The Lions Of Lucerne

“That sounds like a lot of activity, Deputy.”

“Well, in the winter, the farmers get a lot of snowmobilers across their property, so that might be where the ones across the back of the barn came from. The doubled-up tires could have come from any number of neighbors around here. That’s Mr. Maddux’s pickup over there and he’s got singles, so it wasn’t from him. Those eighteen-wheeler-looking tracks are a little more confusing. The way it was backed up to the barn makes me think there might have been a drop off or something.”

“Or a pickup. Did you or your men look inside the barn?”

“Nope. We were going to, but that’s about the time we made contact with the sheriff, and he told us to secure the area and hold off on anything further until he got here.”

“Yeah, he was probably right. My guess is,” said Scot, gesturing to the incoming helicopter, “that they’ll want to check out the victims first, then they’ll look over the house, and then they’ll start their search of the other buildings. I’m go

Scot finished with his most engaging smile and made his way to the barn. He was walking quickly, while trying not to attract any undue attention. The roar of the chopper could be heard from just overhead. Scot knew he’d been blessed with more time on this crime scene than he should ever have had.

Thankfully, the barn wasn’t locked, and he was able to slip inside and shut the door behind him just as the Deer Valley helicopter touched down outside. It took Scot’s eyes a minute to adjust to the diminished light, and while he waited, he filtered through the mess of tire tracks he had seen leading to the door.

The snow made it difficult to perfectly identify what had made them, but Scot had to give the deputy from Wasatch County another ten points. His interpretation of the tracks was probably right on the money. Casts would confirm things for sure, but what Scot was trying to do now was create the best picture he could of what happened.

His eyes adjusted, he walked around the edges of the large dirt floor, hugging what in Mr. Maddux’s younger days had probably been horse and pig stalls, trying not to trample on any evidence. The floor was a maze of all sorts of different tracks. Scot could see that the snowmobile tracks led from the back door of the barn, across the floor, and stopped at a deep horizontal groove in the dirt floor. The picture was becoming clearer now. Scot knew that if the falling snow hadn’t obscured them completely, he could probably open the back door of the barn and find that the tracks would lead all the way back through the pass, to a secluded spot somewhere adjacent to Death Chute.

Suddenly, the barn was awash with light. It fell across his shoulders and landed on the floor in front of him. That light, coupled with a cold wind on the back of his neck, told Scot the FBI had decided to take up their investigation of the barn more quickly than he’d thought they would. Without turning around, he knew exactly who was standing behind him.

24

“Only if this farm had a woodshed would there be a more appropriate place for me to tan your hide,” came the voice of the FBI’s number two man, Gary Lawlor, who was standing between the open barn doors. “Just what the hell have you been doing?”

Before turning to face him, Scot slipped off the latex gloves and shoved them inside his parka.

“You can hand those goddamn gloves right over to me. That way I won’t leave any fingerprints, and when they find your body, they won’t be able to link it to me.”

“Gary, just wait a second,” began Harvath.

“First of all, this isn’t a fucking social call, Agent Harvath. You address me as Deputy Director or Agent Lawlor, you understand me? And secondly, ‘wait a second’? How dare you tell me to wait a second, boy? Who the hell do you think you are?”

“Do you want me to answer that, or are you just going to run right over what I have to say?”

“Shut up.”

“There’s my answer.”

“You know what, Scot? You’re a real wiseass. That’s always been your problem. You’re a great operative, but your mouth gets in the way too often. It’s beyond me how you ever made it through the Navy, especially the SEALs.”

“I guess that recommendation from the special agent in charge of the San Diego FBI field office went a long way.”

“It must have. I don’t know what I was thinking when I wrote that for you.”

“You did it because you knew that’s where I wanted to be. You knew I had certain talents and that they could teach me things that-”

“Yeah? Really? Did the Navy teach you that it was okay to assault a federal officer? Did they teach you that it was okay to trespass on not one, not two, but three secured FBI crime scenes and, while you’re on one of them, start an avalanche that not only would bury potentially critical evidence, but might also endanger the lives of hundreds of rescue workers and investigators down below? And while I’m at it, what are you, in the fucking tour business now? If it hadn’t been for the sheriff knowing where we were going, that fucking helicopter pilot would have gone by way of New Jersey to get here. I know you had something to do with that.”

“Jesus, Gary. I lost at least thirty men. Good men. All on my watch. I was responsible for each and every one of those guys. Most of them have families. What do you expect me to do?”

Lawlor’s incredulous voice rose to a level that could be heard well outside the barn. “What would I expect you to do? I would expect you to honor the oath you took to uphold the laws of this country. That’s what I would expect you to do!”

Scot stood and stared at Lawlor. Of all people, this was someone he’d thought would understand him, understand what he was doing. After Scot’s SEAL instructor father was killed in a training exercise, Gary Lawlor, a longtime friend of the family, had become like a second father to him. While they didn’t always see eye to eye on things, Scot felt Gary should at least cut him slack because of their history.

The problem Lawlor had right now went far beyond their relationship, though. Scot needed to be put back in line. His voice calmer, Lawlor said, “Scot, you’re in a lot of trouble. Do you understand that? You’ve completely thrown the book out the window.”

“What would you be doing in my place?”

“Damn it, Scot, are you that thick? We’re not talking about me, and we’re not talking about the realm of possibilities. We’re talking about what you have done and the trouble you’re in.”

“Let me ask you a question.”

“You do realize the president has been kidnapped and I have absolutely no time for this?”

“How did you nail the guys from the Scripps bombing? Did you do it by your precious book that you seem to place above everything else?”

Scot had just touched a very deep and painful nerve. Harvath was referring to a standoff at the Scripps Howard Institute in La Jolla, California, over ten years ago, when Gary was in charge of the FBI’s San Diego field office. A radical group had taken over the facility and were holding several of its staff hostage. When the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team assaulted the building after a weeklong standoff, they weren’t prepared for what they found inside.

The strength of the terrorist group was twice what they had expected, and the terrorists had anticipated every route the FBI would take in assaulting the building. All of those areas were rigged with charges. Men that weren’t mowed down by automatic weapons fire were blown to pieces by the explosives.

Lawlor was the type who would never ask men to do anything he wouldn’t do himself. He had been on the wi