by Ken Goddard
"What took him so damn long to check in?" Smallsreed demanded impatiently when the sky remained free of birds. The entire episode made the bloodlust flow through his veins, and he could hardly wait to kill something too.
"SOP." Rustman continued reading the paper that one of his employees had surreptitiously delivered to the blind earlier that morning. "You make the hit, go to ground, and pop back up in a remote location, twenty-four to forty-eight hours later, after the follow-up hunt dies down. Standard hunter-killer recon procedure."
"That's assuming there actually is someone out there looking for them," Tisbury commented. "We don't know that yet."
"There's always a follow-up hunt," Rustman replied without taking his eyes off the text. "You hit somebody as bad as Wintersole and his people did, you'd damn well better count on it. And don't forget, we went after federal agents," he reminded them.
"Federal agents aren't any different," Regis J. Smallsreed dismissed Rustman's comment indifferently. "They get in the way, they either get moved… or removed like everyone else. Simple as that."
"Did Wintersole say anything about the tape?" Tisbury voiced his primary concern.
"No, just sent a coded message. Standard phrases. But I don't think you have to worry about First Sergeant Wintersole." Rustman looked up from the paper calmly. "He's a professional soldier who knows exactly what he's doing. That's why we put him in charge of the field aspects of this operation."
"Yep, that's exactly it," Regis J. Smallsreed agreed, bobbing his massive head vigorously. "You want something done right, you go out and hire yourself a professional… 'cause when you do, everything always works out just fine… including that out there." The congressman's eyes glittered greedily as he pointed toward the far horizon.
"What've we got?" Tisbury asked, readying his shotgun.
"Looks like a bunch of cans, if my old eyes are any judge." Smallsreed glanced over at his host hopefully for confirmation.
"Wouldn't be a bit surprised." Rustman smiled briefly as he glanced toward the horizon, then reluctantly put his paper away. "This is a good spot for them."
Silently, the three men crouched in the blind and watched as the formation of migratory birds announced their low-to-the-water approach with intermittent quacks, long necks extended forward as their powerful wings sliced through the chilled morning air in precise, synchronized strokes.
"Yes, by God, cans!" Smallsreed whispered as much to himself as the others in the blind.
Caught up in the pure sensory pleasure of the moment, Congressman Regis J. Smallsreed uncharacteristically allowed his hunting companion to take the first shot.
Moments later, the concussive roar of Sam Tisbury's shotgun shattered the moment into illusionary fragments as the lead Canvasback tumbled in an explosion of feathers, tissue, and blood.
The shock wave had barely registered on the gun-wary instincts of the remaining birds when nine more blasts erupted from the blind, sending nine more tight patterns of lead pellets streaking upward in intersecting paths with the left and right sides of the rapidly separating formation. Nine more bloody explosions sent nine more lifeless Canvasbacks plum-meting into the water.
Which left one Canvasback — severely wounded by the stray pellets from the pattern that had obliterated his wing mate — veering off in a desperate, zigzagging effort to escape the deadly barrage.
Regis J. Smallsreed stood with an open mouth and an empty shotgun, and watched in anguished disbelief as the crippled bird somehow remained airborne — desperately quacking and flapping its wings as it tried with every ounce of strength it could muster to reach the weed-choked sanctuary of the far-distant shoreline.
He wore that anguished look because Congressman Regis J. Smallsreed remained as greedy as ever.
As always, he desperately wanted to kill them all.
Lt. Colonel John Rustman took one look at the directional vector of the duck's erratic but determined course, cursed silently, and activated the small radio transmitter on his belt.
"Wintersole," he whispered tersely into the mike. "Take it…"
But then he remembered. No Wintersole. Not today.
Or at least not yet, anyway.
Sorry, duck, you'll just have to suffer. Rustman shrugged as he automatically glanced at his own empty pump shotgun in the VIP blind's gun rack. Must not be your day.
The congressman was still standing there, clutching his empty shotgun and glaring angrily at the out-of-range Canvasback — his Canvasback — a good eighty yards away and slowly gaining distance with each feeble wing stroke, when two dark-hooded figures suddenly stood in the adjoining blind with. 223 Mini-14 semiautomatic rifles in their hands.
A moment later, a single sharp, explosive crack echoed across the water.
Ninety yards away, the terminally injured bird suddenly spun in midair, its bloody feathers momentarily fluttering protectively over the splash points created when its carcass struck the water.
"Holy shit!"
As Sam Tisbury's astonished exclamation rang out across the water, Lt. Colonel John Rustman and Regis J. Smallsreed wheeled and stared openmouthed at the dark-hooded figures in the adjacent blind.
"Who… the hell is that?" Sam Tisbury's face still bore an absolutely astounded look.
"That, I believe, is First Sergeant Aran Wintersole, reporting for duty as ordered," Lt. Colonel John Rustman replied, unable to keep the supervisory pride out of his voice.
However, it did occur to him as he spoke those words, that the figure wearing the purple scarf around — her? — throat had made the shot. Wintersole just stood there with the Mini-14 held comfortably in his arms, watching the female Ranger with what Rustman guessed was an equivalent amount of pride.
He started to say something to that effect, to explain to his companions in the VIP hunting blind how meaningful that demonstration of faith had been. But the appearance of a small plane coming in low over the horizon suddenly caught his attention.
As Rustman, Tisbury, and Smallsreed watched in silence, the erratically flying float plane stalled, recovered, then stalled again as it suddenly veered in their direction.
"My God!" Sam Tisbury gasped. "He's going to crash right into us."
"What?"
Simon Whatley staggered desperately to his feet and stared in horror, with the other three men, at the oncoming plane.
"Oh, shit!" he whispered.
"GODDAMN IT, HE'D BETTER NOT…!" Regis J. Smallsreed screamed, but it was too late.
Before the congressman could say or do anything else, the pilot seemed to regain control at the last moment, powering the small aircraft forward in such a manner that the two floats mounted beneath the plane hit the water hard about twenty feet in front of and just to the right of the four helpless duck hunters… sending a huge spray of duck- and goose-shit-infused water flying in the air that literally drenched them, and generated a huge swell that surged toward the blind.
Blinded by the spray, Simon Whatley staggered backwards, bumped into Smallsreed, then grabbed onto him for support just as the swell struck and nearly upended the anchored blind… effectively sending both desperately flailing men catapulting through the open doorway and into the freezing water.
Just as Smallsreed and Whatley came up for air, the congressman livid with rage and screaming himself nearly hoarse, the pilot of the more-or-less-landed aircraft made a sharp right-angled turn and cut the engine… generating another series of waves that choked off Smallsreed in mid-scream as his white-haired head disappeared beneath the surging ice-cold water.
In the brief moment before the plane slammed into the anchored blind, federal wildlife agent Wilbur Boggs and FBI supervisory agent A1 Grynard managed to exit hastily the rear seats of the aircraft and make it out onto the floats. The impact sent Rustman and Tisbury tumbling to the floor, while Boggs and Grynard held on to the wing struts for dear life.
More accustomed to such landings by Fish and Wildlife Service agent/pilots, Wilbur Boggs let go with one ha
nd, waved his replacement Special Agent badge, and jubilantly roared, "Federal agent, you're all under arrest!" Meanwhile Grynard clung to the struts with both hands and glared at the pilot until he remembered why they had attempted an insane landing like that. Then he quickly fumbled for his gun.
By this time, Lt. Colonel John Rustman had staggered to his feet at the far corner of the blind, holding a pair of shotgun shells in his left hand and his pump shotgun in his right.
The retired military officer prepared to combat-load the empty shotgun — to pull back on the slide, palm the first shell in through the ejector port, jack the slide forward with his left hand, and then trigger the high-based round into the face of the still-fumbling A1 Grynard with his right.
But then he, too, appeared to remember something.
First Rustman — and then Tisbury — turned and stared across the water at the two now un-hooded figures still standing in the adjoining duck blind with their Ruger Mini-14s held up in a ready position.
That's right, Colonel. Real bad idea, Henry Lightstone thought to himself as he and Karla stood side by side in the slowly rocking blind. If she can hit a moving duck at eighty yards…
He slid his index finger inside the trigger guard of the stainless-steel semiautomatic rifle.
And don't even think about turning that gun this way, in her direction, or you're a dead man.
"Lightstone," Sam Tisbury whispered in disbelief.
Numbed with shock, Lt. Colonel John Rustman allowed the pump shotgun to slide out of his hands.
"You know, I think the older fellow on the left — the one who looks like he's about ready to have a heart attack — recognizes you," Karla suggested, easing her own index finger away from the trigger of her Mini-14 as she watched her noticeably displeased and airsick boss order the two men to put their hands over their heads… right now.
"Oh yeah, he knows me, all right," Henry Lightstone whispered as the missing pieces all began to fall into place. "That's Sam Tisbury."
Karla turned her head and stared at Lightstone with a puzzled look on her face.
"Okay, I give up. Who's Sam Tisbury?" she asked reasonably.
Henry Lightstone shrugged. "Just a very wealthy and crooked industrialist who doesn't like me very much."
"You mean seriously doesn't like you?"
Lightstone nodded his head.
"So what you're telling me is all of this rogue-Army-Ranger-hunter-killer-team-for-hire business is finally starting to make some sense?"
"Actually, I think it's starting to make a great deal of sense." Henry Lightstone wore a thoughtful look on his face. "Tisbury's an extremely rich and powerful man from an even richer and more influential family. And I'm pretty sure he blames me for the deaths of his father, son, and daughter. But if that's what this whole deal is all about, then I think he just screwed up big-time."
"Sounds like it couldn't have happened to a nicer person," she remarked as they watched Wilbur Boggs — from his sitting position on the aircraft float — lean out and grab Simon Whatley's frantically waving left hand, slap one end of a set of handcuffs around the wrist, pull Whatley's arm around the float strut, then close the second cuff around the right wrist of a red-faced and sputtering Regis J. Smallsreed, leaving the congressman and his bagman dangling in the fetid water on either side of the main float strut.
"Him and Rustman both," Lightstone agreed. "In fact — "
"Hold it a second." Karla held up her hand and listened intently to the voice in her earphones for almost two minutes.
"Okay, we copy. Good job, Danny. Thanks." She terminated the exchange and then turned to Lightstone. "The Hostage Rescue Team found Wintersole and Marashenko a few minutes ago, about five miles north of here," she reported in a peculiarly quiet voice.
Lightstone noticed the unusual inflection immediately.
"Found? You mean alive?"
She shook her head. "No, they were both very dead."
It took Lightstone a couple of seconds.
"Not by us, I take it?"
She shook her head again, this time more slowly. "Apparently somebody put a single bullet through each of their foreheads, at point-blank range. Danny could see powder burns on both wounds."
Henry Lightstone blinked in disbelief.
"That's not…" he started to say it wasn't possible, but then he hesitated. "Were they tied up?"
"No. According to Danny, their hands were free and both of them were armed with M-16s. They found them lying on their backs in the middle of a small clearing barely big enough for our chopper to land."
"So they were executed… presumably by the same people sent in to pick them up," Lightstone murmured softly as he stared across the water at Sam Tisbury. "That's interesting."
"If you say so." She shuddered as if suddenly very cold… but her mood improved almost immediately when she replaced the Mini-14 in the blind's gun rack. "Oh well, look on the bright side" — she smiled — "at least they didn't show up here."
"We'd have had our hands full if they had, no doubt about it." Lightstone placed his rifle in the rack next to hers, then stared across the water again.
"You sound disappointed."
"What, that we didn't get to take on a vindictive Army Ranger first sergeant, fully armed, in his playground, with the element of surprise on his side?" Lightstone smiled. "Are you crazy?"
"Don't give me that bullshit, Henry Lightstone." She cocked her head and studied him thoughtfully. "When you get right down to it, Wintersole was just another bully, and you couldn't wait to confront him, could you? In fact, I'm really amazed you didn't throw a fit and insist on being part of the search team."
Lightstone couldn't keep from smiling.
"If you must know," he replied as he once again considered the sensuous features of the beautiful young woman in the early light, "Wintersole and I had our confrontation. In the warehouse. I guess from his perspective — and mine, to some degree — he was just a professional trying to do his job. And long as I kept him away from the people I cared about…" Lightstone shrugged. "I don't know, I guess I just didn't see him as all that evil. Malicious, and scary, and dangerous as hell, sure, but not evil. So I figured let the FBI Hostage Rescue Team — or whoever," he added thoughtfully, "hunt him down. The more interesting people — the truly evil ones, if you will — are right here. And in my own way, I got to confront them, too."
Lightstone remained quiet for a while, then added, "Larry and A1 were right. Once that female Ranger told us virtually everything that happened out here the day Wintersole executed Boggs's informant — and we won't discuss how Sasha just happened to brush by her shoulder when she wouldn't talk and Grynard turned his back for a moment," he added with a brief smile — "somebody had to go after Rustman and Smallsreed. And who better than us? I'm just glad they found Wintersole's body, so we won't have to spend the next few months looking over our shoulders and wondering where the hell he is."
"What do you mean 'they'?" she demanded indignantly. "Who do you think put the transmitter on him in the first place?"
"Well, okay, you, Danny, and that crazy-old-fart retired agent Sage, whoever he is."
"You mean Dad?"
Henry Lightstone blinked in shock.
"What?"
Karla shrugged. "Figured I'd better tell you before Grynard did.. just in case you're concerned about my background," she added with a cheerful smile. "However, I wouldn't worry about it too much. Mom claims that Dad's more of the sleight-of-hand, carny-barker type. All of the serious witchcraft runs in her side of the family, and only gets passed on to the daughters."
"Dear God," Lightstone whispered.
He remained silent for a few moments, still trying to capture that elusive thought, listening to the sounds of the rapidly approaching FBI and Fish and Wildlife Service boats, and watching Grynard and Boggs handcuff and search Rustman and Tisbury before going back to retrieve a grateful Simon Whatley while leaving a furious Regis J. Smallsreed handcuffed to the float strut and da
ngling in the cold water.
He gave himself over to the thought so completely he didn't realize the beautiful covert FBI agent was studying him carefully until she spoke.
"You don't really believe it, do you?" she finally asked. "You don't think that all of the evil ones are here."
Her certainty caused Lightstone to recall how he had looked up with Sasha into the dark sky and saw nothing… but knew that something truly evil and threatening was there.
"No," he conceded quietly, "I really don't believe they're all here."
She reached out for his hand and the two of them stood in the bobbing blind, each of them lost in their own thoughts.
"So tell me," he finally said, "setting aside the problems of your crazy-old-fart father and reassuring mother for the moment, what made you so sure that Wintersole would keep wearing that bear-claw-necklace transmitter?"
"Actually, I think we can thank Sasha for that." Karla smiled back at him. "Nothing quite like a little adrenaline surge to make the typical macho male deeply superstitious."
Lightstone glanced down at the cougar-claw necklace he still wore around his own neck.
"That goes for you too, sport," she replied with a mischievous grin. "However, in your case, I think there may have been some rampant hormones involved in the process."
Henry Lightstone nodded sheepishly. "I guess I have to plead no contest on that one."
"Bet your ass," she nodded. "And speaking of pleading, you think Rustman or Whatley will testify against Smallsreed? He's the one Grynard really wants."
"What do you think?"
"Well, unlike our dear departed Sergeant Wintersole and very possibly Lieutenant Colonel Rustman, Mr. Simon Whatley and the Honorable Regis J. Smallsreed don't strike me as guys who would back each other up to the death," she said, rubbing the small of Lightstone's back. "I think it's probably more a question of who gives the other up first with the best supporting evidence. What was that you called them when they went into the water?"