Reading Sample - "The Angel of the Sawtooths" Chapter One

Brett Wyatt scanned the horizon, looking for the flight from San Francisco. He waited alongside his friend and neighbor, Tom Coogan, in the outdoor reception area at the new Valley Airport, which serviced Hailey, Ketchum, Sun Valley, and the greater Wood River Valley. The airport bristled with activity as one flight after another arrived. Private jets were common at the airport, but their volume had multiplied over the last few days. Rows of Gulf Streams waited like rental cars waiting for a new driver. The rich and famous gathered, and their jets overflowed from the private terminal into the public terminal.

Over the next week, the annual Cottonwood Financial Conference will take over the Sun Valley Resort. It draws well known corporate executives, hedge fund managers, movie producers, sports figures, media stars, and more. The Cottonwood Conference is about wealth, how to preserve it, and how to grow it. Hopefully, since the attendees were visiting one of the most beautiful areas in Idaho, they would set aside enough time to see the sights and have some fun.

Cloudless blue skies and intense sunlight created a Sun Valley moment for the airport’s passengers and visitors. The crisp morning environment welcomed them to Idaho’s high country.

A United Airlines jet touched down and rolled toward a nearby gate. Tom shook his head and said, “Damn, that one is from Denver. I thought that was it for sure.”

Brett looked down and rested his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Her flight isn’t due for fifteen minutes.”

Tom threw his hands up. “She is flying from California— there’s usually a tailwind.”

Tom was an optimistic guy with a big smile, but he impatiently tapped his foot this morning. He hadn’t seen his daughter in a long time. Brett’s gaze left his closest friend, and he watched the passengers exit the Denver flight.

A tall, handsome man with sandy blond hair stepped off the Denver flight and walked toward the reception area. He wore a light tan sport coat, dark slacks, a soft blue crew neck shirt, mid tan loafers, and no socks. Several of his fellow passengers eagerly shook his hand. He wrapped his arms around a young couple’s shoulders and posed for a group photo.

Tom elbowed Brett and pointed. “That’s Kelly Hawk, isn’t it?” Brett scrutinized the disembarking group. “Yeah, it sure is.”

“I think he is the greatest quarterback in NFL history.”

“Could be. He’s at least in the conversation.”

With his carry-on slung over his shoulder, Kelly Hawk marched through the exit, glanced toward Tom and Brett, grinned, turned, and quickly walked toward them.

“Why is he coming over here?” Tom asked, a little star-struck.

Before Brett could answer, Kelly yelled, “Hey, Brett!”

As the men came together, they shook hands and embraced in a man hug.

Tom stared at the pair, then tossed his hands up. “Of course, you guys played together in Denver. You’re teammates.”

Kelly was Brett’s teammate a long time ago. Since their football careers ended, their lives diverged into two unique tracks. Kelly Hawk, a high-profile quarterback, turned his talent, intelligence, and history into a marketable brand and built an impressive business empire. Brett entered public service to make a difference. Most of Brett’s coaches, teammates, and fans believed he retired a few years too early.

Brett was statuesque—an easy six-five, two-forty. As the years passed, he lost most of his athletic edge, but even in middle age, he offered a powerful presence. He worked out regularly to take care of his mind and body. His muscle tone had reduced with age and fewer gym sessions, but he was still strong enough to rip a door out of a wall. His cropped dark hair contrasted with his bright eyes, and his multicultural ethnicity meant his skin tone was flawless. As imposing as his physical presence was, it didn’t define him. Instead, his calm demeanor and innate listening ability gave him a near-empathic ability.

Kelly Hawk purchased auto dealerships, while Brett Wyatt enlisted in the Army as a Military Police Officer. He specialized in the criminal investigation division, and after he completed his enlistment, the FBI recruited him. Special Agent Wyatt analyzed complex crime. He loved the FBI, but his analytical skills were put to use at a keyboard. The desk job tied him down too much, so he retired and moved to Boise.

While he caught up with his old teammate, Brett realized he had left his riding buddy out of the conversation. “This is my friend, Tom Coogan,” Brett said.

“And you’re Kelly Hawk,” Tom said, reaching to shake the famed footballer’s hand. “I’m a big fan.”

“Thanks, Tom, but I’m far from my playing days.” Kelly gripped Tom’s hand.

“You look great,” Brett said. “Are you up here for the conference?”

“Yes, and some related work. I’m a partner in a new company, the conference’s security contractor. It’s our first major job, but I’m not hands-on. I’m here to watch and learn.”

“You’re amazing, Hawk. You move from one venture to another, and your empire grows.” Kelly flashed a smile. “Thanks, Brett. I’m glad I ran into you. We need to talk; your law enforcement background could make you a tremendous asset to our firm. At least, I can see you in an advisory role. I would love it if you came on board. What would you say about getting together to discuss it?”

“Sure. For you, I’d be happy to.”

Kelly slapped his old friend’s back as if Brett had made a decisive tackle on the playing field. “Great. I’ll give you a call. What are you guys up to? You here for the conference?” Kelly asked.

“No, we’re up here with friends on vacation, and we brought our horses. We’ll spend time around the valley, and then we’ll ride the Trilogy Lakes Tour,” Tom said.

“That sounds like fun. I’m familiar with the Trilogy Lakes. They’re up in the Sawtooth Wilderness Area?”

“Yeah, they’re deep into the Sawtooths. It’s a ride we’ve wanted to take for a long time.” Brett said.

“I read about the Trilogy Lakes in a book by retired US Senator Ed Wilson. He said they are one of the spots on earth you should see before you die.”

While the men talked, another flight landed—a private jet, a beautiful state-of-the-art Gulfstream. It taxied past the private terminal, continued rolling to the public terminal and parked. Suddenly, the Gulfstream’s arriving passengers began shouting at the airport employees who were trying to help them. Tom, Brett, and Kelly all turned to look.

“Oh, God, it’s Bruce Arnold.” Kelly almost sighed.

Bruce Arnold was the founder of the internet giant, Yoster. He was one of the wealthiest people in the world, and his negative personal reputation, which he was known for, mirrored his financial success.

Bruce Arnold, his wife, and two personal security guards marched toward the terminal’s reception area. “Everybody back off—now! Get out of the way! Make room for a VIP!” the lead security guard from the Arnold group shouted. At least the friends assumed he was security. He wore a dark blazer, white shirt, and tie. His eyes swept from left to right, and his hands were held aloft, ready to fend off unwanted attention. Directly behind him, a casually dressed, thin, middle-aged man escorted an uncomfortable-looking lady. It was Bruce Arnold and his wife. A red-faced Arnold paused before a TSA agent posted at the reception area entrance. He shouted, “You idiots don’t know what you’re doing! We’re not in the private terminal. We’re in a public area. We don’t belong here!” Arnold threw his hands into the air and stomped into the terminal.

“The private terminal is at capacity, sir.” The TSA agent replied.

“This is unacceptable! I need to see the airport manager. Now!”

“You’re blocking the exit. You need to clear the area.” Another stone-faced TSA agent said.

A second private security guard followed Arnold and his wife and tried to coax them through. “Sir, please, we need to move to our vehicles. This area is too congested,” he said. Tom was transfixed by the scene. He unintentionally blocked the Arnold group’s path while he gawked, and he chuckled while the spoiled rich guy’s demands fell on indifferent ears. “Let’s get out of the way,” Brett said, grabbing Tom’s shoulder.

“Give me a minute.” Tom pulled away.

Brett and Kelly didn’t want to get involved, so they slipped back six feet to the edge of a seating area.

Arnold stopped and scowled at Tom as the unhappy group approached two waiting SUVs. He asked, “Are you stupid? What don’t you understand about the words, back off?”

Tom stiffened, stared at the man, and held his ground. Bruce Arnold’s disruptive behavior distracted everyone from a more significant problem. No one in the crowded area noticed another gathering in the parking lot.

Brett spotted six individuals who stepped out of an older model gray cargo van. Faceless and genderless, each was dressed in a camo beanie, camo jumpsuit, camo gloves, and high-top brown hiking boots, armed with waist belts that holstered a nightstick-sized club and a long skinny spray bottle. The camo beanies covered their foreheads and seamlessly met a pair of strapped-on goggles. Camo N95 masks shielded their mouths and noses.

They moved with almost military precision, forming a broad line and marching toward the terminal. The operatives quickly approached the reception area and established a semi-circle that blocked and cornered the Arnold party. The two groups had nearly converged before one of Arnold’s security guards finally lifted his eyes.

“Pig, thief! Pig, thief!” The camo group chanted in unison.

Bruce Arnold cowered and slipped behind his two-man security detail, who had thrust themselves into the middle of the opposition, trying to open a corridor toward their awaiting vehicles. The tactic failed as the individuals in the wings closed in, swinging their clubs.

Brett could tell their intentions were not to kill but to injure. They overwhelmed the surprised security men with back and shoulder strikes. One guard collapsed under the attack; the other dropped to a knee, holding his arms above his head and yelling, “Back off!”

In a smooth and well-practiced maneuver, the attackers backed up five yards and formed a new line. The Arnold group scrambled backward. Several wild-eyed and helpless bystanders, including Tom, were caught in the middle.

The attacker’s new line filled the width of the walkway and blocked any escape. All six individuals pulled spray bottles from their belts and sprayed pepper spray at the cornered group. Yelps and screams filled the air. Mrs. Arnold fell to the concrete and wept, rubbing her eyes where the liquid must have hit her. A stream of liquid hit Tom in his face and neck. He tried to wipe the substance away, which didn’t help. He wheezed and coughed, fighting for breath. A vile odor filled the air.

Satisfied they had done their worst, the attackers slipped the empty bottles back into their belts and retreated from the reception area in another organized formation.

Before the attackers could escape, Brett widened his stance, flexed his knees, and exploded into action. He looped around the panicked bystanders, running low. He threw his body into the line of attackers, shoulder first. Three camouflaged attackers hit the ground, and the remaining camouflaged individuals scrambled but held their ground.

Seconds later, Kelly Hawk stepped behind Brett and shouted, “Everybody freeze!”

The attackers ignored Kelly’s orders and carefully stepped back toward the parking lot. A cargo van rolled adjacent to the walkway directly behind the camouflaged attackers.

Just as Brett regained his footing, the van’s sliding door opened, and another disguised individual stepped out with a rifle in hand. He aimed it skyward and fired.

The chaos instantly froze, but screams still permeated the air.

“Whoever moves next gets shot!” The rifleman shouted. He tightened the rifle to his shoulder and carefully panned from left to right.

Brett positioned himself at an angle where he could launch, but there was too much distance between himself and the camouflaged man with the rifle. He held his ground.

Tom squinted and blinked his burning eyes, struggling to take slow, even breaths.

The camouflaged attackers climbed to their feet and scampered into the van. The rifleman stepped in behind them and slid the door closed. The van sped away. Kelly put his hand on Brett’s shoulder. “What the hell was that?”

“It looks like the conference might have a terrorist problem.”