by Ken Goddard
"Well…"
"And if you do have other plans for this evening," — the hunter-killer team leader smiled knowingly — "you might be interested to know that our employer authorized a thousand-dollar bonus for each participating instructor."
"A thousand dollars?" Lightstone blinked. "What would you expect me to do? Shoot a couple of those jokers?"
Wintersole chuckled. "Actually, something a little less violent, but equally instructive."
"No actual wounds. Just scare the hell out of them?"
"Something like that."
"But a thousand dollars for one night's work?" Lightstone pressed, remembering to stay in character. A thousand dollars was a hell of a lot of money for a man supposedly in between jobs who had just spent a goodly amount of his reserve funds on a used motorcycle.
"Actually, probably only five or six hours, max. I plan to start at 2100, sharp, and finish around 0200 in the morning. Payment in cash, on the spot, assuming everything goes okay," Wintersole added helpfully.
Lightstone smiled.
"Where do I go, and what time should I be there?"
"Be at the entrance to their main compound at, oh, say 2000 hours — 8:00 P.M. I think that would work out just about right. Plan on doing a lot of moving around in the dark, minimal noise, maximum concealment, then all of a sudden popping up out of nowhere to mess with their minds, that sort of thing. We'd be looking for you to take a couple of them out of the picture silently with some quick take-downs and choke-outs if you can get into the right position. Basic psy-ops stuff. Make them sweat a little when their teammates start disappearing, and they don't know why. You ever use any night-vision gear?"
Lightstone shook his head. "Nope. Matter of fact, I don't think I've ever even seen any night-vision gear."
"No sweat. The new-generation stuff is real easy to use. We'll run you through the drill, get you qualified in fifteen minutes. Just make sure you bring a good pair of boots — high-tops if you've got 'em, lot of rocks and holes in the area where we set this up — wool socks, gloves, long johns, and a warm jacket. We'll supply everything else."
"Why do I get the strange feeling I'm being recruited?"
Wintersole smiled. "By the Brigade, or by us?"
"All things considered, I'll be a hell of a lot safer working with you. Especially if these Chosen Brigade characters are really serious about taking on the feds."
"Oh, I think they're serious. No question about that." A shadow flitted across Wintersole's cold gray eyes. "The question is, can they pull it off — or even make a reasonable showing — if they try. That's what we're going to find out tonight."
"You don't sound too optimistic."
Wintersole shrugged. "Just like the old army game, Henry. You do the best you can with whatever resources you're given. Sometimes the best you can do is play for pride."
"Well, whatever the game is, I'm certainly looking forward to it. Especially the money part." Lightstone smiled cheerfully. "Twenty hundred hours, front entrance, main compound." He waved his hand as he began walking toward the distant road.
"Glad you feel that way, Henry," First Sergeant Aran Wintersole whispered to himself as he watched his lanky new recruit disappear into the surrounding woods. "I'm looking forward to it, too."
Chapter Forty-seven
It had grown completely dark that Monday evening by the time Henry Lightstone worked his way through the tall stand of old-growth trees, across a shallow stream, and up a long incline to the edge of an open field, pausing every hundred yards or so to check his compass bearing.
Then, after pausing one last time at the edge of the open field to catch his breath, he knelt and leaned against the rough bark of a concealing thirty-foot evergreen, cupped his hand over his wrist, and checked the luminous hands on his watch.
Seven oh five. Shit.
It had taken longer than he expected — and much longer than he had hoped — because he'd doubled back on his tracks on two separate occasions… once as a routine precaution, and then a second time when a branch snapped somewhere behind him.
He'd spotted the deer on his second loop back, which left him with a vague sense of uneasiness when the animal finally noticed him and bounded off into the surrounding brush. While an incautious deer might snap a twig, the agile young men employed by the pale-gray-eyed man they referred to as sergeant could easily move through a dense old-growth forest without their boots coming anywhere near a dry branch.
Trouble is, Lightstone thought, they could be all around me right now, and I probably wouldn't even know it.
He felt tempted to turn around, right there, and hike back to his motorcycle. Very tempted, in fact, because he also had a very uneasy sense that these six extremely fit and confident young men, along with their ominously cold-eyed leader, wouldn't hesitate to take out anything or anyone which happened to get in their way.
Including a couple of federal agent Special Ops teams, he thought uneasily.
Earlier in the afternoon, during a break from the hands-on instruction, Lightstone had located the shooting ranges and watched two of Wintersole's men work the pop-up targets with a pair of M-16 assault rifles. From Lightstone's limited view, it appeared they did so with tightly choreographed precision and deadly accuracy that spoke of many long hours in the military version of the FBI's Hogan's Alley. One moved, the other covered, one reloaded, the other covered, back and forth… a random, forward, leapfrogging that sent short deadly bursts from at least one — and often both — of the assault rifles into every pop-up target that sprang into view.
Christ, we don't stand a chance if they're all like that… and there's absolutely no reason at all to think that they aren't, Lightstone reminded himself.
And that memory, plus the nagging awareness that something — or someone — had placed some event, some action into motion drove Henry Lightstone now. He had to get word of his suspicions to his team as soon as possible.
Accordingly — and after one last futile pause to listen for any sound of movement amid the chirping of what sounded like hundreds of cheerful crickets — he glided forward in the darkness, crouched against the wall of the building, and rapped his knuckles in three quick double-strikes against a cold metal door.
The chorus of crickets came to an immediate halt.
An instant later, the tiny sliver of light seeping from under the now-much-more-securely sealed side door went out.
Moments later, the door swung open cautiously.
"It's me," he whispered, then slipped quickly inside and waited against the inside wall until he heard the door close. Anticipating the blinding effects, he shielded his eyes as the lights came on.
It took Lightstone's eyes a few moments to adjust. Then he simply stood and blinked in amazement.
"What in the hell have you guys been doing?" he asked as he surveyed the mass of wadded clumps of duct tape that almost completely covered the warehouse floor.
"Don't ask," Larry Paxton warned as he re-holstered his pistol.
"Yeah, don't," Dwight Stoner agreed as he leaned the pump shotgun against the side of the team's rental car. "He's in a real shitty mood tonight."
"Okay, then, what the hell did you guys do to those terrariums?" Lightstone's eyes swept across the rows of glass containers now festooned with hundreds of irregular wads, shreds, and strips of duct tape. "And," he added, "what's the deal with all the ice?"
From Henry Lightstone's viewpoint, all of the plastic swimming pools now filled with mostly melted blocks of ice, and the dozens of empty plastic bags — not to mention large puddles of water — scattered around the warehouse floor strongly suggested the previous presence of dozens of additional ice blocks.
"That's part of what you're not supposed to ask," Stoner cautioned his fellow agent.
"Ah."
Lightstone then heard the resident chorus of chirping crickets start up again, then gradually increase in volume to highly irritating levels.
"The next time we run an operation like th
is, if we ever run another operation like this, which we won't," Paxton announced ominously, "I get the sexy witch, the panther, and the whole gang of militant idiots all to myself. The rest of you get all the snakes and spiders and crocodiles… and the goddamned crickets. Ain't talking about it anymore. That's just the way it's gonna be."
"He's a little upset 'cause we had to take all the terrarium lids off to put the light bulbs back in after we'd taped them all shut," Thomas Woeshack explained cheerfully. "We tried to freeze them again real quick so nothing would get out, but I guess the cold didn't bother the crickets all that much, 'cause most of them got out anyway. Then a couple of snakes almost got out, and one of them almost bit Larry, 'cause he was trying to hurry… and then one of the spiders ran up his arm real fast, and three of the crocs got loose when he fell backwards into their pool… and then we ran out of duct tape, and there isn't any more in the whole town, so…"
A warning wave from Stoner caused the eager special agent/pilot to terminate his briefing.
Lightstone examined Larry Paxton's expression carefully, while attempting to ignore the ever-increasing volume of cricket chirps.
"Are you okay, Larry?" he asked carefully. "No problems with stress, lack of sleep, bunch of crickets running loose, anything like that?"
"Oh hell yes. Just fine and dandy. Don't hardly hear the damned things anymore."
Lightstone decided to dismiss the slightly glassy look in his supervisor's eyes… at least for now.
"Yeah, Larry's fine, Henry. No different than he always is. So what've you got for us?" Stoner prompted the team's wild-card agent.
Another triple-series knock on the door interrupted Henry Lightstone just as he was in the process of describing his new job. He moved forward quickly and turned off the light in the suddenly silent warehouse, then cautiously opened the door as the other three agents stood with firearms ready.
Moments later, a flabbergasted Bobby LaGrange and Mike Takahara stood in the warehouse surveying the disaster around them.
"What the hell…" Bobby LaGrange started to ask when Lightstone interrupted.
"Don't even ask," he warned. "First things first. How's Susan?"
"She's fine." The ex-homicide investigator smiled as the happy cricket chorus started up again. "Got her tucked away with a couple retired cops we know out by the Rogue River. She's got her. 357, her fishing rod, and a couple of first-class bodyguards. Said to come get her when we were finished playing, but not to hurry." LaGrange allowed his eyes slowly to sweep the warehouse. "So all the crickets got loose, huh?"
"It's not a subject we talk about in Larry's presence," Lightstone suggested gently. "So what are you doing here?"
The ex-homicide investigator shrugged. "Susan doesn't need me around to bait her hook, and I figured you boys might need some help sorting out the good guys from the bad guys." A glint of something decidedly cold and malicious flickered across Bobby LaGrange's still-smiling eyes. "I was heading this way when I ran across Stoner and offered to take over his surveillance of Charlie Team. In retrospect, I guess I should've come here and helped Larry instead." He scanned the warehouse once more, but no trace of amusement remained in his smile.
Henry Lightstone knew that look all too well. Bobby LaGrange would not tolerate even the idea of someone making a threatening move toward his treasured wife.
"So what's Charlie Team doing now?" Lightstone asked as they all sat down in the folding chairs that Dwight Stoner set up in a tight circle.
"From what little I saw, not much," LaGrange reported. "At a little after six, everybody went into what Dwight told me was the team leader's room at the motel. I waited around for something to happen, but nothing did. So at seven, I linked up with Mike and we headed over here. If anybody else was surveilling them, I sure didn't see it."
"Me neither," Mike Takahara added, "but I did pick up something with one of my scanners that might explain…"
"Wait a minute, Mike," Larry Paxton interrupted, the familiar no-nonsense supervisory tone back in his voice. "Before we get into that, I want you all to hear about Henry's new job."
Relieved to see Paxton assuming control again, Lightstone told them about his activities in and around the Dogsfire Inn and the Chosen Brigade compound during the past three days.
"Where exactly is this training compound?" LaGrange asked when Lightstone finished.
"Direct line, a little less than a mile northwest of here." Lightstone described the route he'd taken to get to the warehouse. "There's a rough trail of sorts, but it branches off in several places along the way. Pretty easy to get lost if you don't have a compass and a map. It's about fifteen minutes away if you take the long way around by road."
"You going to be able to find your way back to your bike?" Mike Takahara asked dubiously.
"Yeah, sure, it'll just take a while." Lightstone glanced down at his watch. "In fact, I've got to get going pretty soon. I'm supposed to be back at the compound by eight to help with some kind of night training exercise."
"Don't worry about it," LaGrange assured his former partner. "I'll drop you off at the gate."
Lightstone started to argue that he shouldn't reestablish the link to the LaGrange ranch, but Bobby LaGrange remained adamant.
"Don't worry about it," he repeated. "They've probably already seen us together anyway. This way, maybe one of them'll decide to follow me around for a while." The ex-homicide investigator's expression made it readily apparent that the idea appealed to him very much.
"I don't think so," Lightstone countered. "At least not tonight anyway."
"Oh, yeah? Why not?"
Lightstone described what little he knew about the night exercise, and then relayed his growing concern that something very big — and presumably very dangerous — involving the Chosen Brigade and Charlie Team had been set into motion.
"A thousand-dollar bonus for one night of playing tag in the woods with a bunch of self-righteous, anti-government loonies? I don't think so," Larry Paxton muttered. "You're right, Henry, these assholes are up to something, no doubt about it. The question is, what?"
"Actually, I think I might know the answer to that." Mike Takahara's remark caused all eyes to turn instantly in his direction.
I think they plan to draw Charlie Team in, using Boggs as bait."
"What?" all five voices echoed in unison.
"What makes you think that?" Larry Paxton demanded.
"I tapped into one of Charlie Team's cell phone calls earlier this evening."
"Hey, wait a minute," Bobby LaGrange said, "I thought you said you guys were all using encrypted cell phones now."
"Yeah, we are." Mike Takahara shrugged.
"So then how…"
"We, uh, managed to acquire Charlie Team's encryption code when we were all at Glynco a couple weeks ago," the tech agent explained.
"That was how we knew all about their plan to hide Donato and Green up in the loft, and have Marashenko hide her gun under a rock by the dirt path," Thomas Woeshack added cheerfully.
"But which, naturally, never showed up in our exercise reports," Dwight Stoner further elaborated for Bobby LaGrange's benefit.
"A minor discrepancy. Nothing worth bothering Halahan or Moore about," Larry Paxton said dismissively as he zeroed in on Mike Takahara's comment. "So what's the deal with Boggs?" he asked the tech agent.
"We know Charlie Team's been trying to work out an illegally guided hunt at the Windgate National Wildlife Refuge with one of the Chosen Brigade members, right?"
All five heads nodded.
"Well, according to the conversation I picked up between Donato and Riley, one of their local contacts apparently called Donato at his motel room, told him the hunt was on for tonight, and not to worry about any problems with the local game warden because they knew exactly where Special Agent Boggs would be all evening."
"And just where is that?" A perceptible edge replaced the exhaustion in Larry Paxton's voice.
Mike Takahara shrugged. "I couldn't tel
l for sure from the conversation, but I got the impression that Charlie Team thinks the Chosen Brigade managed to capture Boggs — apparently sometime after he walked out of Providence Hospital — and that they're hiding him until they can put him on trial."
"For what?"
"Who knows." The tech agent shrugged. "Being a law-enforcement agent. Representing the federal government. Intruding on the God-given rights of local deer poachers. Something like that."
"What the hell kind of sense does that make?" Paxton demanded.
"Hey, I only tap the conversations. I don't psychoanalyze them."
"So what's Charlie Team going to do? Notify Halahan and have him send us in as backup?" Dwight Stoner asked hopefully.
"I don't think so." Mike Takahara shook his head. "In fact, not only do they seem to have no idea that we're here, I got the distinct impression they're planning to play hero."
"Oh no…" Lightstone whispered.
"You mean they intend to send Donato and LiBrandi in on the illicit hunt, tag everybody, and then try to take everybody down and rescue Boggs… all by themselves?" Larry Paxton's face turned a distinctly paler shade of brown.
"That's the way it sounded to me." The tech agent nodded solemnly.
"Oh, shit." The Bravo Team leader said what every one of them was thinking.
"We need to call them. Right now," Henry Lightstone declared emphatically. "I don't give a damn what Halahan said. They may think they're taking on a bunch of incompetent losers, but from what I've seen and heard, they're walking right into a nest of ex-Army Rangers."
"Assuming these ex-Rangers are part of the plan," Larry Paxton reminded his wild-card agent.
"Hey, if they're not, fine. We end up looking like a bunch of idiots. Who cares?" Lightstone shrugged indifferently. "But if I'm right, and this night-exercise deal is nothing more than a setup to trap Charlie Team, then everything's going to go to shit real fast. And if it does," the covert agent went on, "we're going to lose a bunch of agents."
"And if it is a setup, Henry, where does that leave you?" Bobby LaGrange reminded his former partner.