Uncertain Justice

Owens refused to cooperate and take his dressing-down with the humility Brady had become accustomed to in his subordinates. While he talked to Brady, the U.S. Marshal interrupted a number of times to direct questions or instructions to the men repairing the generators and subordinates trying to reorganize their forces. Once he nearly shushed the senior Justice Department official to answer a question from a mechanic working on one of the generators.

"I want to know why you ordered everyone to stop shooting at Underwood, Owens," shrilled Brady. "Why the hell did you do that? The son of a bitch was shooting at sworn officers of the law. You're going to let him get away with that?"

"MISTER Brady," Owens began. He'd been walking toward a crew digging out a trench, making it much deeper for greater protection. He stopped his pacing and wheeled around to face east as if actually confronting Brady. The Marshal replied in a near whisper. He was having difficulty hanging on to the last shreds of his temper. His voice strengthened after he took a deep breath and held it for a long second. He tried again.

"Sir, we aren't shooting because he's no longer shooting at us--assuming he was shooting at us in the first place. We don't have legal cause to use lethal force at the moment. No one in the taskforce is in danger; Underwood isn't threatening anyone and we just can ... not ... open ... fire. Is that clear, Mr. Brady?" Owens straightened and scuffed a boot in the leftover leaves and pine needles fallen from the surrounding trees. He took a pace deeper into the trees, then did an about face to look at the high mesa dominating the view to the west.

He continued speaking with the Washington politician but he was never able to recall the remainder of the exchange. The conversation wasn't over, but the transfer of meaningful information was.

Brady quieted toward the end. He did his best to mollify the tall Federal officer with tentative praise and inquiring about details on the new deployment scheme Owens was working on as well as the status of other efforts.

When Brady satisfied himself the Marshal had been placated, he terminated the call with a small excuse and hung up. He had a press release to get out and if he hurried, it would be in time for the morning chat shows.

A couple thousand miles west of Washington, Owens shook his head incredulously. Brady clearly didn't have a clue. The Deputy Attorney General of the United States could break a man though ... he could ruin a career with just a few words whispered in the right ear. If it wasn't for that, Owens told himself he would walk off this operation in a heartbeat. Because of Brady's influence, Owens would have to put up with him.

He turned back to watch one of the banks of floodlights being repositioned well to the north of the cavern across the way. A few trees had to be cut down before the tired officers could haul the lights to the water's edge. The generator powering the lights had been put back together using parts cannibalized from two of the others.

Underwood would have to lean out of the cave and expose himself if he wanted to fire at the lights and generator up there, but he wouldn't be successful. This light fixture would light up the cavern very well and sharpshooters had already been detailed and hidden in several locations to make sure it would be a foolhardy, and fatal, thing for the fugitive to attempt.

He had another group of lights setup already up and running off to the south with a generator that had been originally been held in reserve out of sight of the cavern. The laboring officers, unused to the thin air and cold at this altitude, had taken two hours to manhandle that one into position after the destruction of the others. With it in place though, and the floods turned on, the glare was enough to make sure Underwood couldn't move a muscle without someone seeing him.

Owens grabbed his binoculars from where they hung around his neck and focused them on the stone building in which the fugitive had taken shelter. He carefully examined the structure and the cavern. Nothing moved. What little glass had remained in the windows from the early evening had been shot out now. The tinkle of shards falling to the rock had gone unnoticed in the noise of the shooting.

He noticed the snake that had wound itself around the front post was gone. Small wonder, he figured. With all the shooting going on, Owens thought he would have slipped off somewhere too if he'd been over there. He wondered if the snake had been killed or whether it had found a hole to hide in. Another ripple of revulsion ran down his back.

Sooner or later, someone would have to go over there and perhaps trip over the reptile. He wasn't going be that person though ... not with his seniority, he wasn't. Being the boss had some benefits.

A movement caught his eye and he jerked the glasses back to the center of the stone building. Slowly, almost ponderously, the door opened and remained open. Water in the river's shallows rippled as a sudden gust of wind pushed miniature waves across the current to wash against the far bank.

The unexpected movement caught most of Owens's officers off guard and they scrambled to find cover. In seconds, everyone had found a thick tree or a boulder for protection. They waited expectantly but nothing else happened. Slowly, the force of officers relaxed. The fitful wind blowing from behind them died away.

They tensed again when the door began to close outward as slowly as it had opened. The thump of the door hitting the doorjamb reverberated across the valley and more than one officer flinched. They brought their weapons up and sighted in on the stone house once more and waited a long while for a target to appear. It became clear nothing was happening and they settled back down to wait for full light.

Far below the cavern and fifty yards away from the vertical cliff wall, wind blown wavelets died and the stream flowed smoothly again.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

"Highly placed sources within the law enforcement community, speaking on condition of anonymity, tell World Information News Network that the suspected murderer, rapist, and kidnapper--a man who also evaded capture in March of last year has apparently managed to duplicate that feat this summer.

"The Department of Justice announced just yesterday that the ex-Army NCO had been found in a secluded valley deep in a wilderness area of the southern Colorado mountains. The official statement indicated a team of Federal officers under the supervision of U.S. Marshal David Owens had trapped Underwood in a cave. It was thought to be only a matter of time before the wanted man would be forced to surrender.

"Now it seems that Underwood may have shot his way through encircling Federal officers and is once again on the loose in the mountains. Individuals familiar with the incident say Underwood fired on the officers with a high caliber rifle two nights ago, forcing the federal agents to take cover.

"Also destroyed were a number of power generators that were lighting up the cave where the escapee had taken shelter. Speaking on condition of anonymity, our sources say officials only this morning determined Underwood was not still in the cave and now theorize he got away in the few minutes after the shooting and before additional lighting could be set up.

World Information News Network

"Early Evening News Hour"

June 16

§

Two days of struggling progress brought the fugitive in the late afternoon to the banks of a swift flowing creek. The stream ran in a torrent down a heavily wooded slope that intersected with a neighboring mountain in a steeply sided, v-shaped valley. Over the shoulder of the ridge that rose precipitously on his right was a pass to the east. Once through, he could turn due north and start putting a lot of miles between himself and the group of law enforcement officers.

The forest here, mostly older stands of tall pines and spreading fir trees, provided abundant cover for the fugitive who was determined to never let himself be caught in an open space again. The many small, shallow streams supplied water for him and gave him places to wade up or downstream to further conceal his trail.

On the bad side, old forests have thick brush built up over many years of growth and it was hard to push his way through at times. This wilderness was a maze of tree trunks, some of them blowdowns and others the decaying wrecks of the aged trees lying about as obstacles

Wearily, his injured side protesting too much to ignore any longer, Miles knelt in the shallows to take a long drink and refill his canteen. He moved back into the brush when he finished, away from the water and well hidden. He let himself stay only a few minutes before resuming the march to the east, struggling up the ridgeline.

Hardly more than an hour later, he stopped inside a screen of trees and brush a yard or so short of a long, comparatively narrow clearing in the forest. Swaying drunkenly, his muscles trembling with weariness, he reluctantly came to the decision a long rest was necessary before he could go on. He slid the M-4 off his shoulder and propped it against a tall pine. Dropping the rucksack beside a thick log, he slumped to the ground and leaned back to rest. His breath was quick and shallow.

He hurt. He could only dimly recall a bright, sparkling time when there hadn't been pain to fill his universe. It clouded his mind now, making it hard stay alert. It was tough to keep himself oriented ... twice he'd found himself walking in a big circle through the woods, losing time and invaluable distance from his pursuers. He stifled a groan, hazily remembering he couldn't afford to make a noise that might reveal his presence to someone who might be nearby. He rested, waiting for the hurting to ease enough for him to move on.

§

United States Marshal David Owens had a monumental headache. Thirty-six hours and more after Underwood shot out three generators supplying light to the force besieging the fugitive in his cave, the old door to the stone building had opened in the freshening breeze, slammed against the inside wall and wedged itself open.

From the line of sight he had from beside the river, he couldn't see much inside the structure up there, but Owens knew the fugitive was no longer trapped in the cavern above the river. He went through the motions of confirming the escape, but his mind was already trying to deal with what came next.

He organized a mixed assault force of a dozen ATF agents, Deputy U.S. Marshals, and FBI agents armed with Heckler and Koch submachine guns. Most of them had served on SWAT teams at one time or another. Supported by sharpshooters on this side of the river, he had the team cross the stream well to the south and work their way north along the cliff.

When they were ready, Owens watched as they ran up the rocky incline and took cover just below the lip of the cavern. Their chests heaving in the thin air, they stayed where they were for a long while. After catching their breath, two of them leaped over the crest and raced toward the stone structure. They slammed their backs against the wall, pointing their weapons at the one window they could see.

Owens sauntered from the protection of the barricades he'd had constructed to watch the action. He snorted at suggestions he should protect himself, already knowing what others were just beginning to suspect.

A couple of concussion grenades were tossed inside and a tightly packed line of closely packed officers made a screaming, running entry ... and it was all over. The detonations of the grenades, their noise muffled to those across the river by the thickness of the rock walls, still held enough power to jar the door loose from whatever had jammed it open and it began to swing shut.

In a dimness compounded by smoke, tear gas, and the dust aroused by the flash-bang grenades, a dark shape seemed to slip from beside the wall and lunge into the interior of the room. Only one deputy saw the movement.

He turned swiftly and shot into the indistinct form, killing the ragged garment very convincingly but sending a dozen 9mm rounds ricocheting around the confines of the stone building in the process. Three FBI agents ... the only three in the impromptu SWAT team ... were wounded, one of them critically.

They'd all been evacuated out of the valley by chopper and were probably arriving at a hospital in Colorado Springs right about now. Marshal Owens envied them. They were safely away and out of this sorry mess.

He wasn't though. For his sins, whatever they had been, he would have to stay and deal with the fallout. Knowing how things would proceed inside the Washington D.C. Beltway, he fully expected to have to explain to someone, if only the various news services, how it was that only FBI agents had been wounded.

He ordered everyone out of the stone building and had the door closed against the elements. Someone in Washington might want to have a forensics team go over the one-room structure as part of an investigation of the shooting and the scene had to be preserved.

Besides, no one had reported killing a snake over there and that meant the one he'd seen was still around somewhere. He didn't want anyone bit by the thing. He restricted his people to this side of the river, not that many were inclined to wade across the icy stream.

Sighing, he took the satellite phone from a helpful aide and punched in the number for the Deputy Attorney General. He started pacing while he waited for the connection to be completed. This was shaping up to be another long day in a seemingly never-ending string of long days.

§

Kehoe dug in his heels, leaning back against the slope as he made his way, quartering down across the ridge toward the sounds of a river. Gravity was pulling him down faster than he wanted to go; his stride was more a series of jogging leaps than a controlled walk. The landings jolted his entire body and added to the ache he already making burning knots of his knees.

He'd found no sign of the firing that had interrupted his sleep the night before last. He'd been reduced to moving slowly west, zigzagging across the landscape in an effort to locate the origin of the shooting. A small cascade of loose pine needles and seed cones preceded him down the hill and he was forced to increase his pace still more. The grade eased near the stream and his half-run eased to a walk.

He made a half turn to the right and worked his way out of the dense growth of trees into an open area--probably an old burn off--that seemed to lead down to the stream. He let the sling to his AR-15 rifle slip off his shoulder. The weapon was the civilian version of the Army's M-16, a comfortable old friend to the retired officer. His right hand found the pistol grip and his left slid into position on the barrel's hand guard, the movement fluid and natural from years of experience with the weapon.

Holding the rifle at a forty-five degree angle across his chest, he looked briefly up the slope to his left. Seeing nothing of any interest up that way, his head swiveled around to check his right front. He froze, his attention attracted by movement.

Kehoe saw a man bending over in the brush, his movements slow and labored. The ex-Special Forces officer tucked the rifle stock between his side and elbow. He turned to face the threat as he brought the muzzle down and on target.

§

His eyes on the rucksack he was about to pick up, Miles heard a tiny noise from across the way and he aborted the attempt to reach the pack. Moving only his head, he looked up to find a tall figure across the long, narrow clearing holding a rifle on him. Miles straightened slowly, his hands empty. He didn't need to glance at the M-4A1 carbine he'd propped against the tree trunk. Only a step from the tree, he might as well have been a football field's length away.

The amygdalae are fingernail-sized, almond shaped structures in the brain that respond to perceived danger to the individual. Their function is primitive, part of the "fight or flight" reflex. The two small bits of grey matter have neural connections to most areas of the brain so they can quickly interpret threats detected by the senses and then formulate a response designed to ensure survival.

Miles didn't know of the tiny organs' existence, but he felt his body respond when his kicked in to do their best to keep him alive. Adrenalin and other hormones were dumped into his blood stream by the amygdala and for the first time in two days there was no pain from the wound in his left side or the bad bruise high on his back.

His eyesight sharpened, his ears caught the smallest of sounds, and when his hand came to rest on his pistol belt, it seemed he could feel every minuscule grain in the leather. His heart quickened ... the blood sang in his ears as he watched the armed stranger across the way. His right hand slipped imperceptibly across his belly until the tips of his fingers were only a couple of inches from the butt of his revolver.

"Move away from the rifle," instructed the stranger. He pointed the gun's muzzle slightly to his right and then quickly back to indicate the direction Underwood should move. Miles sidestepped slowly left, out of the entangling brush and a little downhill. He used the body movement to disguise his fingers inching closer to his pistol. He looked at the rifleman for a space without speaking.

The bail agent recognized the fugitive from photographs he'd studied in newspaper and magazine articles about the man. None of them showed the whole picture though. They showed his physical appearance adequately but they didn't come close to capturing the impact the man had in person.

In person, Kehoe found Underwood to be a little more than average in height and heavy shoulders and chest. The man balanced himself easily, his right knee flexed slightly against the uphill slope and his left leg straightened. A rag, stained a dark red, above his left hip told the ex-special forces officer that Underwood had been involved in the shooting the other night. It gave Underwood a certain desperate, malevolent appearance.

He saw Underwood's pistol holstered on the left side of his belly. It was there, conveniently positioned for a cross-body draw but it didn't really register. Kehoe ignored it. He held a powerful rifle on the man, the safety off and ready to be fired. He'd spent twenty-seven years in the Army, much of it in the field and the rifle was as much a part of him as his close-cropped hair. Pistols were a last ditch weapon, hardly worth considering in combat and he was twenty-five yards away; pistols were rarely used over nine yards. Underwood might as well have been unarmed so far as Kehoe was concerned ... but he wasn't. As he considered this, Kehoe realized it might be the answer to a problem he'd been trying to get his mind around.

He'd been wondering the past twenty-four hours what he would do when he found Underwood. This terrain was rough ... worse than rough. Some of it was completely impassible. Much of his time had been spent struggling up one side of many a ridge and down the other.

With the terrain cut by both broad and narrow ravines made by spring runoffs ... with thick brush and mazes of fallen trees in the forests alternating with barren slopes ... progress across the mountains was slow and difficult even with both hands free. A prisoner with his hands bound was going to make hiking back through it that much slower.

Now, looking at the man, he saw that there would always be a chance Underwood could turn on him. A slip or a stumble would be all that was needed. Kehoe suddenly doubted his ability to get Underwood back to a jail cell in Texas ... but maybe he didn't have to. He looked around, his eyes moving in small arcs, as he watched and listened for other men. He looked at Underwood for a long minute. He licked his lips.