Seized. Elizabeth Heiter

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       6

      The closet door opened fast, and Evelyn scrambled to her feet, her fists instinctively coming up, even though she knew it was futile.

      Ward Butler stood in the doorway, a furious glower on a face that already seemed permanently bent in a sneer. “Move,” he growled, gesturing for her to come out from the corner.

      She squinted; the dim light in the hallway seemed bright after the total darkness of the closet. She considered refusing, but it wouldn’t help her.

      Stomach churning, she stepped slowly toward him, peering down the hall. She’d expected a crowd of cultists, begging for another try at a lynching, but it was quiet. Not even Rolfe was with Butler this time, and it made everything seem ominous in a different way.

      “Let’s go,” he said, pointing with his rifle back down the hall, over the trip wire and into the main hallway, which was also empty.

      “Where?” she asked, glad to discover her voice didn’t squeak. It came out strong and clear, as if she still had some say in what happened to her.

      “Upstairs,” he replied, and he opened another nearly invisible door, revealing a curving staircase.

      The lookout tower. She’d wondered how they accessed it. Did he plan to throw her off it?

      No, she decided as he slammed the rifle barrel into her back when she didn’t immediately start climbing.

      The force of it shoved her forward, and she hit the first step with her shins, then went down on her hands. Her knees hit the edge of the metal stair, shooting pain through her legs and up her spine.

      She pushed herself to her feet and began climbing, sensing more than hearing Butler behind her. The rumble of his voice reminded her of driving too fast over loose gravel, but he moved silently, with stealth, like a man who was used to stalking prey in the mountains.

      He wouldn’t throw her out the window; it wasn’t high enough. She might survive that fall.

      He was taking her up there so the FBI surrounding the building would see her. He was showing his hand, betting it was good enough to get him whatever he wanted.

      Her pace quickened. Maybe she could tell them something, give them some kind of message.

      But what? Her mind blanked. What did she really know that they wouldn’t already have discovered themselves?

      Before she could come up with anything, Butler was jabbing her with the rifle barrel again and she stepped into the lookout room. It was a tiny space, with barely room for two people to stand, but there were windows on all sides, and the sloping mountains toward the entrance provided a view well into the distance.

      Ward didn’t climb up into the room with her. He stayed on the stairwell, just out of sight of any snipers who might be watching. He kept his rifle aimed at her, despite the fact that there was nowhere for her to run, no room to fight.

      She spun in a slow circle, looking through the windows, knowing for certain that an HRT sniper was staring back at her. Probably several. But wherever they were, she couldn’t spot them.

      She took in the steep mountain behind the compound, protecting the cultists on two sides. It was covered with new snow, and in other circumstances, it would have been a gorgeous view. A little stark, but this was nature in a purer form than she usually got to see, mostly untouched by man.

      She turned toward the front of the compound, and saw a crowd of protesters. Their features were blurred from up here, but signs rose above them. Facing the protesters was a line of men and women, some in blue; they had to be FBI and local police.

      While she was locked in the closet, she’d heard Butler’s puffed-up voice talking about how the protesters were ready to fight the police, that all he had to do was say the word. She’d scooted closer to the door when she heard Rolfe reply, trying to make out his words, but he’d kept his voice so much softer than Butler’s. She still wasn’t sure what he’d said; her best guess was “Not yet.”

      She’d also heard them say something about April 19—a date a lot of antifederalists held in high regard. She couldn’t tell what they’d been saying about it. That had worried her, because violent believers had used April 19 as a battle date—it was when the raid on Waco had happened, when the Oklahoma City bombing had happened. But April was a long way off, and right now she had other problems.

      As she gazed out the window, she saw that the protesters were contained, although there were more of them than she’d expected. She could see the signs bouncing up and down, but there was no mad rush toward the compound.

      The sound of Adam Noonan’s voice made her jump, even though she’d heard him speaking all morning. She looked up at the sky, at the sun casting pink over the mountains. Was it evening already? The hours had blended together while she’d hunched in that closet, trying to create a strategy to stay alive.

      “Mr. СКАЧАТЬ