“Reya, honey? Careful of the water, you don’t want to get your shoes wet.”

Reya—it means queen in Spanish, her mother’s idea—Reya is the middle child, tends to be careless of her belongings, and she sticks her tongue out at him and skips through the shallow water in open defiance.

Ricky smiles. This is the new Ricky Lang. There was a time when he might have lost his temper, maybe even spanked her little bottom, but those days are over. He’ll not raise a hand to any of the children now, or ever again. Solemn promise, hand to his heart.

Strange. His big hand searches around his chest, attempting to locate a heartbeat. Can’t find one. As the black smoke rises from the wreckage of the helicopter, he grabs his wrist, checking for a pulse.

No pulse. Amazing.

The sudden realization that he’s dead fills Ricky Lang with joy. He’s left himself behind! He can no longer be killed.

Being dead creates all sorts of interesting possibilities.

19. The View From The Fire Tower

Maybe I’ve led a sheltered life, but up to now the only place I’ve ever seen a dead body was in a hospital setting or a funeral parlor. In the hospital the dead look empty and at peace and at funerals they tend to resemble wax dummies. Sad but not remotely scary, and never a hint of violence.

So far this morning my count includes the victim of a gunshot wound and two would-be rescuers blown out of the air. It feels like we’re surrounded by sudden death and frankly it almost scares the pee out of me. Not quite, because I manage to get behind a clump of bushes to do my business.

My male companions avert their eyes and say not a word, for which I’m grateful.

“What happened?” I manage to stammer upon return. “Why did it blow up? Was there a bomb?”

“Surface-to-air explosive device,” Shane concludes. “Probably an RPG.”

My first reaction is that we lured them to their doom, homing in on our flare. Shane looks like he’s thinking the same thing.

“You couldn’t know,” I tell him.

“No, I couldn’t,” he admits.

“It’s like you call the fire department to report a fire and on the way somebody shoots at the fire truck. It wasn’t you who made them shoot.”

Shane looks rueful. “Not quite the same. I knew he was out there, I just never imagined he had the weapons to bring down a helicopter.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“Makes you wonder,” Fish says, staring off at the black smoke. “We know he’s got a fully automatic shotgun and now a rocket-propelled grenade launcher. What else has he got, and why’s he need such an arsenal?”

“Must have big plans,” Shane suggests.

Fish nods agreement. “Revenge type plans. Who’s he mad at, besides the rich white man who helped him buy the casino?”

“His own people,” Shane responds instantly. “For kicking him out.”

At the top of a new steel fire tower, located not far from the forward deployment area, Special Agent Paloma Salazar backs away from her spotting scope. She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, exhales slowly. Bird down, no doubt about it.

Salazar gets on the radio, orders the remaining helicopters grounded. These are search-and-rescue craft, not equipped to defend against surface-to-air attacks, and she simply can’t risk keeping them on task. Thinking about risk management, there’s the problem of unarmed ground-search units who have volunteered to tramp through the grasslands. They lack body armor and would be vulnerable to gunfire. Should they be pulled back, too?

Not an easy decision, weighing two lives with known risk—indeed, they may already be dead—against possible risk to several hundred. On the other hand the volunteer units knew going in that an armed madman was out there.

For the moment the ground-search teams will remain deployed.

Salazar is about to phone Special Agent Healy, who is coordinating with the tribal police, when the fire tower begins to vibrate. Instantly she drops into a crouch, unholstering her firearm.

A head of thick black hair appears above the access ladder.

Salazar reholsters her firearm. “Good morning, Assistant Director.’

“‘A-Dick’ is fine,” says Monica Bevins, pulling her full, six-foot height to the top of the fire tower. “Nice view.”

“Not so nice, I’m afraid,” Salazar remarks, glancing at the wisp of black smoke spiraling up from the horizon.

“Sorry, of course,” says the A-Dick, chagrined.

“Am I being relieved?” Salazar wants to know. Well aware that having an assistant director on site in the middle of an operation is not exactly a vote of confidence.

“No, nothing like that,” Bevins says brightly, surveying the wide-open landscape. She folds her arms, an unconscious habit that slightly diminishes the width of her powerful swimmer’s shoulders. “I have every confidence in your organizational skills. Because of our, shall we say ‘delicate’ relations with Indian nations, the D.D. wants an eyes-on report.”

“You can assure the deputy director we’re fully cooperative with Nakosha law enforcement and responsive to their concerns.”

Monica towers over the smaller, lower-ranking agent, but she’s not the type to use her man-size body for intimidation, quite the opposite. She backs up a step to give the little lady breathing space. “I’ll do that,” she vows. “Now bring me up to speed, please.”

“Yesterday we initiated a full-scale search-and-rescue slash manhunt for fugitive Ricky Lang and two victims we believe he kidnapped. Said victims being the same as those identified in the shadow investigation of Edwin Manning, initiated by, I’m assuming, you.”

“Your assumption is correct. I initiated the investigation at the suggestion of former agent Randall Shane. Have you had the pleasure?”

The way Monica is smiling—kind of a Mona Lisa deal—makes Salazar wonder if she’s had the pleasure. Not an image Salazar cares to linger on, having seen large animals mating on the Nature Channel. “We met with Mr. Shane after he’d been assaulted by the suspect.”

“Two black eyes, I heard.”

“Yeah, and a broken nose. Caught him by surprise, apparently.”

“You can be sure of that,” Monica says firmly.

“Anyhow, it was the right call, getting a jump on the missing girl. Manning folded, gave us everything he knew about Lang.”

“What’s your take on the suspect?”

“May I be candid?”

“Please.”

“He’s a full-blown nut-job with berserker tendencies. I doubt he’ll be taken alive. Recent reports indicate he’s delusional, possibly hallucinating. He’s already killed or been responsible for the deaths of his three children, his common-law wife, and his own father, and he’s a suspect in another suspicious burning death.”

“Wait a minute,” Monica says, looking startled. “The father? When did that occur?”

“Just happened in the last hour, A-Dick. I haven’t seen it yet, but apparently there is surveillance footage of him breaking into a rest home here on the reservation. Went in through a screen door unimpeded. Location not far from where we stand, actually. There was no interior surveillance, but Lang’s father was found in his bed, smothered with a pillow.”

“Right under our noses, so to speak.”

“Right under our noses, most definitely. To be fair to my people, it was the tribal police who had the rest home under surveillance. If you don’t mind another candid observation, A-Dick, the tribal cops are scared to death of Ricky Lang. They’re going through the motions, giving us access and so on, but frankly I’m not expecting much from that quarter.”

“Noted,” says Monica. “Anybody know how he managed to get his hands on an RPG?”

“Not yet, no, but this is South Florida. Plus various well-armed Cuba Libre militias have trained in the area. Who knows what they left lying around?”

“I thought ‘Cuba libre’ was a drink?”