Within seconds, the snowmobile’s miles-per-hour gauge showed the needle well over one hundred, and he quickly closed the gap with Scot and Amanda. The rest of the intercept team was hot on his trail.

The leader pulled up next to Scot and Amanda, while the rest of the team surrounded the two bodies lying in the snow and used their goggles to continue searching the immediate area.

As an agent carefully rolled him over, Scot let out a low moan.

“It’s Norseman! He’s alive!” shouted the team leader to the other intercept members. He then moved over to Amanda and felt for a pulse. It was weak, but at least her heart was beating. “He’s got Goldilocks too! They’re both alive, but in bad shape.”

The team leader engaged his throat mike in an attempt to raise the command center. “Birdhouse, this is Hermes, do you read? Over.” There was no response, which is what he had expected. His original orders had been not to escort anyone back, but the game had changed. Every Secret Service agent was selected on the basis of a wide variety of criteria. One of the most highly prized was intelligence, along with the ability to make the right decisions in a life-or-death situation.

Hermes addressed his men. “I want two pop toboggans inflated. I will transport Goldilocks on mine and Archimedes will transport Norseman. I am changing our status to medevac under Hostile 2. Hammer 4 and Hammer 5 will take the GPS coordinates so we can return to this location to search for the rest of the party. Let’s move. Go! Go!”

Harvath was only faintly aware of the hissing air and of being strapped into the emergency inflatable pop-up toboggan. As soon as the intercept team swung the snowmobiles around to speed them all back to the command center, he once again slipped into unconsciousness.

By the time the Lions reached the farmhouse of Joseph and Mary Maddux, they were seven minutes ahead of schedule. Miner was pleased.

The farmhouse had been selected because of its remote location. It was on the outskirts of the small town of Midway, which bordered Deer Valley. The nearest neighbor was three miles away. The only access was via either a terribly potholed dirt road or the narrow canyon behind the west side of the farm, which, during this time of year, was only navigable by experienced snowmobile operators or cross-country skiers.

Joe and Mary Maddux had spent their Sunday the same way as always. Even though their large extended Mormon family saw them as retired, the word didn’t exist in their vocabulary, and who could be with twenty-two grandchildren and eleven great-grandchildren? If anything, the Madduxes had become even busier in their golden years.

The morning had started with the elderly couple getting up before the sun. While their faith prohibited labor on the Sabbath, there were some exceptions, such as tending to animals, which Joe and Mary did before having breakfast and heading off to their ward for Sunday services.

The bishop spoke of the success of four local Mormon boys on mission in Asia and the tragedy of two others who had been killed in the past week in an Atlanta ghetto while they were spreading the good news of the Mormon Church. Joe’s mind wandered, as it did more and more these days during the almost five-hour Sunday services. Mary, ever the devout follower, listened intently as the bishop spoke about the role of a good Mormon wife and reminded his flock that it was only through a husband’s proclamation that a wife would be accepted into the celestial kingdom. Mary smiled at Joe, knowing that after fifty-seven years of marriage to her best friend, he was certainly going to bring her into the celestial kingdom with him. She was absolutely correct. What she didn’t know was how soon she would be dispatched.

For the last week, Joe had been feeling a bit under the weather, and so he and Mary decided to forgo the traditional Sunday family supper at their oldest daughter’s home. Instead, they decided they would have a light meal and relax at the farmhouse without the distraction of children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. Had they chosen to attend supper at their daughter’s house, it would have saved their lives.

At two in the afternoon, no one really paid attention to the eighteen-wheeler truck that rolled down Sweetwater Road toward the Maddux farmhouse. Its driver cursed the minefield of potholes he was forced to navigate. The truck was emblazoned with the Mormon Church’s trademark seagulls and the logo of Deseret Industries so it would appear as if it were headed out to a farm to pick up a charitable donation of furniture, farm supplies, or canned goods, or to deliver a contribution to a deserving family. Although the Church never did anything on Sundays, Miner had anticipated correctly that anyone who saw the truck would just assume the Church’s business was a rare exception to Sabbath abstinence.

Miner’s groundsman turned up the long, snow-covered lane of the Maddux farm, convinced that he had not drawn any undue attention to himself. The idea of painting the semi truck and trailer with the Mormon seagulls and Deseret Industries logo had been brilliant. In a state where Mormons were raised not to question the actions of their church and where non-Mormons didn’t pay much attention to Mormon goings-on, nothing would seem out of place, and therefore the truck was the perfect cover. Miner had also informed the groundsman that to the trained eye of someone like a state trooper, the truck would obviously appear overloaded, but even troopers wouldn’t pull it over for fear of the tangled web of hassles it might create in this heavily Mormon state.

The lane opened into a wide courtyard, which was bordered by the farmhouse, a large white barn, two grain silos, and several outbuildings. The groundsman turned the truck around so that it was facing the way it came, with the trailer doors pointed toward the barn. It was parked at a slight angle so that any passing motorists who might be curious would see that the truck was from the Church.

Having observed the Madduxes for the last several weeks, the groundsman had their routine down pat and knew they would not be home from their daughter’s before six-thirty at the earliest, and by then the Lions would be long gone. He unlocked the rear trailer doors and extended a long skid plate ramp. He then slid open the barn door and disappeared into the semitrailer. As he was about to unload the first of his cargo, he stopped and cocked his head in the direction of the driveway, thinking he heard something. The man’s keen hearing hadn’t deceived him. Faintly, in the distance was the low rumble of Joe Maddux’s truck turning up the snow-covered driveway.

Quickly, the groundsman jumped out of the back of the trailer, closed its metal doors, and slid the ramp back into place. A million questions should have raced through his mind, but he was trained to react, not waste time. He managed to slide the huge barn door closed before the Maddux’s truck came into full view.

In his blue-and-white Deseret Industries coveralls, he knew he looked the part. He struck a casual pose by the side of the semi and even managed a small grin. He waved to Joe and Mary Maddux as they pulled into the courtyard.

“Good afternoon, Elder Maddux,” said the groundsman with a slight Utah lax on the consonants of his perfect American English when Joe Maddux stepped down from his pickup truck. “And good afternoon to you as well, sister.”

“Good afternoon,” replied the couple in unison. Mary climbed out of the passenger side to get a better look at the enormous truck parked in their driveway.

“I’m sorry I’m a little bit late for our appointment,” said the groundsman as he walked toward the couple, his right hand outstretched.

“Our appointment?” replied a confused Joe Maddux, who shook the groundsman’s hand and then watched Mary do the same.