“I have to feed my dog. I’ll be back in a few minutes to pick you up.”
Connor did feed Farley, but his main reason for heading back to his apartment was to remove his pistol from the gun safe in the closet. Agent Anthony would surely be armed when they visited the ranch, and he had seen for himself that many of the people there carried weapons. He wasn’t going to be left with no way to defend himself and Stacy.
Anthony was waiting when Connor pulled into the condo complex. Dressed all in black, down to a black balaclava, he looked ready for a burglary. He slid into the passenger seat of Connor’s truck, then frowned at Farley, who stuck his head between the seats. “What are you thinking, bringing a dog along?”
“He could prove useful.”
“He’ll be in the way.”
“Let me worry about him.”
Anthony settled back in the passenger seat. “What do you know about this rancher?” he asked.
“Shane Greer. He’s maybe fifty. No sign of a wife or kids on the place. Apparently his family owned a lot of land in this area for multiple generations but lost it over the years. Shane has been buying up parcels as they become available and is trying to establish the ranch again. Stacy couldn’t find a criminal record, and he comes across as an affable, concerned citizen who wants to leave Blaine Mountain open for free recreation for everyone.”
“But you don’t believe him.”
“I might have, if not for those stolen explosives.” Connor glanced at the agent, who was turned toward him, only his outline visible in the darkness. “I’ve worked with these explosives for six years now. Before that, I handled munitions in the Army. You don’t just casually toss this stuff around. You guard it like gold. We keep meticulous records and limit who has access to the stores. Every piece has to be accounted for every time we use them.” His hands tightened on the steering wheel. “I know what kind of destruction those stolen boxes contain. I’ve lived through one war zone. I don’t want to see another one right here.”
“The ski resort representative said they thought the theft was a prank.”
“The ski resort has a vested interest in downplaying any kind of danger,” Connor said.
Anthony said nothing, and Connor was tired of talking. Better to let the agent see the situation at the ranch for himself. Maybe then he would believe Connor was telling the truth.
The road leading to the ranch was pitch-black, but they spotted the property long before they reached it. It was lit up like a summer fair—strings of lights in trees, lanterns, a bonfire and the glow from campers, outbuildings and the house itself. Vehicles crowded the road leading up to the ranch house.
“Who are all these people?” Anthony asked.
“Greer says he advertised all over Colorado for people to help with the protests this weekend,” Connor said. “Apparently, he’s allowing them to camp on his land.”
“Park here at the main road, facing the way out,” Anthony said. “We don’t want to get boxed in.”
Connor maneuvered the vehicle around, then they climbed out of the truck, Farley staying close to Connor. The dog stood very still, sniffing the air. Music and laughter drifted to them from the ranch. They made their way along the shoulder of the roadtoward the main entrance to the ranch. People moved from light to shadow among the trees, and the music blared louder. “Looks like a party,” Anthony said.
“Sounds like one, too,” Connor said. “Maybe everyone is celebrating, getting fired up for tomorrow.”
“It should make it easier for us to blend in,” Anthony said.
Anthony had the polished new-ski-gear look of a tourist instead of the broken-in winter wear of the locals, but Connor kept his mouth shut. Nothing said tourists couldn’t be converted to the cause or just be in search of a good party.
They walked up the drive, sticking to the shadows. Farley kept his nose to the ground, following invisible scent trails for short distances but always staying close. “The chicken house where Stacy and George are being held is up behind the house,” Connor said.
Anthony nodded. “A car’s coming,” he said.
They stepped into the trees on the side of the drive. A white pickup truck lumbered toward them. People stopped to cheer as the truck drove past. Shane had lowered the driver’s window and was waving to the crowd. A man with a bushy beard and Nate, the snowboarder who had been at the Trail’s End with Jace, filled the rest of the front seat.
“That’s Shane Greer, driving,” Connor spoke softly to Anthony. “The younger man with him is named Nate. He was friends with the snowboarder who died after the avalanche.”
“Someone was killed in the avalanche?”
“Jace—the snowboarder—was killed. But not in the avalanche. He died on one of the ski runs shortly after the avalanche. The local sheriff is still trying to sort things out.”
“Never mind that. Let’s get to this chicken house.”
Connor led the way past the house. The chicken shed sat dark and silent by itself about a hundred yards past the house. “I don’t see anyone standing guard,” Connor said as he, Anthony and thedog crouched behind a clump of pinion trees a short distance away.
“Maybe they’ve moved the Macraes to another location,” Anthony said.
