Hunted (25 page)

“I really, really resent that, Bonnie. That remark is so uncalled for.”

She stood for a moment, glaring at him. Then, for the second time in less than twenty minutes, Don was told to go commit an impossible act on his person.

“My word!” Don said, after Bonnie had exited his office, slamming the door so hard it almost came off its hinges.

Before the sun set that day on the concrete canyons of New York City, dozens more resignations from employees who worked for the big three networks landed on various desks and twenty-two faxes announcing resignation came in from around the world. By late afternoon, seventy-two people, representing top reporters, news chiefs, producers, directors, award-winning camera-persons, and other experienced people in all aspects of news gathering grouped in the lobby of the offices of the Coyote Network, a maverick network that was fast becoming a major player in entertainment, sports, and investigative reporting. The owner of the Coyote Network, a free-wheeling, do-anything, hell-for-leather individualist who was Scotland-born, smiled at the group. As soon as he had heard word of the mass resignations, he had begun contacting TV and radio stations around the nation. The response had been so overwhelming it had staggered the man. Ian MacVay had sensed some time back that the American public wanted real news about America and Americans, not the same old tired bullshit that filled the TV screens every evening; not the same old time-worn liberal sobbing and hanky twisting; but real news about real working, law-abiding, over-tax-burdened Americans struggling to survive while it appeared the very government that was supposed to represent them was doing everything possible to grind them under the heel of socialism.

Tables were set up all around the huge lobby. Coyote personnel were ready to start hiring. Ian raised his arms for silence. He said, “We're going to go on the air in seventy-two hours, people. It might be rough and ragged for a time, but we're going to do it. We're going to give the American people news about America; news about big and small government waste and excesses; news about government sticking their noses into the private lives of the citizens; news about lost rights and personal liberties of American citizens. The bulk of our news will be for
Americans
and about
Americans.
Coyote affiliates have agreed, unanimously, for an hour's news each evening. We're going to go in-depth; we're going to bulldog stories from beginning to end. We're going to start a news revolution in this country. We're going to go after big government with a vengeance. Now, Washington will do its best to silence us. Be ready. They'll be sending their secret police in to snoop and pry and try to discredit us. It's going to get dirty, people, for Washington doesn't like its lid to be lifted up, exposing all the slime underneath. But we're going to do it. And we're going to have unlimited resources behind us. As you all know, I am a wealthy man, but just moments ago, the richest man in the world called me and agreed to throw his wealth behind our new endeavor. Mr. Robert Roche, of Roche Industries, is now officially on board.”

Ian waited until the applause died down. He then waved toward the tables situated around the lobby. “Step up and sign on, people. The news revolution has begun.”

Darry, listening to a small, battery-operated radio, leaned back against a tree and sipped his coffee, his face a study in concentration. “Well, now,” he murmured. “Isn't that interesting. I wonder why the great billionaire capitalist, Robert Roche, would suddenly turn philanthropist and be so concerned about truth in government and so very distressed about the lives of ordinary American citizens?” He laughed. Of course he knew why: to get at him.

Not far away, a wolf sang its lonely, lovely song to the fading afternoon skies. Darry smiled as the plaintive call was answered. Darry threw back his own head and howled. Then the twilight was filled with returning calls of the wild.

“You want me, Robert Roche?” Darry muttered. “Come get me.”

“Shit, shit shit!” the President said, using the remote to click off the TV after Ian MacVay had concluded his press conference. He looked at an aide. “Get me the commissioner at the FCC.”

“Don't do it,” his chief of staff cautioned. “You'll be playing right into their hands. That's the first move they'll expect, and they'll be ready for it.”

“You expect me to stand by and let that pack of right-wing radicals get this network off the ground. No way will I allow that to happen.”

“You can't stop it, sir,” the chief legal counsel said. “I've already spoken with the FCC. Coyote submitted all the proper papers for a news department some time back, and it was approved. All we can do is ride it out.”

“You mean ride this administration right out of office,” the attorney general said. “Because that's what they plan on doing. Let me approve a full field investigation by the Bureau against everyone involved in this crazy scheme. We'll discredit them. We'll—”

“Good God, no!” the White House counsel said, considerable heat behind his words. “That would backfire on us before the ink was dry.”

The President looked at the sheets of paper spread out on his desk. On the sheets of paper were the names of all who had resigned from the big three networks. “Hard-line conservatives,” the Pres said. “Every one of them. Men and women who have, up until this moment, had to conceal their political leanings in order to keep their jobs. God, just look at this list. These people
hate
me. They hate
all
liberals. One can only shudder at the type of reporting that will be coming from the Coyote Network.”

“Considering all the drivel that's been coming from the networks for the past several decades,” the DIR/FBI remarked off-handedly, “I'm looking forward to it.”

The Pres sighed. He knew very well his friend was far more conservative than liberal, and he also knew that the director of the Bureau was a very moral man. Many had considered that to be a liability when the Pres suggested him for the job.

The intercom buzzed, and the call was for the Bureau director. “Wonderful,” the DIR/FBI said after listening for a moment. His voice was filled with sarcasm. “That is just wonderful.” He hung up. He looked at the President. “The Collier family has filed papers to sue the federal government for half a billion dollars. The charges are attempted murder by a federal officer, three counts of assault and battery by a federal agent, ordering the Internal Revenue Service to engage in punitive measures against a citizen—or words to that effect—harassment, invasion of privacy, threats of bodily harm by agents of the Justice Department . . . and about fifteen other charges, pertaining to that family alone. In addition, the law firm of Bennett, Duran, Collier, and Williams is now representing the families of Carmouche, Clayderman, and Noble. They are suing the government for half a billion dollars. Do you want to hear the charges, Mr. President?”

“No,” the Pres said with a sigh. “ShitShitShitShit!” he shouted.

* * *

Ian MacVay spent several million dollars in advertising during the three days prior to the Coyote Network kicking off their evening news. MacVay never even thought about making a profit; he didn't even consider breaking even. But when people began to understand that his news would be a total departure from what the public had been force-fed over the years, the sponsors began flooding his studios with calls wanting to buy time.

MacVay's people had not even worked up a rate card for the news; but someone had copies of the rates charged by the Big Three, so that's what MacVay's people went by.

Within six hours, the Coyote Network's evening news program was sold out for the rest of the month.

* * *

The six mercenaries who remained active in the wilderness were ordered to lay low . . . among other orders received from Robert Roche. Robert Roche had gotten word from Ian MacVay that the first segment of the Coyote Network's news was to come from that area: Stormy standing in front of the shot-up cabins of Kevin, Vince, and Todd. Darry was sure to make an appearance either before or after the taping.

Mike Tuttle had also made contact with Max Vernon. The now disgraced Bureau man and a few of the agents who had willingly gone along with the failed cover-up were living a rather miserable existence in a cave, poaching game and fishing to eat.

“Here's the deal,” Mike told the man.

“Who are you working for?” Max interrupted.

“You don't have a need to know,” the mercenary told him. “Are you in or out?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“No.”

Max nodded his head. He was in bad need of a hot bath and a shave. “All right. We're in.”

“We want Darry Ransom, and we want him alive. Dead is no good. If he's dead, the deal is off. You understand?”

“Right.”

“Pull this off, and you and your boys go to work in South America. New names, new passports, new everything. You'll be paid well and you won't go to prison.”

“What about our wives and kids?” another rogue agent asked.

“Forget them. Take it or leave it.”

“We'll take it,” Max said, after conferring with the men.

Mike laid out the plan, ending with, “After you kill his dogs, Ransom will be so pissed off he'll throw caution to the wind and come after you. Me and my boys will be waiting. It's a simple plan and you know why . . .”

The more complex a plan the more likely it is to screw up.

“Transportation will be standing by to take us out of here. In seventy-two hours, you'll be in South America. Now, what about this location? What about the men who left you and got out?”

“We shifted locations as soon as the others decided to leave and try it outside on their own. They'll eventually be caught. But no one except you knows of this cave.”

Max was sure wrong about that. Chuck knew where the rogue agents were hiding out. Buckshot Jennings knew where the rogue agents were hiding. Darry knew where they were hiding. And the Unseen knew where they were hiding.

Max was not a totally stupid man. For a long time he had been a loyal agent of the Bureau. He had carefully kissed enough ass and made enough friends with power to enable him to reach a supervisory position, and he'd been very careful to always have men under him who would blindly follow orders and not make waves. Men who were assigned to him who had a lot of initiative didn't last long with Max. Max had always found a way to either have them transferred or run completely out of the Bureau. This operation was to have been his crowning glory; the pinnacle of success.

Max blamed his failure on Darry Ransom.

“Stormy is due in the area later today. They'll be setting up satellite equipment and all that other shit that reporters do. She'll be visiting Kevin Carmouche and the others tomorrow. Darry will be close by, bet on it. That's when she's going to get the news that a raid was done on that old outfitter's place and Darry's dogs are dead. Darry will surface then, and we'll get him and we're out of here. Understood?”

“Understood.”

“Start getting your boys in place. But be careful. George Eagle Dancer is staying at Chuck's place. And that Indian will eat your boys alive if they're spotted. Don't underestimate George.”

Max didn't immediately comment on that remark, but he didn't take it seriously, either. No damned mercenary was better than a trained Bureau man. That just wasn't possible.

“Do you understand about George?” Mike pressed.

“I understand.”

“You better,” Mike said very grimly. “George is almost the best there is.”

“Who is better?” Max questioned. “You?”

Mike smiled and shook his head. “No. Darry Ransom.”

* * *

Bobcat Blake and Tom Doolin were being held under heavy guard at the county jail. Hank Wallace didn't really trust Sheriff Paige, so he'd arranged to have federal marshals throw a ring around the jail just in case. It wasn't that Sheriff Paige was not a good man, for Hank knew he was. A damn good man. But a damn good man whose opinion of the federal government borderlined on open, undisguised hate.

One among hundreds of thousands, possibly millions, and steadily growing, Hank thought, as he and Carol drove back to the ranger station. And why not? Why should any observant, thinking citizen have much faith in their government? We spy on the people, we snoop into every aspect of their private lives, we investigate any who openly and loudly criticize the administration—no matter what party is in office—we position the IRS over Americans' heads like a spiked club. We can and do seize property, throw citizens out of their homes, freeze their assets, put them in jail, and in some cases, kill Americans if they resist.

“A penny for your thoughts, Hank,” Carol said.

“To paraphrase my son: ‘Government sucks!' ”

“With a capital ‘S,' Hank.”

* * *

Steve Kelly, who used to cover Southern California for another network, was standing by at the Collier home in L.A. Debbie Howard, another top-flight reporter recently defected from one of the big three networks, was standing by at the home of the Kansas schoolteacher, Beverly Stevens. Mark Cole, one of the brightest and fastest rising stars in broadcast journalism (and an avowed conservative and anti-big government, which had not set well with his liberal bosses at the network he'd worked for until a few days ago) was standing by at what was left of the home of a man who had suffered through an early morning raid by agents of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms—BATF. The man belonged to a group of hard-working, law-abiding, tax-paying American citizens who believed that government was out of control and were not afraid to say so, often and loudly. Naturally, the government couldn't allow people to group together and get organized and say bad things about their government. So acting under an “anonymous tip,” federal agents, legally armed with a search warrant, raided the home at one o'-clock in the morning, looking for illegal weapons (assault rifles, naturally). Of course, none were found, but the man's wife was now in a local hospital, having suffered several broken ribs and a broken arm while resisting the ninja-suited and ski-masked goons who broke into her home. Trying to protect his mother, a ten-year-old boy was butt-stroked unconscious by an agent carrying an assault rifle (what else?). The child was now in the same hospital as his mother, with a broken jaw. Inside, the home was a wreck. Mattresses had been cut open, the floor ripped up, sofas torn apart, wall paneling pulled down, commodes and sinks ripped out. The agents had used metal detectors, scouring the backyard, looking for underground caches of weapons. Thousands and thousands of dollars worth of damage had been done to the home, and the only weapons found were a .22 caliber rifle, a .38 pistol that the man had bought at a gun show and was not registered, and one twelve gauge shotgun the man used for duck hunting. The man was placed under arrest and tossed in jail for having an unregistered pistol.

Your government at work, friends.

The local sheriff promptly released the man on his own recognizance and was standing by, with the homeowner, to give his opinion of the raid—which was not going to be very complimentary toward the government.

In New York State, another reporter from the Coyote Network was standing by with a man who had stopped a mugging in his town. He had broken the mugger's arm in doing so, and now the mugger was suing the citizen for zillions of dollars, claiming his civil rights had been violated because the citizen had called him an uncomplimentary racial name while he was preventing the mugger from using a knife on the woman he had attacked.

Six other reporters from the Coyote Network were standing by in other parts of the country, with similar stories to air. Naturally, the government knew where all the reporters were (having sent federal agents out to spy on them), and naturally, the agents reported back as to the content and substance of the stories, and naturally, the government was highly distressed about it. The AG's office concluded that these stories were going to agitate an already irritated American public and further exacerbate the situation. In other words, the average citizen was going to get pissed off.

The President looked at the field reports from around the nation and said, “Oh, shit!”

* * *

“You've got more balls than Dick Tracy,” Craig Hamilton said to Darry. “There must be two hundred and fifty federal agents looking for you, and here you sit, calm as can be, drinking coffee and eating doughnuts.”

Darry had slipped into the home of Chuck, the outfitter, just before dawn on the day Max Vernon and team were due to arrive at the remote ranch to kill his dogs. One of Chuck's distant “cousins” had told the man what was going to happen. The cave in which Max and his cohorts were hiding ran for miles underground and was a natural amphitheater, a whispered word carrying for hundreds of feet.

Darry smiled at the reporter. “Do you have the capability to go live from here?”

“Anytime I choose. Why?”

“Max Vernon and his boys will be here in about an hour. They're about two miles away right now. They've got some silly plan to try and flush me out.”

“How do you know they're two miles away at this moment?” Craig asked.

“Signals,” Chuck told him, sitting by a window. “They're moving again, Darry.”

“Time to get into position. We—”

“Car pulling into the driveway,” George called from the front porch. “It's those two feds; Hank Wallace and Carol whatever-her-name-is.”

“Just keeps getting more and more interesting,” Darry said.