contingent of law enforcement and not sitting around with Julio Batista. Joe thought Butch might traverse the summit and set up an ambush Joe would lead them right into.
    —
    A FTER BEING TOLD by Underwood that the agreement to provide a helicopter was a ruse and Joe wouldn’t be on it like Butch had demanded, Joe considered simply turning back. He would gladly leave the team of agents to their own devices, riding unfamiliar horses over unfamiliar terrain in an unfamiliar state. There would be consequences for Joe with Lisa Greene-Dempsey, of course. It could give her the excuse to withdraw the job offer and cut him loose. It would set an example to all the other game wardens in the field.
    And if he lost his job at the same time they were recovering from the lost opportunity of the Saddlestring Hotel . . .
    —
    T HERE WAS the very life of Butch Roberson to consider. Joe thought Butch deserved the right to make his case before a court, even if the result was as inevitable. Butch should be allowed to shine some light on what drove him into such desperation, and when he was sent to prison or destined for the needle, he could perhaps attract enough attention and outrage that it couldn’t happen to anyone else again. If nothing else, Joe thought, Butch deserved
that
. And the only way he might get it, given the single-minded determination of Batista, was if Joe could be along to somehow circumvent Butch’s death on the mountain.
    So he stayed. And with every mile, he felt more and more trapped by a career and a set of values and a mission he wasn’t sure he could believe in anymore.
    —
    A S THEY RODE through clearings, he checked his phone for a signal, but he didn’t get one. Joe wanted to let Marybeth know where he was and why, and see how she was doing. He hoped Sheriff Reed thought to call her. He hated not being in contact. Bad things often happened when they weren’t in contact.
    —
    W HEN THE TREES THINNED and Joe could sense the end of the tree line beneath the summit, he sidestepped Toby so Underwood would catch up and they could ride parallel. Underwood looked over at him with obvious suspicion.
    “Mind if I ask you a few questions?” Joe said.
    “Depends.”
    “We can ride up ahead if you want, so we’re out of earshot of your guys.”
    Underwood’s eyes narrowed into a squint as he considered it, then he shrugged and turned in his saddle and said to his team, “Wait here for a few minutes. We’re going to scout a path over the top.”
    The agents pulled up and were soon forty yards behind them. Not far enough, though, that Joe couldn’t hear them complain.
    “I can’t say I blame them,” Underwood said to Joe. “This isn’t the kind of thing they’re trained for. Those guys are trained to storm into buildings and secure evidence of pollution and noncompliance and crap like that. They don’t get any instruction on riding horses or doing this cowboy Wild West bullshit in the