Breaking Point

is to confirm that. We’re supposed to establish a perimeter around the kill zone and keep everyone away until the FBI can send their forensics team to get a positive DNA identification.”
    “Hold it,” Joe said to Underwood. “If they got video of him and determined it was Butch, why do they need to send in forensics to the site? Can’t they do the work later in their lab?”
    “I don’t know the answer to that,” Underwood said. “I wasn’t the one who issued the kill order.”
    “Who did?”
    “Director Batista,” Underwood said. “He made the call himself. That much I know.”
    “It’s over,” one of the agents said. “Riding horses, sleeping in the open—all this bullshit for nothing.”
    “At least he won’t be shooting at us,” one of the agents said with relief.
    “Let’s get ready, guys,” Underwood said. “We need to be at the kill zone as soon as we can. I’ve got the coordinates, and Batista said it’s about eight miles away.”
    He looked up at Joe. “How long do you think that will take?”
    Joe said, “Two hours if we can stay out of the down timber, a lot longer if we get tangled up in the forest.”
    Underwood grimaced and nodded. He said, “Let’s not do that. Let’s get this over so we can get the hell off this mountain.”
    —
    A S U NDERWOOD PAINFULLY climbed up into his saddle, Joe said, “So this is how it happens now?”
    “What?”
    “You don’t even bother with making an arrest or taking them to court. You just see them on a video screen and push a button.”
    “Wasn’t my call,” Underwood said. “But I can’t say I’m all busted up about it. Better they blow him up than risk any of us getting hurt.”
    Joe said, “And here I always thought part of the job of law enforcement was the risk of getting hurt.”
    Underwood smirked and shook his head. “You and your old-school crap.”
    “Let me borrow your phone again,” Joe said, reaching out.
    “Not now. We have to stay off the line in case . . .” Underwood’s argument petered out as he saw the illogic in it. “I guess Butch can’t use his phone if he’s blown up in a million pieces.”
    “Yup.”
    Underwood sighed and unslung the lanyard for the phone over his head. “Why do you need it?” he asked.
    Joe said, “I need to quit.”
    “What—this mission?”
    “My job,” Joe said.
    “Then you can’t have it,” Underwood said, pulling the phone back before Joe could grasp it. “I need you until we find the kill zone. You know these mountains better than anyone here.”
    Joe took a deep breath and expelled it slowly through his nose. He felt the need to be a witness at the kill zone since he’d already come this far.
    “That and no farther,” he said.
    “Don’t worry,” Underwood said. “I’ll be as glad to get rid of you as you are to leave.”
    Joe could see the reflection of his grinning teeth in the moonlight.
    That’s when Underwood’s phone lit up again and trilled. Joe expected it to be Batista with more orders or more self-congratulation.
    He was close enough to hear Butch Roberson’s bass voice ask Batista,
“What the hell did you idiots just do?”
    Joe looked up at the night sky and was a little surprised and ashamed by his sense of relief.
    Then it hit him: If it wasn’t Butch Roberson who’d been hit by the missile, who was it?

28
    MOMENTS BEFORE, DAVE FARKUS HAD BEEN JOLTED BY what he thought must be a gunshot, and he spun on his heels and writhed and held his bound hands out in front of him as if they’d ward off an oncoming bullet. The sound was a big
CRACK!
that seemed to split open the very night itself and he was surprised that it took a second for the trees to the northwest to sway as shock waves blew through them.
    Behind him, Butch Roberson hissed: “Get moving!” and the three of them sprinted across a rock- and grass-covered field toward the shelter of a broken cirque of rocks that looked to provide cover.
    Farkus had glanced over his shoulder as he ran and saw a rose-colored ball of flame roll up from the dark sea of trees several miles away to the northwest. The explosion looked to have happened in the timber short of the valley floor they’d come through the afternoon before.
    Safely in the rock formation, Butch ordered Farkus and McLanahan to get down. They sat with their hands bound and resting between their knees while Butch Roberson climbed up a coffin-shaped outcropping with a squared-off top large enough for him to pace back and