Dark Rivers of the Heart

the babyjesus Himself.
        He was the driver of the pickup. His Dodge stood abandoned in the parking lot, one door hanging wide open. He had come inside either to seek vengeance for whatever had happened on the highway or to play the hero.
        "Drop the gun!" Roy repeated for the third time.
        "Says who?"
        "Says who?"
        "That's right."
        "Are you a moron? Am I talking to a blithering idiot here? You see four guys holding heavy weapons on you, and you don't understand the logic of dropping that rifle?"
        "You cops or what?" asked the viper-eyed man.
        Roy wanted to kill him. No more formalities. The guy was too damn stupid to live. He'd be better off dead. A sad case. Society would be better off without him too. Cut him down, right there, right now, and then find the woman and Grant.
        The only problem was that Roy's dream of a three-minute mission, in and out and away before the nosy locals showed up, was no longer achievable.
        The operation had gone sour when the hateful woman had driven into the market, and it was getting more sour by the moment.
        Hell, it was past sour into bitter. They were going to have to deal with Cedar City cops, and that was going to be more difficult if one of the residents they were sworn to protect was lying dead on a mound of Purina Dog Chow.
        If they were going to have to work with locals, he might as well show a badge to this fool. From an inner jacket pocket, he withdrew an ID wallet, flipped it open, and flashed his phony credentials. "Drug Enforcement Agency."
        "Well, sure," the man said. "Now, that's all right."
        He lowered the gun to the floor, let go of it. Then he actually put one hand to the bill of his baseball cap and tipped it at Roy with what seemed to be sincere respect.
        Roy said, "You go sit in the back of your truck. Not inside. In the open, behind the cab. You wait there. You try to leave, that guy outside with a machine gun will cut your legs off at the knees."
        "Yes, sir." With convincing solemnity, he tipped his cap again, and then he walked out through the damaged front wall of the store.
        Roy almost turned and shot him in the back.
        Peach in. Green out.
        "Spread out across the front of the store," he told his men, "and wait, keep alert."
        The team coming in from the back would search the supermarket exhaustively, flushing out Grant and the woman if they tried to hide anywhere inside. The fugitives would be driven forward and forced either to surrender or to die in a barrage of gunfire.
        The woman, of course, would be shot to death whether she tried to surrender or not. They were taking no more chances with her.
        "There'll be employees and customers coming through," he called out to his three men as they deployed across the store to both sides of him.
        "Don't let anybody leave. Herd them over near the manager's office.
        Even if you think they have no resemblance to the pair we're looking for, hold them. Even if it's the Pope, you hold him."
        Outside, the helicopter engine went from a low idle to a loud roar. The pilot revved it. Rewed it again.
        What the hell?
        Frowning, Roy clambered through the debris and went outside to see what was happening.
        The agent posted in front of the market was looking toward the Hallmark shop, where the chopper was lifting off.
        "What's he doing?" Roy asked.
        "Taking off."
        Why?
        "Must be going somewhere."
        Another moron. Stay calm. Peach in. Green out.
        "Who told him to leave his position, who told him to take off?"
        Roy demanded.
        As soon as the question was put, he knew the answer. He didn't know how it was possible, but he knew why the chopper was taking off and who was in it.
        He jammed the Beretta into his shoulder holster, wrenched the submachine gun out of the surprised agent's hands, and charged toward the ascending aircraft. He intended to rupture its fuel tanks and bring it to the ground.
        Raising the weapon, finger on the trigger, Roy realized there was no way he was ever going to be able to explain his actions to the satisfaction of a straight-arrow Utah cop with no appreciation for the moral ambiguity of federal law enforcement. Shooting at his own helicopter.
        Jeopardizing his pilot and copilot. Destroying a hugely expensive