Malcolm West was on his cell phone as soon as he hit the street in front of the sheriff's office. "It's me," he said when the party on the other end picked up the call. "We're going hunting. Bring the heavy rigs and all of the extras you and the boys might need. I'll meet you at the airport. Right now, I've got to go hire a guide and acquire some suitable transportation."
West listened for a moment. "I dunno. We'll stay until we find the psycho that killed Rick." Another pause while West let the other man speak. "Bring enough for an extended stay. There is a lot of land to cover out here, and it could be awhile. Right, call me when you are about to land." West hung up the phone and took a deep breath. The first thing he had to do was find a local who was willing to show him around, and not be too particular about breaking a few laws if necessary. Fortunately, in his experience, all it took to find such a person was a little cash. Malcolm West had plenty of that to spare.
Sheriff Travis Brown had a gnawing feeling in his gut. He'd had one already, but West had made it worse. On a hunch, he picked up the phone and dialed the airport. "Deke? This is Sheriff Brown. Have you had any private planes fly in the last couple of days?" Deke Smith was the senior air traffic controller at the small airport which serviced the community. If West had flown in from somewhere, Deke would know something. "Just the one? Would that plane be registered to a Mr. Malcolm West?" A pause as his hunch was confirmed. "Where did that plane come from, Deke?" He listened as the flight information was relayed to him. "Thanks, Deke. I owe you one. Let me know if that plane leaves." Brown hung up the phone and rubbed his temples. The plane had flown in from Denver. He picked up the phone again to make a few calls to Colorado.
While the sheriff was making a few long distance calls, Malcolm West was doing some advance prep work for his next planned excursion. One advantage of having a wildlife refuge nearby was the availability of rugged vehicles which could be rented by visitors to take inside the park. West paid for two 4x4 Jeeps, which looked slightly beat up, but did come equipped with some nice extras like overhead lights, oversize tires and a towing winch. There was ample cargo space for the equipment his group would need for the specialized outing. While he was procuring the vehicles, West asked the man running the rental agency if he knew of anyone who would be interested in guiding a hunting party into the refuge. West was not surprised to learn that the agency had a list of potential guides on hand, for just such a situation. The list was available for a small fee. West gladly paid for it, and immediately set about tracking down his guide.
As he was going about that business, Sheriff Brown was receiving word over fax and phone that made him uneasy. Colorado law enforcement had a file on Malcolm West, and the more he found out, the worse he felt. West was wealthy, there was no doubt. He owned at least three different businesses, one of which was an outdoor adventure company. He had been investigated for illegal gambling activities and ties to organized crime, none of which had panned out. West had also been cited several times in the state for hunting violations. Brown whistled when the the list of registered firearms belonging to West came over the fax, and he wondered what type of weaponry was not registered. After some time, the sheriff managed to get a state investigator who knew West on the line.
"You say he's just shown up in Arizona?" asked the Colorado man. "Malcolm West does not just show up anywhere. He always has a reason for anything he does." Brown told him about the death of Rick Wells, but left out the gruesome details, then about West's brief visit to his office. "Hmm. You had better watch him, sheriff. Wherever West goes, trouble is never far behind, but he is a sly dog. We have never been able to pin anything major on him, but that man is not, by any stretch, a John Q. Citizen. It sounds like he is out for blood. West is like a bulldog. Once he gets his teeth into something, he won't let go." Sheriff Brown thanked the man and hung up. He was still waiting on information from the feds. West was going to be trouble, he just knew it.
The man in question was beginning to grow frustrated. The list of guides he had bought was not extensive, and many of them had a good relationship with the park and with local authorities. They had no wish to jeopardize their business by doing something which would land them in trouble. West was fairly upfront about that, while being vague about the details. He did not want a guide who would freak out in the middle of the desert if someone ended up dead.
Finally, he stumbled upon a lead. An old man declined the job offer, but told West his nephew might be interested, and gave him directions to the man's house. West pulled up to a ramshackle home. The place had seen better days. It sagged on one side, the roof had been roughly patched, and the windows had been covered with aluminum foil. A thick layer of dust had settled over the entire sad affair. West exited his vehicle and approached the house. He was about to step up on the bare low wooden porch when a voice from the shadows stopped him cold.
"If you've got business here, you'd best be stating it." The twin barrels of a shotgun protruding into the sunlight and leveled at his midsection made West consider his next words very carefully.
"I am looking for Craig Coytero," said West. Silence was the only response from the house. He held his hands out and away from his body to show he carried nothing that would make someone holding a shotgun on him nervous. "I have come with a job opportunity for you."
"Yeah? What kind of job is it?"
"As a hunting guide in the wildlife refuge," said West. He was relieved when the shotgun barrels lowered a bit, although they remained pointed in his general direction.
"Come in, and we'll talk terms," said Coytero.
An hour or so later, West left and he knew he had his guide. As it turned out, Coytero had known the missing guide from the murdered hunting party. They had grown up together. Coytero expressed an eagerness to find out the fate of his childhood friend, and was not adverse to exacting a little revenge if the worst had happened. "If Ernie is dead, I want a piece of the motherfuckers that did it," were his exact words. West knew then that he had his man. He promised Coytero more than ample compensation for the job. The newly hired guide's grip was strong as the two men shook hands to seal the deal. The Apache was lanky and thin, like he had been whipped lean by the desert. Black hair fell over his forehead and settled around his shoulders. West estimated his age to be mid to late twenties, but it was hard to tell with his sun-burnished face and stoic black eyes.
His immediate business concluded, West loitered about town. He hated waiting, but that is what he was stuck with doing until his other plane carrying his men and supplies touched down, at the local airport. At last, his cell phone rang , and it was the call he had been waiting for. After conformation of the landing, West placed another call to Coytero, and told him to meet up at the airport. West could feel anticipation begin to crawl up through his guts. Soon, he would be on the hunt, and the sorry bastards who killed Rick were going to pay in blood.
West was not the only one burning up the phone lines. Deke Smith watched the plane land, and kept a close vigil as three men disembarked. The trio began to unload boxes of cargo including several long silver cases used for transporting expensive hunting rifles. Smith immediately reported this new activity to Sheriff Brown.
"Are you sure, Deke?"
"It's registered to the same guy, and came out of the same area. I'd say it's a good bet, Sheriff."
"Okay, Deke. Thanks for the heads-up." Sheriff Brown hung up the phone and gently massaged his temples. He could figure out what West was planning to do, but as of yet, the man had not broken any laws. Brown could not arrest him, or order the man to stop whatever damn fool vigilante plan West was about to put into motion. Still, it wouldn't hurt to go out to the airport and lay eyes on the newcomers. He picked his hat up off his desk and made for the door.
West rumbled up to the plane in one of his rented 4x4's. The sight of the three men waiting around the unloaded equipment brought a surge of confidence through him. All of them were rugged outdoor enthusiasts that had accompanied him on many hunting trips throughout the world. Further, their loyalty was unquestioned. Not everything they had done could be considered strictly legal, even in the wilder corners of the globe, and West kept very good records.
Billy Parker was the sharpshooter of the bunch. Born and raised by a gun-loving survivalist clan in Wyoming, West had seen him pick off a wolf pack from a helicopter as the creatures tried to escape by weaving through a forest in Canada. The man was uncanny with a rifle in his hands.
West had met Orlando Robinson hunting gators on the Louisiana swamps. The dark skinned Cajun preferred to get close to his prey. He was the kind to hunt wild boars with spears, like in the old days he had said, and go after bears with nothing but a powerful handgun. West thought swamp fever had probably fried his brains at some point, but he had to admit the man was fearless.
The final member of the entourage was Ray Callahan. He was the sort which looked exceptionally bored at the world unless a high degree of danger was involved. West, never the most temperate of men, thought Callahan was missing something inside of him. He had never seen him smile unless blood had been spilled.
"Hi, boys," said West as he got out of the truck. "Nice to see you." The three nodded at him.
"What's going on, boss?" asked Parker. "Can you fill us in on the details?"
"I'll tell you what I know," said West. "Start loading the jeep." He talked while the other three worked. When both tasks were done, silence hung among the quartet.
"Rick was no lightweight," said Callahan. "It would have taken someone with a lot of skill to sneak up on him and butcher an entire party."
"Yeah," said West. "But that skill won't save them." A vehicle entered the hangar area, and West turned to watch it. "Ah, there is our guide. Load the rest of the equipment on the second jeep, and we can get out of here." Coytero pulled up, and after a brief introduction to the others, helped to load the second truck. They were almost done when a patrol car tuned down the dirt lane leading to the hangers, and slowly made its way toward the group.
"Johnny Law come to pay us a visit. Stay loose, boys," said West. The men dropped what they were doing and stared at the car as Sheriff Brown came to a stop and got out of his car.
"Craig," he said, nodding at Coytero. The guide returned the gesture. "Mr. West, you and these other gentlemen wouldn't be thinking of doing something stupid and illegal, would you?"
"No sir," said West. "My associates and I are just going to do a little camping and sight-seeing in the park. It is a beautiful place, and I would like to see more of it."
"Cut the crap, West" said Sheriff Brown, a little edge creeping into his voice. "I can't stop you from stomping around the refuge, just like I am sure you are smart enough to have all of the correct papers and licenses for that fancy equipment stacked in those jeeps. Buck me on this investigation, and I will arrest the whole sorry lot of you. You want to wander around in the wasteland, that's great. If I even hear a whisper of a rumor that you and the wild bunch here are causing the smallest bit of trouble, I will hammer you into the dirt. Am I clear?"
"Crystal," deadpanned West.
Brown turned back to his car. "Keep your nose clean, Craig," he said. The sheriff started the engine and slowly drove away.
When he was out of sight, West faced his crew. "That was fun," he said. "Load up."
Coytero led the group to a small butte relatively close to the crime scene. They could eyeball it with scopes and binoculars, without getting close enough to trip anyone's suspicion. They set up camp while Coytero scouted around a bit.
"Well?" inquired West when the Apache returned.
"My friend was not killed at the murder site," said Coytero. "This we know. If he was there at the time of the attack, and escaped on foot, I think I know where he would have gone. There is a cave a few miles from here. It is hidden inside of a rock formation. We used to play there as kids all of the time. It's hidden from the outside. Only someone who lived in this area would know about it, maybe."
"If so, why hasn't your friend shown up since the murders?" asked West.
"It could be that he is laying low for awhile," said Coytero. "Most Apache are wary of the white man's justice. Or it could be that he is lying dead somewhere out there in the desert."
"Huh," grunted West. "We'll go check out this cave tomorrow at first light."
"It doesn't make much sense," said Parker as he walked up to the duo. "I have spied over every inch of that kill site. I don't see how one guy, much less a group, could have approached the camp without being seen or heard. Too much open space."
"What about at night?" asked West.
"That would be the only way," agreed Parker. "Otherwise, a blind man could see an armed party coming in that direction from miles away. However, that line of thinking would lead me to believe that those attackers would be packing some sophisticated equipment. Night vision and such."
"Swell," said West. "We'll have to set up a night watch for tonight."
Later in the night, Orlando Robinson was on watch duty. He would periodically scan the area with night vision goggles, while passing the time by tossing a knife at passing scorpions. He had seen nothing out of the ordinary, but kept his senses sharp, nonetheless. No band of killers was going to sneak up while he was on the clock.
The Yautja studied the human in the camp, sizing up the prey. It was of acceptable size and age, and it appeared to be familiar with human weaponry. The alien hunter had already identified several types of weapons scattered around the human campsite. It trilled softly down in it's throat. When the sun rose next, and the humans began their daily activities, the hunt would begin.