In Sheep's Clothing: An Action-Packed Political Thriller (Matthew Richter Thriller Series Book 1) (20 page)

They were a strange-looking group.  While Richter and the president appeared normal, except, maybe, for their snowshoes, Jack and Derek looked bizarre in their makeshift ponchos, rag hats and sock mittens.  They had insisted that Matt and Dave use their gear and had traded their Gore-Tex coats, gloves, and wool hats for the improvised clothing.  Richter had protested until he realized that his Sig Sauer would be useless below the sleeping bag and parachute wrapped and tied around his body.  His instinct told him that even in the remote mountains, in the deep snow, he needed to be on his guard.  He had to be prepared for the unknown, and in this case, the unknown was Cal Mosby.

Mosby would have landed somewhere in these mountains, he reasoned.  He may well have had someone waiting for him with a snowmobile.  Or, more likely, the freak storm had interfered with his plans, and he had been forced to find shelter and wait it out.  He would be looking for the opportunity to make his way to the closest town, probably Elk City, and make his escape.  Mosby’s accomplices had to be waiting somewhere nearby. 

The conversation with the president yesterday left Richter even more worried.  Who knew how big the conspiracy was?  Could there be people involved in the search and rescue whose real agenda was to make sure the president was dead?  Or to ensure that any evidence that this was anything other than an accident was destroyed?   The conversation had validated his belief that their best option was to put as much distance between themselves and the crash site as possible. 

Ultimately, Richter had accepted Derek’s offer.  As they continued on their way, he felt the reassuring weight of his gun in the coat’s outside pocket.  He wanted to be ready, and if that meant wearing Derek’s nice, warm coat, well, so be it.

Even with the snowshoes and ski poles, walking in the snow was a challenge.  Although the improvised snowshoes worked well—preventing them from sinking into the deep snow—it was physically demanding as they had to navigate the ever-changing landscape, all the while facing a constant headwind.  It took them five hours to cover two miles.  Worried about Dave, Jack had insisted they take frequent breaks. 

An hour later, they came to a swiftly flowing stream.  They stopped for a moment, staring at the rushing water, the opposite bank some fifteen or twenty feet away.  After a quick discussion, Jack and Derek set out in opposite directions, searching for a safer crossing while Richter and the president rested against a tree.  A short while later, Derek returned, then moments later, Jack. 

“I can’t find anything that way.”  Derek said, pointing downstream.

“There’s nothing upstream either.”  Jack added.  “At least as far as I went.”  He rummaged in his pack, pulled out protein bars, and passed them around. 

“Wait,” Derek said.  “Didn’t we cross this same stream…what, four days ago?  Isn’t this Cobb’s Creek?

“I think you’re right.”  Jack responded.  He pulled out the GPS and waited a moment as it searched for satellite signals.  “We crossed farther north, about one point four miles upstream from here.”  He punched several buttons.  “Right now, we’re about one mile from the cabin.  If we go back to where we crossed before, it would be about three point two miles total.”  He shook his head.  “I don’t think we’ll make it before dark.”

“Okay,” Derek responded, “why don’t we go as far as we can today while there’s still light?  We might find somewhere to cross along the way.  If not, we’ll go all the way back to where we crossed before.  If it starts to get dark before we reach the cabin, we’ll build another snow cave and hunker down for the night.”

“I think that might be our only choice.  What do you guys think?  Dave, do you think you can make it?” 

“Let’s give it a shot.”

“Idaho State Police.  This is Sergeant Williams.”

“Sergeant?  My name is Rhonda Walsh.  My son is missing…he hasn’t come home yet.”

“Where are you calling from, ma’am?”

“I live in Lewiston.”

“Ma’am, are you aware that many of the highways and secondary roads have been closed, especially in your area?  There are hundreds of people stranded, and we are working as quickly as we can to get to them all.  There are shelters being set up all around the state.”

“I don’t think he’s stuck on the side of the road.”

“Why do you say that, ma’am?”

“Because, they were going hiking.  He was with his friend Derek.  They were supposed to be home Friday.”

“Where were they hiking, ma’am?”

“In the Nez Perce National Forest.  They left here Wednesday, and I think they were starting their hike in Elk City.”

“Nez Perce?”  The sergeant felt a chill.

“I know.  I know.  I’ve been watching the news.  I…I…think they might have been there…where the plane crashed.” 

The Sergeant heard crying on the phone.

“Ma’am, if they were, we have hundreds of people out searching in that area right now.”

“Have you found anyone alive yet?”

“I don’t have anything specific on that.  Why don’t you give me your name and information on your son?  I’ll make sure that it gets to the right people.”   

They came upon a large tree that had fallen over the stream.  Although the deep snow covered the banks, the large irregular shapes on either side indicated that this was a narrow channel cut between large boulders.  On both sides of the stream, the banks sloped steeply down to the water.  Derek stopped and considered the tree for a moment. 

“I think this might work.” 

He took off his pack and removed his snowshoes.  Sitting at the top of the bank, he sank into the deep snow and carefully slid about five feet down to the tree trunk, displacing a large volume of snow along the way.  As he stood up on the trunk, more snow fell into the rushing water four or five feet below him.  He studied the tree.  The trunk was wider than his shoulders, but the tree sloped up to the opposite bank where the upper portion had landed.  To cross, he would have to walk uphill almost twenty feet before reaching the other side. 

“I don’t know, Derek.  That water’s moving really fast.  If you slip and fall in…” Jack didn’t finish the thought. 

Derek studied the stream.  Jack was right.  If he fell in, his wet clothes would quickly rob his body of heat, and hypothermia was a certainty.  That is, if he made it out before he drowned or was bashed unconscious on the rocks.  He patted the sleeping bag and parachute wrapped around his body.  A wet sleeping bag would act like an anchor.  Going across with the packs would be tricky.  Still, he reasoned as he considered the tree, it didn’t look that difficult.  

“Toss me one of the ski poles.”  

Using the stick for balance, Derek was able to walk across without too much difficulty. 

“I think we can do it.”

“I think it’s too risky.” Jack stated.  “I don’t think everyone can make it as easily as you.”

Richter listened to the exchange for a moment as he studied the log.  Then, reaching into his pack, he pulled out the nylon rope.  He tied one end of the rope securely to the base of a tree. 

“Hey, Derek.  I’m going to toss this to you.”

Richter took off his snowshoes and slid down to the base of the tree-bridge, using the rope to control his descent.  Bracing himself, he tossed the rope across to Derek, who tied it to another tree, about shoulder height, pulling it taut.

The president tentatively stepped out onto the tree.  With the boys calling encouragement, he shuffled forward.  The log was wide and, with the rope to hold onto, it was much easier than he expected.  Soon, he was halfway across.  He took another step and then it happened.  A section of the trunk was coated in ice, courtesy of the splashing water below and the sub-freezing temperatures.  His right foot slipped and he fell to the side.  Suddenly he was plunging toward the stream—certain he was going in—when he was abruptly jerked to a halt.  He bounced up and down like a yo-yo before Richter grabbed his harness. 

“I’ve got you…Dave.”  Struggling, Richter pulled the president up until he got his feet back on the log.  Kendall was breathing heavily. 

“That looked like fun,” Derek called.  “Can I try it next?”  

Kendall let out a breath.  He was too old for bungee jumping, he thought, but thank God for the harness.  After watching Derek and Jack slip and slide their way across several times as they carried the gear over, Richter had fashioned a safety line using the parachute harness.  He had looped the suspension lines over the rope support and secured the ends to either side of the harness. 

Kendall took a deep breath, stepped over the icy section and began to inch forward.  Richter, in a second harness and with a steady hand on his boss’s shoulder, followed.

It took them another two hours to reach the strand of pines.  They stopped and rested for a moment after the strenuous climb.  After some water and more protein bars, they set out again and twenty minutes later emerged from the trees.  A shack, constructed from rough-hewn planks, stood in the middle of a clearing, fifty yards away.  A single window faced them, but it appeared to be shuttered.  A pile of cut wood stood to the right of the cabin, in an area that had been cleared. 

“Hey, we finally made it!”

Suddenly, Richter grabbed the president and turned back to the trees. 

“Back in the woods!” he hissed.  “Right now!”  

Confused, Jack and Derek trailed to a spot behind a large spruce. 

“What’s wrong?”  Jack whispered.

Richter ignored him as he stared through the tree branches at the woodpile, then up at the roof.  There was a black metal chimneystack rising above the cabin.  Even in the wind, the smoke was visible. 

Richter tapped Derek’s shoulder then pointed at the president and then the forest.  Without a word, Derek took Dave’s arm and led him and Jack deeper into the trees.  Richter watched until they disappeared.  He studied the cabin for a moment then turned and followed.  He caught up several minutes later, and they found shelter below a large spruce. 

Richter nodded at Jack and Derek. 

“Stay here with Dave,” he ordered.

“What’s going on?” Jack asked.

Richter ignored Jack again as he peered through the snow-covered branches.  Then he took his gloves off, handing them to Derek. 

“If anything happens, I want you to take Dave back the way we came.  Get as far away from here as you can.  Understood?”

Confused, Derek nodded nonetheless. 

Richter made his way back to the edge of the forest.  He stopped to observe the cabin again.  Other than the smoke drifting up from the chimney, the cabin was still.  Holding his gun with both hands, he moved forward.  His instinct was to run in a half-crouch, zigzagging from tree to tree for cover.  Instead, he plodded along, awkward in the snowshoes, exposed, on top of the deep snow.  Every three or four steps, he paused to scan and listen. 

He was twenty feet from the shack when, to his right, a figure suddenly appeared from around the corner, gun in hand.  All he saw was a torso; the figure apparently was following a path through the snow.  Richter, struggling to maintain his balance in the snowshoes, twisted his upper body like an acrobat as he tried to follow the figure through his gun sights. 

The figure froze in midstride then, with lightning speed, spun around toward him. 

The boom of several gunshots echoed through the woods. 

Jack flinched.  “Holy shit!”

Derek stood, grabbed Dave’s arm, and pulled him up.  “Come on!  Let’s go!”

Jack hesitated.  “Shouldn’t we help him?”

“No!”  The president hissed over his shoulder.  “There’s nothing we can do.  Come on!”

The three trudged deeper into the trees and, ten minutes later, they reached the other side.  Derek stopped and peered back through the foliage. 

“I don’t think anyone’s following us.”  He turned.  “What do we do now?”

“We keep going.”

“Wait!”  Jack pleaded.  “What if he’s hurt?”

President Kendall grabbed Jack by the shoulders.  “No.  We’re going to do exactly what Agent Richter told us to do.”

Jack stared at Dave for a moment before the realization hit him. 

“Oh my God!”

Richter pushed the snow off his face and sat up; he swung his gun back and forth, certain his attacker was coming.  After several seconds of silence, he peered over the top of the snow and saw a head disappear to his right.  The head reappeared a second later, closer to the woodpile.  Richter swung his gun and fired.  Seizing the moment, he sat back and removed his snowshoes.  He rose and peeked above the snow again and, seeing nothing, dropped back down.  Using the snowshoe, he began to dig a trench toward the cabin.

“Give it up, Richter!  You’re fucked!”

Ignoring Mosby’s taunt, Richter continued digging.  After several minutes, he crawled back to the spot where he first dove into the snow and peeked over the edge again.  He ducked back down as the snow exploded behind him and another shot rang out.  Mosby was behind the woodpile. 

“You saved yourself, didn’t you?”

He crawled back down the trench and began digging again.

“You left him on the plane to die, didn’t you?”

A minute later, he reached the cabin and then began to tunnel along the side, moving out of Mosby’s line of sight.

“You’re oh for two, Richter!  That’s a hell of a record!”

Richter continued digging until he reached the corner of the cabin.  Peering over the trench, he couldn’t see the woodpile any longer. 

“You froze!  You choked!”

He stood and continued digging and plowing his way through the snow around the side of the cabin.

“I’m going to kill you, Richter!”

When he reached the next corner, he peered around the side.  There was a small covering, hardly a porch, over the front door.  A trench ran from the door then curved to the right where it forked, one path disappearing around the next corner.  That must lead to the woodpile, Richter guessed.  The left-hand fork continued straight into the trees to what appeared to be an outhouse.  

“You couldn’t save the president, and you can’t save yourself!”

Richter dug his way to the trench by the front door.  He dropped to his knees again, and pulling his stinging hands up into the sleeves of the coat, he began crawling to the outhouse.  Mosby continued to taunt him.  When he reached the outhouse, he stopped and peeked over the snow.  Mosby was kneeling behind the woodpile thirty feet away, his back to Richter.

“You’re a coward, Richter!”

Richter stood and pointed his gun at Mosby.

“I’m coming to get you!” Mosby taunted

Mosby poked his head above the woodpile, then stood.  His gun was pointed at the spot where Richter had been when they exchanged gunfire.  He turned and began to follow the trench back toward the front of the cabin. 

“Stop right there, Mosby!”

Mosby spun, and several more shots rang out.

Derek peered out through the branches of the tree.

“Someone’s coming,” he whispered as he ducked down. 

There was no way they could hide; their tracks gave them away.  He looked back at Dave.  They couldn’t run either.  The president was lying in the snow, his face contorted in pain, while Jack massaged his knee. 

Derek looked up again and watched as the shadow moved through the woods.  After a moment, he recognized the coat.

“It’s Matt!”

They watched Richter approach, his face a mask of stone.

“Are you okay?”

Ignoring the question, Richter nodded toward the president.  “What happened?”

Jack gently touched Kendall’s leg.  “He twisted his knee.” 

Richter nodded.  “Let’s get you to the shack.  We should be okay there for a little while.”

In the fading light, Richter and Derek helped the president to his feet.  

They began to make their way to the strand of trees once again.  Jack and Derek were too stunned to talk, but the president asked the question on everyone’s mind.

“What happened?”

“There was only one, sir.”  Richter paused.  “Mosby.”

The cabin appeared to date back to the mining days; nothing more than a single room with an old woodstove in the center.  Three rough, handmade chairs were arranged around a similarly constructed table against the wall.  Wooden pegs on one wall held a coil of weathered rope, a two-man saw—its blade rusted brown—and an old miner’s lantern. 

There were two folded cots stacked against another wall, below a propane camping lantern hanging from a wooden peg.  Two fishing poles were standing in the corner, next to a tackle box.  A nearby shelf held several boxes of twelve gauge shotgun shells and a box of .22 caliber ammunition.

Below the single shuttered window was a counter, constructed from the same rough-hewn wood as the furniture.  A large sink, the enamel chipped and scratched, sat in the middle.  The drain line ran into a five-gallon plastic bucket on the floor.  A camping stove was set up next to the sink.  On a shelf below, there were half a dozen small propane canisters, various cast iron pans and pots, and a one-gallon jug of water.  Old newspapers, hung as insulation, covered the walls.  Most dated to the early 1900’s, and the articles and ads provided a glimpse into mining life at the turn of the century. 

A third cot was set up against another wall, and an Air Force sleeping bag lay neatly on top.  The table was covered with the food packs and assorted gear from a survival-kit.  It was obvious that Mosby had been staying here. 

Richter took off his snowshoes, stood, and signaled Derek. 

“I need your help outside.”

Derek hurried to remove his snowshoes and then stood, uncertain.  Jack stood as well but, after glancing at Richter, sat back down.

“He’s dead, Jack.  There’s nothing you can do for him.”

Jack sighed.  When Richter opened the door, a cold wind blew in and both Jack and the president shivered.  After the door closed, Jack hugged himself for a moment to warm up. 

The president pulled off his last shoe and tried to stand, but Jack stopped him.  

“Here, let me.”  Jack stacked the shoes against the wall.  “Does your knee still hurt?”

Kendall shook his head.  “It’s nothing, Jack.”

“Let me take a look.”

Kendall waved him away then pointed to the chair.  “Have a seat and warm up.”  

Shaking his head, Jack sat.  He glanced at the president for a moment and shook his head again.

“I can’t believe I’m sitting in an old mining cabin with the President of the United States.”

“Jack, believe me when I say that I never expected to be sitting here either.  But we are here and we need to figure out how we are going to make it out of this alive.”

“So, this wasn’t just an accident.  Someone tried to kill you….?”  Jack hesitated.  “What are we supposed to call you now?  Dave seems too weird.”

“Dave is fine.”  The president patted him on the shoulder.  “And yes.  Someone tried to kill me.”

“God.  I don’t know what to say.  How could this happen?  Do you know who’s behind this?” 

“I have my suspicions, but I think for now it’s best if I kept those to myself.”

“But that guy outside?  That guy Matt shot?  He was a part of it?”

“Yes.  We believe he was.”

“Won’t they be looking for you?  You know, the Secret Service, the police, the Army?”

“I’m sure they are.  But right now, I think we’re safer here.” 

Richter stared down at the body.  Mosby’s lifeless eyes stared back.  There were two neat holes in the center of his forehead.  He wanted to scream. 
I didn’t freeze that time, did I, asshole!
  The tension of the last few days was like acid in his stomach. 
What the hell possessed you to do it?  You betrayed your country!  You killed them all!  You killed Stephanie!
He felt the rage inside growing. 
I’m going to find out who else is behind this.  I’ll find them and, if it’s the last thing I ever do, I’m going to kill them myself.
  He took several deep breaths and watched the flakes fall for a moment before looking back down. 
You’re one cold bastard.
  He suddenly laughed as he remembered something Brad Lansing had said:
That man has ice in his veins.
  Well, if he didn’t before, he would soon! 

“Jesus!”

He turned at Derek’s voice.  Ignoring him, he knelt and pried the gun from Mosby’s hand and stuffed it in his pocket.  As he began to undress the body, he called over his shoulder. 

“Bring that wood to the cabin and then come back and help me.”

Richter dumped the clothes on the table and began to examine them. 

“So what did you do with him?” the president asked.

“I stripped the body and buried him in the snow.”

The president nodded. 

Richter held up Mosby’s flight suit and parka.  “Sir.  I think you and he are the same height.” 

There was a stain on the hood, and the president realized that it was Mosby’s blood.  He was about to say something but hesitated when he saw Richter.  He saw a warrior looking back at him, a soldier on a mission.  Richter had done what he had been trained to do, which was to keep him alive.  He was doing a damned fine job of it especially under the circumstances, Kendall thought.  Richter had no choice in shooting Mosby, but it was a brutal reality that he found tough to fathom.  Kill or be killed.  It was one thing to read about it or discuss it in an academic sense, but it was entirely different to be thrust into the middle of it.  It was survival of the fittest.  He was glad that he didn’t have to face these kinds of decisions himself.  Still, to survive, he had to start thinking like Richter, to always be one step ahead, anticipating the next threat.

As if reading his thoughts, Richter left the clothes on the table and sat down.  “Sir, I don’t think we can stay here for very long.”

He waited for Richter to continue.

“Mosby had to have someone waiting for him, an accomplice to help him escape.”

He frowned.  “You think they may be near here?”

Richter nodded.  “This is a good shelter, for now, but we’re sitting ducks here.”

The president considered this.

“When the boys come back, we need to discuss our next steps,” Richter continued

“Where are they?”

“They’re filling the water bottles.”

He frowned.  “Jack knows who I am.  I’m sure Derek does too by now.” 

Richter held his gaze for a moment.  “It was bound to happen eventually, but right now, I’m not sure if that’s a good thing.”

“You don’t really work for the Immigration Department, do you?”  Derek asked.  “You’re a Secret Service agent, right?”

Richter nodded.  “Yeah, I’m a Secret Service agent.”

“Why didn’t you tell us earlier?” 

Richter glared at him; Derek flinched as if stung. 

“Hey, I’m just asking.  I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Richter took a breath.  “Look, my job is to protect the president at all costs.  I didn’t know who you were at first.  There are more people involved in this than that guy outside.” He paused.  “I had to be sure.”

Derek considered this for a moment.  “I guess that makes sense.  So what do we do now?”

That was the question, Richter thought.  According to Jack, the car was still a good distance away, seven or eight miles at least.  The trek today, only half that distance, had taken more than eight hours.  To reach the car would take them two days at least and then what?  The car was still five miles from Elk City, buried below four or five feet of snow.  The forest service roads would be impassable.  They had no choice but to head toward Elk City. 
But what then?
he wondered.