by Ken Goddard
"But… but…" Whatley stammered desperately, but Smallsreed turned his back on him and flipped through the photographs, examining the labels on the back of each one, and separating them into two piles.
"Okay, Simon" — Smallsreed finally waved the larger of the two piles in front of Simon Whatley's bandaged face — "here's the way it goes. You will get these photos to someone in the Department of the Interior who can positively identify Special Agent Henry Lightstone. I don't care who you go to or how you do it, but if you want a job tomorrow morning, you will get Lightstone positively identified, and you will do it now."
Sam Tisbury suddenly came to life.
"Wait a minute," he exclaimed. "What the hell… give me those things! Christ, what am I thinking? I know what that bastard looks like!"
Tisbury took the stack of photos out of Smallsreed's hand, rummaged through them quickly, then looked up in frustration.
"He's not here."
"But he must be. Wintersole said…" Smallsreed started to protest, but Tisbury shook him off.
"I'm telling you, the bastard's not here! Christ, Regis, you think I don't know what he looks like? I still see the son of a bitch in my
… Wait a minute!" Tisbury suddenly pointed toward the smaller stack of photos on Simon Whatley's bed. There he is! That's Henry Lightstone!"
Confusion constricted Regis J. Smallsreed's porcine features as he picked up the top photo and examined the label on the back again.
"No, it's not." He shook his white-haired head confidently. "According to the label, this is some local guy — the boyfriend of the woman running the post office."
"You idiot!" Tisbury screamed, his eyes bulging with rage as he snatched the photo out of Smallsreed's hand and flapped it in the congressman's face. "Listen to me, goddamn it! I'm telling you, this is Henry Lightstone!"
"But what in the world would he be doing…" Smallsreed started to protest, but then the light suddenly dawned.
"Goddamn it all to hell," he whispered.
As it happened, the man who caused Congressman Regis J. Smallsreed to take the Lord's name in vain was very much aware of the dawning light, too.
Only in Henry Lightstone's case, he couldn't do much about it because his light came from the soon-to-be-rising sun and resulted from bad timing.
By the time he helped Wintersole get the bound and gagged Donato, LiBrandi, and Marashenko — who, as far as Lightstone was concerned, outdid themselves struggling, kicking, and otherwise fighting their captors — transferred to the hand-dug, belowground, Vietnam-era "tiger" cages where Brigade members now proudly guarded their new prisoners… and then checked the night-exercise area, where the last of the students made valiant efforts to attain their assigned objective… the east horizon had begun to lighten perceptibly.
Which would be a problem, Lightstone realized, as he and Wintersole walked back to the shed housing the crusty old bastard Lightstone thought was Wilbur Boggs, because darkness played a crucial role in his plan, plus he had no desire to beat up a fellow agent.
He tried to disregard the idea that Wintersole might test him with a ringer… or worse, just make him torture someone out of a warped sense of amusement.
"How's he doing?" Lightstone asked as he entered the shed ahead of the hunter-killer recon team leader, hoping at least to eliminate the first possibility.
"He passed out," the obviously exhausted young Ranger replied. "It's your turn now."
Henry Lightstone walked over to the figure slumped in the chair, lifted up the bruised head, casually peeled back the badly swollen and bleeding upper lip, then smiled when he discovered the two missing upper front teeth.
Wilbur Boggs opened one eye, gave Lightstone a wide, bloody, and gap-toothed smile, then drifted away again.
Okay, Boggs, I seriously doubt any of the Chosen Brigade volunteered to sacrifice their front teeth just to play a role for some maniac Army Ranger first sergeant, so you're probably the man Charlie Team's been looking for… which means one more problem resolved, Henry Lightstone thought. Now all I have to do is figure out how to identify myself to you and keep the rest of Charlie Team from saying anything while I'm wearing this damned microphone.
He sensed Wintersole and the young Army Ranger coming up beside him.
"What time is it?" Lightstone asked, contemplating the slumped form of Wilbur Boggs.
Wintersole glanced at his wristwatch.
"Oh-four-forty hours."
"You in a real big hurry to get that information?"
"The sooner the better," the hunter-killer recon team leader replied. "Why?"
"I don't think this guy can stay conscious any longer, much less talk, no matter what we do to him, and I'm about half-asleep myself. So what do you say we tuck him away for a few hours while we all get some rest and regroup?"
Wintersole hesitated, and appeared ready to order Lightstone to begin his interrogation anyway, when the younger Army Ranger spoke up.
"We're all getting a little ragged, First Sergeant. And we still need to get all of that, uh, hardware rigged and tested by this evening."
Wintersole nodded his head slowly.
"And besides," Lightstone added, "I think I know how to get this guy to tell us anything we want to know."
"Lots of luck on that," the young Ranger commented.
"What do you have in mind?" Wintersole's pale gray eyes expressed far more interest than usual.
"You familiar with the expression 'psychological warfare'?"
Wintersole nodded.
Yeah, I'll just bet you are. Lightstone allowed himself a few moments to watch Wilbur Boggs's ragged breathing settle into a steady rhythm before he turned his attention to the man who — for whatever reason — clearly represented the greatest threat to Charlie and Bravo Teams.
"Good. Then I'll let you guess what I plan to do once I find myself a nice, big, poisonous snake."
Chapter Fifty-one
According to the paperwork filed with the FAA, the brand-new Falcon 900-EX that took off from Washington Dulles International Airport at 3:00 Eastern Standard time that Tuesday afternoon was one of three such aircraft owned by an international conglomerate of oil executives who leased the luxuriously appointed jets to clients on a trip-by-trip basis… and usually on very short notice.
Which explained the availability of planes, pilots, maintenance and ground crews on a twenty-four-hour call-out basis.
In point of fact, however, Samuel Tisbury, the Chairman and CEO of Cyanosphere VIII, as well as the number two man in the industrial conspiracy known as ICER, owned, operated, and piloted the very expensive three-engine jet. And, in a testimony to Tisbury's incredible wealth and infamous lack of patience, the ground and maintenance crews managed to completely reconfigure the plane internally, fuel and flight-check it a good half hour before Tisbury and his companions arrived at the private hangar.
The Falcon was still climbing — rising high over the Appalachian Mountains, on a basically straight-line course for the Rogue Valley International Airport in Medford, Oregon, with Tisbury and a copilot at the controls, an extremely attractive flight attendant solicitously attending Regis J. Smallsreed and the backup pilot in the forward cabin, and an extremely professional paramedic monitoring a deeply sedated Simon Whatley in the rear cabin — when Larry Paxton notified Special Ops Chief David Halahan that they hadn't heard from Special Agent Henry Lightstone or any of the agents of Charlie Team in the last fifteen hours.
The plane had leveled off at its cruising altitude of twenty-seven thousand feet, and was passing over Columbus, Ohio, when Lightstone decided that he'd slept enough for one morning — make that afternoon, he corrected himself, as he glanced down at his watch and discovered that it was already 1:15 — and then proceeded to stand up, slowly and carefully, so as not to wake any of the loudly snoring members of the Chosen Brigade, most of whom sprawled belly up in their military-issue sleeping bags strewn over the dirt floor of the low-ceilinged cave.
The reserve pilot h
ad just taken over the controls above Kansas City, Missouri, so Sam Tisbury could join Regis J. Smallsreed for an exquisitely prepared dinner in the forward cabin, when Lightstone — moving carefully through the rocky outcropping above the Chosen Brigade's training facility theoretically in search of a particular variety of snake supposedly prone to sunning itself on rocky outcroppings at this time of year- spotted Wintersole and three of his men carefully setting the last of their high-explosive packets in and around an old and decrepit horse barn mostly filled with sacks of homegrown chicken manure that the Brigade men never quite found the time to spread in the fields as they promised the women they would.
However, in spite of its odorous contents, the Brigade leadership felt the building would make a perfect trial site for Federal Wildlife Agent Wilbur Boggs and his fellow Special Agents from Charlie Team, to say nothing of the entire federal government as a whole in absentia.
The plane was approaching the Rocky Mountains, and climbing again to escape some mild turbulence — to the delight of Congressman Regis J. Smallsreed, who helpfully placed a steadying hand directly across the flight attendant's ample chest as she leaned forward to refill his and Tisbury's wineglasses — as Henry Lightstone watched the first sergeant carefully lock a small transmitter in the SAFE position, then hand it to the young Army Ranger with the cast on his hand.
As the plane passed directly over Salt Lake City, Utah, and began its initial descent, Lightstone retrieved his new cellular phone from one of his cache sites and called Mike Takahara to tell the tech agent what he wanted… which, in turn, enabled Bravo Team leader Larry Paxton finally to contact Halahan and advise the increasingly anxious and frustrated Special Ops chief as to the current status of Special Agents Henry Lightstone, Wilbur Boggs, and all of the members of Charlie Team.
And as the Falcon 900-XE crossed over the high desert of eastern Oregon at precisely 5:42 P.M. local time — with Congressman Regis J. Smallsreed enjoying a delightfully sensuous neck and shoulder massage from the multi-skilled flight attendant, while Sam Tisbury nodded sleepily under the equally soothing influence of a half bottle of expensive Chardonnay — Henry Lightstone finally met Tech Agent Mike Takahara in the woods about a half-mile west of the Chosen Brigade's training compound…
And obtained his snake…
And then went on to describe, in great detail, the final necessary elements of his plan.
At exactly 5:45 that same Tuesday evening, an exhausted A1 Grynard, who was determined to maintain as much contact as possible with the agents assigned to his special investigations team, finally returned to the FBI's resident agent office in Medford, Oregon.
"Looks like you had a long day," Senior Resident FBI Agent George Kawana commented as Grynard collapsed into the chair behind his borrowed desk.
Sighing heavily, A1 Grynard closed his eyes and leaned as far back as he could in the amazingly uncomfortable government executive chair.
"So help me God," he vowed, half to himself, "if I ever agree to take on another assignment like this, somebody please have the decency to collect my gun and credentials, and file my retirement papers."
George Kawana nodded sympathetically. "I think everybody in the agency agrees that you definitely set a new standard with this investigation."
"A new low, you mean."
"Well, yes, as a matter of fact, that is what I meant," the senior resident agent conceded. "But I was trying to look at it from a positive point of view."
"There is no positive point of view on this case, George," A1 Grynard announced tiredly, keeping his eyes firmly closed as he tried to find a comfortable position in a chair obviously designed for someone with no lower back. "The whole thing sucks, no matter how you look at it."
"I suppose that means you don't want to see the latest set of, uh, surveillance photos?"
A1 Grynard's left eye slowly opened.
"What do you mean by 'uh'?" he inquired suspiciously.
"Oh nothing, really." The senior resident agent shrugged indifferently. "I mean if it was my case, I'd certainly want to see those photos. But I can see where someone in your position might not necessarily want to know what…"
A1 Grynard came straight up in his chair with both eyes open.
"Where are they?"
"Manila envelope, right in front of you."
Grynard reached for the envelope and hurriedly unwound the string tie.
"And then, too," Kawana went on as he watched his longtime friend and fellow agent pull a dozen eight-by-ten glossy color photos out of the envelope, "if this was my case, and I knew I'd be held completely responsible for anything that went wrong, I'd probably be a little curious as to what…"
A1 Grynard emitted an explosive curse that almost caused the senior resident FBI agent of the Medford office to choke in surprise.
"You know, Al," Kawana pointed out after he regained his composure and observed the stunned expression on Grynard's decidedly pale face, "all these years we've known each other, I don't believe I've ever heard you utter that word inside an FBI office."
"That's… that's Lightstone. Goddamned Henry fucking Lightstone," Grynard sputtered angrily as he hurled the photo onto the desk like a hot coal that burned his hand.
Senior Resident Agent George Kawana slowly got up from his chair and walked to Grynard's desk to reexamine the photo he and his colleagues had already examined with great interest a few hours earlier.
"So that's Henry Lightstone, huh? Your old wildlife agent buddy? We kinda wondered who he might be. Not to mention what he was doing lying around naked and bleeding with that…" Kawana continued, but Grynard no longer listened.
As Senior Resident Agent George Kawana watched in amazement, A1 Grynard lunged out of his chair, ripped open a nearby weapons locker, pulled out a pump shotgun, a vest, and a box of four-ought buck, and ran for the door.
At precisely 6:04 that Tuesday evening, at the very moment the Falcon 900-EX private jet bearing Congressman Regis J. Smallsreed, Sam Tisbury, and Simon Whatley touched down on the main runway of the Rogue Valley International Airport in Medford, Oregon — coming in almost directly over the rapidly accelerating sedan driven one-handed by supervisory FBI Agent A1 Grynard, who shouted into the cell phone held in the other — the woman known as Karla carried a shovel, broom, mop and scrub bucket into the interior enclosure of the Dogsfire Inn where her awesome pet spent her unsupervised hours of the day.
The panther greeted her mistress with a complaining yowl.
"I don't want to hear about it," Karla muttered as she scooped and swept, then began mopping the concrete floor with an antiseptic solution, very much aware that the panther no longer used the fenced-in area outside her enclosure and adjacent to the Dogsfire Inn to relieve herself.
If anything, the panther's response sounded even more plaintive.
"Look, he's not here. He's out doing his own thing. That's what males do, so you might as well get used to it."
Evidently unwilling to accept the well-intentioned advice, the huge cat emitted an irritated snarl and lunged into her overhead loft. Moments later, the sound of ripping paper filled the air.
Jesus, Karla thought to herself, next the two of us will start discussing our dating problems like a couple of sexually frustrated teenagers!
She had just resumed her mopping when shredded pieces of paper began to rain down upon her.
"Hey, what are you doing up there?" Karla demanded, but the shower of paper continued unabated, punctuated by occasional frustrated yowls.
Muttering to herself, the resident cage-cleaner knelt and was starting to pick up the pieces of paper sticking to the wet concrete floor when a very familiar image suddenly floated by.
What the…?
As she leaned forward to catch the partially shredded, folded sheet, the identity of the image crystallized in her mind.
Henry?
What the hell?
Having no idea at all why a torn picture of Henry Randolph Lee should flutter down from the loft inhabit
ed by her pet panther, Karla carefully unfolded the wet paper… then blinked in shock when her eyes saw the name beneath his photograph.
Henry Lightstone?
Special Agent Henry Lightstone?
Oh my God.
Stunned and disoriented, it took her several moments to collect her thoughts. Then forgetting all about Sasha, she stumbled to her feet and ran to the phone in her bedroom.
She punched in the number from memory and let the phone ring eight times. Fighting off a growing sense of panic, she tried a second number, and got an answering machine.
"Goddamn it, where are you?" she screamed in frustration as she slammed the handset down.
Realizing that she had to warn them, right now, before it was too late, she reached under her bed, pulled out a sawed-off 12-gauge pump shotgun and a bandoleer of shotgun rounds, and ran for the door.
She was in her truck and fumbling with the key in the ignition when she felt something heavy hit the bed of the vehicle.
What?
She had already reached for the door handle with her left hand and started to come around with the shotgun clenched in her right, when a flash of black in the rearview mirror caught her eye.
A pair of bright yellow eyes with coal black pupils stared back at her calmly.
Sasha? How…?
The image of the open enclosure door filled her mind.
Oh shit!
She hesitated, torn between conflicting emotions.
Goddamn you, Henry Whoever-you-are!
Unwilling to lose the time necessary to return the agitated panther to her enclosure, Karla shook her head in frustration, invited the panther into the cab, and quickly fitted the crucial control collar over the complaining animal's thick neck.
After assuring herself that all three of the small, flexible antennas for the tracking, syringe-activating and drug-injecting systems were extended and clear, and that she now had complete control over the dangerous cat, she started the truck and accelerated out of the inn parking lot with a steely look of determination in her gold-flecked green eyes.