by Ken Goddard
"Lightstone? What's that, an Indian name?"
"I have no idea," the senior congressional staffer admitted, "but I can tell you that at least two of his supervisors have described him as a loner and a 'wild card' — whatever that means."
"It means he's unpredictable, difficult to supervise, and not a team player," Rustman explained. "From a military point of view, that can be good or bad, depending on the operation, but it's usually bad. What's his background?"
"Uh, as I recall, he was a police officer in San Diego before joining the federal government."
"What rank?"
"I believe he was a detective in homicide."
"No military background?"
"No. None of these agents has any military experience."
"Then you can tell your client to stop worrying." Rustman smiled calmly. "I'm providing you with First Sergeant Aran Wintersole and a military recon hunter-killer team, one of the most highly trained and lethal units in the US military. Any one of them could easily handle this mission by himself without working up a sweat. As a team, they simply aren't stoppable by anything less than a similarly trained and equipped hunter-killer team… although given their tactical advantage of surprise and terrain, I personally wouldn't use anything less than a full Ranger company with air support to hunt them down.
"In other words," the military officer concluded casually, "you can assure your client that those five agents don't stand a chance."
"Actually, we may be talking about six," Whatley added tentatively.
"Oh?"
"As I understand it, an additional agent may be assigned to the team in the very near future."
"Any particular reason?"
"A normal Fish and Wildlife Service Special Operations team consists of four Special Agents, one technical agent, and one or two supervising agents," Whatley explained, "which means Bravo Team is currently short at least one Special Agent. The most likely candidate to fill that slot is a female agent named Natasha Marashenko."
"Russian?"
"In a manner of speaking. Her parents immigrated from Kazakhstan when she was a small child. She received high marks in Criminal Investigator School and Special Agent basic classes. She's a relatively new agent, and normally wouldn't be assigned to a covert operations team until she had several more years of experience. However, I'm told that she asked for and was given an assignment to Special Operations because of her high marks, and the fact that the Fish and Wildlife Service has relatively few female agents in their Law Enforcement program.
"That being the case," the congressional district office manager continued, "we suspect that Special Agent Marashenko could add a very interesting dimension to our project."
"How so?"
"My client has no personal interest in this particular agent, and certainly no desire to see her harmed. However, we do think she would make an excellent subject for the distraction scenario we discussed earlier."
Lt. Colonel John Rustman thought about that for a few moments.
"You don't think they'd sacrifice her?"
"Would you in their position?"
Rustman's eyes took on a distant look. Then he pressed his lips together in a thin smile. "No. In their position, I suppose I wouldn't. Is there anything you can do to encourage her selection?"
"We're trying, but we have to be careful. The last thing we want to do right now is create suspicion or, worse, a link that can be tracked back to the congressman's office."
"That would be an extremely unfortunate situation, for everyone concerned." The malice in Rustman's voice sent a chill up Simon Whatley's spine.
"Yes, of course. Uh, now then," the congressional district office manager went on hurriedly, "there's just a couple more things you need to know. First of all, we want to get an informant situated in close contact with their operation. If we succeed, that person will provide us with some extremely useful real-time intelligence information — which we'll immediately process and pass on to you."
"Anybody I know?" Rustman inquired.
"I sincerely hope not. Because someone could easily tie this informant back to both the congressman and our client, we need to keep that person's identity a closely guarded secret."
"Makes sense." Rustman shrugged indifferently.
"However," Whatley went on, "in the event that it ever does become necessary to link up with Wintersole and his team, the informant will use the code word 'canvasback,' repeated twice, as an identifier."
"Canvasback, repeated twice." Rustman nodded. "Okay, I'll notify Wintersole. What else?"
"Our client has a special interest in one of the targets."
"And which one might that be?"
"Lightstone."
"The ex-homicide investigator."
"Yes. To put it bluntly, it would please our client a great deal if Special Agent Lightstone experienced, shall we say, a heightened degree of suffering during the course of the project."
Rustman raised an eyebrow.
"An interesting phrase, 'heightened degree of suffering,'" the military officer noted wryly. "Just what, exactly, did you have in mind?"
"Our client would be especially pleased if Agent Lightstone were acutely aware of the unfortunate status of his fellow agents before he meets a similar fate."
"In other words, you'd like him to remain conscious, aware of the situation, and, one way or another, in a position to outlive the others by at least a day or two."
"Oh, I don't know about days." Simon Whatley blanched at the thought. "I'm fairly certain our client isn't quite that vindictive. I think a few hours would suffice."
"What does Lightstone look like?"
"As I recall, he's a white male, average height and weight. In any case, he's sufficiently distinct from the other members of Bravo Team that you shouldn't have any problem in identifying him. And you'll be receiving a complete set of photos in the briefing materials," Whatley reminded him.
"You do realize that guaranteeing even a couple of hours might be difficult." A thoughtful expression crossed Rustman's face. "Once you engage the enemy in a fluid tactical situation — "
"My client fully understands that such a stipulation would add a significant degree of complexity and difficulty to the mission," Whatley interrupted, gaining confidence when he sensed that his knowledge of the financial arrangements gave him a certain amount of control. "That's why he's authorized me to offer a $50,000 bonus per man, with an additional hundred thousand to you, of course… payment based upon the submission of appropriate evidence."
"What kind of appropriate evidence?"
"A videotape of sufficient clarity would be more than adequate."
Lt. Colonel John Rustman stared at Whatley in disbelief.
"Are you out of your fucking mind?"
"We would expect you to edit the tape in an appropriate manner," Whatley continued hurriedly. "I can assure you that our client has absolutely no interest in the identities of your team, and, for obvious reasons, he's the last person who would want such a tape to fall in the hands of a federal agent or prosecutor. He did, however, anticipate that you might object to this provision and asked me to convey his assurances that once he receives the tape, he will review and destroy it immediately.
"I realize we're adding a number of frustrating restrictions to your plan," Whatley added when Rustman remained silent, "but I can assure you that all of this is very important to our client."
The military officer eventually shrugged indifferently. "I'm not that concerned about your restrictions," he informed Whatley gruffly. "They're minor, and civilian interference is a fact of life for any military operation these days. And as it happens, the communications specialist on the team is fully qualified in photo and video surveillance. We'll see to it that she's fully equipped with all the necessary photo and video gear. All I need to know now is how we go about finding these agents."
"I think you'll like that part the best." A smug smile appeared on Whatley's face. "You don't need to find them. We'
re going to bring them to you."
"And just how…" Rustman started to ask, when a barrage of gunfire suddenly erupted across the water.
Chapter Four
The confrontation had been going on for a good three minutes — a flow of events highlighted by an unexpected kiss, a vicious roundhouse left, a countering hip throw, a lunging dive for a discarded pistol, the sharp crack of partially sawed-through support beams suddenly giving way, the muffled pop of an activated tear-gas canister, and an impressive variety of grunts, shouts, splashing, and cursing — when a bloodcurdling scream of terror suddenly and irrevocably destroyed the remnants of what had begun as a calm and peaceful Sunday morning.
For a brief moment, all eyes turned in the direction of the scream.
Which was immediately drowned out by the concussive roar of a 12-gauge shotgun and three rapid eardrum-piercing gunshots from a 10mm semiautomatic pistol.
Then in rapid succession:
Two figures burst through a pair of ancient attic window shutters and leaped onto a second-story roof.
Rubber-soled shoes frantically scrambled against the incredibly slippery surface.
Two desperately flailing individuals lost their balance and crashed face-first onto the sun-baked shingles.
A burst of furious curses exploded in two distinct ethnic dialects as both men grabbed the edges of the burning hot gutters with bare hands to keep from sliding off the liquid-soap-covered roof.
And then, finally, a 10mm Smith amp; Wesson semiautomatic pistol and a Model 870 Remington pump shotgun scraped and slid down the slippery sloped roof, then hit the thick mud with two audible plops.
Shaking his head in visible dismay, David Halahan, Chief of the Branch of Special Operations, Division of Law Enforcement, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, muttered a heartfelt curse, and turned to his deputy.
"Okay, I've seen enough. Shut it down before somebody gets hurt."
Special Ops Deputy Chief Freddy Moore nodded in agreement. He stood at the edge of the raised wooden platform, pulled a military police whistle from his shirt pocket, and sounded a single, shrill blast.
The familiar noise caused the eleven field agents to pause in their varying endeavors and glance at the raised instructor's platform that overlooked the entire practical exercise course.
Setting aside the whistle, Moore reached for the bullhorn.
"All right, boys and girls, that'll be all for today," he ordered in a distinct deep, Southern drawl. "Referees will submit all score sheets to the tower, and firearms instructors will collect all weapons and ammunition."
"And Henry," Moore added as an afterthought, "let her go."
Special Agent Henry Lightstone slowly and cautiously released the tight leg lock and nearly secured chokehold on his mud-and-swamp-water-soaked opponent — who, in turn, reluctantly stopped struggling to break loose from the carotid choke with one hand while trying to slash, claw, and strike any vital organ she could reach with the other. Instead, she twisted away and then lay there on her back, red-faced, gasping for breath, and glared at Lightstone with furious blue eyes.
"Paxton," Freddy Moore went on in a calm and orderly manner, "would you and Stoner kindly un-handcuff our designated congressman and designated bagman and help them out of the septic tank?"
The tall, lanky Special Agent in Charge of Bravo Team held a handcuff key up in plain view of his sprawled, filthy, watery-eyed, and thoroughly frustrated counterparts. Smiling cheerfully, he let the tiny key drop down into the ankle-deep sewage.
"And Michael," Moore added with a sigh, "if it's not too much trouble, would you and Agent Woeshack mind going back up in that attic, catching that damned snake, and putting it back in its cage before you help Agents Wu and Green to get down off that roof?"
"But they got out there all by…" Special Agent/Pilot Thomas Woeshack started to protest. But then he saw the look on Halahan's face and hurried over to the three-story rustic cabin/training structure to help his tech-agent partner cautiously corner and retrieve the hissing twelve-foot reticulated python they'd borrowed from the local zoo.
Moments later, Special Agent Dwight Stoner knelt at the edge of the once-camouflaged septic tank. One by one, he dead-lifted Special Agent/ Congressman Donato and Special Agent/bagman LiBrandi out of the slippery, nine-foot-deep concrete tank with his muscular arms, wrinkling his nose at the pungent smell of decomposing sewage and the wispy remnants of the tear gas.
As Stoner thoughtfully directed a stream of water from a nearby hose on the faces of the two olifactorily stunned agents, Larry Paxton walked over to the middle of the practical exercise area and reached down to help Henry Lightstone up out of the mud.
"Made some real nice moves on the lady here, Henry, my man. Real nice," Paxton congratulated his wild card agent in his deep South Carolina drawl as he pulled Lightstone to his feet, then made a show of wiping the mud off his hands. "Can't say as I ever seen anything quite like it. Must be one of them crazy white folk mating rituals my dear ol' daddy used to tell me about. The girl walks up smiling all pretty-like, the boy gives the girl a great big hug and kiss, then the girl proceeds to stomp the living shit outta him. My, my, my."
Paxton paused for a moment to consider the disheveled condition of his Special Agent partner. "Man, I sure do hope she didn't rip off anything you're gonna need later."
"That's good, Paxton." Henry Lightstone winced as he gently probed at his smashed and bleeding nose. "See if you can piss her off just a little bit more by rubbing it in."
"Hell, there ain't no need to be doing any more rubbing. Any fool could see you two already done plenty of that. Tell you the truth, the way you were going with that leg lock, I was kinda thinking we might have to spray you two down with a hose. Which reminds me, Agent Marashenko," the Bravo Team leader added with a cheerful smile as he looked down at Lightstone's sprawled, muddy, and clearly still-furious opponent, "we found this here genuine federal agent pistol down in the septic tank, along with a couple of very sleazy political types who were probably subleasing the place. Don't suppose you might know who could have lost it?"
Paxton gingerly held a wet and grimy 10mm Smith amp; Wesson semiautomatic pistol with his right thumb and forefinger, carefully moving his feet to avoid the small stream of raw sewage that poured out the barrel.
Ignoring Henry Lightstone's offered hand, Special Agent Natasha Marashenko rose unsteadily to her feet, ripped the dripping pistol out of Paxton's hand, muttered something about idiot macho males under her breath, and staggered away in a visible display of injured pride, barely controlled rage, and almost complete exhaustion. Her muscular legs and buttocks visibly stretched the thin fabric of her tight, water-and-mud- soaked jeans as she made her way over to the water station.
"My, my, my, that gal is definitely an improvement on the standard issue federal agent around here, not to mention a walking endorsement for glasnost," Larry Paxton commented appreciatively as he and Lightstone watched the shapely, dark-haired young agent take the hose from Stoner and then kneel down to help wash the tear gas from the eyes of her fellow covert team members.
"And nice to look at, too," Lightstone agreed dryly as he gently probed some tender areas around his lower abdomen. "If you happen to like blue-eyed wildcats who fight dirty."
"You know, Henry, it kinda looked to me like she almost had you on that last go-around," the SAC of Bravo Team commented thoughtfully. "If ol' Freddy hadn't blown that whistle when he did, that little gal just mighta worked her way out of that chokehold and seriously whipped your scrawny ass. Maybe next time around, it oughta be you who gets to dance around that septic tank, and me who gets to mud-wrestle the pretty young lady agents who come on like the Seventh Cavalry."
Henry Lightstone smiled. "Next exercise, Paxton, she's all yours. But I'm warning you, she kicks and bites, and she doesn't like to lose. You keep trying to piss her off like that, and you're going to find yourself…"
"Ah, speaking of being pissed off, gents — " Special Agent Dwight Stone
r gestured in the direction of the observation platform as he limped up beside his partners.
The three agents watched silently as Special Ops Branch Chief David Halahan climbed down from the platform, took one final look around the exercise area, shook his head in apparent disgust, and started walking toward the distant training office building.
"Think we mighta gone too far on this one?" Stoner asked.
Larry Paxton nodded his head. "That's a definite possibility, Stoner my man. A very definite possibility indeed."
Chapter Five
Twenty-six hundred miles west of the practical exercise area of the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center at Glynco, Georgia, Lt. Colonel John Rustman listened patiently as First Sergeant Wintersole explained over their scrambled radio communications net why he had believed it necessary to send Simon Whatley's incredibly foolhardy — or perhaps simply incredibly stupid — aide running frantically back to the Town Car by firing a burst of 5.56mm rounds into a nearby tree.
Other than slipping in the mud twice, and undoubtedly creating a mess in his pants if not on the rented Town Car's expensive leather upholstery, they had allowed the aide to escape unharmed.
"What kind of camera?" Rustman asked when Wintersole finished his report.
"Thirty-five millimeter, long lens," the cold, metallic voice responded.
"Did he get away with any shots?"
"Negative."
"Are you certain?"
"Affirmative. We recovered the camera."
"Why did you let him go?"
"He didn't get in very far. Figured it wasn't worth letting him see a face or digging another hole."
Rustman nodded his head in satisfaction. "Good call." He glanced down at his watch. "Maintain your positions for another thirty, and then disengage. We'll link up tomorrow morning at the Windmill, civvies, 0700 hours, for a full debriefing."