The horses climbed the gentle slope, huffing and blowing, leaning into the angle with muscles rippling under warm horsehide. It had been too long since he'd ridden, Colby decided, enjoying the feel of the power of the animal beneath him. It was a good gelding, well-trained, obedient to the gentle guidance that he gave with the reins and the touch of his heels. Whatever Caldwell's faults, they cared for their animals. The stable was well run.

Nogales too rode a dappled black mare that had much more on the ball than nose-to-tail laziness. She was more at home in the saddle than any of them, guiding her mount with her knees, looking almost like one single being instead of horse and rider. Colby hid a smile; it would have been enjoyable to watch the woman gallop her horse across the field, long black hair flying on both woman and horse. But Nogales knew her job; she stuck close to the man that she clearly despised, scanning the surrounding environment for the glint of a weapon, for any sign that someone unexpected was watching and waiting for an opportune moment to wreak havoc. Bostwick would be hard to protect out in the open like this, but Nogales was determined to do her best.

The group gathered at a plateau, gazing down over the fields. The group was not small: three FBI agents, an FBI consultant, and the three Caldwell employees, including the two Caldwell security people. Bostwick urged his horse up closer to Charlie's, nosing Rufus's mount out of the way. Charlie pretended not to notice the slight to Rufus. It was in character for the older scientist. Objecting wouldn't have accomplished anything, and, frankly, Rufus seemed just as happy to be snubbed.

"Beautiful," Charlie commented. "You don't see this in L.A."

"No, you don't," Bostwick agreed, unusually reflective. The fields rolled away from a sharp drop from the plateau, leveling off and extending almost to the horizon. They were fashioned in simple squares, the crops that had benefited from Bostwick's process gleaming green and turning golden under the onslaught of autumn. One field had already been mowed, the bales of hay tossed into another section that had been fenced off for the cattle. Charlie automatically counted; there were some forty head in the one field, all contentedly chewing away at the bales of hay. One snorted, and tossed its head, ruffling its neighbor who jostled yet another cow until it stomped away to another bale.

Rufus noted the puzzled look on Charlie's face. "Charlie?"

Dr. Eppes always assumed, perhaps erroneously, that others were keeping up with him. "Queing theory," he murmured with a frown.

"Doctor?" Bostwick came on point, interested and, curiously, nervous. Rufus noted the researcher's posture. He couldn't explain it. It puzzled him. He stayed back, observing the pair of Ph.D.'s.

"A moment." Charlie held up his finger, counting the cattle.


It would have been better if he didn't have to be constantly scanning the surrounding area for clues. Leather squeaked as he swayed back and forth in the saddle, adjusting to the horse's gait, knowing that there would be a few stiff and sore spots before the day was over but enjoying it just the same. He gave Sarge his head, allowing the big gelding to amble its way through the forest, plodding along an almost non-existent trail, hoping that this was the route that the late Dr. Halligan had favored. Would it tell Special Agent Eppes anything? He hoped so. It would be a shame to waste the fresh air on a mere joy ride.

The Caldwell holdings were a great deal larger than the buildings alone. The horse had already taken Don through a couple of the fields, the animal stretching its neck out to snap at a stray sheaf. Don pulled the reins back in, reminding the horse that it too was on duty. Eating extra oats was not part of that duty. Don had already made friends using an apple that swiftly vanished down the horse's gullet, and saw no reason to allow the horse's training to slip during the ride itself. The stable hands had demonstrated their devotion and caring, and Don refused to interfere. He was, after all, here on business. Even if that business was hard to stick to while inhaling the fresh mountain air filtered by autumn leaves cascading onto the trail around him. He pushed back a slender branch, preventing it from brushing across his face.

The horse turned automatically onto a trail leading further up the slope, and Don's spirits lifted. This was a path that the horse had traveled often. Don eyed the sides of the trail, looking for anything out of the ordinary, anything that might lead to an answer to this case.

There was a multitude of things that bothered him about this case. First, the mere fact of the identity of the corpse. There was no reason to kill Dr. Halligan that they could find. The woman had no debts, no family feuds, no jilted lovers, nothing but a job that she loved and spent most of her waking hours at. Clearly the target had been Dr. Bostwick, in whose office the pair had been when Halligan was assassinated. Bostwick was the head researcher, the man responsible for the Caldwell formula, the man who would bring in millions to the Caldwell stockholders and drain those millions from other agricultural companies. There was a man who asked to be killed, Don reflected. Successful, and obnoxious about it. Agri-corporations would want a crack at him. Co-workers disliked him. Rosa Nogales, head of Security, could barely contain her distaste. Maybe he should look at Bostwick's wife? He'd put David on it when he returned. Sinclair had a gift for working with witnesses, had a calm and probing manner that turned people into putty. If there was something wrong in the Bostwick household, he could rely on David to ferret it out.

The horse paused at a small clearing high up on the slope, unsure if Don wanted it to continue on the path. Don peered off into the distance. Caldwell International was laid out below him, the entire holdings for him to see. There were fields of wheat or whatever crop was on Bostwick's list of trial plants, and several fields with cattle gently moving about. Don put binoculars up to his eyes to scan more closely. There were bales of hay dotting the fields, with cattle at one end munching and chewing their cud. The cattle bunched together; herd instinct, Don thought idly. Even as he watched, a flock of crows lifted from one of the other fields of wheat/corn/grain; Don couldn't identify which crop and supposed that for the moment it didn't matter. He doubted that wheat was the cause of Dr. Halligan's demise. Oats were not noted for their propensity to hire hit men.

Don looked around at the clearing that the horse had paused in; a lovely spot for a picnic, or sight-seeing, or, if there was another person, a romantic getaway. A bit chilly at present with winter pressing its suit in the higher elevations, but during the summer months Don could see a couple stealing away to this spot to indulge. Secluded, quiet—hm, perhaps the middle-aged Dr. Halligan wasn't as chaste as her co-workers believed? Wouldn't be the first tryst that ended up with bloodshed. And that would be a good explanation for why the killer missed Bostwick. He wasn't after Bostwick, he was after Halligan.

But that didn't fit the evidence. Bostwick had been the intended target; the sniper missed. The angle of the shot showed that, and the placement of the discarded casings that Rufus and David had found.

Don sighed. Nothing made sense. He turned the horse's head back to the path, allowing it to pick its way further up hill.

The path lulled him into a sense of peace, and he had to work at staying alert. There was nothing on the trail to suggest any clues, simply the rounded indentations of iron-shod hooves plodding upward toward the tree line. A broken branch here, a trampled bush there verified his idea that this was indeed Dr. Halligan's route, and so far everything was entirely innocent.

His thoughts turned to Rufus. The man had kept up his end of the case, sticking with Charlie and exploring the details of the process that seemed to be at the heart of the matter. He'd done his share, explaining some of the math and chemistry concepts to Don himself. Not that Charlie couldn't have done the same thing, but Don needed to hear it from Rufus. A.D. Thomas had asked for an evaluation of the man, and being able to succinctly explain things not immediately understandable to the mere mortals was part of that evaluation. So far, so good. Don would be giving a good report on the agent. Sure, Rufus didn't have Charlie's sheer genius, but that wasn't what Thomas had said that he wanted. Thomas wanted an agent who could put together the math concepts with the attributes of a good agent in the field. Looked like Rufus was going to go far, if he could stand the cold. Colby had clued Don in that Rufus wouldn't mind an invitation to remain in sunny L.A. Sorry, Rufus. Already got a math guy. Keep you in mind if a vacancy pops up, though.

The path crossed a dirt road. The horse ambled across it, preparing to move onto the continuing trail on the other side, but Don suddenly reined back. He looked closer, trying to figure out what had just set his 'spidey-sense' tingling.

There they were: tire tracks. Fresh tire tracks. Fresh tire tracks superimposed upon tire tracks that were only a day or two old.

Don listened: nothing. No engine noises, no rumbling of a vehicle climbing the dirt slope. He frowned. What was someone doing up here? There wasn't anything around, no buildings, no people. This wasn't public land where anyone was welcome to go hiking.

But this was relatively close to where his team had found the spent casings. He peered closely, suddenly convinced that these were the tracks that his people had identified as highly likely to belong to the sniper. The same tracks that Colby had made a cast of and sent off to the lab in L.A. Yes, there it was, a small trickle of spilled casting material. These were the tracks.

With fresh tracks super-imposed. Which meant that the sniper had returned to the scene of the crime: why? What, if anything, had he left behind? In which case Don wanted to find it first, and soon!

More to the point, was he still here? Don listened carefully: nothing. That didn't mean much, only that the sniper was either not here, or was being so quiet that Don couldn't hear him. Don got a little itch between his shoulder blades, wondering if the assassin had Don in his sights right now. Wish I'd worn my vest.

Time to move. Don carefully and quietly swung down from Sarge's saddle, looping the reins over a tall bush to keep the horse from wandering. He paused to listen once more: nothing. Could he have remained undetected? Don decided to move forward on that supposition. He silently pulled his revolver from the shoulder holster, fingering the safety.

His time on Fugitive Recovery sidled back to him with a vengeance, memories of slipping up on a fugitive and taking him down without a shot. Don had been good at it, racking up a record of successes that had been the envy of his colleagues. Those techniques came back now, setting his feet down without so much as a whisper despite the heavy riding boots, and then sliding past the heavy bush that hid everything five feet ahead of him.

Maybe there was no one. Maybe the tracks had come and gone, and no one was there. Maybe the sniper had come back to retrieve the casings, found them missing, and fled.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Don wasn't willing to give up yet. Easing his way to the edge of the slope, he pulled out his binoculars once again. By scanning the surrounding foliage, he could hopefully detect some signs of human occupancy; something glinting, perhaps, or a tamped down area. The sniper could have moved to a spot further away, a place where he would have a clean shot into the research building of Caldwell International.

Far away, but not far enough. A good sniper with a powerful enough rifle could do it. Don swung up the binoculars and stared at the research building. Yes, it was do-able. Don could see windows clearly through the lenses, would be able to focus a rifle well enough to put a bullet into a soft body. He could even make out a desk in one room, a chemistry bench in another. It would take a damn good sniper, but it was far from impossible. And it had occurred. It had happened.

He could see the rest of his team below, possibly half a mile down slope and over toward the north. Don could make out his brother—even from this distance Charlie looked uncomfortable on top of a horse. With all the 'special tutoring' Charlie had received as a kid, there hadn't been as much time for him to simply be 'a kid.' No pony rides, no trips to the zoo. Not that Charlie had ever missed it. It's hard to miss what you don't know about. And Charlie had loved his numbers to the exclusion of almost everything else…

Rosa Nogales was there, looking like some strange sort of centaur, almost part of the horse itself. It was clear that the woman had grown up riding in this part of the country. Was that Bostwick with them? Damn, what was the man doing out in the open? Idiot Security people; Don's opinion of Nogales plummeted, then regained some of its height as he recalled how overpowering the scientist could be. That must be his bodyguard beside him—no, that was Rufus, big shoulders and all. The three of them—Charlie, Rufus, and Dr. Bostwick—were clearly discussing the scene below, perhaps the interaction of the Caldwell formula, the wheat field, and the cattle. It would make sense, and would be a valid reason for his team and the Caldwell personnel to be out in the fresh air. The unknown man off to their left must be the security man that Nogales had assigned. Don sighed. The security man wouldn't have lasted two days at Quantico, stationed that far away from his charge. Don wondered idly if the bullet proof vest that routinely sat in his Suburban would fit Dr. Bostwick. Nogales had the responsibility for the scientist's protection, but that didn't mean that Don didn't feel some portion himself. Having the man expire while the FBI was on the premises would appear something less than stellar.

Focusing the binoculars let Don clearly identify the other members of the FBI team who were present, David and Colby. After all this riding, there would be a concerted rush for the showers at the Caldwell guest apartments to rid themselves of the smell of horseflesh. Was Colby really sitting his horse that well? Don resolved to look over the man's jacket again. He hadn't known that Colby was comfortable on horseback. It was either that, or the horse knew how to make its rider look really good…

Charlie was pointing toward one of the fields, one with a herd of cattle scattered over one edge of it, chowing down on some of the bales of hay that had been tossed for their use. The cattle were bunched up at one end of the field, herd instinct in full force as though wolves or some such were about to attack from the other direction. Even up here on the slopes Don could faintly hear the lowing. Bostwick shook his head, Rufus echoing the same motion. Ease up on the lectures, Charlie, Don thought.

Then he caught it, saw it in the corner of his eye. Light flashed, and glinted on something metal. That something wasn't a mirror. He swung around, seeking to zero in with the binoculars, scanning as fast as he could.

He found it: a slender flicker of light among the dark scrub brush. It was a gun barrel. It was the scope of a high powered sniper rifle, with a dark figure carefully propping it against a convenient boulder for stabilization. The barrel wasn't aimed toward the research building, but rather something—or someone—much closer.

The next few moments played themselves out in slow motion. Intellectually he knew that time hadn't altered, that the seconds hadn't suddenly transmuted themselves into minutes, but as it occurred, every horrible instant etched itself into his consciousness and sat there, burning with acid ferocity.

The sniper's rifle cracked. The small jolt of the barrel bore witness to the velocity of the bullet winging its way to the grouping below.

There wasn't time to refocus the binoculars. Plain sight did just as fine a job letting him know that the high powered projectile had found its mark. One of the bodies on top of a horse jerked suddenly with the impact, and slumped. The horse, startled, bolted, taking the others with it.

Damn! Don used anger to counteract the fear that clutched at him. Who had gone down? It was one of the grouping of three, either Charlie, Bostwick, or Rufus. They had been nestled together, surveying the field below. A quick look showed Nogales plunging after the fleeing horses, two of the equines wildly galloping downhill but only one with a rider precariously perched on top. Another of his team—Don couldn't make out who—was following.

He couldn't help them, not from here. It was too far away. What he could do was take down the shooter, prevent him from shooting any more of the people below. Don threw caution to the wind, dropping the binoculars and dashing forward, handgun solid in his fist.

The sniper heard him coming. He hastily abandoned his long range weapon, running flat out toward the road. Don angled to cut the man off, but the sniper had too great a start and too many trees in the way. Seconds later Don heard a powerful engine rev into life. He had only seconds to catch sight of an SUV roaring past, California plates Delta niner niner—damn, missed the rest. Missed the small decal on the back bumper, too; something white and red that would have helped identify the vehicle.

No help for it. No time for it. Someone had gone down, and Don found himself praying that it had been Bostwick. Because if it weren't, both Charlie and Rufus were right next to the scientist. Right in the line of fire.


"I'm the first to admit I know little about cattle," Charlie said, "but why are they eating from some bales and not others? They seem to be ignoring some and going straight to others farther away." He pointed at a small cluster of dusty brown bovines.

Bostwick shrugged. "Cattle are not the brightest of animals. Herd instinct, too. They group themselves. They'll get those bales too, when they get there."

"You don't think there's something different about—"

Crack!

Rufus had only been in one fire fight in his admittedly short career, but he'd spent plenty of time on the practice range and he knew that sound intimately. The sharp retort carried across the slopes far more slowly than the bullet itself. The man beside him, Dr. Bostwick, had already been shot at once, and a woman had died because of it. Rufus reacted.

He leaped from his mount, barreling into Bostwick and wrenching him down to the meager safety of the ground, rolling them both behind the more solid cover of a boulder. Bostwick yelped with surprise and shock. The Caldwell bodyguard joined them a moment later, handgun out and ready, peering over the boulder, looking for something to shoot at. Over his shoulder, Rufus saw David too jump down and pull out his own gun, searching for the sniper that had just struck.

It was not Bostwick who had been hit. The sniper had missed his target yet again, but another innocent had gotten in the way. Charlie slumped forward in the saddle. The horse, frightened, bolted.

Charlie stayed with the animal only a few hundred yards before falling to the rocky ground. Both Colby and Rosa Nogales chased after him and the three horses, the latter two horses having taken off in shared terror once their riders had been yanked away by Rufus. Colby pulled his horse up short, jumping free of the saddle to pull a limp Charlie behind a small cluster of rocks, scanning for any sign that the sniper might try again. "Charlie? Charlie, you okay?" Man, this is like being in Afghanistan all over again!

"I don't think so." This isn't supposed to happen to mild mannered mathematicians, Charlie thought, just as blackness rolled in and smothered him.