Free Fire by C.J. Box Page A

took a bag and put it on the counter.
    “Hello, Mr. Pickett,” Alisha said cautiously. “It’s good to see you again.”
    “Alisha.”
    She was slim and dark, with piercing, always amused eyes and a good figure. Joe could see why Nate was enchanted.
    “Are you here to take my boy away?” she asked, arching her eyebrows.
    “If he’s willing,” Joe said.
    “Are you willing?” she asked Nate softly.
    He hesitated, looking from Joe to Alisha.
    Joe thought, He’s got it bad. Don’t tell me he’s going to ask . . .
    “What do you think?” Nate said to her.
    She began to pull cans out of a sack and put them away in the cupboards. “I think Joe wouldn’t ask for your help if he didn’t think he needed it, and I’d be disappointed in you if you refused because you wouldn’t be the man I know and love.”
    Nate said to Joe, “It’ll take me a couple of days to finish up some business. Where will you be staying in the park?”
    “I’m not sure yet,” Joe said, choosing as always not to ask Nate what his business was. “It’s about to close for the season. Either Mammoth, Old Faithful, or West Yellowstone. Those are the only places still open. I’ll call when I know.”
    Nate nodded. “Come with me for a minute.”
    Alisha said good-bye to Joe and resumed putting groceries away. Joe followed Nate outside to Nate’s Jeep.
    “She’s something,” Joe said.
    “Damned right,” Nate answered, swinging up the back hatch and flipping open the lid on a large metal toolbox. He removed the tray of tools on top to reveal a stash of weapons underneath. Nate’s .454 Casull, manufactured by Freedom Arms in Freedom,Wyoming, was a heavy five-shot revolver of incredible power and accuracy in Nate’s hand. It was on top.
    “What are you carrying up there?” Nate asked.
    “My shotgun, I guess,” Joe said. He hadn’t given weapons any thought. “And I’m not even sure about that. It’s illegal to have a firearm in the park, like I mentioned.”
    Nate’s look of disdain was epic. “Fuck the Park Service,” he said, digging into the box. “We’re Americans last I looked. That’s the only thing about this situation that causes me heart-burn:helping out the Feds.”
    “Actually, I’m working for the governor.”
    “They’re all the same,” Nate grumbled, digging into the box and handing Joe a semiautomatic Glock-23 .40.
    “You’ve used one of these, right? Thirteen in the magazine and one in the chamber, so you’ve got fourteen rounds of high-caliberhell. Buy some shells, practice a little so you get familiarwith it. It’s a damned good weapon, and practically idiot-proof. Rack the slide and start blasting. No hammer to get caught in your clothes, no safety switch to forget about.”
    “Fourteen misses,” Joe said, alluding to his ineptitude with a handgun. “That’s why I’m bringing my shotgun.”
    “Twenty-seven misses,” Nate said. “There’s an extra full magazine in a pocket on the holster. Take it anyway. You never know. It’ll make me feel better if you have it.”
    Joe started to protest, but Nate’s expression convinced him not to start an argument. He’d carried a Glock .40 before since it was the assigned weapon of the Game and Fish Department. His last weapon was thrown into the Twelve Sleep River after the situation with the Scarlett brothers. At the time, Joe had thought he’d never carry a handgun again, and that was fine with him then, and fine with him now. Handguns were good for only one thing: killing people.
    “What about this letter to the governor,” Nate said. “Can you figure anything out about it?”
    Joe shook his head.
    “Or the fact that four of the Gopher State Five got whacked? Who is Gopher State One?”
    “No idea.”
    “The governor is okay with me assisting?”
    “He doesn’t want to know about it.”
    “I can’t say I blame him,” Nate said, reaching for the .454.
    Joe found bud Longbrake in the Quonset hut working on the engine of his one-ton