“Anyhow,” said Nick, “you will hold well behind the perimeter and will be reached by radio and notified to come forward when the area is secured. Tomorrow, at first light, we’ll be traveling to the shooting area to see what we can see. Hopefully, that’ll be more like a picnic than a mission, and we can draw on that for the after action report. Hopefully, it’s all over by tonight.”

“Sitting out the big fight don’t make me happy,” said Bob.

“You will hold on the perimeter until notified. Do I need to put a three-hundred-pound babysitter on you?”

“No.”

“That’s a good boy.”

•   •   •

Disgruntled, he didn’t bother to listen to the radio commands tying the whole op together. He just climbed into the backseat of the last vehicle in the convoy, one of three sedans following the SUVs and armored assault trucks with FBI emblazoned on them. His driver was a rookie agent out of Denver, the guy next to him in the front seat was the U.S. Attorney, and not one of them had a thing to say to the other two, as each was in his own private stew. All wore body armor and Kevlar helmets and were linked by radio, and only Bob had his set to OFF.

The convoy left at 1715, proceeding south on Wyoming 193 from Jackson toward Rock Springs, by way of Pine Valley, where there were no pines. On the other side of the road, western scrub seemed to roll away, showing nothing, hiding nothing. To the west, farther, the crags of the Tetons could be seen, magnificent and artistic, the perfect ideal of The Mountains, as many art directors of the American western movie had discovered. Bob did not pay much attention. He was the eternal wallflower at an orgy, feeling both frumpy and invisible at once. The fun would be over by the time he got there. He didn’t even have a weapon.

The convoy did not proceed under siren or at high speed. It poked along, opening and closing like an accordion, trying to stay under the speed limit, though any passersby knew that it represented government action at its apogee of force. That was the information truckloads of men in armor carried.

It took about an hour of stop and start, and when they approached, Wyoming State Police set up the roadblocks to halt civilian traffic just before and after the ranch entrance.

“Should be any second now,” said the FBI driver, pulling to a stop on the road at the rear of the convoy, which had halted.

Bob flicked on the radio just in time to hear a last-minute checklist run by Nick, each vehicle okaying its position and status.

“Hammer Fifteen, green for go,” said the young driver.

“You got it, son? You pull up at the inner gate, and we hold there, waiting for the all-clear.”