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  Tracer

  Dustin Stevens

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  Copyright © 2013, Dustin Stevens

  Warning: All rights reserved. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work, in whole or part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, is illegal and forbidden, without the written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, settings, names, and occurrences are a product of the author’s imagination and bear no resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, places or settings, and/or occurrences. Any incidences of resemblance are purely coincidental.

  Other works by Dustin Stevens :

  Scars and Stars

  Catastrophic

  21 Hours

  Ohana

  Twelve

  Liberation Day

  Just a Game

  Ink

  Number Four

  The Zoo Crew Novels:

  Dead Peasants

  The Zoo Crew

  For Senora…

  Okay, I believe you.

  “Montana seems to me to be what a small boy

  would think Texas is like from hearing Texans.”

  -John Steinbeck

  Prologue

  Brand.

  Derived from an Old Norse language word meaning “to burn.”

  Dating back thousands of years, the term has referred to the practice of marking one’s products with a particular insignia.

  It can be a name. A design. A symbol. Most anything a producer wants it to be.

  The most important thing is that it demarcates Product A from Product B.

  Even in an intangible form, a brand can be the most valuable asset a producer possesses. Without it, there is no marketing. Without marketing, there are no consumers.

  Without consumers, there’s no point in a product.

  Over time, two different types of brands have emerged. The first is those employed by companies, mass corporations that rely on international product recognition to peddle their wares.

  Coca-Cola. McDonald’s. Apple.

  The heavy-hitters, recognized in an instant. Not just logos, but a symbolic construct within the mind. All the information and expectation associated with a product, encapsulated in a single image.

  The other type of brand, the one far more relevant in Montana, is the cattle brand.

  Again tracing back to the Old Norse root of the word, it means the marking of one’s product by burning.

  When ranching first became a vocation in America, delineating one herd from another was a serious problem. For Samuel Augustus Maverick, famed 19th century Texas cattleman, it was such an issue that his name became synonymous with roaming free.

  A maverick.

  To fix this problem, ranchers began marking their cattle. Branding them.

  Taking an iron rod with a basic design. Heating it in a fire. Pressing it against a cow’s hide.

  The impending scar was prominent enough that a cowboy could differentiate one herd from another each year at roundup.

  This worked well for awhile, but it didn’t take long for roughnecks to start gaming the system. Running irons. Changing brands to their own marking.

  Laws were enacted calling for brands to be filed and registered. Cattle on drives were stopped for inspection. A bill of sale was required outlining every animal purchased.

  Over time, the reliance on branding shifted. No longer was it used to cover open-range animals. Instead, it became used as the proof of ownership standard for lost or stolen cattle.

  With the advent of technology, various other forms of identification came to the surface. Lip or ear tattoos. Earmarking. Tagging. Even microchipping.

  At the end of the day though, the goal is always to identify one’s product from another’s.

  To brand them.

  To a rancher, just like any other corporation, the brand is their livelihood.

  It is something to be protected at all costs. To be fought for, ensuring a way of life.

  Most of the time, that fighting is done within a court of law, perhaps even in an agricultural hearing.

  Most, but not all, of the time.

  Chapter One

  Pissed.

  Not miffed. Not worked up.

  Not even angry.

  Flat out pissed.

  The interior of the truck was dark, silent, cold, as Lukas Webb sat behind the wheel. His pulse hammered through his temples. His breath pushed out one loud burst at a time through his nose.

  In the Army, he’d been taught exercises for this type of moment.

  Methods of breathing. Ways of detaching his active mind and taking himself far away. Soothing his nerves so he could focus on the task at hand.

  That was easy though.

  That involved staring through a scope at a man he’d never met. Bearing down on someone that had never wronged him personally.

  Or even worse, wronged his family.

  Lukas thought for a moment about the exercises. About the way his spotter Rick Bailey had always told him to go through them before taking a shot.

  To calm the nerves. Clear the mind.

  Just as fast, the thought passed.

  He didn’t need sharp eyes or a steady hand for what he was about to do. All he needed was enough wherewithal to make sure he didn’t go off script.

  Turn things uglier than they already were.

  Condensation collected on the windows as Lukas remained in the truck, stewing. In his mind he could still see the smug face of the bastard as he sat at the head of the table. As he sneered and told Lukas there wasn’t enough time for him to speak.

  The thought made his blood run hot.

  It was all Lukas could do to turn around and walk back into the night instead of going straight down the aisle and ripping him apart.

  Despite the temperature inside the truck, Lukas could feel a film of sweat on his skin. He ran a thumb across his brow, feeling the sting as droplets reached his eyes.

  He could taste salt on his upper lip.

  Without turning in the front seat, Lukas raised his right hand and hefted down the 30.06 from the window behind him. It slid easily from its perch in the top slot of the gun rack, the implement familiar in his hands.

  Rotating his arm at the wrist, he laid the weapon across his lap and stared down at it. The cherry stock gleamed, catching a bit of the light from the security post outside, refracting it up at him.

  The tips of Lukas’ fingers grazed along it, recalling the dozen mule deer they’d slain together.

  Hunting.

  A most noble cause for such a fine weapon. Nothing like what he was about to do.

  Pressing his lips tight, Lukas reached down into the passenger foot well. Took up a small cardboard box of ammunition.

  He fished in and snagged a pair of shells, their red tips visible in the cab.

  Lukas rubbed the pad of his index finger along the side of his nose. Streaked the resulting oil along the shells. Inserted them one at a time into the gun.

  Locked them into place with the distinct clang of metal on metal.

  Practiced hands worked the bolt action lever, positioning the cartridges.

  Lukas gripped the weapon and stared through the front windshield of his truck. Gaze focused through the small hole that wasn’t fogged over. Attention aimed on the front door.

  Inside there were over fifty people, some women and children.

  There was no doubt what he was about to do would scare the hell out of many of them.

  It didn’t matter though. They were in no real danger.

  There was only one target tonight. At such a close range, there was no way he would miss.

  With a heavy breath, Lukas wrenched the door open. Heard the springs groan in protest, frozen metal s
craping against itself.

  Cold air swirled around him as he stepped outside. Felt the rims of his nostrils draw tight. Heard his boots crunch on the hardened ground as he walked.

  The stock of the rifle he kept gripped in his right hand, the barrel in his left.

  With each step his heart rate rose a bit more. His breathing gained speed.

  This was not the first time he’d ever fired in a crowded place. Far from it. Still, it was the first time he’s ever done so on American soil.

  First time he’d ever done it at home.

  Keeping his left hand wrapped around the barrel, he reached out and jerked the front door wide with his right. A burst of hot air mussed the hair atop his head as he stepped through the buffer zone.

  Heard the overhead fans pushing stale air down atop him.

  The second door opened with a small squeal, his right hand finding the stock of the rifle again the moment he passed through.

  Ahead of him, the door to the meeting hall stood agape, the entire council seated in a row at the head of the room. He could see his target sitting front and center, a cocksure smile on his face.

  With determined strides Lukas covered the gap, bursting in before anyone even knew he was there. Stopping just inside the door, he raised the gun to his shoulder.

  The face of his target crinkled into a look of horror as he saw Lukas standing with the rifle.

  A moment later, those fanned out to either side of him did the same.

  A single scream erupted from a woman at the table as Lukas sighted in. The sound had no effect on him, his breathing leveling out as his finger found the trigger and squeezed.

  The big gun bucked against his shoulder with a mighty kick. Over twenty pounds of recoil concentrated against his rotator cuff. A moment later came the thunderous sound, a cannon shot reverberating off the walls of the enclosed space.

  The entire room flashed red.

  Lukas didn’t notice as he shifted his aim two inches to the left.

  Fired again.

  Chapter Two

  Boredom.

  Extreme, mind-numbing, soul-crushing, boredom.

  The feeling gripped every fiber of Hank McIlvaine’s being as he sat in the back of the meeting room. Ran his eyes over the crowd time and time again. Sat alert for an enemy that was never coming.

  McIlvaine had been on the payroll for almost two months now. A stint that started just before Halloween, would end sometime after Christmas.

  He hoped.

  The job as described was an easy one. Provide personal security and assistance to a cattle baron. Get off the oil rigs. Out of Eastern Montana, where the landscape and the women were both wind-blown and brittle dry.

  Return to his old stomping grounds in the western half of the state. Back to hitting the bars in Hamilton, catching football games on the weekend in Missoula.

  In return for getting his life back, all he had to do was ride shotgun for the old fart. Provide backup for a Dandy that didn’t have the weight in his britches to do things himself. Thought of himself as an old-time maven that was in reality just another rancher.

  A big one, but still just a rancher.

  McIlvaine barely listened as he was told how much his services would render financially. It didn’t matter. The oil life wasn’t one for him, even less so with winter fast approaching.

  He signed the dotted line just minutes after being approached.

  In the months since, his life had slowed to brutal monotony. Accompanying the old man as he drove the perimeter of his ranch. Running background checks on all ranch employees. Making the occasional food run.

  Sitting through every long, tedious meeting the old man had. What it was he was waiting for wasn’t quite clear, but wait he did anyway.

  All the way to the bank every Monday.

  Perched in the back corner, McIlvaine made it through the first hour of the meeting easy enough. He wasn’t interested in agriculture or zoning, but he followed along the best he could.

  Enough to know whether a potential threat would surface from the room.

  For a few brief moments his radar pinged hot at the tall blonde man across the room. Ramrod straight and hair shorn tight on the sides, he wore the look of a man fresh out of the military.

  McIlvaine recognized it right off, he’d seen it enough times over the years. Even wore it himself once a long time ago.

  What jumped out at him was the crazed look in the young man’s eyes. A look that said he was insulted. Aggrieved. Put upon.

  And he would do anything to the man that had inflicted it.

  McIlvaine knew that look even better than the first. It was one he still wore quite often.

  To his great surprise, and even disappointment, the young man swallowed the look down. Fought back his natural reaction, turned and left the room.

  McIlvaine gave it five minutes to make sure the hostility of the moment was gone. Went back to thumbing through his iPhone and checking college football scores.

  Trying to drown out the incessant rambling of the meeting around him.

  The opening of the front door didn’t register with him.

  Nor did the sound boots against hardwood floor.

  It wasn’t until he heard the all-too familiar sound of a bolt-action rifle that he shifted his focus upward. Saw the young man was back, the look in his eyes stronger than before.

  McIlvaine’s jaw dropped a half inch as he glanced from the man to the front of the room and back again. His hand reached for the Springfield XD Compact .45 holstered beneath his jacket and drew it out as the man fired his first shot.

  The world glowed bright crimson as he attempted to raise the gun. Instead of firing, he used it to shield his eyes from the intense light illuminating the room.

  The second shot went off much like the first, a mighty echo through the town hall.

  Another blinding burst of light.

  Eyes squinted against the searing blaze, McIlvaine raised the Springfield. Aimed it in the general direction of the man, little more than a dark shadow in a sanguineous cloud.

  Squeezed the trigger once.

  Twice.

  Until there were no rounds left in the weapon. Nothing but the empty click of a firing pin touching air.

  Chapter Three

  Last.

  The last run of the day.

  The last Zoo Crew outing of the year.

  The last ten minutes before retiring to the lodge for breakfast.

  Drake Bell and Sage Keuhl were the first two off the ski-lift, per usual. Every trip up the mountain they rode together, Drake on the inside to block the wind sweeping in from Hellgate Canyon to the east. Sage hunkered down beside him, pretending not to be using his body as a windbreak.

  Both of their snowboards hung down beneath them, clipped in by a single ski boot, the other swinging free.

  Jumping off a moment later came Ajax and Kade Keuhl, the other half of the Zoo Crew.

  They too always rode together, Kade on the inside to block the wind for Ajax. Despite being a six-four male and living in Missoula all of his adult life, the cold cut through him with every icy blast.

  It was funny the first couple of years.

  Now it just bordered on sad.

  “Alright, one last time,” Drake said as he unclipped his other boot. Carried his board under an arm towards the top of the run.

  “You going to make it Ajax?” Sage asked, trudging along with her board in hand as well.

  The sound of snow crunching beneath their boots gave a distinctive sound in the late morning air. Overhead, the sky was the color of milk.

  A solid wall of clouds threatened to unleash more snow at any moment.

  “Go to hell, all of you,” Ajax said, his voice muffled. Given the number of layers enveloping his body, it was a wonder that any sound was audible at all.

  How he was able to ski was anybody’s guess.

  Beside him, Kade reached out a hand and punched Ajax in the arm. “I bet you wish you were in hell ri
ght now. Bet it’s a least a little warmer than this down there, don’t you?”

  More indecipherable grumbling was the only response.

  The Zoo Crew.

  The self-awarded nickname for the quartet comprised of the biggest outliers in the Missoula community.

  The group had formed seven years before, an outgrowth of a potent mixture of necessity and boredom. At the time, it was just the three males.

  Drake and Ajax, a random pairing brought together by the University of Montana housing lottery.

  Drake and Kade, a random pairing brought together by the University of Montana football team.

  It took less than a month for the three to develop a kinship. All of them were just a degree or two off from the traditional western Montana homogeneity.

  Each let it bother him for about ten seconds before they came together. Reveled in it every moment since.

  The basis for the Crew itself began in the spring of their freshmen year.

  Less than two weeks before finals, they formed the idea to meet at least three mornings a week. Come together and get outside.

  Didn’t matter time of year. Didn’t even matter the activity.

  Strap it up and get after it. Leave the stress of the world behind for a while.

  Summer was set aside for fishing. In the winter, they skied. The time in between, hiking, golfing, snowshoeing.

  The specific activity wasn’t important. The details would figure themselves out.

  Drake reached the flag marking the top of the run first. Dropped his board to the ground. Clipped his boots into their harnesses. Strapped them down tight.

  Beside him, Sage did the same, the combined sound of their clips ringing out over the steady drone of the ski lift.

  A moment later, Kade wedged his boots down onto his skis. Ajax got his board ready to go.

  “Alright, so what are we going for today?” Sage asked. Stood up and brushed long dark hair back from her face. Smashed a fleece cap down on it. Positioned her orange-tinted goggles down over her eyes.

  “Losers buy breakfast?” Drake asked. Pulled a pair of mirrored Oakley’s into place.