Manhunt On Mystic Mesa. Cindi Myers

strode to the table and pulled out the only empty chair, at the end opposite the commander.

      “Who are you?” a sharp-nosed, lean man who sat behind an open laptop—Simon Woolridge—demanded.

      “This is Ryan Spencer, with Customs and Border Protection,” Commander Ellison said. “Our newest team member.”

      Ryan sat. “Sorry I’m late,” he said. The drive from Montrose had taken longer than he had anticipated, partly because he had gotten behind a caravan of RVs making their way into Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park, where the Ranger Brigade task force’s headquarters were located. But he didn’t bother to mention that. As his dad had always told him—never make excuses.

      “What do you mean three women are missing instead of two?” The man to the commander’s left spoke. He was the picture of a rugged outdoorsman—dark eyes and hair, olive skin, a hawk nose and strong chin. His nametag read Michael Dance.

      “I got a bulletin this morning from my office,” Ryan said. “My former office.” Though he was technically still an officer with United States Customs and Border Protection, Ryan’s current assignment made him a member of the multiagency task force whose job it was to prevent and solve crime on the vast network of public lands in southwestern Colorado.

      He took out his phone and pulled up the message. “Her name is Alicia Mendoza and she’s from Guatemala. Part of a group of illegal immigrants who were traveling through this area on their way to work in Utah. When they were picked up last night, one of them reported that Alicia had disappeared two days ago, near the national park.”

      Simon snorted. “Nice of them to let us know.”

      “You know now.” Ryan pocketed his phone and looked around the table.

      “Don’t mind Simon.” The man on Ryan’s left offered his hand. “He’s our resident grouch. I’m Randall Knightbridge. BLM.”

      “Pleased to meet you.” Ryan shook hands with the Bureau of Land Management ranger, then turned to the man on his right.

      “Ethan Reynolds,” the man said. “I’m new, too. Only been with the Rangers a couple of months. I came over from the FBI.”

      “We’ll finish the introductions later.” The commander consulted a sheaf of papers in his hand. “Back to the matter of the three missing women. Jennifer Lassiter’s fellow archaeology students report that she took a break early yesterday afternoon. A little while later, they noticed she was missing. Her friends searched the area for several hours but could find no sign of her. They notified park rangers and the county sheriff, who brought us in this morning.”

      “Where was she last seen?” Simon asked.

      “Out near Mystic Mesa,” the commander said. “The group is excavating an early Native American settlement.”

      “Daniel Metwater and his bunch are camped near there, aren’t they?” Randall asked.

      “They are.” Simon tapped a few keys on the laptop. “They just received a new permit to camp near a spring out there. Their permit for their site near Coyote Creek expired last week.”

      “After the prairie fire they set near there, I’m surprised the park service renewed their permit,” the woman said.

      “The fire they allegedly set,” a tall Hispanic officer who sat at the commander’s right—Marco Cruz—said. “Fire investigators determined the wildfire was human-caused, but they have no proof anyone from Metwater’s group was responsible.”

      “Except we know they were,” Simon said.

      Ethan leaned toward Ryan. “Daniel Metwater is a self-styled prophet who leads a band of followers around the wilderness,” he explained. “There has been a lot of suspicious activity associated with his bunch, but we haven’t been able to pin anything on him.”

      “The first young woman who went missing, Lucia Raton, was in Metwater’s camp shortly before she disappeared,” the commander said. “At first, he denied knowing her, but later we confirmed she had been in camp. She wanted to join his group, but he says he sent her away because she was underage.”

      “Later, we found a necklace that belonged to her buried about a mile from the camp, with a lot of things belonging to one of Metwater’s ‘family’ members,” the woman said.

      “No body has been found and her family hasn’t heard from her,” Randall concluded.

      “Interesting that this latest missing woman disappeared near Metwater’s camp.” Ethan tapped his pen on the conference table. “Where did the Guatemalan woman disappear?”

      Ryan consulted his phone again. “It just says in the Curecanti National Recreation Area.”

      “That’s forty-three thousand acres,” Simon said. “You’ll need to narrow it down a little.”

      “See if you can get some more specifics,” the commander said. “Then you and Ethan follow up with the archaeologists, see what you can find out about Jennifer Lassiter.”

      “Maybe she got tired of digging in the dirt and decided to take a vacation with a boyfriend,” Michael Dance said.

      “For her sake, I hope that’s the story,” Carmen said.

      “Moving on.” The commander consulted his notes. “Lance, any update on the plant-smuggling case?”

      Simon smothered what sounded like a laugh.

      “What kind of plants?” Ryan asked.

      “Expensive ones.” Lance, a lanky young man, leaned back in his chair to address them. “The park rangers have found several places where the thief is digging up ornamental plants, some of which retail for hundreds of dollars. We’ve got a few faint tire tracks, but there’s nothing distinct about them. No witnesses. Unless we catch this guy in the act, I don’t think we have much of a chance.”

      “All right,” the commander said. “We’re almost done here. Just a little housekeeping to take care of.” Ryan’s mind wandered as Ellison shared some bulletins from area law enforcement, a heads-up about a controlled burn the Forest Service was conducting in the area, and construction updates in the park. The Ranger Brigade was an unusual force, comprised of officers from many different agencies, tasked with overseeing an expanse of public land the size of Indiana. Only a few hundred people occupied that land, but the potential for criminal activity, from smuggling to manufacturing drugs to theft of public property, was huge.

      “All right, you’re dismissed,” Commander Ellison said. “Have a safe day.”

      Ryan pulled out his phone and sent a text to his former supervisor at Customs and Border Protection, asking for the specific location where Alicia Mendoza had been last seen. He hit the send button as the female officer approached. Her straight black hair hung almost to her waist, and her tawny skin and high cheekbones attested to a Native American heritage. “I’m Carmen Redhorse,” she said. “Welcome to the team.”

      “Simon Woolridge.” The agent with the laptop shook hands also. “I’m the tech expert on the squad. I’ve got lots of information on Daniel Metwater, if you need it.”

      “I’m Marco Cruz, DEA.” The Hispanic agent from the Drug Enforcement Agency had a grip of steel, but a welcoming expression. “I hope you like working in the great outdoors, because we’ve got a lot of territory we cover, most of it pretty empty.”

      “Things can get exciting, though.” Randall Knightbridge joined them, a cup of coffee in one hand, a fawn-and-black police dog at his side. “This is Lotte,” he introduced the dog. “Another member of the team.”

      The last two officers he would be working with introduced themselves—Michael Dance was the rugged outdoorsman who had been seated at the other end of the conference table, and Lance Carpenter was the Montrose County Sheriff’s Deputy who was heading up the stolen-plant investigation.

      “Are