Breaking Point

grumbled from the dark. “We need to get some rest, and my legs and butt are numb. If we ran into trouble right now, it would take me five minutes just to get out of this goddamned uncomfortable saddle.”
    The others agreed, and they slowly dismounted. There were plenty of moans from saddle sores and distended knees and aching buttocks. One agent said loudly this was the worst assignment he’d ever had. Joe thought it interesting that Underwood no longer reprimanded them for their loose talk.
    And by painfully climbing off his own horse, Underwood seemed to agree with them. They’d gone far enough for a while.
    One of the agents said, “I guess we’re just supposed to sleep in the open. Oh, thank you, Regional Director, for your excellent planning.”
    Underwood said, “Try spooning. That’s what they did in the Civil War.”
    Joe stifled a grin when Underwood’s suggestion was met with a fusillade of angry curses. He thought for a moment that the expedition might just implode under its own combination of aimlessness and disorganization. That would be just fine with him, he thought. Joe almost felt sorry for Underwood, who was tasked with commanding a mission by a man he didn’t like or respect. He was a professional, though, and his background girded him for unpleasant duties.
    “And no fires,” Underwood barked.
    Just then, Underwood’s satellite phone burred and lit up.
    “Yes, Director Batista,” Underwood said, loud enough to quiet the team of agents.
    “Jesus Christ,” one of the agents whispered. “Does the son of a bitch know we stopped?”
    —
    W HILE U NDERWOOD LISTENED to his boss and said very little except to grunt and agree here and there, Joe showed the agents how to loosen the cinch straps on their saddles, picket their horses far away from one another so that each horse could graze and not get tangled with another. Then he revealed to the agents where heavy rubber rain slickers were rolled up and tied behind the seat of each saddle itself.
    “Don’t unfurl the slickers with a lot of noise and force,” he said to them. “You’ll spook the horses. They get scared at flapping things. You can use the slickers for sleeping. They’ll keep you warm enough on top and the moisture in the ground won’t soak into your clothes.”
    “We’re the fucking Wild Bunch,” one of them said, pulling on a long dusterlike yellow slicker.
    “I think they all died in the end,” another one said sourly.
    —
    T HE AGENTS WERE GRATEFUL if not happy, and Joe left them sprawled in the grass of the meadow. The yellow slickers held the moonlight. Joe thought the sight of four yellow forms writhing around to get comfortable in the grass looked sluglike and slightly comical.
    For himself, he led Toby to the far edge of the meadow and unsaddled his gelding and picketed him. There was a one-man bivvy tent in the saddlebags, but Joe didn’t set it up. Instead he spread it out to use as a ground tarp and covered himself with a thin wool blanket he always packed along.
    He propped himself up on an elbow on the saddle he’d use as a pillow, and ate two energy bars that had been in his emergency kit for at least two years. They were dry and crumbled into dust in his mouth, and swelled into a paste when he washed them down with water from his Nalgene bottle. He waited in the dark for Underwood to sign off with his boss. Occasionally, he could hear a word or two of Batista’s voice cut through the silence. He heard the words
strategic
,
nonnegotiable
,
location
, and
autopsy
very clearly.
    Finally, Underwood said, “I’ve got some worn-out special agents here, sir. They need rest . . . I understand . . . Yes, I’ll get them up and keep them moving, and I’ll keep the phone on all night.”
    As Underwood let the phone drop on its lanyard, he said,
“Asshole.”
    “Are we moving?” one of the agents asked defiantly.
    “No,” Underwood said. “But if he asks us later, we did.”
    Joe waited a beat, then said to Underwood, “I put your horse up over here. I’ve got a space blanket I could lend you. Do you want it?”
    Underwood said, “Is that one of those silver sheets that’ll make me look like a baked potato?”
    “Yup.”
    He sighed. “I’ll take it.”
    Joe handed Underwood the blanket, along with the Ziploc bag with the remaining two energy bars.
    “They aren’t very good,” Joe said.
    “Thank you anyway,” Underwood said, tearing into them.
    —
    A FTER U NDERWOOD SETTLED in his