Realizing that he was ranting, as was his habit every time the subject of the journalists was brought up, Branson paused. In an effort to extract himself from his tirade gracefully, he shrugged and sported the best smile he could muster. “Please inform the folks in Washington, if you would, Special Agent Raymos, that nothing here has changed from the last time we spoke with the members of the press. If they want to do a story on this, I suggest they save themselves the trip and instead use last week’s file footage.”

“I tried to explain that to them but, unfortunately, no one bought it,” Raymos explained “Perhaps,” she ventured, “if you called personally and explained it to them, they’d listen.”

Anxious to get something to eat so that he could start his nightly rounds, Branson shook his head. “No,” he announced triumphantly. “I have a better idea. You’ll handle the briefing.”

In shock, Raymos’s big brown eyes flew open. “Me?”

“Yes, you. The folks from our friendly neighborhood media pool as well as the PR guys back at the Bureau will love it. You’re young, female, Hispanic …”

“Puerto Rican,” Raymos stated quickly, as she always did whenever the honor of her heritage was put in question.

“Yes, even better,” Branson continued, taking Raymos’s rebuke in stride. “You’re Puerto Rican, bright, articulate, and, dare I say without sounding patronizing or offending anyone anyone’s politically correct feelings, quite lovely.”

This last remark brought a blush to Raymos’s cheeks. Embarrassed, she averted her eyes. “Are you sure you want me to do this?” she asked after she had managed to regain her voice.

“Listen, Angel, I know it’s a dirty job but …”

“Yes, I know. Someone’s got to do it.”

Branson was just starting to chuckle when he and Raymos were joined by Millner. “This a private joke, or can anyone join in?”

“No joke, I’m afraid,” Branson explained. “Special Agent Raymos here has just volunteered to brief our friendly journalists’ pool tomorrow.”

Millner made a quick sign of the cross, as if he were blessing her. “May God go with you, child.”

Like everyone else, Raymos liked Millner. It was hard not to. Though his reputation would have made the old time lawmen of the west green with envy, he had the personality of a teddy bear. With her clipboard, Angel Raymos gave Millner a poke in his bulging midsection. “I may have to take your grief, Marshal, but I don’t have to tolerate your blasphemy.”

Turning to Branson, Millner started to push the senior FBI agent out the door. “Quick, partner, let’s get out of here before her hot Latin blood begins to boil.”

“Puerto Rican,” she corrected him as the two men fled into the darkness and made their way to the mess tent. “I’m Puerto Rican.”

From his perch on the lower slopes of the mountain, Thomas Jefferson Osborn watched the comings and goings of the people in the FBI base camp through his binoculars. Unlike the compound where the members of the 5th Brigade were holed up, neither the FBI nor the National Guard made any effort to conceal their locations. This would make things easier for him, he thought, as he eased himself back down into the gully where his people waited.