Tracks of the Predator

By Derek Hart

In Tracks of the Predator, Mike Rejest is a dedicated Special Agent for the Bureau of Land Management (BLM) out of Albuquerque, New Mexico. He is responsible for the Southwest region and has over 35 agents reporting to him. Rejest has survived countless administrations and even more policy shifts. However, in the past three years he has detected an ominous trend developing. It appears as if an environmental vigilante may be operating from somewhere in the 4-state territory Rejest oversees.

Indeed, this is the case, as a stranger, skilled with weapon and explosive alike, has taken the law into his own hands, meting out justice, violent and cruel. His vendetta is personal, like a religion or philosophy. Throughout the West a terrible legend is being created: of a silent rider on a horse, coming in the night to deliver swift and exacting punishment.

As the acts of this eco-terrorist become more and more destructive, state and federal agencies mobilize to locate this angel of death. From budget hearings into the future of the BLM, to a nationwide manhunt, follow the antagonist’s single-minded objective to punish any perpetrator he can track. Rejest gathers his own team of trusted fellow BLM employees and National Park Service Rangers, as they set out in the New Mexico wilds, only to discover that they too are being pursued. The difference between predator and prey narrows, only separated by the quickness of reflexes and the caliber of firearms.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Derek Hart
• Release date: May 19, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458170569

Derek Hart

Derek Hart is the prolific author of 28 action and adventure novels, known for their historical accuracy, while still maintaining a high level of entertainment. Romance is also a vital part of Derek Hart's trademark style and his novels generally appeal to men and women alike. Mr. Hart authored Secret of the Dragon's Eye, his first novel aimed at all age groups, which met with instant success and outstanding reviews. The author has since followed with Secret of the Dragon's Breath, Secret of the Dragon's Claw, Secret of the Dragon's Scales and Secret of the Dragon's Teeth. The final volume of the 6-episode series, Secret of the Dragon's Wings, will be available in November of 2018. He has since started a new series, post-apocalyptic in nature, with Minerva's Shield and Nike's Chariot. The third installment, Apollo's Plague came out in November 2017. Abandoned was published in March 2018 and Game Over premiered in June 2018. List of published books: Secret of the Dragon’s Eye Secret of the Dragon’s Breath Secret of the Dragon’s Claw Secret of the Dragon’s Scales Secret of the Dragon’s Teeth Secret of the Dragon’s Wings Claws of the Raven Danger Cruise Favor for FDR Crooked Cross Factor Tracks of the Predator For Love or Honor Bound Tales of the Yellow Silk Element of Surprise Seas Aflame Ice Flotilla High Altitude Low Opening Tangles of Truth Shadows in Replay Flag of Her Choosing Tidal Trap Dangerous (Poetry) Executive Firepower The CARLA Conspiracy The Wreckchasers Minerva's Shield Nike's Chariot Apollo's Plague Abandoned Game Over Mercury's Wings Before the Dead Walked Books coming soon: The Samuel Clemens Affair Pearl and Topaz By the Moon Darkly Broadmoor Manor Neptune's Trident Operation Sovereign Primary Weapon Saturn's Fire Tails of Thaddeus Enchanted Mesa Eagle Blue Last Guidon Excess Baggage Container Carta Codex Shipwreckers Romeo Tango The 5x5 Gang Desert Salvage

Book preview

Tracks of the Predator

by Derek Hart

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Smashwords Edition

Published by

Derek Hart on Smashwords

Tracks of the Predator

Copyright - 2003 Derek Hart

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.

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This book is also available as print

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Table of Contents

Dedication

Foreword

Preface

Acknowledgements

Opening

Chapter 1 - And so it began...

Chapter 2 - Unexpected Liability

Chapter 3 - A Pattern Develops

Chapter 4 - A Taste of Their Own Medicine

Chapter 5 - Policies and Procedures

Chapter 6 - Cover Up

Chapter 7 - Raising the Stakes

Chapter 8 - Rook or Pawn?

Chapter 9 - Loyalties

Chapter 10 - At What Cost?

Chapter 11 - Maneuvering

Chapter 12 - Not According to Plan

Chapter 13 - Resignation

Chapter 14 - Intimacy

Chapter 15 - Parks Under Siege

Chapter 16 - Narrow Margins

Chapter 17 - Tracks

Chapter 18 - End of the Trail

Chapter 19 - When the Dust Settles

Chapter 20 - Predator or Prey?

Epilogue

Afterword

About the Author

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Dedication

This book is dedicated to Rinda West.

Perhaps more than any other influence on my writing,

she was the first to uncover the motivation that lay deep within.

Rinda is a credit to Oakton Community College,

not just as a teacher, but as a quality human being.

I have never forgotten.

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Foreword

The howling wind raged,

Over crowns of wilderness unspoiled.

Through desert canyon and ancient ruin,

Innocent nature earned a brutal defender.

In this dangerous time he appeared,

A man dark and without hope.

The shattered remains of what once was his,

Astride the war horse, swearing never to withdraw.

Everything once loved his enemies did destroy,

Death’s warm companion ever more.

Listening, waiting to strike,

To vengeance he swore allegiance.

The Reaper’s right and trusted hand,

Brought swift justice to rancher and industrialist.

To this bargain did he commit,

Bloodshed and destruction followed.

In the years to come,

He killed all those he reviled.

Few were allowed to flee or hide,

Yet with all these souls he gave to death,

Could never put his heart at ease.

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Preface

Defenders of the short-sighted men who in their greed and selfishness will, if permitted, rob our country of half its charm by their reckless extermination of all useful and beautiful wild things, sometimes seek to champion them by saying ‘the game belongs to the people.’ So it does; and not merely to the people now alive, but to the unborn people. The 'greatest good for the greatest number' applies to the number within the womb of time, compared to which those now alive form but an insignificant fraction. Our duty to the whole, including the unborn generations, bids us restrain an unprincipled present-day minority from wasting the heritage of these unborn generations. The movement for the conservation of wild life and the larger movement for the conservation of all our natural resources are essentially democratic in spirit, purpose, and method.

-Theodore Roosevelt

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Acknowledgements

To Steven Smith (not his real name): who provided incredible information regarding Bureau of Land Management policies, procedures, and personnel. He requested to remain anonymous to protect himself and his family from possible retribution. Most of the incidents in this book are based on real cases, some of which remain unsolved to this day. Steve puts his life on the line every day, investigating crimes throughout the Southwest. His department is understaffed, under budgeted and unappreciated by 90% of the local population. However, he believes in his agents and strives to do the best he can under the circumstances. The author applauds his dedication in a difficult situation.

To Koko Kuzmanoff: who supplied critical research and editorial advice, while still adding subtle and important viewpoints to this novel. There are only so many ways to acknowledge how important she is to this entire process, yet without her so many books would have been much more difficult to write. Things change, but the impact will always be profound, and the gratitude monumental. Lest she forget.

To Bobbi Lott: who also made several critical contributions to the writing of this book. It is sometimes from unexpected sources that wonderful additions are discovered or uncovered. Bobbi provided vitality and realism to one central character and the author is extremely grateful for her insight and viewpoint.

To Michele Desjardins: who read this novel in its infancy and provided the first tangible criticism during the author’s early years. For almost 25 years Michele has always been an incredible friend and the author would be remiss to not point out how many times she provided friendship and a sympathetic shoulder to lean on.

Cover art by David M. Burke

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Opening

New Special-Agent-In-Charge Named for BLM Regional Law Enforcement Operations

Michael T. Rejest, currently a special agent with the U.S. Forest Service, has been named the new Special-Agent-In-Charge for the Bureau of Land Management (BLM) Arizona and New Mexico State Offices. Rejest will be stationed out of the New Mexico State Office in downtown Albuquerque, and maintain a satellite office in Phoenix, Arizona.

Rejest, a 21-year law enforcement veteran for the Southwestern Region of the U.S. Forest Service, begins his new job on Thursday, August 5. He will direct the regional law enforcement and resource protection operations for approximately 24.4 million acres of BLM-administered public lands in Arizona and New Mexico. The BLM New Mexico Operations also covers public lands in Oklahoma, Kansas and Texas. As the senior program manager, Rejest will manage investigations, law enforcement and resource protection as they apply to BLM's multiple use management principles. He will be responsible for user education, prevention of resource damage and enforcement of Federal laws and regulations. In addition, Rejest will supervise 35 law enforcement personnel, including rangers, special agents, and law enforcement technicians.

The public lands in Arizona, New Mexico, Oklahoma, Kansas, and Texas are some of the most spectacular open spaces in the Nation, Rejest said. I'm looking forward to working with the BLM law enforcement staff and field managers to protect the public lands and their resources, and the safety of public lands users throughout the five-state region.

According to BLM Acting Regional Director Paul Clark, Rejest brings a wealth of experience to this very important job. His broad experience is illustrated in his work for the Forest Service, handling complex investigations which resulted in the successful prosecutions of violations of resource theft and damage, Clark said. In addition, Rejest has specialized experience in criminal investigation, and has worked on several interagency assignments with the BLM, National Park Service, Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms, Drug Enforcement Agency, Federal Bureau of Investigations, and multiple Southwestern Sheriff's offices.

Along with his law enforcement experience, Rejest is a decorated veteran of the US Army, where he served with Special Forces in Columbia, Afghanistan, Iraq, Macedonia, and Thailand. Rejest has worked in various fire prevention applications and taught suppression techniques with the U.S. Forest Service. Rejest holds a Masters degree in environmental sciences from the University of Minnesota and a Masters in criminal justice from the University of Michigan.

Rejest replaces Peter Simmons, who retired from the Special-Agent-In-Charge position last year.

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CHAPTER 1

And so it began…

The sky was heavy and black with the threat of a storm, while stabbing fingers of lightning flickered on the distant horizon. No sounds broke the sultry stillness except for the occasional yipping of a nearby coyote and the deep boom of thunder. A cold wind suddenly swept across the low hills and with it marched a solid sheet of rain. Freezing, it came down hard, covering the ground with fluid misery.

Driven by the furious gusts, the rain lashed against a sleeping form. The blanket gave little protection, the drops penetrating like nails. The isolated sleeper awoke with a jerk. He pulled himself up and groaned with stiffness. Each step hurt and the chill made him shudder. The man looked around for some cover, but the space under the only tree was already occupied. A beautiful bay horse took up more than his fair share of room. The horse had viewed the man's suffering with some interest and now whinnied mockingly. The man chuckled in spite of himself, winced with pain, and stumbled to the horse. The twosome were soaked, but the man still slung on saddle and bridle.

Presently, the stranger rolled up his sleeping bag and headed back to mount the horse. The animal was scuffing about amongst the sage, completely uninterested in his master's approach. He was a beautiful steed and handled as well as any horse ever ridden. Colors of reddish brown blended across the large body, to end with an ebony tail, constantly in motion. The horse was definitely independent. With each step his master took, Ranger moved away about an equal distance. Carelessly flicking his jet-black mane, the horse whinnied in apparent amusement. Suddenly the man ran to snag the hanging reins.

The horse, however, had different ideas. He was ready to play this morning, rain or no rain. The big steed seemed irritated that his horsing around was being ignored. He moved up forcefully and knocked his owner flat on his back. Sprawling in the red muddy clay, the man struggled to regain a footing. There was no anger, for he was used to these shenanigans and it was part of a ritual.

The stranger stopped suddenly, the noise of distant vehicles echoing amongst the canyons. Facing the horse, the reins were held in the left hand and also placed on the pommel of the saddle. The reins were held tight enough to prevent the horse from moving sideways, but not too tight that the horse might start walking backwards. As he turned to face the rear of the horse, clicking his tongue lightly, the man took the stirrup with his right hand, turned it clockwise and gently placed his left foot in it, so that the ball of the foot rested on the bottom of the stirrup.

He was careful not to accidentally kick the horse with his left foot. With a small spring, he jumped up, straightening the left leg as he swung his right leg over the back of the horse, gently sitting in the saddle. Once astride the horse, the man coaxed the horse to move down the trail, heading away from the storm and in the direction from where the engine noises were originating.

The inner loop of the route crossed the continental divide twice. Every bend in the trail uncovered new vistas. Sheer-walled gorges, flower-filled meadows, meandering streams fringed with willows and cottonwoods, towering barked junipers clutching at bare rock, spruce and fir forests all contributed to a peaceful journey. The rider followed a gorge where turquoise waters cascaded into deep swirling pools and graceful willows and lofty cottonwoods provided shade and greenery in an extraordinary setting of towering red sandstone cliffs beneath the black stormy sky.

Into the cathedral box canyon they rode, westward into the brilliant colors. The sheer walls vibrated with reds and purples, castle-crowned cliffs caught the oranges before escarpments of gray. Gradually upwards the path led, past clumps of sage and gnarled cedar, over erosion smoothed rock and under precarious arches. Everywhere the sculpture of nature had created towering monuments of stone and rock and sand. Horse and rider were dwarfed by the sheer magnitude of the formations around them and dazzled by the spectrum of earthen hues. Yet the echoes of modern man’s machines continued to reverberate around them. The sounds grew louder and more threatening.

The trail began its descent into and through huge formations of sandstone, turning and twisting back towards the west. About one mile from the canyon rim, it veered off towards the northwest and began to follow a major drainage along the eastern edge of a lone butte. This section of trail was also quite rocky and was littered with boulders, some large and some small.

The trail stayed pretty close to the edge as it contoured along the top, heading for a break that allowed the rider to descend once again into another lost canyon. The horse was very careful here as some sections of the trail had been obliterated by rock falls and slides, requiring expert navigation.

Once they had maneuvered past the piles of stone, the rider discovered that the path suddenly headed down some extremely steep switchbacks littered with the same type of debris as above. At times the rider had to stop to rest the horse and give the animal’s legs a break before attempting another section of the trail. It was so steep and rocky the packed gravel mixed with sand did not provide very good footing.

The walls at this point were more than a mile in height. They had descended almost a thousand feet, when the rider looked up at massive granite crags. Even the horse seemed to realize they had come a long way, as ears twitched and one front hoof kept clomping out an impatient code. Those same steep slopes lifted one atop the other to the summit. The gorge was black in the shadows and narrow below, but red and gray, flaring out above. There were hundreds of cuts in the walls, where side canyons were often filled with flows of rocks and boulders.

The man always sat in a loose position to help the horse remain balanced underneath and move naturally. Rider rested his buttocks in the lowest part of the saddle, allowing his hips to open and for the legs to move back and lie gently around the horse, so that the heel of the boot was directly in line with the hips. His upper body remained straight but not stiff, with his head constantly looking from side to side, twisting it to check both front and rear. He stopped again, pulling up on the reins and pressing his legs in, the horse halting immediately.

The stranger listened.

He tried to reach out and feel with his senses.

Tasting the air and smelling the wind.

They were out there again.

It was time once more.

Time to kill.

The man wanted the horse to move out. Gently squeezing his lower legs, the horse started to move forward again. As the horse walked it moved its head backwards and forwards. The rider kept his arms relaxed so that he allowed his hands to move back and forth with the movement of the horse's head. Instinctively, he reached back and stroked the butt of a rifle, without restricting the horse’s natural movement.

The weapon was not typical for a cowboy, or anyone else riding the range, even in this day and age. The FN FAL was a light assault automatic rifle with folding stock, a military issue weapon, fitted with a Nimrod telescopic sight. Upon closer examination, there were enough extra clips to hold off a small army.

Easy, Ranger, he spoke quietly, reassuring the horse with his name. We’re almost there.

Racing truck engines echoed through the canyon, rattling off the walls, filling the wilderness with the sounds of danger. It set the stranger’s teeth on edge.

One lip lifted in the snarl of a wild animal and with the fluid motion of the hunter, he dismounted, rifle in his hand in a moment. The horse named Ranger skittishly backed away, instantly aware of his master's intent, but always the only witness to such deeds.

The man scrambled over the rocks like a spider, climbing for the advantage of height. This was something he had done before, so many times, trained by the very best. To hunt, to get the best position, to make each shot count.

Dust rose up in clouds over the canyon and the stranger could make out three pickup trucks moving closer. They were following something.

No, more like chasing.

He kept climbing, going higher where the sun would be in their eyes. He was looking for the perfect spot. After all, what had been drilled into his mind over and over? To set the perfect ambush, you must think like the target, get into their mind.

There were three ½ ton pickup trucks, painted official government green, Fish & Wildlife Service emblems painted on the doors. They were indeed chasing their quarry, though departmental policy manuals would use the word herd. The targets of the high-speed round-up were four coyotes, recently spotted hunting on public land, but too near a grazing herd of sheep. The poison bait stations had failed to do the job and no sheepdogs were to be seen. The federal game wardens had been making their rounds and just stumbled on this prize.

Take is easy, Jack, shouted Karena Matthews, a law enforcement agent with the Bureau of Land Management, along to observe the predator control procedures of their sister agency. I don’t want to get killed on this wild ride.

Oh, relax, girl, the senior wildlife agent shouted back. I’ve been driving the range for twenty years and I know what I’m doing.

Why don’t you just let them go? she wondered, holding onto anything she could grab.

Suddenly the harried predators took a sharp turn to the left, clearing several boulders in a stunningly graceful series of leaps and bounds.

Brakes slammed and clouds of dust and dirt sprayed in every direction, tires spinning for traction, as all three drivers reacted at once. The trucks spun to a stop.

Damn it! shouted Jack Reynolds, a veteran trapper of dubious background, but native of the Southwest, where he had grown up. I’m gonna get those friggin varmints!

Karena was coughing and waving away all the dust coming through the open windows.

Reynolds shifted into reverse, punched the accelerator, hand over hand on the wheel. Then he forced the moving vehicle into drive, gears grinding, as he wanted to be first. However, the other two drivers were quicker, so Jack was soon following his fellow trappers continuing the pursuit.

Oh, come on, Jack, let ‘em go, Karena again strongly suggested. I’ve got a job to do.

Stuff it, you pansy-assed broad, Reynolds shouted at her, his temper up.

How dare you! she screamed. I’ll report you.

The trapper was concentrating on his driving, but still managed to stick a rude finger in her face. Screw you. I’m gonna skin those fuckin’ critters and you’re gonna watch.

Folding her arms in rage, Karena sputtered, her face as red as an Arizona sunset. How dare you talk to me that way?

Oh, grow up! he shouted, adding, Damn women.

Karena couldn’t even stay in that position very long, for Reynolds’ erratic driving sent her spilling over against the driver, and then vaulted her up against the door. It was a good thing she was belted in.

The trucks were gaining again, the poor creatures winded, foam spraying from their open mouths. Then, as suddenly as the chase had begun, it ended. Completely done in, too exhausted to take another step, the coyotes collapsed, sprawling in the red dirt.

The trucks slid to a stop too, drivers victorious.

The coyotes just lay panting, their tongues extended, their sides heaving in desperation. They kept looking back, fear filling wide eyes, but unable to flee. The animals shook, knowing that man only brought death. Their instincts screamed for escape, but their bodies couldn’t comply. So, resigned to fate, the coyotes just lowered their heads in the sand and panted.

Jack Reynolds knew he had stepped way out of line this time and would get written up for sure. But he was sick and tired of all the damn youngsters and their bleeding hearts. He had seen the real life and death struggle on the range. Ranchers pitted against dwindling grazing land, water drying up, oil exploration and crazy single-minded environmentalists who wanted to save everything, except the ranchers.

Jack threw the truck into reverse again, backing up while trying to ignore the wicked look on Agent Matthews’s face. The dogs in the back deck were barking insanely, smelling their prey just feet away. They pushed against the grill, straining to be released. These weren’t just any dogs, but had been bred to kill coyotes. As Jack jumped from the cab, their barking increased tenfold.

Reynolds was one of the most decorated Fish & Wildlife trappers working for the agency. He had seen so many administrations come and go he had lost count. He knew New Mexico and Arizona better than most, except for the Navajo, who he didn’t have much use for either. He had once been a bounty trapper and then tried poaching for awhile, but when the state abolished trapping for dollars, he was recruited by the Feds. They offered him a game warden position, which meant he could do all his hunting legally, so he naturally accepted.

Jack reached for the restraining pins on the tailgate. He loved to watch his dogs go straight for the necks of their victims. Reynolds had spent long hours training the best coyote-killers in the four-state area. He flicked his wrist and the door dropped.

The dogs hesitated for just a moment, but then ten heavily scarred and vicious dogs leaped high. Karena didn’t want to watch, but even in horror the beauty of their terrible arc mesmerized her. Jaws wide, fangs bared, these Greyhound/German Shepherd mixes were heading straight to kill the incapacitated coyotes.

The first dog’s head suddenly disintegrated, as blood and brains splattered all over Jack’s face and clothes. The second, third, fourth, and fifth dogs were blown to bits too, without their feet ever touching the ground.

Karena’s mouth dropped, as she realized it was gunfire.

Jack figured it out about the same time too, but before he could take another step, intense automatic gunfire riddled the remaining five dogs, killing them instantly.

The drivers of the other trucks threw open their doors, shouting and pointing up at the canyon wall. Karena, frozen by these events, watched in shock as they too were literally cut in half by a fusillade of bullets. Then, as she sat witnessing this incredible unfolding ambush, small black objects floated down, to land perfectly in the truck beds. One instant later, both vehicles exploded, disappearing in flames and smoke. A single truck hood sailed high into the air, spiraling over and over, to land heavily in the dirt before her.

Jack Reynolds knew what he had to do. This was just like a firefight back in…

He never had a chance to think of anything more.

A bullet punched a hole in his forehead, lifting off the entire top of his skull. The lifeless body flopped backwards in the dirt, surrounded by the dead dogs he had once so carefully trained.

Chapters or other Divisions

CHAPTER 2

Unexpected Liability

From behind his perfect cover, the strange executioner kept slipping new clips into the scoped FN FAL rifle and firing at targets of opportunity. A few choice grenades had destroyed two trucks. As he prepared to take out the third one, another passenger jumped out, running in desperate strides.

The stranger locked the red crosshairs on the fleeing form.

Just then Karena's long blonde hair spilled out from beneath her service cap. It was a fraction too late. Even as the gunman pulled the rifle to the right, the shot was away.

Damn. Closing his eyes, he bowed his head in shame.

The bullet flattened her against the truck. Agent Matthews slid to the ground, a bloody spot mushrooming across her upper back.

Slowly coming down from his concealment, the stranger checked on the winded coyotes first, who were so terrified after all the shooting and explosions, they just cried and whimpered at his approach. Deciding