5:37 A.M., PST- November 8th, 1983.
It was full dark in the middle of nowhere. Most of the rest of the population was already up and at ‘em, but out here in the middle of the desert things were just getting started. There were three vehicles lined up, two standard Government issued four-doors and an unmarked van. A couple of federal agents and two U.S. Marshals stood outside their vehicles in the sand and watched as their high beams illuminated the front of a massive rock formation that opened into a maze of pathways. They stood, weapons and flashlights in hand, discussing the particulars of what was about to happen.
From the north, a small expanse of light crept across the desert and grew closer. A car was approaching in the distance and a large ever-growing red dust cloud, tinted by taillights, seemed to follow.
U.S. Marshal Deputy Alvin Irons stepped from the other men and toward the nearing vehicle.
“This fuckin idiot’s gonna’ bring us a sandstorm if he don’t slow down,” he said out loud to no one. The Deputy raised both arms up, walking out to meet it. When the lights were close enough to illuminate him he began to wave his arms up and down, indicating for the driver to ease the hell up. The engine let off some, driver getting the point. Deputy Irons stopped walking but his arms continued pumping like some glorified air traffic controller and the car slowly came to a stop. The driver who exited the vehicle wore a black suit.
Deputy Irons stood before this stranger; he placed his left hand on his hip, cradling his weapon. He was pretty sure this guy was going to turn out to be there for them, but two decades of experience kept him on his toes.
“Deputy,” he responded. “Who the hell are you?” he barked, moving his hand closer to the hilt of his gun.
“Agent Robert Roy, sir!” he said assertively, extending a shiny shield and saying, “F.B.I.”
The deputy let go of his weapon and stepped forward.
“Rob Roy, huh?” he said plainly. “Like the Scottish outlaw?”
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