Monday late morning: Montana State Prison

Guards escorted Rainhorse to a large room for his Monday morning meeting with the FBI. The same two guards who had brought him to see Rose Red Feather led him into a large conference room in the administrative area of the building. The guards still cuffed his hands and feet. There was no metal hook in the center of the fine mahogany table, but the guards took the extra precaution of using additional cuffs to secure his wrists to the arm of the chair.

Once the guards deemed him secured, they ushered Rose into the room. She looked even more lovely than she did on Friday when he first met her. She had on a gray matching blazer and skirt which complemented her shapely figure. A bright red shirt underneath the blazer accentuated her bosom. She styled her hair into a businesslike twist. Her fragrance was delightful, smelling of honeysuckle.

She carried a large briefcase, sitting it on the table.

“Good morning, Jackson,” she offered in a business-like tone. “Are you ready for this?”

“The better question is, are you ready?” he answered.

“Just let me do the talking,” she advised.

“That’s why I’m paying you the big bucks,” he replied.

The door opened and four people entered. Three men and one woman. Rainhorse recognized two of the men. Warden James Salmon was there as was FBI Special Agent Jim Andrews, the man the Cheyenne surrendered himself to.

Warden Salmon said hello to Rainhorse and introduced himself to Rose. Jim Andrews gave Rainhorse a cursory glance as he also introduced himself to Rose.

“Ms. Red Feather,” Salmon said, “I’d like to introduce you to Angela Burk, Chief of Staff to FBI Director Randall Rice.”

“I’ll be acting as a field agent alongside Agent Andrews,” Burk said, shaking her hand. “I’ll be representing the office of the director.”

Angela Burk was all business, giving Rose a tiny, expressionless nod.

“I’ll be leaving you soon,” Warden Salmon said. “I’m just here for the beginning of the meeting to see if I can answer questions you may have about the prisoner.”

“Yes, Warden,” Burk interjected. “We came here today to make a proposal to Mr. Rainhorse, but some information has come to our attention that has us most concerned. I understand Mr. Rainhorse put three men in the hospital last Thursday.”

“The incident is still under investigation,” Salmon replied. “What is on record is that three men ended up in the infirmary after a guard discovered them beaten and unconsciousness. The guard found them outside the laundry room where Mr. Rainhorse worked. The three men have a long history of violence and had no business being near the laundry room. There was no direct evidence it was Mr. Rainhorse who administered the beating.”

“But it is likely he attacked those three men, isn’t that true?” Burk snapped back.

“Ms. Burk, if Rainhorse did beat those three men, it was far more likely it was in self-defense,” Salmon replied.

“What makes you say that?” Burk asked.

“Isn't it obvious? Three men end up in the laundry room?  What? Do you believe, that these three guys came down to pick up a clean pair of socks and Rainhorse yelled, ‘get away from that dirty underwear,’ and attacked them?”

Andrews tried to suppress a snicker.

Burk glared at him.

“Warden,” Rose interjected, “None of the men accused my client of the attack, did they?”

“They did not,” Salmon replied.

“What do you think happened, Warden?” Rose asked.

“What I believe doesn’t matter,” he said. “We deal in facts, here.”

“And isn’t it true, my client has had a stellar good-behavior record here during his time here?”

“It’s true,” Salmon said. “Rainhorse has been a model prisoner. He keeps to himself, and is quiet. Because of his... intimidating presence and his reputation, most of the other convicts keep their distance.”

“Thank you, Warden,” Rose said. “That’s all I wanted from you. Do either of you have questions?”

“Warden Salmon,” Jim Andrews began, “You said convicts keep their distance from him because of his size but also because of his reputation. What do you mean by that?”

“Whether or not he is guilty of beating those three men, the prison population believes he did,” Salmon replied. “The three men in the infirmary were big men in their own right, strong men, with reputations for extreme violence—men who were no strangers to street fighting. When we got to them they were bloody, with more broken bones than we could count. One of those men will never walk right and another man developed a permanent speech impediment.”

“But none of them would name Rainhorse?”

“No. They insisted three men attacked them from behind and their faces were hidden behind make-shift scarfs. The men were questioned thoroughly but would not name Rainhorse, even when we prompted them with his name. A man who invokes fear like that earns respect and a wide berth from the general population.”

“Warden, in your opinion, can Rainhorse be trusted to complete a mission and report back at the end?”

“From what I’ve seen, if Rainhorse says he can complete a mission, I wouldn’t bet against him,” Salmon said. “Whether he would report back or not, I couldn’t say. My guess is, if he tells you he’ll come back, he will. You only have him here because he turned himself in. If he decides he doesn’t want to come back, you’ll never see him again.”

“If this works out, he will be in the custody of the FBI,” Burk replied. “He’s not going anywhere.”

Warden Salmon chuckled, “I like your confidence, Agent Burk. We’ll see.”

“Thank you, Warden,” Andrews said. “That’s all I have.”

“Good day, everyone,” Salmon said. He left the room.

“Before we begin, Agent Andrews, will you please have my client uncuffed,” Rose said.

“I’m sorry Ms. Red Feather, but...”

“No buts,” Rose interrupted. “You’re the FBI. You’ve expressed willingness to free my client to complete an operation for you. The warden has provided testimony showing Mr. Rainhorse has behaved like a model citizen since he arrived. Please show us an act of good faith and remove his shackles.”

Andrews looked at Angela Burk. She shrugged. He waved at one a guard, who was standing just inside the door, “Please un-cuff Mr. Rainhorse.”

“I can’t do that,” the guard replied.

“This is an FBI operation,” Andrews said. “I’ll take full responsibility.”

The guard sighed and shook his head, “It’s your funeral.”

The guard called in his partner, who pulled his firearm and held it on Rainhorse while he was being uncuffed.

“For the record, this is a stupid idea,” the first guard said. “We’ll be outside if you need us.”

“Thank you,” Andrews said. Rainhorse rubbed his wrists as the two guards left the room. Andrews turned to Rose, “All good?” he asked.

Rose nodded, “Thank you.”

“So, Ms. Red Feather, have you considered our offer?” Burk interjected, cutting to the chase.

“We have, Agent Burk, and we are rejecting it,” Rose replied.

“Dammit!” bellowed Burk. Andrews let out an audible groan of annoyance.

“I suppose you want more time off the sentence,” Burk speculated.

“No,” Rose replied. “We don’t want more time off his sentence. We want him freed at the end of the mission and his record expunged.”

Burk guffawed, “Jesus. You can’t be serious.”

“I’m very serious,” Rose replied. “This man is a decorated war hero. Mr. Rainhorse served his country for twelve years and is responsible for taking down an entire drug and sex trade crime organization on the Ft. Peck res. My client...”

“Murdered over a hundred people by his own admission,” Burk hissed in interruption. Her face had reddened. She was furious.

“Men who were murderers, drug warlords, gun runners, sex traders...”

“Ms. Red Feather,” Andrews chimed in, “we cannot support vigilantism under any circumstances.”

Rainhorse opened his mouth to respond. Rose shot a paralyzing glare in his direction. He raised his eyebrows and relaxed back into his chair.

“Your actions do not support your statements,” Rose shot back. “That you’re here supports the notion you will color outside the lines when the situation calls for it.”

“This is different...”

“My client has served twenty-four months in prison,” Rose pointed out.

“For a hundred murders,” Burk snapped. “Jesus! He was given a gift with fifteen years. He could have received the death penalty or life without the possibility of parole.”

“And yet here you are, asking him for a favor that could cost him his life,” Rose barked.

“Our offer is five years off his current sentence,” Andrews said. “With his twenty-four months served, the extra five years and time off for good behavior, Rainhorse could be a free man in seven more years.”

“Mr. Andrews, it’s my understanding that Barnabas Quince is number one on the FBI’s most wanted list,” Rose said. “Is that correct?”

“It is.”

“And the man has eluded you for twenty years now?”

“More or less.”

“And yet the best you can do for my client is five years?” she snapped.

“It is what I am authorized to do,” Burk said.

Rose stood, “Thank you so much for coming. I’d like to confer with my client and look at other precedents that have happened with other FBI sources. Perhaps we can meet again this same time next week.”

“No,” Burk spouted. “The offer is off the table the moment you leave this room. We need an answer... now, this instant.”

Rainhorse glanced at Andrews. To Rose, the large Cheyenne looked surprised for the first time since he sat.

Rose paused and cocked her head, looking at Burk as if she was performing a visual brain scan, “So, this is new,” she said. “Why the full-court press?”

“We do not want to drag this process out,” Burk said. She appeared nervous. 

“I’m not buying that, Ms. Burk. Something has changed, hasn’t it?” Rose asked. “Agent Andrews?”

Andrews sighed, looking at Burk. Burk gave out a low grunt in exasperation and nodded to Andrews, who remained expressionless.

“Our timeline has changed,” Andrews said. “We need to get this done... today.”

“What's happened?” Rose asked.

“I’ll tell you what happened,” Rainhorse chimed in. “Barnabas happened. He made a move, didn’t he?”

“He did,” Andrews said.

“That'll be enough, Agent Andrews,” Burk snapped. “He gets no further information until we come to an arrangement.”

“We are going to need full disclosure,” Rose interjected. “If something has come up which puts my client in even more danger, we need to know what it is... now.”

“Barnabas Quince's file is classified,” Burk fired back. “Your client hears nothing until he agrees to our terms.”

“No offense, Ms. Burk, but you're making the whole deal even less attractive than before.”

“Ms. Red Feather is right, Burk,” Andrews said. “Rainhorse has a right to know what he is getting into.”

“Not another word, Agent Andrews,” Burk warned.

“Look, Burk, it's simple,” Andrews replied. “We tell Rainhorse the full story. If he backs away or we can't strike a middle ground, we move him from the prison to an FBI lockdown and keep him in isolation until it's over.”

“What about her?” Burk rejoined, pointing at Rose.

“She's his lawyer for crying out loud,” Andrews spat back, losing his patience. “The conversation is protected under attorney-client privilege. If we get a hint she is talking out of school we’ll lock her down, too.”

Burk seethed. She hoped no one would notice the beads of perspiration on her forehead. 

“Ok, to hell with it, but Andrews, if this goes south, it will be your head not mine,” she said.

Andrews turned to Rainhorse, speaking to him for the first time.

“There has been a development,” Andrews began.

“Please do not address my client directly, Agent Andrews,” Rose said. “Talk to me.”

Andrews's eyes flared in anger, “Are you going to be the one on this mission, Ms. Red Feather?”

Rose opened her mouth to retort but Rainhorse raised his hand, a silent request for her to suppress her response.

“It is fine, Rose,” Rainhorse said. “I wish to hear what he has to say.”

Andrews turned to back to Rainhorse, “We had a man inside Quince’s organization. His code name was Cicero.”

“The word 'had' implies you no longer have him there,” Rainhorse replied.

“We lost contact with him,” Andrews admitted. “He’s missed three-check ins. He was a lower level guy in their organization, perhaps even the lowest level, but he was all we had.”

“Lower level men in Barnabas's organization have no access to information of use,” Rainhorse said. “Barnabas operates like the military, on a need-to-know basis only.”

“We are aware,” Andrews replied. “Cicero was trying to work his way up the chain.”

“What was his job?” Rainhorse asked.

“Pickup and delivery,” Andrews said.

“Picking up and delivering what?” Rose asked.

“Drugs, money, guns,” Andrews replied.

“I don’t understand. If you had a man inside why didn’t you follow him?” Rose said.

Andrews looked at Rose, “If it were that simple, we’d have done it. We assume he uses a double-blind system.”

“It is a triple-blind system,” Rainhorse corrected.

“Triple? Are you certain?” Andrews asked.

“I was in his organization, remember?” the big Cheyenne replied. “Those things were not in my normal line of sight, but over the years, I picked up a few things.”

Andrews looked at Burk, “That would explain a lot,” he said.

Burk nodded.

“I don’t understand,” Rose said. “How does the triple-blind system work?”

“There are at least three alpha, three beta and three gamma drivers,” Rainhorse said. “All three drivers of each leg run three to four routes per week. However, only one of those routes in the entire week has a real payload, and only one of the three drivers is moving the real package. The rest is white flour in taped paper sacks. The drivers themselves have no way of knowing if they are picking up a real or fake package.”

“Holy shit!” Andrews exclaimed.

“I take it you were unaware of this,” Rainhorse said.

Andrews shook his head and looked Burk’s way. Her expression was one of shock.

“Are you certain?” Burk asked.

“No,” Rainhorse admitted. “I am certain it’s how he used to do it. You never caught him, so I doubt the system changed much.”

“So, three fake routes, three days a week is nine routes,” Andrews said, “and you're telling me eight of those deliveries are packaged flour?”

Rainhorse nodded.

“Was Cicero an alpha, beta or gamma driver?” Rose asked.

“He didn’t know himself,” Andrews replied. “All part of the blind system I’m sure. My quick math tells me there are thirty-six possibilities.”

“That’s correct,” Rainhorse said. “If you found one driver and stopped him, the chances of you catching the driver with the actual payload is relatively small. And even if you found the actual payload, the driver could not tell you jack shit about anyone else in the organization.”

“Well, this is a real bag of snakes,” Burk said.

“Rainhorse,” Andrews said. “Before he disappeared, Cicero informed us he received a briefing about a special delivery. He called it the ‘motherload.’ He was told this would be the largest single delivery of cocaine into the United States in history.”

“The motherload?” Rainhorse repeated.

“Yes.  Cicero said his normal ‘packages’ have been one to two single locked metal cases, four feet wide, by two feet deep, by three feet tall.  That is a huge amount of cocaine. Cicero says lately there have been ten packages, sometimes two and three times a week.”

“He’s been doing this for months. He’s stockpiling cash,” Burk said. “Lots of it.”

Andrews nodded, “And here is the crème-da-la-crème. Cicero says that, three days from now, he will pick up one hundred and fifty-four such packages.”

Rainhorse whistled, “That’s enormous even by Barnabas Quince standards,” he said.

“There has been nothing like it,” Burk said. “The repercussions surrounding the distribution of cocaine at that level in the US would be devastating.”

“And where is Cicero making these... deliveries?” Rainhorse asked.

“That’s confidential,” Burk shot back.

“If you expect me to help...” Rainhorse began.

“San Francisco,” Andrews interrupted.

“Andrews!” Burk exclaimed. “I do not authorize you to...”

“He always picks up and delivers to a different spot,” Andrews continued, dismissing Burk’s warning. “Since Cicero is never told where he will be picking up or delivering until he gets in the vehicle, we’ve never been able to set up a sting.”

“That is normal for Barnabas,” Rainhorse said.

“Our intelligence tells us Barnabas is in San Francisco,” Andrews continued, ignoring Burk. “That’s where the drugs are coming and going. We think this is where Barnabas intends to do whatever it is he will do.”

Rainhorse fell quiet, scratching his chin. Andrews could almost hear the wheels turning in his head as he was figuring it all out. 

“Barnabas is not in San Francisco,” Rainhorse said. “That is where his drug operation is based but has nothing to do with his aim. In fact, you can mark San Francisco off your list altogether.”

“Why is that?” Burk asked.

“Because the man doesn’t shit where he eats... metaphorically speaking,” Rainhorse responded. “He makes the bulk of his money in San Francisco. Whenever the dust settles on whatever he plans to do, he will go back to business as normal... in San Francisco.”

“You’re full of shit,” Burk said.

“I agree with you,” Andrews said to Rainhorse, again ignoring Burk’s comment. “Tell me more.”

“Barnabas is doing something unprecedented, isn’t he?” Rainhorse said.

“One hundred and fifty-four cases of cocaine?” Burk replied. “Yeah, I’d say so. We have to figure out who he will try to sell it to.”

“A man like Barnabas would not risk a shipment of that size if he didn’t have it sold already,” Rainhorse said. “The question is, what does he need all that money to buy? It can only mean one thing.”

“That is well beyond your pay grade, Chief,” Burk chimed.

“Burk!” Andrews spouted. “To use a poker term, at this point we are ‘all in.’ Rainhorse, we agree with you. He’s taking an enormous risk to get a huge amount of money to make a major purchase. You worked with him. What do you think a man like Barnabas Quince would want to buy?”

Rainhorse scratched his chin, “There is only one thing a disaffected military officer would want to buy that might devastate a country who turned their back on him.”

Andrews nodded, “Which is?”

“He’s acquiring a nuclear weapon,” Rainhorse said.