Endangered (8 page)

O
n Monday morning, Nate Romanowski blinked against the harsh interior lighting of the interrogation room in the Federal Building in downtown Cheyenne. He wore a loose orange jumpsuit stenciled with
DOJ
over the breast pocket and large red Crocs on his feet. His long blond hair cascaded past his shoulders. His complexion was waxen and pale and his sharp blue eyes looked out as if from behind a mask. His hands and wrists were bound by a Smith & Wesson Cuff-Maxx high-security belly chain and restraints, even though his trip had consisted only of an elevator ride from the basement cell to the seventh floor.

The guard guided him through the door and shut it behind him.

“Was this really necessary?” he asked as he rattled his wrist chains at the bulky man on the other side of the interrogation table. A slim manila folder was on the surface of the table.

“Probably not,” the man answered with a slight grin. He wore a suit jacket, tie, and a white shirt that strained over his belly. His name was Stan Dudley, and he was the FBI special agent in charge of Nate’s case. Dudley was in his mid-forties, with a fleshy bland face and pasted-down light brown hair that would rise away from his scalp as the day went on. He had close-set eyes, a rounded nose, and ancient acne scars beneath his cheekbones. His thick neck bulged over the collar of his shirt, and sometimes when he talked, the swell of fat under his jaw trembled.

“Then why did you bring me up this way?”

“People talk,” Dudley said. “We don’t want the guards and other staff to think we’re letting you walk, do we?”

Nate grunted.

“Have a seat.”

“Do you have a key for these?” Nate asked, thrusting his arms out.

“Someone does. Sit down.”

Dudley liked this, Nate knew. He liked telling Nate what to do and how to do it and when he wanted it done. And he liked stringing him along, reminding Nate who was in charge and who was in custody.

As he repositioned the hard-backed chair with his foot so he could sit down in it, Nate thought how easy it would be to quickly reach across the table and twist Dudley’s ears off. The chain between his wrists was long enough that he could grab both of them.

But because he wanted out and he knew that Dudley would love the excuse to keep him inside, Nate sat.

Dudley reached out and tapped the file. “You know I fought against this, don’t you?”

Nate didn’t respond.

“I think it’s a despicable deal. If it was up to me, I’d unleash the federal prosecutors on you and put you away for a hundred years. I know—and you know—that you’ve been responsible for murder and mayhem across most of the continental U.S. People just can’t go around serving as judge, jury, and executioner based on some kind of personal code. We have laws for that. To that, we can agree.”

Nate agreed to nothing.

“But we’ve gotten the word to back off. All they care about at the Department of Justice right now is this deal,” Dudley said, again tapping the file. “I don’t know if you realize how flipping lucky you are.”

“I’m Mr. Luck,” Nate said sourly. He’d been held in the basement of the Federal Building in detention for four months. He’d not flown his falcons, or breathed mountain air, or eaten his normal diet of lean game meat he killed himself. Although he’d done thousands of push-ups, pull-ups, squats, and other exercises in his cell, and he was in many respects in the best physical shape since he’d been in Special Operations, mentally he felt bloated, flabby, dull, and completely off his game. His brain was foggy, and he had trouble concentrating. Nate had come to understand the vacant-eyed tigers he’d seen pacing rhythmically back and forth in the zoo because he felt like one of them.

“Rulon didn’t help, either,” Dudley scoffed, referring to the governor of Wyoming, who had two and a half years left in his second and final term of office. “I don’t know what you ever did for him, or if you have illicit photos of him or what, but he went to bat for you. He somehow convinced my superiors you’d be of better service to us out there than in here. I think he’s full of shit, but he must have been pretty convincing.”

Nate raised his eyebrows in surprise. He wasn’t aware that Rulon had been involved in the negotiations, but he was grateful for it.

“We’ve got your gun,” Dudley said. “And you’re not getting it back.”

“I’ve got a right to defend myself,” Nate said.

“When you sign these papers, you sign away your rights. You have no rights beyond that, unless I say so.”

“I want my weapon back.”

Nate had surrendered his .50-caliber five-shot Freedom Arms .500 Wyoming Express revolver when he gave himself up. It was a handgun that could take out a moose a mile away or kill a car. The gun was a part of him and he knew how to use it.

Dudley placed his hand on the file and said, “If you’re stupid enough to arm yourself again, you’ll be right back here, and I’ll be happy to expedite the paperwork.”

Nate looked away.

“I’m sure you’ll be happy to know that even though I lost the argument against releasing you, the DOJ agreed to retain me as your case manager, since we have such a special relationship and all.”

He said, “You know, before I took this job out here, I was warned about people like you. I was told there were still a number of lone-wolf survivalist types who lived out here in places like Wyoming, Montana, and Idaho. I thought we’d stomped them out years ago, but here we are. There still may be a few of you left, but as of today the number is one less, which makes me feel very . . .
patriotic
.”

Dudley grinned at that.

—

“T
HE NEGOTIATIONS WERE LIKE
five monkeys fucking a football,” Dudley complained. “You’ve got career federal prosecutors, a military JAG because of your Special Forces background, DOJ political lackeys, and the governor’s office all fighting about what to do with you. My solution was real simple: put you on trial and send you to the supermax in Florence, Colorado.”

Dudley looked up to see if he could get a reaction out of Nate. He couldn’t.

“But our biggest problem,
as you know
, was placing you at the scene of your most heinous crimes, because you were literally off the grid. No credit card receipts, no hotel registries, no cell phone records, no loans, no CC videotape, no arrests, no
nothing
. No direct or circumstantial evidence. Don’t get me wrong—I’m convinced that with enough time and manpower we’d be able to nail you. We can nail
anyone
if we set our mind to it.
Anyone
.”

Nate tried not to sigh. He’d heard the threat from Dudley a half-dozen times. He knew better than to rise to the bait.

What he wanted to say was simple:
I’ve never killed anyone who didn’t need killing.

—

T
HE FACT WAS
,
Nate knew, the feds couldn’t convict him on the murder, conspiracy, kidnapping, or other charges they’d originally filed against him. As Dudley had admitted, the evidence wasn’t there.

But what they could do was put him away for not filing tax returns for the last twelve years. While the crime didn’t even remotely rise to the level of the original charges, a conviction on tax evasion could put him into federal prison for years. It was the “Al Capone method” of going after a target indirectly, and it could be devastatingly effective if the prosecutors were motivated to pursue it.

The original charges had been quietly dropped and replaced with new charges while the negotiations were under way. However it went, he knew, they had him.

—

“S
O LET ME BE
the first to welcome you back to the modern world,” Dudley said, showing his teeth. “Consider your wings clipped. You can’t make a move without me knowing about it. If you decide to try and go underground again, I’ll be on you with a team within minutes and we’ll drag your ass back here, unless, you know, something bad happens during the arrest that results in your demise.

“I’ll know where you drive, what you eat, where you sleep, and how long you sit on the toilet. You’ll be just another American citizen. We’ll know everything about you and we can take you down anytime we want. And believe me, I’ll be paying attention to those things because I’m . . . motivated. Motivated to putting you away. Do you understand that?”

Nate grunted again.

“Did you read the agreement?” Dudley asked.

“Yes.”

“Are you ready to sign it? Because if you aren’t, I’ll happily call the guard and send you back to your home away from home in the basement. Even the governor would have to understand that we couldn’t release you if you refused to play ball.”

“I need a pen,” Nate said.

“That’s my boy.”

Then, turning toward the two-way mirror, Dudley said, “Bring in the devices.”

—

A
HIGH-TECH
TRACKING BRACELET
was secured to Nate’s left wrist and another was fastened to his ankle by two young DOJ technical support staffers. Nate barely listened to what they were telling him about the devices, but he got the gist. Neither of the techs would meet his eye as they worked.

The monitors were waterproof, shockproof, and permanent, and could only be removed by a DOJ specialist. The devices looped around his limbs and were locked in place by a coded infrared beam. They were thin and unobtrusive and reminded him of plastic-coated steel cables.

If he tried to cut them off or remove them, a homing signal would alert the feds—meaning Dudley as well as full-time surveillance staff stationed in Virginia—and “the wrath of God will descend upon you,” Dudley said. The devices would provide Nate’s precise GPS coordinates to the meter at all times and could be tracked by satellites and, if necessary, drones.

Even local private closed-circuit cameras could be hacked and overridden to provide video evidence of his whereabouts if they wanted to watch him. It was experimental technology, Dudley said with pride, but it had worked in beta experiments thus far.

One of the techs placed a cell phone and charger on the table in front of Nate.

Dudley said, “That’s your new BlackBerry. Don’t lose it, don’t use it for anything other than to check in every day, and don’t ever turn it off. There’s a single number stored inside that goes direct to an operations center in Langley, Virginia. When we say check in every day, we mean check in every day. Let us know what you’re doing, where you’re going, and who you’re with. You won’t be talking to me directly, but I’ll get a daily update from your contact. If you don’t call in, we’ll come looking for you. Got that?”

Nate frowned at the phone. Not only did he hate cell phones, but Dudley had given him a
BlackBerry
.

—

N
ATE BREATHED IN
and looked up at the camera mounted over the two-way mirror in the wall. The red light was on. Someone, somewhere, was watching him.

He was back on the grid.

—

“I’
M OBLI
GATED BY PROCEDURE
to go over the agreement with you so you fully understand what you’re about to sign,” Dudley said. “You claim that you’ve read it, so this is for the record.” The record meant the overhead camera, Nate knew.

Dudley opened the folder.

“‘Agreement between the U.S. Department of Justice and one Nathaniel Romanowski,’ blah-blah-blah, legalese boilerplate . . .” Dudley said in a singsong voice until he got to the third page. “Okay, page three: the terms. If you want me to read the actual language, please indicate by saying that you do. Otherwise, I’ll paraphrase.”

Nate sneered.

“Okay then, I’ll take that as permission to paraphrase.

“Subject agrees to cooperate with all ongoing federal investigations concerning one Wolfgang Templeton and his criminal network. Subject agrees to provide testimony in court if requested by the DOJ. Subject agrees to participate in any local operations if asked by the DOJ involving Wolfgang Templeton and to serve as an agent of the prosecution during said investigation. Got that?”

Nate nodded.

“You know what it means, right?”

“I’m offering myself up as bait.”

“Correcto,” Dudley said. “We’re assuming Templeton isn’t too pleased with you for blowing up his operation. If he knows you’re out on the street, we think he’ll come after you. That’s when we’ll nail him. So, yes, ‘bait’ is a good word for it.”

Nate had crossed the line the year before. He had willingly become a part of a high-class murder-for-hire operation with the understanding that only elite society’s untouchable scum would be targeted. Nate had wholly approved of the concept. Templeton ran the operation from his remote Black Hills ranch in Medicine Wheel County, Wyoming. But Templeton had overreached and the operation had gone sour. Nate had realized too late what had happened and he’d been the catalyst in Templeton’s final undoing. Templeton got away in one of his private planes, along with his new fiancée: Joe Pickett’s mother-in-law, Missy Vankueren. Their whereabouts were unknown.

Nate had discerned that the FBI wanted Templeton bad due to political pressure placed on them by members of the administration who’d had friends and crony capitalist colleagues “disappeared” by Templeton’s operation. He’d heard there were cabinet secretaries as well as the attorney general himself who wanted revenge, and they were willing to influence the prosecution of Nate to expedite it. He was to become a tool of the same elites Templeton had targeted. At the same time, Nate had no doubt that Templeton was under pressure from former clients—many of whom were prominent in government and industry—to eliminate the threat of Nate ever talking about the operations he knew about and had been personally involved in.

“There are other terms,” Dudley said. “You already know about not carrying a weapon so we won’t go there again. Oh—and this: ‘Subject waives his rights to access the federal witness relocation project.’ That means if Templeton turns up the heat and comes after you, you can’t come crying to us to hide you away.”

Nate gritted his teeth. He said, “I’ve never gone crying to anyone about anything.”

Dudley smiled and went on to the next item.