The bikes were in good shape and the branches had been only recently cut. I let Baskerville sniff the seats and handle-grips of each bike and then told him to find. I gave him the verbal command to find only. Not “find and own,” which would have left me no one alive to chat with.

Baskerville crept off, sniffing the ground, picking up speed as he locked onto a scent. I followed at a light jog-trot, conserving my wind in case there was a fight.

It took my dog twenty-four minutes to find the Rovers. They were crouched down behind a Lexus that had burned to a shell. Like the other crew, they wore too much leather and had grisly trophies around their necks—ring fingers, big toes, and ears.

It’s hard to develop warm fuzzy bunny feelings about guys like that.

The sun was rolling toward the west and the shadows were getting long. I didn’t want to waste what was left of daylight watching these three sit and scratch at flea bites. I was about to do something when they rose and turned and began walking back through the woods. I ghosted them. As they began pulling the foliage away from their rides, I came up behind them, drew my gun and stood with it in a very comfortable and steady two-hand grip. Close enough for easy kills, too far for them to make any sensible moves.

“Yo,” I said, “assholes.”

They whirled, reaching for their guns, but then froze. I was really close and I had them dead to rights. Anyone could see it.

“Do something stupid and I will kill you,” I said.

They looked scared and confused. Only one of them looked dumb enough to try something.

“Lose the hardware,” I said. “Do it slowly and do it now.”

“Who the fuck are—”

“I’m the guy with the gun,” I said, cutting him off. Then I clicked my tongue and Baskerville trotted out of the woods and came up to them. He is a really big fucking dog. The armor and spikes and all make him look like a gargoyle, and not a happy one at that. He seemed to sense which of them was twitchiest and looked him right in the eye. Sure, they all had weapons but they also had no chance at all.

“Take your pick. Bullet in the brainpan or have your nuts torn off.” I smiled. “Third choice is taking your weapons out with two fingers and dropping them on the ground.”

They hesitated for one moment longer, but then one of them—the leader, I later learned—said, “Do it.”

His men disarmed, and they made quite a pile of goodies. Guns, hatchets, skinning knives, combat knives, a couple pairs of wire cutters—probably for taking souvenirs—and one old pineapple-style World War II hand grenade.