Jordan had had a half-dozen encounters with Fisk over the previous dozen years and had always known him to be brusque and taciturn. Never in all that time had the man made a joke, let alone two.
“Answer the question.”
Fisk seemed to sense something before he did, looking up and over Jordan’s shoulder. A second later, Jordan heard the high whine of a big engine in low gear, rocks rattling off an undercarriage, and wide tires sliding in the dust.
Jordan turned to see Wen and her team climbing out of the black Ford Explorer with tinted windows. Unholstering their guns.
He turned again and saw Fisk pick up the shotgun.
Caught in the middle.
“Who the fuck are they, Sheriff?” yelled Fisk.
“Feds. US Marshals. Here with the search party,” said Jordan, keeping his voice as even as he could. “Nobody’s here for you.”
Wen and her team were fanning out, taking cover.
“Drop the shotgun,now!” she shouted.
Fisk aimed the shotgun at Jordan’s stomach and moved closer, careful to keep Jordan between him and the Marshals. “This all some kind of trick? Let them use you as a decoy?”
“Not helping, Wen!” Jordan called over his shoulder. “Everything is fine here.”
“Then tell Jethro there to drop the gun, get on his knees, and put his hands behind his back!” yelled Crosby.
“Not gonna happen,” muttered Fisk.
“You saw her, didn’t you?” pressed Jordan. “How long ago was it? Are you protecting her?”
“Get down, Sheriff!” barked the big Marshal. “I have a shot!”
Jordan stayed between them as Fisk moved backward with careful steps until he was partially hidden behind the barn, only the shotgun barrel showing.
“Get to safety now, Burke!” screamed Wen.
He turned around and faced them, exasperated. “Goddamn it, I’m just talking to the man. This is not how we’re going to do this! Back off and let me do my job!”
Nobody moved for a full minute. Then Jordan heard Wen say something to her team. Still with guns trained on Fisk’s location, they retreated to the Explorer. The doors closed and Wen backed it down the road.
“I suppose you want my gratitude for that,” Fisk said, showing a sliver of his face.
“I want to find Cara Campbell. Let me search and then I’ll go.”
“You’ll go now.”
“I’ll come back with a warrant.”
“That’s what it’s going to take.”
“Don’t do this. It’s not worth it.”
Fisk’s visible eye stared at him implacably. “For you, or for me?”
Jordan knew they were done. As he turned to go, he glanced inside the open door of the Quonset barn and saw a pair of sheep shears and what looked like wool.
Not wool.
Ratty blond hair extensions.
