Читать книгу Seized - Elizabeth Heiter - Страница 13

4

“You brought this on yourself.”

Evelyn focused hard, trying to bring the world into focus, but pain sliced through her head and Ward Butler seemed to sway in front of her, wavering as if they stood on the bow of a ship. He was still holding his AK-47, and Evelyn felt nauseated as she touched the side of her face, where he’d smashed her with that gun, knocking her out. But first, he’d taken a shot.

The memory rushed over her, the panic of seeing Butler appear in the doorway, having no time to run, nowhere to hide. The horror of watching him spray bullets, of seeing Jen go down. The fear of thinking she was next.

She’d run for Jen, anyway, slipped in her blood and hit the ground hard. That had probably saved her life, because Butler’s next barrage of bullets had gone over her head.

Then he’d strode to her side, and just when she thought it was all over, there’d been a yell and he’d slammed the butt of his AK-47 into her face instead. She had no idea how long ago that had been.

“Where’s Jen?” she managed to ask. Moving her jaw made pain travel down her neck, but she kept blinking and eventually Butler came into focus.

The compound was dimly lit, either darker than it’d been before, or her vision was compromised. The coppery smell of blood was in her nose, the residual taste of fear in her mouth.

“Martinez is dead,” Butler replied, no remorse in his voice.

Evelyn gulped in a deep breath, even though she’d known. Blood clogged in her throat and Evelyn choked on it, realized the inside of her mouth was bleeding badly, that her jaw might be broken.

She tipped her head and spat out blood, got a full breath. “Why?” she rasped.

Butler smiled—a hard, tight, angry smile. “Shouldn’t you be asking if you’re next?”

Before Evelyn could form a response, he stepped aside, and Evelyn’s range of vision widened. She discovered she was still lying on the ground where she’d fallen. She jerked, trying to push herself up as she saw all the blood surrounding her. Jen Martinez’s blood.

It was dried on her arms, soaked through her suit. There was a lot, still sticky in places, but much of it hardened, like a brownish-red cast over her skin.

Just as she was getting off the ground, Butler jammed a booted foot into her chest, knocking her back down. Back into the pool of blood.

Panic burst inside her, a desperate need to move, to escape the feel of another agent’s blood. To escape the fear that she could have prevented Jen’s death, that she’d signed her own death warrant by following Jen here. She tried to ignore it, and instead focus on assessing.

How long had she been unconscious?

She looked around frantically, praying that by some miracle Butler was lying, that against all odds Jen had survived this kind of blood loss, but she wasn’t there. Standing in the doorway where Butler had been when he’d shot her was Rolfe.

“We need this one,” Rolfe said, and his eyes darted to her, lingering just long enough for hope to bloom.

They’d kept her alive so far. It hadn’t been Butler’s idea, because he’d tried to shoot her. And that shout she’d heard seconds before he’d knocked her unconscious teased at the edges of her memory. She had to assume it was Rolfe, asking him to wait. She locked her eyes on him, trying to make a connection.

Butler shrugged at his lieutenant, radiating power and rage and something else, something Evelyn couldn’t quite pinpoint. “So you said. And you could be right, considering what they’ve brought to our doorstep.”

His grip on his weapon suddenly tightened. “Deal with her. I’m going to talk to everyone.” He glared at Rolfe, almost as though he was daring him to disobey, then turned and moved deeper into the compound.

As he walked away, her panic began to subside and new sounds penetrated. Some kind of thumping, like metal against wood, and the low mumble of too many voices. So, there were more people in here. The rest of the cultists?

She struggled to hear, to gauge how many cultists were here, what she might be up against. But her ears were still ringing, and it was hard to tell. There might’ve been a dozen, might’ve been a hundred.

Evelyn watched Butler go, and the world started to sharpen. She couldn’t see anyone, but they had to be gathered in that large room she and Jen had walked into earlier.

She saw movement in her peripheral vision and turned to discover Rolfe holding out a hand to her.

She hesitantly put her hand in his, and he yanked her to her feet so fast that she fell into him. She automatically threw her free hand up to brace herself and landed flush against his chest. He was lean, so she hadn’t expected the taut muscles underneath her hand. Still, there was something else, something that didn’t belong.

He moved away from her, but not before she realized what he had on underneath his camouflage shirt. A shoulder holster.

“Come with me,” he said, not giving her a choice, because he hadn’t let go of her hand. He pulled her with him as he began walking in the opposite direction Butler had gone.

He passed the utility closet where she’d been stuck with Jen, and she felt new hope flare inside her—hope that he’d open that big steel door and just push her outside. After watching Butler shoot Jen, she’d prefer to take her chances in the inhospitable Montana mountains than stay here. Frostbite and death from exposure be damned.

But instead of opening the door, he suddenly whirled around, and pushed on the wall, which popped open into a new hallway. A door without a handle, practically invisible in the dim light.

Before she could move, he grabbed her around the waist, then lifted her up easily and set her down on the other side of the doorway. She didn’t have time to protest; he took her hand again and started pulling her along.

She glanced behind her in time to see the door slide quietly shut, in time to see something shimmer along the ground in that doorway. She squinted, trying to make it out. A trip wire? Inside the compound?

She stumbled and righted herself, eyes forward, though she couldn’t see anything.

It was even darker in this hallway, and quieter. Evelyn followed blindly, intensely aware of her hand crushed in Rolfe’s, the squish of her shoes every time she took a step, Jen’s blood between her toes.

Where was he taking her? What did he plan to do with her?

She opened her mouth to ask, but what came out was, “Where’s Jen?” She didn’t think Butler had been lying about her death, but what had they done with her body?

She sensed more than saw Rolfe glance back at her, before he stopped, opened a new door and dragged her inside.

“She’s gone. I’m sorry. She shouldn’t have brought you here. Now we’re going to have to figure out what to do with you.”

He finally released her and wiped the blood off his own hand on his pant legs. He did it distractedly, as if the blood didn’t bother him. Or worse, as if he was used to it.

Then a dim light came on, illuminating a small, sparse room. Wooden shelves along one wall were lined with stacks of neatly folded utilitarian clothing, bars of soap and threadbare towels. She turned, discovering buckets and shovels stacked against another wall.

“There are smaller sizes in the left corner,” Rolfe said as she heard the door close. “Those should fit you. Go ahead and change.”

She spun around to find him standing close to her in the tiny room, anger and annoyance etched on his face. But at Butler or her? She wasn’t sure.

She backed up, bumping the shelves hard enough to send a splinter through the sleeve of her suit and into her arm. “Can you wait outside?”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Leave a cop alone in a room full of potential weapons? I can’t do that. Come on, change. You don’t want to wear that.”

She hesitated, and he took a step back, leaning against the door, his eyes steady on her. “Just pretend I’m not here.”

She felt an acute sense of discomfort, but the reality was, she had no idea how long she’d be here, or if they’d decide to toss her outside. In this weather, she’d be better off in warm sweats than her blood-soaked suit.

Evelyn shivered as she slid her suit jacket off, watching Rolfe carefully for any sign of sinister intent. She ripped the splinter out of her arm. The camisole she wore underneath her jacket had splotches of dried blood, too, and Evelyn yanked it over her head, replacing it with a sweatshirt that hung down to her hips. But it was warm. And dry.

Rolfe shifted his gaze to the wall as she changed out of her pants. The back of her underwear was sticky with blood, but she wasn’t changing out of those in front of Rolfe, no matter how indifferent he seemed. Quickly, she stepped into a pair of big gray sweatpants she had to cinch tight at the waist. They pooled at her ankles as she put on a pair of thick wool socks.

Her skin felt tight where Jen’s blood had soaked through her clothes and dried, but at least she wasn’t drenched in it anymore. When she reached down to pick up her suit, Rolfe grabbed her arm, stopping her.

“Leave it. You don’t want that.”

He was right. Covered in Jen’s blood, it would’ve gone straight in the trash if she was at home. She didn’t need it, anyway. Butler had already taken her weapon, handcuffs and cell phone. She had no way to protect herself, and no way to call for help.

The only way she was getting out of here alive was if she convinced someone to let her go. And Rolfe was her best bet, since he was the only reason she was still breathing.

Stuck this close to him in the small room, she could see the tiny lines under his hazel eyes, and she had a sudden, unexpected flashback to college. To another pair of hazel eyes, eerily similar.

Except for his blond hair, Rolfe looked a lot like Marty Carlyle. The older brother of one of her best friends, and her first serious boyfriend. Someone she’d thought she could trust, who’d broken her heart.

She took a step backward, bumping into the shelf again as Rolfe’s grip tightened on her wrist. She couldn’t trust Rolfe, either, but she needed him to trust her. She needed him to connect with her.

And yet...if he was a racist who hated the federal government, why had he convinced Butler to let her live at all?

“Let’s go,” he said.

“Where?” Talking made her jaw throb, and she probed a raw spot on the inside of her cheek with her tongue, tasting more blood. With her free hand she gingerly touched the side of her chin, but even that slight touch was painful.

A hint of a frown curled his lips, and now that she’d noticed the resemblance to Marty, it was all she could see. Marty was Jewish, though, and Rolfe would surely have hated him, too.

“What’s so funny?” Rolfe asked.

“Nothing’s funny,” she snapped before she’d thought it through. A federal agent was dead, a federal agent who’d been right about one thing. Something strange was happening at the Butler Compound.

But it was better not to remind him of Jen, so she said, “Butler’s followers aren’t going to want me among them. You can’t want me here, either, a black woman...”

His eyes seemed to bore into her as he studied her too closely. “One of your parents is white. That’s true, isn’t it?”

She nodded, not sure if that improved things or made them worse.

“I don’t care about that, anyway.”

She frowned, and knew he’d seen her disbelief. “Butler...”

“I’m not Butler.”

She tried to tug her hand out of his grip, but his fingers tightened around her wrist. “You’re his lieutenant, aren’t you?” she demanded, before figuring out a real strategy.

Some emotion flashed in his eyes at her words. Anger? Regret? Cunning?

She couldn’t tell. Did he resent Ward’s position as leader? Was Rolfe hoping to overthrow him? That would be a hard sell in a cult, but at least Rolfe didn’t seem to want her dead. Still, she didn’t want to be in the middle of a power play. Especially with Ward Butler surrounded by survivalists who’d chosen to leave behind everything they knew, and live where and how he demanded.

There were lots of different kinds of survivalists, and most of them prided themselves on being able to live off the land. They knew how to hunt. And they knew how to kill. Most of them didn’t make a habit of killing people, but they hated the federal government, and anyone who represented it. She didn’t want to discover what they were capable of doing to her.

“This may be Ward’s place, but we’re not what you think.”

“Explain it to me, then,” Evelyn said, trying to sound earnest. The more clearly she understood the dynamics, the more likely she’d be able to profile the players. And if she could do that, maybe she could get out of here alive.

Just when she thought he was going to shake his head and drag her off somewhere, probably back to the supply closet—although undoubtedly he’d tie her up this time—he spoke. “This isn’t a cult.” He spat the word out, as though it was dirty, beneath him.

She’d never used the word cult. Was he denying what others had called them? Or was he more intelligent than she’d suspected? She mulled that over as he continued.

“I’m not Ward’s lieutenant or anything else. It may be Ward’s land—and it’s definitely Ward’s rules—but everyone who lives here made the decision to come because they all share one thing. They want to be left alone, to live how they choose, without interference from a government we don’t recognize.”

He scowled at her, then started to pull her forward.

She dug her heels in, sliding forward, anyway, in the wool socks. “Just let me go. I promise, I...”

“You know Butler’s not going to allow that, Evelyn.”

Her name on his lips made her uncomfortable; it sounded as though they knew each other. As though he and Butler weren’t holding her against her will. But he’d claimed Butler was doing it, so maybe she could find an ally here.

“You realize it’s illegal to keep me here against...”

“Illegal?” The skin around his eyes crinkled, and she had the distinct feeling he was trying not to laugh at her. “You trespass on land that doesn’t belong to you, and then you have the nerve to claim we’re doing something wrong? We have every right to protect our land, every right to protect our liberties against a tyrannical government. You have no authority over me.”

He took a breath, and then shook his head, visibly composing himself. “What happened with your friend was wrong, though, and I’m sorry.”

She didn’t want to talk about Jen—didn’t want to remind him of the trouble he could be in—so she tried another tactic. “What good does keeping me here do? You said yourself I don’t belong. So, let me go, and...”

“Keeping you in here keeps your friends out there.”

Before she could ask what friends, he tugged on her wrist, harder this time, making her lose her balance as he opened the door and pulled her out.

“If you let me leave, they have no reason to come in,” she insisted, her heart rate picking up. Whoever was outside—if Rolfe was telling the truth—was probably here because they’d realized Jen was missing. Would they have any idea she was in here?

Rolfe pulled her back the way they’d come, stopping at a room smaller than the closet. She discovered it was a bathroom. Survivalists with indoor plumbing—thank goodness.

“Why don’t you wash your hands?” he suggested softly.

She lifted them, palms up, and saw the blood caked in the creases of her hands. Hurrying to the sink, she turned on the water, not even caring that it was freezing, and scrubbed and scrubbed until her hands hurt.

“I think you got it out,” Rolfe said, turning off the water and passing her a threadbare towel. After she’d wiped her hands, he nodded and led her down the hall again.

As he opened the hidden door, a voice boomed over a bullhorn. “Ward Butler, this is Adam Noonan, from the FBI. We just want to talk. Please pick up the phone we tossed in.”

Evelyn’s pulse accelerated. Adam was from the Crisis Negotiation Unit. And if CNU was here, surely HRT was, too. Which meant Kyle was here.

Hope began to build again. If anyone could get her out of here, it was Kyle and his teammates.

“Ward.” Adam’s voice came over the bullhorn, and it sounded as if he’d been talking for a while, maybe during the time she’d been unconscious. “Let’s start a dialog, one leader to another.”

“Moron,” Rolfe muttered, then said to her, “Watch your step.” He lifted his feet carefully over the taut wire, finally dropping her wrist.

She followed, resisting the urge to rub her arm, then asked softly, “Doesn’t it seem a little dangerous to have a trip wire inside?”

He gave her another of those mocking smiles. “You’ve never lived off the land, have you?” He seemed equally disgusted and perplexed as he added, “You wouldn’t last a day if your comforts suddenly disappeared and you had to try to survive off what the mountain had to offer. You’d be dead before dawn.” With that chilling prediction, he turned and kept walking, clearly expecting her to follow.

It was the first time he’d put real space between them. She couldn’t stop herself from looking at the back door, within running distance, but Rolfe had an AK-47 slung over his shoulder and something else strapped under his camouflage shirt. And she had no idea how far away HRT was. Most likely they’d set up a perimeter outside the fence. Too far to run without being shot in the back.

Still, her whole body tensed as she tried to decide if she had a better chance of outrunning Rolfe out there than she did of weathering Ward Butler’s temper in here.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Rolfe warned, without turning.

She walked a little faster, toward him, even as a voice in the back of her mind told her she’d missed what might have been her only chance to run. “What does living off the land have to do with a booby trap inside your own home?”

Did the other cultists know it was there and always remember to step over it? Or was this a part of the compound only Butler and his lieutenants were allowed to enter?

If so, that was a hell of a way to keep out your own followers.

She glanced back at it one last time, wondering what would happen if it was tripped. Wondering what else was behind that door that she hadn’t been able to see in the darkness.

“Keep moving,” Rolfe said instead of answering her question, and she had to increase her pace to keep up with his longer stride.

She followed him back down the dim hallway, toward the room where she and Jen had seen the supplies and weapon lockboxes. As he stopped in the doorway, she discovered that the room was now filled with cultists.

There were about twenty of them, and they were all men. Evelyn did a double take, looking for any women or children, but saw none. A cult without women or kids was unusual. And although survivalists could be loners, they were equally likely to prepare a bunker for an entire family. Did this cult not have any families or were they somewhere else?

The men ranged in age, but otherwise they looked the same to her. They were all white, their eyes glued to Ward Butler, who stood facing them, radiating power.

There was plenty of camouflage in the room, and a lot of weaponry, casually slung over shoulders. Everything from AK-47s to shotguns to bows and arrows. Most of the men wore thick facial hair and had rough, weathered skin and angry expressions.

The anger seemed to intensify as Ward Butler announced, “Here she is, our own personal symbol of government tyranny who thought it was her right to enter uninvited into our refuge.”

Twenty faces swung her way, and all that fury directed solely at her made Evelyn instinctively take a step backward.

“Kill her,” someone shouted and, as one, the group surged toward the doorway. Toward her.

* * *

“The shit’s really hit the fan,” Sam “Yankee” McGivern, the head of HRT, announced as he walked into the Tactical Operations Center.

TOC was a glorified tent, but inside were state-of-the-art communications devices, hooked up to satellites that worked even in the inhospitable Montana wilderness. Greg’s spot was crammed into a corner of the tent, next to the negotiator, Adam Noonan. He glanced around, realizing Adam had left the tent without his noticing.

Then he raised his eyes from his pop-up desk, seeking the sound of Yankee’s booming voice. At six and a half feet, the man’s head scraped the top of TOC, and he exuded strength, exactly the kind of figure FBI headquarters probably loved having as the lead in their version of special operations. He even had a scar running across the left side of his face, marring otherwise completely smooth, dark skin.

He strode through TOC, weaving around the operators and directly over to Greg, who sat a little straighter.

The sounds around him filtered back in again as his focus lifted more fully from his laptop. HRT agents, a Special Agent in Charge from Salt Lake City and support staff were all working frantically around him, but with a common discouraged slump to their shoulders. From outside the tent, Adam’s voice came over the bullhorn.

Greg wrapped his hands around his thermos, hoping warmth from the coffee would penetrate where his gloves were failing. Judging by the temperature of the thermos, he needed a refill. “What now?” Greg asked Yankee, hearing the exhaustion and worry in his own voice.

It was approaching midmorning, and despite Adam’s repeated attempts to contact the cultists, no one had responded. But somehow, word had spread about what was happening here, because the protesters and news crews had appeared in much bigger numbers than they’d expected.

Meanwhile, Greg had spent the time trying not to think about Evelyn, the closest thing he had to a partner at BAU. Instead, he’d been reading and rereading everything he could on the Butler Compound and its members, hoping he’d find some way to help her. Assuming she was still alive.

He tried to push the thought aside, but it had been intruding for hours now, ever since word had come down that the cultists had been overheard talking about a dead federal agent. He needed to focus on whatever he could do to help Adam make a connection with someone inside; if the group wouldn’t talk to them, it limited their options significantly.

Details about the compound members were sketchy at best. According to the old profile written up by BAU, Ward Butler was a hard-core survivalist with a handful of weapons possession, resisting arrest and tax evasion charges lodged against him over the years. He’d spent some time in jail, but had always gotten out, and as the years went by, he’d slipped farther and farther off the grid. He’d risen to the top of a local militia group before dropping out entirely and forming his compound, supposedly a gathering place for like-minded survivalists.

As a fringe militia leader, he fit the bill. Obsessed with weapons, antigovernment, believing that society would ultimately crumble and he’d need a bunker and the skills to live off the land. A man seeking power in a like-minded community. But he didn’t seem like a typical cult leader—primarily because they tended to be charmers. They were usually as good at manipulating words and ideas as they were people. Ward Butler, on the other hand, had an outright angry, almost antisocial personality. But then, there were as many cults as there were personalities.

“There’s something going on inside,” Yankee said in his deep Southern drawl. Apparently, his nickname was ironic, given to him by the other members of HRT.

“What is it?” Pinpricks of pain shot through his fingertips as he gripped his thermos harder, and he realized his hands were frozen. Apparently, the heating system in TOC couldn’t handle the Montana mountains.

“Take a listen, would you? I want an assessment.” Yankee nodded at the headphones, discarded on Greg’s desk, that would hook him up to the parabolic mics.

“Mic three,” Yankee added as he hurried back the way he’d come, to talk to the Special Agent in Charge who’d arrived from the Salt Lake City office.

Greg traded the thermos for his earphones. As soon as he slipped them over his ears and turned to the right mic, a flurry of loud, angry voices made him cringe. It was hard to understand anyone with all of them talking at once, but one voice stood out.

“We need her alive,” the man yelled over the fray.

Her. They had to be referring to Jen or Evelyn. One of them was still breathing. Relief and fear coursed through him in equal measure as his eyes were drawn to the picture brought in by an agent from the Salt Lake City office.

Jen Martinez was a forty-five-year-old mother of two. In the picture, she seemed happy and confident, a grin on her face and her arm around the waist of her husband of more than twenty years. Standing on either side of the couple were their kids. A daughter in high school and a son in middle school. The daughter resembled her mom, in appearance and attitude. The son took after his dad—or would, as soon as he emerged on the other side of his current awkward stage.

Every time he looked at the photograph, Greg felt the immediate need to avert his eyes. It was too close to the pictures he kept tacked up in his cubicle back at Aquia, of his wife, Marnie, and their two children, Lucy and Josh, the same ages as the Martinez kids.

He’d made the call to Marnie on the way to the plane, and she’d given the phone to Josh. His son had put on a good front, but Greg had heard his disappointment. Josh’s very first hockey game, and he’d missed it. Worse, Josh had sounded hurt, but not surprised.

Greg loved his job. He couldn’t imagine leaving it. But he spent too much time away from his kids—time he was constantly trying to make up to them when he was home.

If his partner was alive, that meant Jen Martinez was never going home to her children.

His eyes were drawn once more to the photo, to the kids who were waiting to hear if they still had a mother. Then he forced himself to look away, forced his mind back on the mission.

He glanced over at his cousin Gabe, a member of HRT who’d recently come off shift and was listening through his own earphones, frowning. He remembered the years after Gabe’s mother was killed overseas. She’d just been in the wrong place at the wrong time during a spree shooting.

Greg’s parents had tried to help Gabe and his sister get through it, while their dad grieved by pushing everyone away. Greg recalled all the times Gabe had spent at their house, staying in Greg’s old room while he was away at college. All the times Greg’s parents had spoken about the hell Gabe and his sister and father were going through. Shut it down, Greg told himself.

“We know who’s talking?” he asked loudly. Who was trying to keep Evelyn or Jen alive?

Gabe looked up, his angular face creased with concern. He shook his head and went back to jotting notes.

Through Greg’s headphones, the flurry of voices continued. Some were arguing that they should throw her outside, let her fend for herself—an idea quashed by a voice Greg did recognize. He’d spent hours online searching for feeds of Ward Butler, and he’d found a few. Mostly old militia meetings, and they’d told him that the man was definitely radical, even for fringe militia. They’d also told him that Butler had a distinctive growl of a voice, as though his vocal cords had frozen years ago and never properly healed.

Ward’s deep voice cut through the followers’, reminding them that the FBI was outside, and insisting that if they let her go, the FBI would invade.

There was a surge of voices, mingled with other sounds—booted feet on hard floors, the slap of something against skin, guns being racked.

Then the distinctive boom from a shotgun blast split the air, and Greg instinctively sank lower in his seat.

Around him, HRT agents lurched to their feet and swarmed the entrance to the tent. A mad rush of big men trained in specialized tactical response, each carrying sixty or so pounds of equipment, all trying to race outside at once.

Over his headphones, the shuffling of feet and the loud arguments continued, and it took Greg a minute to understand. The gunshot hadn’t come from inside the compound.

It had come from the FBI’s perimeter.