Deadline by John Sandford Page B

farm, and her architectural salvage business. Her second-oldest boy had taken his girlfriend up the Minnesota River to an island where he knew there were lots of raspberries, and he and his girlfriend had picked four quarts, and in the process, had gotten two of the worst cases of poison ivy in the history of poison ivy.
    “They had to go into the clinic to get special stuff. Tall Bear is bad enough, but poor old Tricia went back in the bushes to pee. . . .”
    “Ah, God . . .”
    “Yup. Won’t have to worry about Tall Bear knockin’ her up for a month or so. Anyway, the Bronsons are over cutting hay, be nice if you could be home when we’re doing this sometime. You missed all of last year and the first cut this year when you had to go out to Windom.”
    “We weren’t seeing each other last year,” Virgil said. “And you know how much I love baling hay. I’d give anything to be there with you.”
    “I’m beginning to suspect you’re not telling the whole truth about that.”
    “Aw, Frankie . . .”
    If Virgil were given a choice between following a hay wagon around a field, throwing bales, on a hot summer day, or dropping his testicles into a bear trap, he’d have to think about it. They were still talking when another call chirped in. Gomez.
    “Gotta go, Frankie. Gomez is on the line. We could be moving on the meth—”
    “You be careful! Take your gun!”
    “Yep. Call you back.” He clicked off and answered Gomez’s call. “What’s up?”
    “They’re cooking,” Gomez said. “We’re moving in on them. If you want to come along, get down by that bridge in the next fifteen minutes.”
    “I’m coming. Wait for me.”
    —
    V IRGIL RAN OUT to his truck, missing a porch step and nearly falling on his face. Night had settled in since he’d started talking with Johnson. On his way north, he called Frankie back and said, “Yeah, the feds are going in. I won’t be on the front line, though.”
    “Call me back and tell me what happened. I won’t sleep until you call.”
    “Could be late.”
    “Call me.”
    Kind of an odd feeling, he thought, having a woman who wanted to know where you were, and what you were doing, and wanted daily updates. Virgil had been married, very briefly, three times, and he couldn’t actually remember any of the other three worrying about where he was; he could remember wondering where the hell they were.
    Another interesting thing about Frankie, Virgil thought, was that she had no problem with him going face-to-face with people who carried guns. Unlike some cops’ wives and girlfriends, she didn’tpay much attention to possible negative consequences. She herself liked excitement, and she liked guys who liked excitement, and she thought his job was exciting.
    Which it was, at times. Knowing that his job wasn’t a burden on her lifted a burden off him; left him free to feel the rush.
    —
    W HEN HE GOT to the bridge on Highway NN, he was last in the line of five SUVs. He got a vest, gun, and camo jacket out of the back and hustled down to the bridge, where he found three DEA agents waiting for him. Gomez was not one of them. The three were dressed in black-and-tan night camo and were wearing vests and helmets with night-vision glasses, and had M16s dangling from their hands. They also had headsets with earbuds and microphones.
    “Where’s Gomez?”
    “He’s already up the hill,” said the shortest of the three. “We’ve got four guys spaced around the place already, in case we get runners. Four more are going in now, with Gomez and Jackson behind them. We’re the backstop. You got night-vision gear?”
    “No, I don’t.”
    “Gomez thought you might not. We don’t have a spare set, but I’ve got some glow tape. I’ll stick a couple inches on the back of my helmet—stay close and you shouldn’t bump into any trees. If there’s trouble, I’ll pull the tape off, and you get behind something solid, and wait. We’ve got an audio link for you, so you