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    Stone Cold
    Stone Cold
    Stone Cold
    Ebook406 pages9 hours

    Stone Cold

    By C. J. Box

    4/5

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    About this ebook

    Everything about the man is a mystery...

    No one knows where he came from, how he made his money or what's drawn him to the isolated Black Hills of North Wyoming. His generosity has won the locals over, but are his motives above suspicion?

    After a string of disappearances, Joe Pickett isn't the first investigator to pursue this enigmatic millionaire, but will he be the first to leave alive? With winter's first storm closing in, Joe's about to discover there's a stone-cold killer stalking the hills – and he's not alone.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBloomsbury Publishing
    Release dateMar 13, 2014
    ISBN9781781852750
    Author

    C. J. Box

    C. J. BOX is the New York Times best-selling author of many novels including the Joe Pickett series. He has won the Edgar Alan Poe Award for Best Novel (Blue Heaven, 2009) as well as the Anthony Award, Prix Calibre 38 (France), the Macavity Award, the Gumshoe Award, and the Barry Award. Over four million copies of his novels have been sold in the U.S. alone and they have been translated into twenty-seven languages. He lives in Wyoming.  

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    Reviews for Stone Cold

    4/5

    205 ratings29 reviews

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    • 3/5
      This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader as part of a Quick Takes Catch-up post, emphasizing pithiness, not thoroughness.---This was a good way to bring Nate back into the series if nothing else. The story was okay, and seeing Joe balance out working for his new administrator and Gov. Rulon was fun. I was less-than-excited about Sheridan’s storyline, it was good to see her in action, and any way that Box can do that is okay with me—I just wanted more, I guess.Bringing Missy in (and Box might as well have saved time with that reveal, anyone could’ve seen that coming 5 miles away) didn’t do much for me at all. The series really needs less of her, and I don’t get Box’s need to use her as much as he does.A decent installment in this series—nothing special, but nothing bad, either.
    • 4/5
      Another very solid entry in the Joe Pickett series. Box keeps humming along. This one was darker and more violent than most - not an unwelcome development.
    • 4/5
      It's been a while since I read a C. J. Box novel. This was a good one.
    • 5/5
      Stone Cold is another solid entry in the Joe Pickett series by CJ Box. I happened across the 12th book in the series not really noticing it was a series book and have been reading since then, once again there is enough background and detail in the characters in this book that you could read it as a stand alone if the blurb piques your interest but you don't want to make a 14 book commitment to get here. That being said, there is some benefit to reading the prior books with a rich tapestry of the Wyoming area of which the book is set being woven; there is also a good balance between backgrounding and call backs to prior novels that gives the new reader adequate detail without boring the series reader.As for this story in particular, it's slightly different from the prior two books in that this time around Joe Pickett is enlisted to investigate a well to do landowner in an impoverished county, without ruining the story, upon arrival Joe finds things are not as they should be and it appears some level of corruption or laziness is at play with people breaking the game & fishing laws getting free passes even when caught poaching or exceeding limits red handed.There's also a subplot involving Joe's daughter Sheridan, and a second involving April, the latter of which cliff hangs to the next novel, whilst the Sheridan story was an interesting reflection of today's climate.All in all, a great entertaining book. The scenic descriptions give you the urge to travel to the wilderness.
    • 3/5
      It had been a couple of years since I had read anything in this series, so I had forgotten that I wasn't always wild about every book in it. I found this one tedious and at times irritating... but in all fairness to the author it may have been the reader, (I listen to the audio version), and not the writing. Compared to most of the previous books...I'd have to say that it's just okay. I will certainly continue with the series.
    • 4/5
      Another great Joe Pickett novel. This time, Joe's tagged by the Governor to investigate corruption in another county. If it were the South, I'd call him Boxx Hogg! Of course, the governor gets more than he bargained for. Fast moving plot with familiar characters. There was a little sub plot that kept daughter, Sheridan, in the series. Missy returns, evil as ever. Nate plays a large role and suffers for it. Can't wait for the next in the series to find out what happens to him.
    • 5/5
      It has been awhile since I've read a C. J. Box book and had forgotten that he writes a good story. Joe Pickett series will be one I'll go back to.
    • 4/5
      I enjoyed this book. I thought the beginning was slow but the story did pick up after the first 1/4. Would like to see more of Nate Romanowski.
    • 2/5

      I was excited to pick up this book and try to erase the memory of my last “reading mistake”, Natchez Burning, by Greg Iles. Unfortunately, Stone Cold did not do it.

      Two hours into this I began to wonder if I had somehow missed a few chapters. Four hours into the book and I was sure that I had slipped into senility and had somehow missed important information about the characters, and the plot. It was then that I realized, for the first time, that this was book #14 out of a series. Unlike most series offering recurring characters, this author does not even try to catch you up, or fill you in. As a consequence, the characters are empty and the plot is lacking. It’s a bunch of little pills that when added up become too big to swallow. Why would a game warden be called upon to flush out international assassins living in the middle of the Wyoming prairie? Why does this game warden and his wife converse as if they were practicing psychologists? Why would anyone, literally hiding for their life, take the time to answer a text message concerning their daughter in college?

      Stone Cold is more like a single chapter out of a much larger book that contains all the background, details and excitement. The author’s style is easy to read and I assure you that you won’t have to take notes to follow the plot. My advice would be to start with the first installment and try to determine if you’ll be interested in what happens in book #14, Stone Cold. I wasn’t.
    • 4/5
      I have seen this author's books many times but never read one, thinking how can a book about a game warden in Wyoming be interesting? A friend gave me a copy of this book, so I read it.
      Starting with the 14th book in a series is never ideal, but the author does a fine job f supplying just enough detail to get the reader caught up, regarding the main characters.
      The story especially the outcome is very predictable, but the book is written well enough to make the finishing of the book worth it.
      It of course leaves something hanging at the end to propel the reader to read the next book in the series.

    • 4/5
      Having read the entire series I am always looking forward to the next Joe Picket installment. Stone Cold does not disappoint. Fast moving plot with familiar characters. Box continues to keep the series ever developing and interesting. A good, comfortable read that keeps drawing me back.
    • 4/5
      Can a high end murder for hire ring with pretensions of "doing some good" exist and thrive in the boondocks of Wyoming? Can the governor's "range rider" find out and bring them to justice? To respond to those two questions; Mr Box, always a good story teller, writes a fast moving story that is exciting to read and hard to put down. Is there any doubt that in the process, Joe Pickett will wreck another truck. I doubt it, but borrowing money from the feds is a new wrinkle. Is there another needful waif for Marybeth to rescue, stay tuned as hopefully this enjoyable series continues.
    • 3/5
      Okay. I'm amazed why this book is popular. Absolutely amazed! Box is a good writer, but this plot, characters, believability are, in my opinion, terrible. Not to speak of the morbid violence. Is this what the American public really want to read? God help us. Now - all that said - this is the first book of Box that I have read. I plan to read another and see if my thoughts are similar. I hope not.
    • 4/5
      Straight out of the C.J. Box playbook. Good story with a few surprises and twists. Plot was solid and moved at a pace that kept me reading.
    • 2/5
      Wyoming game warden, Joe Pickett, is asked by the governor to scout out the situation in the dying town of Medicine Wheel after a wealthy man has moved there and set up his home. This is my first Box book and I wasn't impressed. Maybe it was starting a series on book 14 but I just couldn't care for the characters. Maybe if I had read the back stories of the characters I would have 'known' them better. The plot was interesting but the subplot of Pickett's daughter's problems at school seemed contrived and thrown in.
    • 4/5
      Another great Box. Glad to see some Coon and Nate back - although he's getting a little out of the box for my tastes. Well written and suspenseful as always. Looking forward to the next one.
    • 4/5
      Joe Pickett, game warden, is asked by the Gov. of Wyoming, Gov. Rolon, to investigate what is happening in Medicine Wheel, Wyoming. This is a poor town in a beautiful area where a wealthy man, Wolfgang Templeton has built an estate, helped out locals and set up a little fiefdom in the town. He is a suspect in a murder for hire operation.Joe is to work with Special Agent Chuck Croom of the FBI and Joe's cover will be to work with the local game warden on a program to restock game.Joe is supposed to observe and report back not to take action. Of course, Joe does, he stirs up the pot and sees what comes up.The writing is crisp and there are a number of surprises.There is an interesting subplot where Joe's daughter is an RA in a dorm on her campus and suspects one of the students might be out to take action against other students. She asks Joe for help on what she might do to foil a possible attack on the students.Joe is a character who the reader will enjoy as a man, not perfect, but sincere. I found the other game warden to be a sympathetic character but with misguided acts.
    • 5/5
      This is just the second book by C. J. Box that I have read. However, It is well worth reading. He really keeps me interested throughout the story. I'll be looking forward to other books by this author.
    • 4/5
      I always look forward to a new Joe Pickett book. Box is pretty consistent with the quality of the series all along and this one doesn't disappoint. If fact, this one turns out to be one of the better ones. Joe has another secret assignment for the governor and of course, gets into more than he bargained for. It was a quick read without any extracurricular distractions to bog down the story.
    • 5/5
      The story starts with Nate Romanowski - a good sign, but why does Nate appear to be a hired killer!? When Joe is directed by the governor to investigate the man who just happens to be Nate's employer, the tension builds. Then there's the student in Sheridan's dorm who seems to like guns....Another excellent C.J. Box!
    • 5/5
      In joe pickett. Cj box has a solid character. The stories keep getting better and better. I would highly reccomend this latest book in the series. Great storyline as well
    • 4/5
      He has done it again. C.J. Box continues to pull new stories about a very solid charter base. Many of these lengthy series get stale over time, but the Joe Pickett novels continue to impress. If you are already a fan of Box definitely add this to your list. If you are not then pick this one up or one of the earlier novels in the series and get started.
    • 4/5
      I keep waiting for CJ Box to start losing his edge as many other authors have done as their series get a little long in the tooth, but not Box. He keeps it fresh and exciting every time. Unbelievable how much trouble one Game Warden in Wyoming can find himself but when you throw in a highly unconventional governor who happens to appreciate Joe's ability to insinuate himself into trouble wherever he goes, and Joe's buddy Nate it's anyone's guess what the final body (and state vehicle) count will be. Most shocking in this book is the return of the most villainous character of the entire series, which I can't expand on without spoiling it for others. Already can't wait for the next book to come out to see what becomes of Nate, and if anything comes of the lie he told Joe at the end of the book. I recommend this book 100%, but start with book 1 and work your way through. You'll be glad you did.
    • 4/5
      Really kept my interest, although I wish I'd read earlier books in order to understand some of the cryptic comments about one of the characters. I've read one or two others in the series, and C.J. Box really gives a sense of the Wyoming countryside.The protagonist is Joe Pickett, a game warden in the Bighorn Mountains of Wyoming, and he manages (despite the admonitions of his boss and wife and pretty much everyone he knows) to get involved in actual police cases more often than is justified by his job description. This book describes the comings and goings of a very rich man to his ranch at the back of nowhere in the Black Hills where he's raised more than a little suspicion about the source of his wealth. Since Joe is acting as a troubleshooter for the state governor, he gets sent into another county [where he is decidedly unwelcome] to uncover the truth about the mysterious "philanthropist" who has so improved life for those who work for him, as well as for the nearby town in general.Pickett gets beat up, beats up a few other people, gets shot at, and is nearly blown up by a car bomb ... all in all, a good Liam Neeson movie-in-waiting!
    • 4/5
      Stone Cold by C.J. Box is another fun outing with Wyoming game warden Joe Pickett. He gets sent to a different game warden's territory to find out whether a local wealthy landowner is behind the assassinations of some rich, difficult to convict frauds, one of whom is reminiscent of Bernie Madoff. Wyoming's Governor Rulon believes in Joe, and looks once more for him to get to the bottom of a tough problem:"You've always had this ability to get into the middle of things. And when you do, you look at the situation in a clear-eyed way. At times it's annoyed me, and I just wish you'd gone on with your business. But it is a unique gift, and I recognize that. . . . Joe, you're my range rider - a seeker of truth. You're my man on the ground, like before. Only this time, you can't get directly involved in the situation and you need to be wary not to embarrass me."Joe's honesty and integrity in the face of pressures to bend like everyone else are major aspects of his attractiveness as the main character in this series. His ability to unwisely annoy other people, his sometimes clumsy responses to problems in his family, and his occasional Stephanie Plum-like ineptness, help keep him from achieving only boring sainthood in the eyes of the reader. In this one, his friend, the complicated but deadly efficient Nate Romanowski, may be involved in the murders-for-hire. Joe also is trampling on the turf of a fellow game warden. Although he promises the Governor, the FBI, and most importantly, his wife, not to get directly involved, that of course is exactly what he's drawn into doing. Meanwhile, his adopted teen daughter April is swooning over a local rodeo champ who Joe suspects of being a rapist, and his college daughter Sheridan is worried about a darkly asocial student in her dorm who seems to have Columbine tendencies. These other stories are smoothly integrated, and one in particular leaves room for development in the next book.Joe isn't very good with his gun, and as always attacks the problem with his wits and doggedness, rather than brawn and firepower. I was ready for more when this one ended, and look forward to the next chapter in his adventures.
    • 4/5
      I always enjoy CJ Box. A friend introduced me to the series in October, and I just keep moving on to the next. I love Game Warden Joe Pickett and his determination to do the right thing. He does his job, he does it well, and he just doesn't understand people who don't. This book puts him with another Game Warden in a very different district. Joe pays attention to details, always is looking to be sure the hunters have their licenses and are within their limits, and doesn't ever look at someone and think maybe he should just leave them alone. He is going to do his job. That doesn't work too well in a county used to a game warden who looks the other way and takes the safer, more prudent course. He promises to stay out of trouble, but it just isn't in his nature to back down or give up.I also love that Nate Romanowski is back. He's in his own odd world and running into Joe is good for him. It always is. They take care of each other and that continues in this book.This can stand alone. Each story is independent with characters that make sense in the novel, but who are richer for knowing more of their backstory if you have read other books in the series. This entry in the series is very satisfying!
    • 5/5
      This is the first novel I've read by C. J. Box, thanks to the Library Thing Early Review program. It will not be my last. Stone Cold is the 14th in a series about Wyoming game warden Joe Pickett. It's obviously great as a stand alone book, but I'm going to the library to find the first 13. The wildlife and scenery descriptions were wonderfully accurate, and the surprises fed my murder mystery loving appetite. I'm definitely adding C. J. Box to my list of favorite authors.
    • 4/5
      The Joe Pickett stories just keep getting better! And Nate Romanowski, though not the main character, is by far the more intriguing. Joe is the "every man" we'd all like to be -- moral and predictably straight-laced. Nate always does what he believes is right, but his ethical framework for such decisions is unique. Box has not only created endearing and enduring characters, he has also found a way to set his stories in a wild and beautiful outdoor environment, creating vivid visual images. He even manages to sneak in some political and environmental issues, though never in a proselytizing way.When this book arrived in the mail (through Library Thing Early Review program) I put every other book aside, even stopped in the middle of one I was reading, and gleefully started reading STONE COLD. Not many authors or characters can make me do that.
    • 5/5
      If you've read C. J. Box before, Breaking Point (A Joe Pickett Novel), you'll settle into this one just like into a fine used saddle. C. J. Box's characters, Joe Pickett and Nate Romanowski, bring you back to the fold in no time. If not, settle your Stetson on your head and get ready for an exciting ride. Wyoming State Game Warden Joe Pickett is called in by the Governor to investigate and report on a wealthy rancher in a remote county. Wolfgang Templeton may have ties to the disappearance and possible murder of several shady financial magnates across the country. The cold snow and hot lead soon start flying. Well, if you know Joe, you know he will soon be waist deep in it and fighting his way out. Especially when he finds a connection to his friend Nate, who has been known to jump over the line between good and evil before. This is a great tale set in the snowy hills of Wyoming. It delivers a great ride. Book provided for review by Amazon Vine.

    Book preview

    Stone Cold - C. J. Box

    1

    Fort Smith, Montana

    NATE ROMANOWSKI PUSHED THE drift boat onto the Bighorn River at three-thirty in the morning on a Sunday in early October and let the silent muscle of the current pull him away from the grassy bank. Eight miles downriver was the fortified and opulent vacation home of the notorious man he was going to kill.

    It was twenty-four degrees and steam rose from the surface of the black water in thick tendrils, and he was soon enveloped in it. The craft floated quietly and he manned the long oars to keep the upswept bow pointing forward. Gnarled walls of river cottonwoods closed him in, their bare branches reaching overhead from both banks as if to try and join hands. For ten minutes between Third Island and Dag’s Run, he couldn’t see a damned thing and operated exclusively on feel and sound and experience. He kept to the main channel and avoided the shallows so he wouldn’t scrape bottom and could float as swiftly as possible.

    He’d made the run before in preparation—so many times, in fact, that the rhythm, mood, and temperament of the river was as familiar to him as his falcons, his weapons, and his code. Or what was left of his code, anyway, he thought, and grinned bitterly to himself in the dark.

    While doing night reconnaissance, he’d worn the narrow compression pack on his back that he wore now, and he was so used to the dead weight of the gear inside that he almost forgot it was there. His .500 Wyoming Express five-shot revolver, the most powerful handgun on earth, hung grip-out from its shoulder holster below his left ribs, its security tether unsnapped.

    Over his shoulder, the massive concrete spillway of the Yellowtail Dam glowed light blue in the muted light of the stars and the scythelike slice of moon. A single cumulus cloud, its rounded edges highlighted by starlight, moved from north to south, blotting out the continuity of the brilliant Milky Way. It would be hours before fly-fishing guides and anglers—men, women, but mostly men—arrived at the launch near the dam and started their half-day or daylong drift floats down the legendary Bighorn. Nate slipped a cell phone from his breast pocket and powered it on. When he had a signal and the screen glowed, he called up the only number stored in it and texted: It’s a go. And sent the message.

    Within a minute, there was a response: Go do some good.

    Nate turned off the phone and slipped it back into his pocket.

    NATE WAS TALL, angular, and rangy. He didn’t row with the oars but used them to steer the boat by lowering one or the other into the current to bring the bow around. He had worked on his technique so it was smooth and he wouldn’t splash. The oars were an extension of his arms, and his movements were smooth and unhurried.

    His friend Joe Pickett had once described his face and eyes as hawklike. His blond ponytail, constrained by leather falcon jesses, had grown to midway between his shoulders. It was tucked into the collar of his tactical sweater so it wouldn’t be noticed. His eyes were blue and piercing, and the planes of his face were flat, severe, and aerodynamic. He wore a dark camo slouch hat, and his sharp cheekbones were darkened with soot so the moonlight, such as it was, wouldn’t reflect.

    THERE WAS NO DOUBT, Nate had been told, that the world would be a better place without Henry P. Scoggins III in it.

    Scoggins was short, fleshy, stooped, and walleyed, and was the last direct heir of the Scoggins pharmaceutical empire of Newark, New Jersey. Unlike his grandfather, the senator and ambassador, or his father, the well-intentioned philanthropist, Henry the Third, as he was known, used his billions to manipulate monetary currencies around the world, corner the market on fourteen of seventeen rare earth metals, and lavishly fund activist groups that advocated legalized prostitution, drug use, and polygamy. He enjoyed the company of corrupt machine politicians, gangsta rap artists, foreign dictators, and domestic organized-crime figures. Several of his lurid divorce proceedings were front-page news over the years, as well as the Los Angeles murder trial where he’d been accused of shooting a hooker in the face and killing her on the front porch of his mansion. He had been found innocent when the jury bought his lawyer’s claim that Scoggins mistook her for a homicidal home invader threatening his Beverly Hills neighborhood at the time.

    In video clips, Scoggins spoke in a deliberate mid-register timbre that belied his habit of constantly and furtively looking over the heads of the listeners, as if searching for someone more worthwhile, better-looking, or less threatening in the room. He had the arrogant look of a bully who had insulated himself so he’d never have to directly confront a challenge, the kind of man comfortable with rewarding his friends in person and punishing his enemies from a distance.

    Isolating the man was the problem. Scoggins surrounded himself with armed bodyguards, and his five U.S.-based homes—Newark, Manhattan, Aspen, Palm Beach, and the infamous Beverly Hills manse—were set up with elaborate security systems. His overseas properties in Caracas, Abu Dhabi, and Grand Cayman were protected by security contractors who were ex–Black Ops.

    Few people were aware of the six-million-dollar log home Scoggins had recently purchased through a holding company on the bank of the Bighorn River. The reason: he wanted to learn to fly-fish. The rumor was that Scoggins thought he was buying the river itself.

    FOR THE PAST WEEK, in addition to the late-night reconnaissance floats, Nate had scouted the Scoggins property on the ground by trespassing through an adjoining landholding and avoiding the caretaker. There were very few private residences in the river valley, and the few that were there were massive and expensive. They were accessed by a private road that paralleled the bends of the river. Only a couple of the structures could be seen from the road itself, due to high stone walls and steel security gates. The Scoggins property had not only a swinging gate operated by remote control but also a small guardhouse manned by an armed employee during daylight hours. At night, visitors—mostly delivery trucks—had to identify themselves via the closed-circuit camera at the gate to be buzzed in. Additional closed-circuit cameras that swept the grounds were mounted on poles within the compound, and Nate counted two men—one openly armed with a combat shotgun—lazily patrolling the grounds. He had dubbed the gate operator Thug Two, and the men on patrol Thug Three and Thug Four. All wore loose-fitting untucked shirts and cargo pants.

    Nate noted the disparity between the massive homes built of logs, stone, and glass, complete with guesthouses and outbuildings and sweeping manicured lawns, and the utter squalor of the Crow Indian Reservation just beyond the fence.

    On Friday he’d caught a glimpse of Scoggins in person. He’d been glassing the grounds through his spotting scope, memorizing the layout of the buildings and internalizing the contours of the ground, when a thick metal door opened and two women tumbled out. They had long brown legs and jet-black hair and they were wearing only lingerie. As Nate focused in, he felt the hair on the nape of his neck rise. They were Indians, likely Crows from the reservation. They wore too much makeup and they clutched bundles of their clothing under their arms, as if they’d been in a hurry to gather it up before they were thrown out of the house. The taller one reminded him of a woman he’d once loved named Alisha, who was a Shoshone and a teacher on the Wind River Indian Reservation in Wyoming. It jolted him to his core. She wasn’t Alisha but a prostitute, obviously, and she was being unceremoniously kicked out of the house before she could even get dressed.

    The shorter of the two women spun on her heel and shouted something Nate couldn’t hear at someone out of view inside the house. The taller woman paused, dropped her head in fear or panic, and reached out to the shorter woman to urge her on.

    Then Scoggins appeared, flanked by a barrel-chested younger man who had the build of a weight lifter and a smirk on his face. He also wore an oversized shirt and cargo pants. Nate had deemed him Thug One because he rarely left Scoggins’s side.

    Scoggins wore a loose-fitting robe and oversized slippers on his feet. Two thin white naked ankles could be seen beneath the hem of the robe. Maybe it was Scoggins’s hunched slouch and widespread eyes that, even at that distance, reminded Nate of a toad. He was smirking as well, but also flipping his fingers at the women, obviously urging them to go away.

    When the shorter woman kept talking and gesticulating and wouldn’t leave, Thug One shouldered around Scoggins and rushed her with three long and quick strides. As she turned to run, the big man kicked her hard enough beneath her buttocks to lift her off the ground and send her sprawling. When she scrambled to retrieve the clothes that had flown into the air, the thug wound up for another kick and the taller hooker yanked the shorter one down the pathway, leaving the clothes strewn on the grass.

    Nate could only guess the cause of the altercation. Maybe the hookers had objected to what they were asked to do, or they’d tried and didn’t satisfy their customer. Maybe one of them got mouthy or tried to steal something. Or maybe Scoggins decided to throw them out instead of pay them. Nate planned to find out.

    What he did know was that the altercation made his blood boil. It wasn’t Alisha, of course, because Alisha had been murdered. A lock of her hair hung from a beaded band on the barrel of his .50 caliber revolver. But she looked like Alisha and it brought back a wave of guilt, shame, and lethal rage. And when the thug kicked the girl hard enough to send her flying, Nate barely resisted drawing his weapon and charging down the hill to what would likely have been his certain death.

    Later, he watched through his spotting scope as Thug One came back out of the house and gathered the scraps of clothing the prostitute had left behind. He walked them over to a trash barrel behind a storage shed and burned them.

    You bastard, Nate whispered.

    HE CAUGHT UP with the two prostitutes walking up the middle of the narrow two-lane highway in their bare feet. The taller one dangled a pair of spike heels from her index finger. The women were cold and disheveled, and when they heard him approach in his rented SUV, they turned and grinned desperately, hoping for a ride. Nate slowed and drove around them and signaled them in.

    Car break down? he asked.

    Something like that, the shorter one said, taking the backseat.

    You are a sight for sore eyes, the taller one said, jumping up into the passenger seat and dropping her shoes on the floorboard. The interior of his vehicle was suddenly filled with a combination of sweet perfume and musky sweat.

    The short one was named Candy Alexander and the tall one who looked less like Alisha than he thought previously said her name was D. Anita LittleWolf. Both were from Crow Agency on the reservation, but they wanted to get to Hardin to the north because that’s where they’d left LittleWolf’s pickup.

    It’s parked on the side of a bar, LittleWolf said. I’m really happy you picked us up. Thank you.

    Yes, thank you, Alexander said from the back. He glanced up and saw her dark eyes in the rearview mirror. Streaks of black mascara ran down her face from her lashes and she rubbed it clean with the heel of her hand.

    As he drove to Hardin, he made small talk with them about the weather, about fishing, about how odd it was to find two women in their underwear walking up a deserted highway in southern Montana. Although they didn’t get specific, they said they’d been invited to party down at a big house on the river, but the host had kicked them out and not even offered to drive them back to where they’d been picked up. Alexander was still fuming about it, but LittleWolf was serene and seemed to take it in stride.

    So the owner of the house invited you to his place and then kicked you out?

    It wasn’t the owner who took us out there, Alexander said, and described Thug One. We didn’t meet the owner until we got there.

    He said he doesn’t like dark meat, LittleWolf said without a hint of irony.

    He sounds like a jerk, Nate said.

    He’s an asshole, Alexander said, nodding. They’re both assholes. I’d like to round up some friends of mine and go back there . . .

    Forget about it, LittleWolf said. You’d never get in that place again.

    Nate feigned ignorance and asked her why she said that.

    After putting on clothes from overnight bags they’d left in their vehicle, LittleWolf and Alexander loosened up over beers in the bar and told Nate about their adventure, from being contacted by Thug One to being met by him at the bar and transported to the big house on the Bighorn River. How the man asked the gate guard to buzz him in. How he punched a keypad on the front door to unlock it. How the owner of the house had come down the staircase and disapproved of their looks and sent them away, the scene Nate had witnessed. Now that they were safe and warm and their pickup was just outside, they laughed about the details. LittleWolf said she was glad they were gone, because the owner of the place gave her the creeps.

    Nate asked them to back up to when they entered the main house.

    There was a keypad? he asked, and slipped his notebook out from his pocket.

    Nate asked D. Anita LittleWolf and Candy Alexander to close their eyes and recall what Thug One had done when he opened the door while it was still very fresh in their memory. LittleWolf said she couldn’t see the pad from where she had stood on the porch, but Alexander smiled and described the scene. The keypad was metal and had three rows of numbers: one-two-three on top, four-five-six in the middle, seven-eight-nine on the third row, and a single zero button on the bottom. Nate had sketched out the sequence of the pad on a napkin and handed it over. Alexander closed her eyes in recall, and punched 4-2-2 and another button in the third row. It was either an eight or a nine, she said. She wasn’t sure.

    When Nate asked her how she could recall the sequence, she said she learned it by looking over the shoulders of rubes using the ATM at the convenience store on the reservation across from the Custer Battlefield, where she used to work. Both women collapsed in laughter.

    It eventually got me fired, Alexander squealed. "But not before I scored a few hundred dollars from turistas."

    Later, after two more rounds, LittleWolf invited him to follow them back to Crow Agency. We’ve got a place where we can party, she said. She looked into his eyes without a hint of guile, and for a moment he saw Alisha again.

    I’ll have to pass, he said.

    You don’t like dark meat, either? Alexander said, teasing him.

    Actually, I do, Nate said. But I don’t like that term. There’s no dignity in it.

    Chastened, they gathered their purses and shoes. He saw them to their pickup but didn’t follow.

    THE PREVIOUS NIGHT, Saturday, he’d stayed hidden with his spotting scope and noted the routine of the Scoggins compound. There had been no more women brought in, and there were no outside visitors. The three outside thugs went into the main house as the sun set, and apparently had dinner at the same time as Scoggins and Thug One. They remained there for an hour, then drifted away one by one to a guesthouse located between the main house and the gate. The lights remained on in the guesthouse until twelve-fifteen a.m.

    Not surprisingly, there were two house staff who exited the main house after the three thugs had gone. A middle-aged man and woman crossed the grounds from the house to a tiny cottage on the edge of the property. Nate guessed by their dress that the woman was the cook and the man was her assistant, and possibly an all-around maintenance staffer for the property. They held hands as they walked under an overhead light. Nate was charmed, and vowed to himself that no harm would come to them.

    It took longer for Scoggins and Thug One to go to sleep. Light from the second-floor windows—Nate guessed it was Scoggins’s room, since it took up the entire floor—remained on until one-thirty. A ground-floor light in the corner was off at midnight. It made sense that the primary bodyguard, Thug One, would be located between the front door and the stairs to Scoggins’s floor. On the other corner of the main house opposite from Thug One, a dim light remained on the entire night. Nate guessed it was the security center, where someone sat awake with the CC monitors flickering from all the cameras on the grounds. He wondered about motion detectors, and assumed they were there somewhere.

    With a choked-down mini Maglite clenched between his teeth, Nate drew a sketch on a fresh page of his notebook. He outlined the main house, the outbuildings, the guesthouse, the cottage, the wall, and the gate. Within the grounds, he drew circles with a CC inside to designate each camera. Then he scratched three large X’s to symbolize the three thugs in the guesthouse, two more for Thug One and the security administrator in the main house, and a dollar sign for Scoggins himself.

    NATE HAD DETERMINED by his surveillance there was no way to access the Scoggins property from the road without a small army, which he didn’t have and didn’t want. And there was no way to sneak across it in the dark without being captured by video or confronted by bodyguards. If motion detectors were installed, Nate guessed they’d be concentrated between the wall and gate and the compound.

    But like the other huge homes along the small strip of private land, Scoggins’s home fronted the water. That way, he could sit inside with a drink behind car-sized sheets of glass and see the river as the sun set or rose. Guided fly fishermen could look at his place with envy and wonder as they floated by. The ABSOLUTELY NO TRESPASSING, DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT GETTING OUT OF YOUR BOAT and VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED signs—plus the rotating closed-circuit video camera and five-strand razor-wire fence—kept them out.

    Having the magnificent log house on open display to the river was an act of vanity.

    And it was Nate’s means of accessing the property.

    Or, as his employer would say, Go do some good.

    NATE MANEUVERED THE DRIFT BOAT into the slow current that hugged the right bank of the river as he approached the Scoggins compound. Thick willows bent overhead and created a black shadow that he floated through. His senses were tuned up high, and he felt more than saw or heard the presence of the compound around the next slight bend to his right. He eased the boat against the willows until the hull thumped against the grassy bank and he reached up and grabbed a handful of branches to pull him in tighter. Slowly, quietly, he grasped the rope between his feet and lowered the anchor in back until it held and stopped the boat. He swung his boots over the gunwale and stood in the cold water. It was knee-deep.

    He stayed hard against the wall of willows as he waded silently downstream. After no more than a dozen steps, lights from the compound strobed through the brush and he knew that the stand of willows would end to reveal a long grassy slope all the way up to the log home. He was already behind the river fence. If he walked out in the clear, he could be seen by the closed-circuit camera that swept back and forth along the bank. It was mounted on the side of a river cottonwood and accompanied by a motion detector. Because of the roaming wildlife that hugged the river, Nate guessed the motion detector sounded off periodically throughout the night and would likely not alarm the technician inside. But a screen shot of him on a monitor certainly would.

    In the shadows, Nate unbuckled his compression pack and reversed it so it covered his chest. He unzipped the top. For easy access, the items inside had been packed in the reverse order they were to be used.

    For seven full minutes, Nate stood hidden in the river with his eyes closed, going over his plan. Not that something wouldn’t go wrong—it always did. The trick was to try and anticipate the surprise problems as best he could and come up with options on the fly. His assignment was to kill Henry P. Scoggins III, but with a twist of his own. The twist was important to him.

    And if his plans blew up once they were under way, he had to keep the endgame in mind. Even if the result was a bloodbath he hoped to avoid.

    WHEN HE OPENED HIS EYES, the night seemed lighter, brighter, and suddenly charged with anticipation. The river sounds behind him were louder and more full-throated. He could distinctly smell the odors and perfumes of the world around him: the tinny smell of the moving river, the decayed mud that swirled in the current he’d stirred up along the bank, sage from the hills beyond the river, even cooking smells that lingered from the log house itself. He took a deep breath, held it, and slowly expelled it through his nostrils.

    It was then he realized he was not alone in the stand of brush.

    Less than three feet away was a heavy-bodied mule deer doe, her big eyes fixed on him and her large ears cupped in his direction. He instinctively reached across his body for his weapon, but paused as his hand gripped the butt of his revolver. Now that he saw her, he noticed he could smell her as well; musky, dank, sage on her breath. His movement had not spooked her out of the willows.

    In falconry parlance, the state of yarak is defined as: full of stamina, well muscled, alert, neither too fat nor too thin, perfect condition for hunting and killing prey. This state is rarely achieved but a wonder to behold when observed.

    Nate was as close to yarak as a human could be.

    The mule deer could help him. She could be his partner. He noticed she was trembling, ready to spring away.

    He whispered, Go.

    She did, and with a crash of snapped willows the deer bounded from the brush into the clearing.

    Nate moved swiftly, emerging from the brush right behind her, keeping the trunk of the tree between him and the CC camera. The boxy snout of the camera was pointed downriver but rotating in his direction as he approached it. The deer veered away from the tree and continued bouncing—boing-boing-boing—along the fence. As Nate ran straight toward the camera, he reached into the top of his pack and unfurled a black cloth sack that he threw over both the camera and mount before it could view him. It was like placing a hood over the head of a falcon, and he cinched the drawstring tight and stood back. The camera still rotated inside the sack, and it resembled the head of a man looking from side to side.

    There was another distant snapping of willows and cattails as the mule deer vanished into the brush on the other side of the clearing. No doubt the motion detector had signaled the intrusion. Perhaps the camera had caught a fleeting look at the doe—his partner—as she bounded through its field of view.

    Thank you, Nate said to the deer.

    Then he stepped back into the shadows of the willows and checked his watch and waited.

    IT TOOK TWENTY-TWO MINUTES, much longer than he had estimated, before he heard the slamming of a door at the log house and heavy footfalls on their way down to the river. That it had taken the technician so long to realize his riverside camera was out confirmed to Nate that the man wasn’t anticipating trouble. Or he was simply incompetent. That bodes well, Nate thought to himself. He hoped the other thugs would be as thick.

    A harsh orb of white light from a flashlight moved down the sloping grass lawn in front of the technician. Nate squinted and turned his head and followed it in his peripheral vision. It was a trick he’d learned years before in the Third World for maintaining his night sight. A blast of the flashlight in his eyes would blind him momentarily if he let it happen, and he couldn’t risk it.

    He heard the footfalls stop less than twelve feet away, and heard a man say to himself, "What the fuck?"

    Meaning the technician was illuminating the black hood covering the camera with the beam of his flashlight and probably wondering what it was.

    Nate hurled himself from the willows like a blitzing linebacker going after the quarterback on his blind side. He dived low so his full weight would take out the legs of the technician.

    The man made an umpf sound as he was hit and his flashlight flew into the air. The butt of a shotgun grazed Nate’s shoulders as he took the man down, and he quickly turned and swarmed him and wrenched the long gun away and threw it aside.

    Before the technician could cry out, Nate jammed a spare black hood into his mouth with his left hand and chopped hard across the bridge of the man’s nose with his right. He heard the muffled crack of bone and smelled the hot metallic flood of blood.

    The technician didn’t put up much of a fight—that usually happened from the immediate result of a broken nose—and he went suddenly limp with shock and pain. Nate rolled the technician over on his stomach and bound his hands behind his back with one of the plastic zip-tie cuff restraints he kept in the side pocket of his pack. He pulled it tight. He did the same with the technician’s ankles, and used an additional thirty-inch zip tie to hog-tie the man so he couldn’t move. Nate had done it all very quickly, he thought, and with the speed and panache of a steer roper used to winning money at the rodeo.

    Nate rifled through the technician’s cargo pants and baggy shirt. There weren’t any more weapons, and Nate found a cell phone, a small walkie-talkie (turned off), loose change, a billfold, two loose marijuana joints—the reason it had taken him so long to respond?—and tossed it all into the willows. The technician’s clothing and thick hair smelled of weed.

    Nate rocked back on his haunches and surveyed the slope up to the log home and the outbuildings beyond it. There was no sound or movement, no lights suddenly coming on from Thug One’s level or from the guesthouse.

    He dragged the limp body of the technician out of the moonlight and left him in the shadows of the willows, then ducked inside the cover to circumnavigate the compound from the wooded right side.

    WHEN NATE REEMERGED from the tangle of downed timber and river cottonwoods, the guesthouse was before him. He paused and let his breathing slow, noting the lack of movement, sound, or lights from within the building. It was a log-constructed home in the same style of the main house, only much smaller and on one level. He kept the guesthouse between himself and one of the lawn-mounted cameras he’d noted during his reconnaissance and flattened himself against the exterior wall on the left side of the front door. It was a steel door in a steel frame but had been painted to look like wood. He could hear rhythmic snoring from inside.

    He drew a glue gun with the long tube of aircraft adhesive from his pack and uncapped the nozzle. The substance was strong enough to be used to bond ceramic tiles to the space shuttle. He could smell a strong whiff of the quick-drying epoxy in the still night air as he carefully wedged the tip of the tube between the door and doorjamb, then worked a glistening bead of it across the top of the threshold and down the side of the door itself. He pumped a little extra near the latch and strike plate to figuratively weld the mechanism in place.

    Nate left the porch and kept his head down as he circled the house, leaving snail tracks of epoxy along the bottom of all the closed windows in their frames. He replicated the procedure on the back door, and waited a few minutes for the glue to dry. He risked tugging on the back door and found it bound tight.

    He capped the glue gun and stowed it away in his pack and turned toward the main house.

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