As a profiler, she’d seen a lot of death. Usually in crime scene photos, as she consulted from her office in Aquia, but up close and in person plenty of times, too.
In her job, getting called in on a case meant the death was probably gruesome. During her year at BAU, she’d seen depravity she couldn’t possibly have imagined.
But she’d never had to watch another agent being shot, then been drenched in her blood. She’d never been locked in pitch darkness, hoping not to stretch out her arm and encounter a body.
Panic threatened, and Evelyn tried to ignore it, to think. Her best chance of getting out alive was to profile the people inside the compound, to understand them well enough to predict what they’d do next.
It was easy to see that Rolfe was her best ally. But why? What kind of lieutenant so openly questioned his leader?
The survivalists who’d chosen to live here did seem united in their hatred of the federal government, in the “prepper” ideology—the idea that they needed to be prepared for the collapse of civilization. Maybe instead of trying to go it alone, they’d banded together to ride out the end times together. They all appeared to be single, without families, so perhaps this was the family unit they’d created instead. Maybe those things formed the basis of the cult structure, instead of a typical religious belief, since they didn’t seem to share a religion.
Was it enough? Preppers who’d put their faith in Butler as a leader? Except the conversation she’d overheard between Butler and Rolfe went through her mind as she absently tried to yank the splinter out of her arm. Butler had talked about the compound as though it wasn’t the only place he controlled.
Could Jen be right? Could they be more than a cult? Could there be a terrorist connection?
Evelyn sighed, sinking slowly to the ground, feeling her way before she sat. She wrapped her arms around herself for warmth as she considered.
The mob of cultists who’d come after her had been disorganized, abrupt. Could a group consisting of members who didn’t share a religious connection band together effectively enough to fuel a terrorist ideology? Could they really follow orders and act on their leader’s plan?
Images flashed through her mind. The frenzied delight in the eyes of the man who’d hoped to lynch her. The shrill voice and sudden furor of the one who believed her to be a Babylonian heralding the arrival of an apocalypse. The grim, disgusted tone of the guy who just hated agents of the government.
They were unlike any cult she’d ever seen or studied. Unlike any terrorist group she’d come across.
There was no real unity here. So what kept them together?
When the FBI didn’t just go away, would they turn on one another? And what would that mean for her?
* * *
“Move, move, move!” Yankee yelled, leading from the front as he raced toward the perimeter.
Kyle finished strapping on the extra weaponry he’d set down after coming off shift. The MP-5 slung over his back, the extra Glock strapped to his chest, the magazines on one thigh, flash bangs on the other. Hopefully he wouldn’t need any of it.
He raced up next to Yankee, his breath puffing clouds of white into the frigid Montana air, his boots crunching in the frost, his gaze swiveling left and right. As far as he could tell, no one had breached the perimeter. But nothing was certain, and he pulled his MP-5 to the front for easier access.
“We have intel?” Gabe asked their boss.
“All we know is that someone took a shot near the perimeter the local police established.” As more HRT agents joined them, Yankee continued. “We don’t know who fired. We don’t know what the target was, or if anyone was hit.” Yankee’s speed increased, but his voice remained calm. “Remember, unless there’s an immediate risk of loss of life, no one fires. We’re not giving them any excuses.”
The local PD was handling the perimeter, along with agents from the Salt Lake City FBI. What made this different from most standoffs was the fact that they were dealing with a lot more than just reporters and camera crews.
Antifederalist numbers had risen rapidly in the past few years, and they’d proven their willingness to flaunt their beliefs at other standoffs around the country. Unfortunately, it wasn’t just beliefs they were flaunting, but also an arsenal of weaponry that rivaled HRT’s equipment. And the know-how to use it.
The Salt Lake City office had already beefed up security at the perimeter twice since HRT had arrived early that morning, and reports had come back that the crowd of protesters was still growing. And too many in that crowd had come armed for war.
Kyle’s stride faltered as he finally caught sight of the perimeter. “Shit,” he mumbled, and kept going, gripping the stock of his gun, knowing that if he had to fire it casualties would be too high.
There was no other outcome, not with the sheer number of people pushing their way toward the perimeter. The sound seemed to reach him all at once, the roar of twenty-five furious voices without a united message.
How had they gotten here so fast? This part of Montana was remote, isolated. The population was fewer than five hundred and most of them didn’t live here year-round.
Some of the crowd had come in heavy winter coats and carried handmade signs. Those were the ones who would eventually give in to the need for warmth and head home, watch the outcome on TV. But about half the protesters were wearing serious outdoor gear, mostly in camouflage colors, and they were armed. A cursory sweep of the crowd showed him a few shotguns, some handguns and far too many rifles. He glanced around and spotted additional shooters perched in the spindly pine trees.
“Get the negotiator here,” Yankee said into his mic as he looked up into the trees. “The profiler, too.”
Kyle glanced across him at Gabe, whose jaw had clenched at the mention of his cousin.
“We’ve got protesters with radios,” Yankee muttered. “Are they talking to one another or did we miss something?”
Were all these people here because of an antifederalist principle, and not Butler specifically? That was definitely possible, given the number of fringe militia groups and antigovernment extremist movements in the area. Or could Butler be giving orders from inside the compound, bringing supporters here himself? Did he have a bigger reach than they’d realized?
If Butler could contact the outside world, that might explain the size of the crowd. Then again, it could also be due to the reporters jostling for position amid the protesters.
Kyle stared up at the closest shooter, braced near the top of a pine tree. It swayed under his weight, but he seemed at ease, holding a semiautomatic in gloved hands, a radio painted in camo colors strapped high on his chest along with enough extra ammunition to take on an army. A canteen was hooked to his waist next to a sheathed knife, and he wore a bulletproof vest under all the packets of ammo. He caught Kyle’s gaze and seemed to smile, though it was hard to tell through the heavy salt-and-pepper beard. The pine tree bounced as he lifted his weapon higher, lining it up with Kyle’s head.
Kyle instantly tensed. His gut reaction was to swing his own weapon into position...and to wish he’d taken the time to grab his helmet. But this guy could hit a target; Kyle didn’t need to see him try to know that. He had fringe militia written all over him. A helmet wouldn’t make any difference. And aiming his own weapon could set the supporter off, give the guy an excuse to shoot first.
So, instead, he kept his MP-5 clenched close to his body, aimed down at the ground and said into his bone mic, “Inactive shooter, pine tree, at my three o’clock.”
“Got him.” Wyatt Thompson, the brand-new sniper on their team, came back immediately.
Kyle had no idea where Wyatt had positioned himself, but Wyatt’s father was a big deal in the army and apparently Wyatt had learned to shoot around the