agent stranded in West Virginia for life. As it was, he didn’t know whom he’d pissed off to get himself landed out here, but a day didn’t go by that he didn’t fantasize about being someplace else.
That Tim Burrows, the wonder boy, had been standing in for him all week didn’t help matters a bit. At thirty-something, Burrows looked twenty-something and sported that kind of raw enthusiasm and ambition that made Russell nervous. As assistant supervisory agent in charge of a field office that generated precious few national headlines, Tim would sacrifice his left nut to personally command a murder investigation. If things went well, and the bad guys were apprehended with the appropriate flair, a young agent could fatten his personnel file with the right kinds of letters and commendations. All of these things defined the reasons why Russell had busted his butt to make it out here to East Jesus at zero dark early.
Properly restrained, Tim was a genuine asset to the Bureau; not to be confused with the genuine ass he often made of himself when you didn’t sit on him from time to time. Russell didn’t fully understand what had happened with the academy graduates of Burrows’s era, but somebody had pumped their egos with helium. Never a group known for low self-esteem, the younger agents in the field these days floated somewhere between annoying and insufferable.
Of course, it could just be that Russell was getting old, but he refused to believe that. Outside of the National Football League, forty-three didn’t meet anyone’s definition of over-the-hill.
As the ground dropped away below them, Russell saw four smoke trails rising from the ground where someone had used road flares to mark out a makeshift landing zone around what appeared to be a narrow fire trail. He took it on faith that the pilot had a good feel for the length of his rotors, but held his breath anyway as the Aerospatiale chopper approached from upwind and then flared gracefully before touching down without so much as a bump.
“On the ground safe and sound, sir,” said the pilot.
Russell reached across the center console and shook his hand. “Nice job. Glad it’s not mine.” He ducked low under the rotor disk as he jogged away from the big machine. Something about a bazillion horsepower guillotine overhead just made you want to be shorter.
Russell headed for a group of rangers gathered around a Park Service vehicle, and as he did, one of the cluster—a midthirties blonde with that hearty woman-of-the-earth look that seemed so common among park rangers—broke off from the pack and walked out to meet him.
“Sarah Rodgers,” she said, extending her hand. “I’m the shift supervisor.”
Russell grasped her hand, noting from her grip that she was no stranger to physical labor. In fact, she could probably take him in two rounds without breaking a sweat. “Russell Coates, FBI. Special agent in charge.”
“You’re the ‘SAC’ I’ve been hearing so much about. I guess I was expecting something in burlap.”
Sack. Burlap. Funny. First time he’d ever heard that one. He smiled. “Actually, it’s the Secret Service that pronounces the word. We only spell it. It’s S period, A period, C period. What kind of resources we got working up here now?”
As she talked, Sarah tried to lead him back toward her fellow rangers, but he stood still, bringing her back in closer to him. It’s the little things that let people know who’s really in command, and he’d lived through enough jurisdictional wars to know the importance of coming on strong at the beginning.
“Well, there’s a few of your people up at the scene with the body, along with a few of mine, and a few local and state police thrown in for good measure. If you want specific numbers, I’m afraid I don’t have them.”
Shit. Too many people. “What about hikers? Is the area closed off to them?”
The question amused her. “This is a national park, Agent Coates. People come
That Tim Burrows, the wonder boy, had been standing in for him all week didn’t help matters a bit. At thirty-something, Burrows looked twenty-something and sported that kind of raw enthusiasm and ambition that made Russell nervous. As assistant supervisory agent in charge of a field office that generated precious few national headlines, Tim would sacrifice his left nut to personally command a murder investigation. If things went well, and the bad guys were apprehended with the appropriate flair, a young agent could fatten his personnel file with the right kinds of letters and commendations. All of these things defined the reasons why Russell had busted his butt to make it out here to East Jesus at zero dark early.
Properly restrained, Tim was a genuine asset to the Bureau; not to be confused with the genuine ass he often made of himself when you didn’t sit on him from time to time. Russell didn’t fully understand what had happened with the academy graduates of Burrows’s era, but somebody had pumped their egos with helium. Never a group known for low self-esteem, the younger agents in the field these days floated somewhere between annoying and insufferable.
Of course, it could just be that Russell was getting old, but he refused to believe that. Outside of the National Football League, forty-three didn’t meet anyone’s definition of over-the-hill.
As the ground dropped away below them, Russell saw four smoke trails rising from the ground where someone had used road flares to mark out a makeshift landing zone around what appeared to be a narrow fire trail. He took it on faith that the pilot had a good feel for the length of his rotors, but held his breath anyway as the Aerospatiale chopper approached from upwind and then flared gracefully before touching down without so much as a bump.
“On the ground safe and sound, sir,” said the pilot.
Russell reached across the center console and shook his hand. “Nice job. Glad it’s not mine.” He ducked low under the rotor disk as he jogged away from the big machine. Something about a bazillion horsepower guillotine overhead just made you want to be shorter.
Russell headed for a group of rangers gathered around a Park Service vehicle, and as he did, one of the cluster—a midthirties blonde with that hearty woman-of-the-earth look that seemed so common among park rangers—broke off from the pack and walked out to meet him.
“Sarah Rodgers,” she said, extending her hand. “I’m the shift supervisor.”
Russell grasped her hand, noting from her grip that she was no stranger to physical labor. In fact, she could probably take him in two rounds without breaking a sweat. “Russell Coates, FBI. Special agent in charge.”
“You’re the ‘SAC’ I’ve been hearing so much about. I guess I was expecting something in burlap.”
Sack. Burlap. Funny. First time he’d ever heard that one. He smiled. “Actually, it’s the Secret Service that pronounces the word. We only spell it. It’s S period, A period, C period. What kind of resources we got working up here now?”
As she talked, Sarah tried to lead him back toward her fellow rangers, but he stood still, bringing her back in closer to him. It’s the little things that let people know who’s really in command, and he’d lived through enough jurisdictional wars to know the importance of coming on strong at the beginning.
“Well, there’s a few of your people up at the scene with the body, along with a few of mine, and a few local and state police thrown in for good measure. If you want specific numbers, I’m afraid I don’t have them.”
Shit. Too many people. “What about hikers? Is the area closed off to them?”
The question amused her. “This is a national park, Agent Coates. People come
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