Page 20 of High Velocity

Company in the form of Buck Adams and the suit from the DOS, the U.S. Department of State, who appear to have been tipped off. I didn’t catch the DOS guy’s name, but my guess is he’s more concerned about the political optics than the viability of a recovery effort.

Confirmation follows five minutes later when he proposes we straight out kill the bear to simplify the retrieval of Juan Pérez’s body.

“This bear happens to be a grizzly, and they are a protected species,” the game warden points out. “You can’t just randomly shoot one.”

“That’s preposterous,” the suit returns. “They’re dangerous animals.”

The collective eye roll from most everyone else in the tent is almost audible. Luckily Buck shows more patience than I would’ve had with the idiot. Who the fuck shows up at a base camp for a field search in a tie and loafers? That should tell you enough about the guy.

“I’m not going to debate the merits of the law with you,” Buck calmly returns. “There has been plenty of discussion on this specific topic here in Montana recently. If you want, you can take it up with whoever creates the laws, but in the lower forty-eight states, the grizzly bear is protected under the Endangered Species Act. You can’t shoot one unless it’s in self-defense, or if it’s attacking or killing your livestock. That’s the law.”

“With all due respect,” Jonas interjects, thick with sarcasm. Not that anyone really believes he has even the smallest scrap of respect for the DOS rep anyway. “We start losing daylight in less than four hours. We’re gonna need at least that, and a healthy dose of luck, to retrieve the body. So if you don’t mind, I’d like to finish laying out our approach and get going. Unless you want parts of the ambassador’s son to end up dinner and dessert for that grizzly as well?”

The guy—looking mildly green around the gills—wisely shakes his head.

“Okay, where were we?” Jonas’s eyes turn on me. “Got your rifle in your truck?”

I nod. I always have my rifle in a gun safe mounted behind the front seats. The high velocity weapon is a reminder of my specialty in the armed forces. Jonas is the one who encouraged me after my discharge to keep my skills sharp. He pointed out there was no way to know when it might come in handy.

Guess today is the day.

“I want you to find a high spot with a good view on the body and surrounding area. Any sign of that bear, you know what to do. Your priority is keeping your team safe.”

He didn’t need to remind me of that—the team’s safety is always a priority—but I suspect that last comment wasn’t meant for me.

I’m grateful for the assignment though. My marksmanship is the one thing my missing limb has had no impact on, whatsoever.

I’m good.

An hour and a half later, I’m wedged securely in the fork of a tree, about fifteen feet off the ground, my cheek pressed against the butt of my rifle, and my eye lined up with the scope.

I’m about five hundred yards downstream from where the body is trapped in the pile of debris, at the edge of the creek. I can’t see much detail with the naked eye, but I have a 12-25x scope on my rifle that allows me as clear a picture as if I were watching from only feet away.

Here I am in the zone, focused on my objective in a way that has time suspended. This is familiar territory for me, up in a tree or an elevation of some sort, patiently waiting for my cue. My breathing is steady, my heartbeat slows down, and I have no trouble ignoring the discomforts and aches of my body. My whole world is through the scope of my rifle.

This is where I shine.

I watch as the rest of the team cautiously approaches the narrow clearing.

“Any visual?” Dan’s voice crackles in the receiver in my ear.

The tiny microphone is attached to the earpiece.

“Negative. You’re clear.”

At least they are for now. I track the trees constantly, back and forth along the creek bank.

“Fuck me,” I hear JD mutter. “He’s ripe.”

I listen to the guys talk as they start cutting away at the debris to try to get the body dislodged. Some of the comments are off-color, but we’re on a private frequency, and sometimes dark humor is the preferred way to cope with a disturbing task like this one.

It’s not until I see Dan free a large branch from the tangle, and pull it off to the side, I catch the slightest of movements in the trees to his right.

There’s no time to even shout out a warning when the large grizzly comes charging out of the brush.

My finger is already depressing the trigger before my brain catches up with my eyes.

Stephanie

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