—@TayCamp
The smoke was back. It poured into the shallow valley on a wind warmed by the fire itself. The hillside to the west seethed with red and orange, the glow sometimes briefly illuminating silhouettes of the firefighters working desperately to halt its advance. But the blaze had the upper hand for now: the planes and helicopters dumping retardant and water had been grounded at nightfall and wouldn’t be back until morning.
Jordan hated wearing masks but had one on now, just to give his lungs and his raw itching throat a break. Looking at the growing assembly of men and vehicles a few hundred yards down the road, just out of sight of Fisk’s place, he wished they could wait for daylight, too.
A Madera Sheriff’s cruiser parked down the road and Beto got out. He made his way up the line with a large paper bag, offering coffee and sandwiches to his fellow deputies. Not looking at the Feds.
“Narvaez got the last sandwich,” he said apologetically when he finally reached Jordan. “Coffee?”
“Appreciate it.”
Jordan took the paper cup, lowered his mask, and sipped. It was lukewarm and bitter, only marginally better than swallowing smoke.
“Can’t believe this shit,” said Beto, taking in the scene. “You OK? Heard you got a gun stuck in your belly.”
“I was honestly more worried the Feds would shoot me. Fisk’s finger wasn’t on the trigger. He’s pretty cool, even when he gets hotheaded.”
He had been so certain the man would have given up what he knew with a little more time. That changed after he saw the hair cuttings. But why was Fisk protecting Campbell? What did a grizzled off-the-gridder care about a lost-in-the-woods creature of the internet?
Jordan’s argument with Wen afterward had been as intense as it was futile.
He knows something! He was about to talk.
What was I supposed to do, let him blow your guts out?
He wasn’t even holding the shotgun until you showed up.
You’re fooling yourself if you think old meth mouth up there is going to help us, said Crosby, despite never having been close enough to get a look at Fisk’s teeth.
The man’s mouth looked normal enough. Jordan found himself wondering where Fisk got his dental work done, or if he did, a sure sign of mental fatigue.
In the end, he could find no reason not to tell Wen what he’d seen in the barn.
That’s our girl, she said.Time to call in the cavalry.
While they waited for the warrant to be issued by an off-duty judge in Sacramento, Wen ordered her team of three to “seal the perimeter.” Jordan wished them luck. A full platoon would findit a challenge to seal off all escape routes in the rocky, heavily wooded hillsides, especially with the smoke offering cover.
But reinforcements were coming soon. Wen had commandeered Fresno PD’s SWAT team with their armored personnel carrier. A new vehicle carrying more men from a different agency seemed to arrive every ten minutes or so. The search helicopter had refueled and returned, its pilot flying high above the fire with a spotter using infrared technology.
As the minutes ticked past, the two teams—Jordan’s and Wen’s—eyeballed each other from opposite sides of the poorly maintained road.
Jordan’s phone vibrated with a text. Amber Alert.
Coming home anytime soon?
Wouldn’t count on it.
Your dinner’s in the fridge. Should I put it in the freezer?
Jordan’s stomach growled.Or give it to the dog.
Rough day here, too. I took Sydney to see Bree. The machines are the only thing keeping that girl alive.
How to answer that?
Love you both,he wrote.Miss you.
Miss you, too. Stay safe?
