A caravan of trucks and automobiles charged down a red dirt road, drawing up a cloud of terra cotta dust that settled on closely packed pine trees lining the way. The dense thicket seemed designed to hide the travelers.

A layer of brown pine needles covered the forest floor and the ditches lining the road; adding to the thick fragrance of the trees, suggesting winter was only a few weeks away. A forlorn certainty amid Indian summer.

The sun overhead beat the last heat of the year upon the hard surface of the road as an illusion; once the sunset, the air would gain a chill deep enough to require a coat.

Occasionally, light reflected off the aluminum skin of helicopters keeping pace with the convoy as they searched the path ahead; notifying the convoy leader of sightings. Security was of a paramount concern.

The land below the helicopters was rough; a montage of gullies, creeks, lakes, and impenetrable forest. It was an isolated piece of the heartland.

In the distance to the east, if the pilots cared to look, was the expanse of Lake Superior. Traveled by ships and pleasure craft, the inland ocean was part of the mystique of the area.

This was the place they wanted. Legends had been born in the north woods.

Strange reports came out of this area several times a year. A favorite was Bigfoot, and if the number of sightings were correct, there had to be a city of the creatures up here. Added to the hairy beast were Lake Monsters, strange animals, kangaroos, and one story that added luster to the mission.

The lead sedan topped a rise, and the passengers saw a police car in the distance, its presence no surprise. If the cop had not been here, it would have been cause for concern.

The convoy charged on, passing the cruiser in a cloud of Iron Range dust, forcing the officer to follow in a subsidiary role as the leader of the mission had intended.

Ahead of the convoy, the helicopters circled an area off the road, searching the mission site. In a few minutes, they would proceed on to Superior as if there had been no change in their flight plan. This part of their mission would be complete.

The all clear came as the lead car turned onto the long dirt driveway of the mission location. Cars swerved to a halt in front of a two-story colonial-style house. The doors opened, and the passengers climbed into the light of day. The helicopters turned away and flew north in a clatter of rotors.

Someone had spent long and loving hours carving this homestead out of the north woods on a small plateau bracketed by a pine forest and brush clogged ravines. The yard was an expanse of grass that glowed with an emerald sheen shaded sporadically by planted oak trees. All of that had changed when the owner died and his dream home sat empty until it came to the attention of the mission leader.

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Teams of workers had come to the house over the past week and brought it to life with paint, furniture, and utilities. They purchased silence with money and papers requiring secrecy.

The police officer removed the sale sign that sat at the head of the driveway. He gazed at the cars and trucks cluttering the yard while he placed the sign in the trunk of his cruiser.

Trucks watched for the signal to unload. The drivers and workers waited patiently, knowing the next few hours would bring a great deal of labor to prepare for the night’s activity.

The leader walked to the half porch at the front of the house, then climbed the short flight of steps and watched more people arrive. As expected, the police cruiser pulled to the front of the drive and the officer exited his car. He walked to the porch with the air of a man who was uncertain of the activities that would take place on the property, as if he knew what these people intended.

The leader, a tall man with a narrow face matching a narrow body, a tense spring waiting to burst, forestalled any comment from the police officer. “I have paid you to stay away from here,” his voice was deep and resonant. His eyes were dark, emotionless, and dangerous. “You can leave, now.”

The officer hesitated, his hand straying to his holster of its own accord. “I thought you might need security...”

“Sergeant!”

A figure appeared from the remains of a rose bed at the foot of the porch, his body covered by a gillie suit of local flora as a carpet camouflage. “Sir.”

“As you see, Chief Lamar, we have no need for additional security.” The man might have smiled as he pulled a slip of paper out of his breast pocket and studied it for a moment. “This is your signature, is it not?”

Lamar glanced at the proffered paper, recognizing the security agreement he had signed. He nodded.

“Please leave,” the leader requested unpleasantly.

The Chief turned, stalked to his cruiser, and left the property in a cloud of dust. He looked in the rear-view mirror as he sped out of the driveway. Instinct told Lamar he would be back at this house tonight and caught up in some bizarre tragedy. If there was any luck involved, the cocky bastard on the porch would be a victim.

The leader sighed, a release of the tension that had been building for the past week. Now the work could begin. He nodded to a muscular black man standing near the sedan. Within moments, the trucks were being unloaded, and a crane erected on the rear bed of a three-quarter ton truck.

“Have you placed your team, Sergeant?” the leader drew the trooper’s attention.

“Yes, Sir. Twenty men stationed around the property with motion sensors and trip wires.”

“You have your comm set?”

“Yes, Sir.”

The leader nodded, pleased with the Sergeant’s efficiency. “Get back to work.”

“Sir,” Sergeant Casey hurried to the woods on the east edge of the yard and disappeared into the foliage.

“Mr. Turner?” a woman’s voice came from behind. The leader turned and saw the woman standing in the doorway, holding the stout door open with a finely manicured hand. “Do you want us to set up?”

“Have you introduced yourselves?” he spared a last glance at the preparations swinging into full gear.

“As instructed. We have spent the last three hours getting to know the house.” She allowed the man to enter the house when he was ready, then closed the door with a solid impact. “And meeting each other.”

“Your husband?”

“In the kitchen preparing a luncheon. Are you hungry Mr. Turner?” She leaned against a display table in the short hallway, her arms crossed, the vase on the table shivering in the movement.

“No, Mrs. MacDonal,” acknowledging the false name wryly. “I think we need to wait a few minutes while I acquaint myself with the other preparations in the house. Can you pass my regards to the rest of the family and tell them I will be with you in half an hour?”

“Of course.” Mrs. Harris knew all the events in the house for the next several hours were in the hands of this man. He was simply a director to her. A secretive man, but still a director.