Judgment at Alcatraz

and locked eyes with Leonard.
After an uncomfortably long moment, he said, “I suppose if you have a whole bunch of those little airplanes, a few just might get through whatever defenses the police and national guard throw up.”
“They’re called drones, not airplanes,” Leonard said.
“Sure, sure. Whatever. You know what I’m talking about.”
“And just to be clear on what I’m talking about, you said you would fund this mission if I proved the drones were impossible to shoot down.”
“Yes, sir. How much do you need to bankroll your operation?”
Leonard rubbed his chin as he ran through the mental arithmetic.
“We need at least eight drones with special modifications to carry and dispense the payload. And the radio controllers will need to be modified, too. Plus, a boat. No, two boats. And weapons—”
Lewis reached to his back pocket and pulled out a leather checkbook adorned with silver studs.
“Just give me a number.”
Now it was Leonard’s turn to grin as he shared a six-figure total large enough to ensure a more-than-adequate contingency fund.
While he looked on, Lewis signed the check and then handed it over. But he held firm as Leonard placed his fingers on the paper. Leonard raised his brow.
“This is a bunch of money. I want your assurances that you will succeed.”
Leonard straightened. “It’s a tax write-off. A generous donation to the Indigenous Peoples Movement.”
“That’s beside the point. It’s all money. And if you want me to invest in your operation, then I want your guarantee of success.”
“We cannot fail. The government will have no choice but to accept our demands.”
“So you say. Many others before you have been equally confident, and yet the United States Government has never accepted the demands of our people. What makes you so confident you’re any different?”
“Because if they don’t, we will rain death and destruction on their major population centers. The very poisons made by the white man in his never-ending quest for more powerful weapons—poisons that have been carelessly discarded, and are now polluting our ancestral homelands—will be used to turn the San Francisco Bay Area into a radioactive wasteland. Other cities will follow, until they submit to our demands.”
Lewis released his grip on the check, the corners of his mouth curling in a broad grin.
“That’s what I want to hear. Now make it happen.”

Chapter 1
Northern Idaho
May 13
The lithe figure glided through the conifer forest with soundless steps, her body tense and senses alert. She had honed to perfection the skills of an accomplished hunter…but her prey was not of the four-legged variety.
The steep slopes and lose scree made for treacherous footing. Combined with the over four-thousand-foot elevation, the passing was difficult, as evidenced by the all-too-frequent grunts and curses of her companions whenever their feet slid out beneath them. Bic Turner and his nephew, Eddie Turner, were city slickers, rarely venturing away from asphalt and concrete. Neither man owned a decent pair of hiking boots, and their low-cut sneakers often failed to bite into the soil. They’d be lucky to complete this journey without at least one sprained ankle.
In his early forties, and carrying a bulging belly that added at least forty pounds to his short frame, Bic was a practicing gunsmith and owned a successful business in Portland, Oregon. He had learned his craft over twelve years in the Army, and considered AR-style semiautomatic rifles his specialty. Wearing thick glasses in black frames, and with short black hair and a tiny mustache, his appearance was nerdish.
The physical exertion of the hike was taking its toll on Bic, his round face dappled with sweat, and his pudgy cheeks flushed pink despite the cool spring temperatures and overcast sky. He did not like the idea of making the exchange at a remote location in the wilderness, close to the Canadian border. He’d suggested they complete the transaction at his shop, offering to open the store after hours, maybe on a Sunday or late at night. The buyer had refused, claiming it would be too risky—too easy for law enforcement to stake out the exchange if they got a tip.
“People always talk,” the buyer had said.
Despite his better judgment, Bic relented—he really wanted the cash.
Accompanied by a string of eight pack mules Eddie had rented from an outfitting and guide service just outside Bonners Ferry, they had been on the trail since sunrise. Bic and Eddie were at the head of the pack string, while the woman remained off the trail and well to the side where she could keep an eye on the pack animals, as well as watch for any threat—not that Bic or Eddie expected any trouble. That was her job. She had been hired to worry, and to be prepared in case trouble was encountered. And their cargo was of the type likely to attract trouble. Like vultures to carrion.
Clad in layers of camouflage, she carried a custom-made, scoped, bolt-action Nosler M48 rifle with ease. The barrel was long and fluted, and fitted with a muzzle break to reduce felt recoil. If it had been fall, she could have passed for any civilian hunter except for two things. First, she wasn’t wearing any hunter-orange garments. The neon allowed easy visibility, even at considerable distance and through foliage.
Second was the weaponry she carried. Strapped to the side of her daypack was a Colt M4 Carbine. Purchased with cash at a gun show in Reno, the semiautomatic civilian version of the standard military assault rifle she had extensively trained with, had become increasingly difficult to find after Colt stopped selling to the public. The camouflage coloration of the stock, action, and barrel allowed the weapon to disappear against the similar pattern of her pack and clothing.
But perhaps the oddest accoutrement she carried was a combat tomahawk secured in a sheath at the small of her back. A wicked and nearly indestructible weapon, the steel handle was forged to the head—a razor-sharp blade opposite a hardened steel spike.
Preferring to stay in the shadows of the evergreens whenever possible, she scanned from side to