“Mr. Swagger, my orders are to bring Mr. Heflin in by foot two minutes after the airborne drop.”

“That your understanding, Heflin?”

“That’s what they told me. I brought a gun in case there’s a gunfight.”

“Don’t hurt yourself with it.”

“I’m actually pretty good with it,” said Heflin.

“Well, leave it in the holster. If you’re shot at, that’s when you draw it.”

“Got you.”

“Here they come!” said the driver.

And come they did. Black Hawks, Wyoming Air National Guard, six of them—low, loud, and fast—in well-crafted delta-assault formation, altitude about one hundred and fifty, low enough to rip a column of dust from the earth below so that, in the settling gloom, it looked like they led the apocalypse toward the target.

Helicopters! Bob thought. I hope I am done with helicopters after this.

The birds disappeared over the crest, Nick announced, “Green, green, remember your positions and your assignments, safeties off only after disembarking, green, green, green!”

The accordion of vehicles again opened itself up, only this time at speed, as Nick’s Command truck led the way, screeched out, yanked hard right to the ranch entrance and went cascading down the road toward Hell or Glory. Three more armored trucks, riveted turtles in black with FBI in white painted on every flat surface, followed, in turn, by the SUVs and the other two sedans.

“Okay,” said the young FBI driver. “I guess it’s time.”

“You up for this, son?” asked Bob.

“Yes, sir,” said the driver.

He accelerated gently, not being part of any speed brigade, followed the column of dust ahead of him, entered the ranch, and proceeded through a mile of rolling plains before reaching the actual security gate. It was deserted. He pulled over.

Bob was first out. He waited for the sound of the guns. There was none.

“Okay,” said the agent, “I’m taking Mr. Heflin into Command now.”

“No guns,” said Bob. “Announce yourself to the assaulters so you don’t get shot up.”

“Yes, sir,” he snapped, and the two men set off at a half run, leaving Bob leaning on the fender under the dark sky, a bit beneath the last crest, feeling a whip of wind but no sense of human activity.

He heard the raid happening via radio.

“Hammer One, have entered house, no resistance.”

“Hammer Two, entering from rear, some civilians in the kitchen, have cleared them, no weapons, they’re just a mess.”

“Barn clear, this is Hammer Four, barn clear, no hostiles, no fire, deserted.”

“Hammer Five, in garage, all quiet, nice cars, nobody here.”

“This is Hammer Six, I am in the kitchen, moving through the basement, coming up the stairs. Hold your fire, Hammer One. No tangos, no incoming fire, it’s just your buddies from Minneapolis.”

“Got it, Six. Yeah, see you. Hey, everybody, just waiting on upstairs report. Okay, getting signal, no tangos upstairs, upstairs clear.”