“That was part of the agreement,” she said, patting the center console. “But nowhere on that paper did it say I couldn’t carry.”

Nate opened the console to find a deadly looking snub-nosed revolver.

“It’s a Smith and Wesson Governor,” she said. “The man at the gun store said it’s very versatile and a real stopper. You can load it with .410 shotgun shells, .45 ACP rounds, or .45 Colts. Or you can mix and match—three shotgun shells, three bullets. I thought you might like it, and I think even I could hit something with a shotgun shell at close range.”

“Interesting choice,” Nate said. He was proud of her.

“Look over your shoulder,” she said.

He turned. There were no seats in the back of the van. His two peregrines and the red-tailed hawk stood erect and hooded in wire cages on the floor. They looked healthy and still. The ability raptors had for remaining still for hours and then exploding into furious action was a trait Nate had always admired.

A large plastic cooler—no doubt containing dead rabbits and pigeons for feed—was behind the cages. Falconry gloves, lures, and whistles were packed in translucent boxes that had been fixed to the interior side wall of the van. On the other wall was heavy winter clothing and a small desk that would pop down for communications and bookkeeping.

“Just like you described it,” Nate said. “You did a great job.”

“We’re open for business,” she said with a grin. “In fact, there’s some news on that front.”

He waited.

“Our first job,” she said. “It came this morning. A rancher in northern Wyoming named Wells needs to chase starlings out of his horse barn.”

“So that’s where we’re headed?” Nate asked as they cleared the city limits and merged onto I-25 North.

“Only as far as Casper tonight,” she said, looking over and crinkling her nose. “We have a reservation at a hotel—the honeymoon suite. You and I have some catching up to do.”

Nate sat back and smiled.

She said, “Those bracelet monitors can’t hear us, can they?”

“No.”

“Good. I don’t want to scorch some bureaucrat’s ears tonight.”

8

The next day, as they drove north on I-25, near the gnomish dryland formation known as the Teapot Dome, Nate pressed the send button on the BlackBerry that Dudley had given him. His call went straight through.

A woman answered.

“This is Nate Romanowski,” he said.

“I know who you are.”

“Okay, well who is this?”

“That’s not important.”

“How about I call you Olga, then? That’s a good Soviet name.”

“Hmph.”

Her voice was calm and businesslike, and she clipped off her words. There were no background conversations going on or ambient noises. She sounded to be in her mid-fifties, he thought, but it was only a guess. He imagined a hatchet-faced woman with short hair wearing a headset with a computer monitor in front of her. She was divorced but had two adult children who never called her. She’d worked for the federal government all of her life and she knew how many days she had left until retirement. She vacationed in Florida for three weeks every year, but never got tan.

Of course the conversation was being recorded, he thought. Probably by multiple agencies.

“I’m going north for a job,” Nate said.

“I see that. What kind of vehicle are you in?”

“We’ve got the Yarak, Inc. van. I’m not driving.”

“Who is with you?”

Nate hesitated. He was sure Olga knew the answer to her question, and he didn’t want to bring Liv into the conversation.

“My partner,” he said.

“Olivia Brannan?” the woman said.

Nate sighed. He noticed that Liv was looking over at him, curious about the conversation.

“What is the location of the job?” Olga asked.

Nate covered the mouthpiece on the BlackBerry and asked Liv. She told him what she knew.

“It’s a ranch outside of Saddlestring,” Nate said. “The HF Bar Ranch. It’s been there for generations and I know where it is, but I’ve never been on it before. It’s a working ranch, but also a dude ranch. From what we know, the wranglers want starlings chased out of the barn before the guests start to arrive this summer so the backs of the horses and the saddles aren’t covered with bird poop. I’m telling you this so you don’t think we’re being lured up there by the bad guys.”

He could hear her tapping keys on a keyboard.

She said, “Saddlestring. Isn’t that where Mr. Pickett lives?”

“It is.”

“Do we have a problem?”

“No, Olga. We don’t have a problem. The county itself is nine thousand, three hundred and fifty square miles. That’s as big as New Hampshire. It’s not likely I’ll just run into Joe.” Nate felt his face flush hot.

“I see,” Olga said. “Special Agent Dudley will be interested in this information.”

“Tell Mr. Dudley to piss up a rope, Olga,” Nate said. “I signed the agreement. I’ll abide by it.”

“Noted.”

“Until tomorrow, Olga,” he said, and punched off.

Nate dropped the phone on the seat between them and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands.

“I’m not going to be able to do this,” he said.

“It’ll be a process,” Liv said, but she looked worried.

—

DESPITE BEING WITH LIV AGAIN, despite the champagne she’d arranged for and the honeymoon suite she’d reserved, Nate had not been able to perform the night before. She’d been patient, alluring, and enthusiastic, but he couldn’t get aroused. He loved her, but something was wrong. He drank too much Wyoming Whiskey and fell asleep, and when he woke up in the middle of the night, he didn’t know where he was. He thought he was back in his cell.

Liv had held him tight the rest of the night, skin to skin.

She’d awakened him gently that morning.

He’d said, “What’s wrong with me?”

“You’re not yourself,” she assured him. “You’ve been through a lot and your feet aren’t on the ground yet.”

He told her how he’d thought of her constantly, how he’d fantasized about being with her again. In none of his dreams had it gone like it had in real life the night before.

He’d said, “I feel like I’ve been emasculated.”

“Is it because they took away your gun?” she asked.

“No. It’s because they took away my honor,” he responded. “That’s all I’ve ever had.”

—

THE SPRING SKY ROILED with thunderheads, and Nate could see downspouts miles away that looked like Greek columns connecting the high plains to the sky. Small herds of pronghorn antelope grazed on the fresh carpet of green grass, their burnished-copper and white color scheme making them stand out like highway cones. The smell of moist sage was thick in the air, as was ozone.

“I almost forgot what it smelled like when it’s about to rain,” he said to Liv.

“Maybe it’ll help bring you back,” she said. “And once you get your birds in the air and you have a job to do, I think it’ll get better. Work is good for the soul. Every man needs work.”

He nodded, and said, “I knew you were beautiful and smart, but I didn’t realize until recently that you are also very wise.”

She laughed. She had a great laugh, he thought, an all-out Louisiana low country belly laugh.

“No one’s ever called me wise before,” she said.

—

AS THEY PASSED the town of Kaycee, Nate lifted an imaginary glass and said, “Here’s to Chris LeDoux.”

“Who?” Liv asked.

“He used to live here,” Nate said. “Chris LeDoux was a championship professional rodeo cowboy and a country singer. He’s a Wyoming icon. Garth Brooks sang a song that mentions him called ‘Much Too Young to Feel This Damn Old.’ Joe and I always salute his memory whenever we pass by.”