Initially, only Special Agent Brad Wiseman, a buddy of hers at the Brunswick Field Office, knew she was out here. She owed him one, so she’d offered to help him discover the whereabouts of Special Agent Vandermeer, who had gone missing while investigating Ellers’s group. Since she was due some vacation, Susan had headed into the swamp to determine what had happened to him and if Vandermeer was still alive.
But when she’d received Brad’s text about Hardegree, that the man was wanted for armed robbery, she knew she was hosed. Wiseman would have had no choice but to share her location with the Jacksonville office, and with her home office in Atlanta.
That meant her boss would guess what she was up to, and Special Agent in Charge Maxine Rhodes wasn’t going to look favorably on Susan’s extracurricular activities. Despite the still-missing agent, Rhodes would claim that Susan was trying to find trouble where it didn’t exist. Which was a completely different message than what she was receiving from Wiseman.
But then, Susan could tell the SAC that the sky was a lovely shade of blue and her boss would disagree. They had that kind of adversarial relationship.
Now the shit had gotten real with seven kidnappers in camo, and one in a park-ranger uniform. Who were these guys? Why take the tour hostage? And more importantly, were they tied to Quinton Ellers and New America?
Susan had managed to count noses and knew that they were two people short. She’d heard gunshots from the campground and saw one of their kidnappers bring Hardegree’s rucksack down to the shoreline, the one he always had with him. That told her that he and Cait were either wounded or dead. This was all on her shoulders now.
“Don’t worry, we’ll be okay,” she whispered in Patti’s ear.
Liar.
*~*~*
Brannon collected his tent and sleeping bag when they reached the campsite, and they continued on through the woods, each deep within their own thoughts. Fortunately, the latest squall had been brief, and the only moisture falling from the heavens now came from the trees.
The swamp smell was overpowering, that of soaked earth and wet vegetation. They needed to find a defensible location in case their attackers returned; hunker down, get warm, get fed, get some sleep. Come morning, they’d work out a strategy based on what assets they had left. Which were damn few.
“Thank you,” Cait said.
He looked over at her, unsure of what she was talking about.
“You saved my life.”
He hitched a shoulder, which she probably couldn’t see because of his poncho. “You would have done the same.”
A nod returned. “You owe me an explanation of who you are, and if you had anything to do with why we just got hit. Because I’m not buying that you’re some misguided vet who decided to add armed robbery to his resume.”
“I’ll explain everything once we’re settled for the night.”
She huffed and kept walking.
Now that he’d promised to tell her the truth, Cait fell silent. That’s what warriors did. You spoke when you needed to, kept your head in the game. He knew he had a pro by his side, and that was the only bright side to this whole goat rope.
When he found a suitable location, she helped him lay out the ground cloth and pitch the tent. Once it was in place and branches strategically placed to help conceal its location, Cait crawled inside.
“I’m going to do another perimeter check,” he said.
“You do that,” she said. Her tone of voice told him that her patience with him was at an end.
Sighing, Brannon moved out into the woods again, on the alert for danger. After completing a large circle around their site, including another trip to the shoreline, he reluctantly returned to the tent. He owed her an explanation, and he hoped she’d know it was the truth.
Removing his poncho, he folded it up, and crawled inside. Cait clicked on a flashlight, laying it in such a way that it gave them adequate light. Once he had his boots off, he found a bottle of Gatorade in front of him.
“We need to share?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I’ve got one of my own, and two bottles of water. That’ll be enough to get us out of here.”
Apparently, she had a plan. “Where are we going without a canoe?”
“First, I want to hear your story.”
It was then that he noticed her knife was out of its sheath, lying on the floor of the tent near her right hand.
“Fair enough.” But instead of spilling his guts, he emptied out his rucksack, laying his wet clothes near his boots.
She studied his possessions. “Between us, we have two knives, a first-aid kit, two compasses, my swamp maps, some protein bars, and the fluids. Also, matches and iodine tablets. Better than some missions I’ve been on.”
“Same here.”
They fell quiet as he changed out of his wet pants, stripping down as far as his underwear. He didn’t bother to gain himself any privacy, as you lost your embarrassment gene in basic training. He knew she was checking him out, noting the old scars on his legs. As he twisted, he winced, his back complaining. It ached more than usual, but sometimes that was the case. He’d landed pretty hard when he’d thrown Cait to the ground.
When he looked up, she had stripped off her shirt. Her bra was black, with a bit of lace, not what he’d expected. He couldn’t help but notice her smooth, toned stomach, and he felt his heart rate kick up. Then he saw the scar on her rib cage, another knife wound.
“What happened to the tango who gave you that?” he asked, pointing.
“Dead.”
As if it would be any other way.
“Who does the tattoo honor?”
“Why do you care?” That must have been one question too far.
“I’d like to know. I think it’s cool.”
That seemed to mollify her. “He was a good friend, like a brother to me. Every time I see the tat in the mirror, I remember him.”
“I’m sure he appreciates it.”
No reply.
As Brannon shimmied into another pair of cargo pants, she pulled on her shirt. When he was done, he moved to the front of the tent and carefully undid the flap. Peering out, all he could see was darkness. It was raining again, heavily. He zipped the tent shut. “Going to be one soggy mess come morning.”
“It’s already that way.”
She offered him a bar and he took it. “Thanks, Sergeant.”
Her knife was in her hand before he saw her move. “How the hell do you know my rank? I never told you.”
Shit. He’d let his guard down and blown it.
“Okay, here goes. I am Brannon Hardegree,” he began, his attention on the knife. He had no doubt she could kill him if her timing was right. “I did rob an armored car in Jacksonville, and I had a very good reason for doing so.”
“Uh huh. How do you know my rank?” she demanded.
“My resources. We have access to military records.”
“Really,” she said flatly. “So you’re a felon on the run from the FBI, you have people feeding you private, perhaps classified information, and you think I should trust you?”
“Yeah, pretty much.” He rubbed his fingers over his stubbled jaw. “I didn’t put that snake in your tent. If I wanted to kill you, you’d be dead. You know my skill set.”
That brought her up short. “I’ll give you that one. You wouldn’t have used a rattler; you would have cut my throat.”
“Or driven my knife into your neck at just the right place so you were a corpse before you hit the ground.” Because she would know he wasn’t lying. “Whoever went after you wasn’t a pro.”
“James. That’s my guess.”
“I think you’re right. You were cock-blocking him and he didn’t seem like the type who could handle that.”
Cait nodded her agreement as she returned her knife to the leg sheath.
Apparently, he’d passed muster—for now. She stripped off the wrapper on a protein bar, and he did the same. A truce of sorts. They ate in silence, washing it all down with drinks from their bottles.
When her bar was gone, she shot him a glare. “Spill it. All of it.”
“Okay. I work for a private security agency called Veritas. There have been a string of robberies in Florida and Georgia, and we believe that money is being funneled into a militia, one that might be located somewhere in this area.
“I’m working undercover, hanging in the chat rooms and in the bars, mouthing all their anti-government bullshit. When I finally figure out what’s going on, we’ll send that info to the FBI and Homeland Security so they can shut down the militia’s operation.”
“Go on.”
“The group is run by a man named Quinton Ellers. He’s got aspirations to become the next Timothy McVeigh.”
“Jesus,” she muttered. “But how’d you end up becoming a robber?”
“It was the price of admission so the group would trust me. If I hadn’t gone along with it, I would have had to incapacitate or kill my two contacts. Or they’d have killed me. They had already taken out an FBI agent who hadn’t passed their test.”
She frowned. “Why are you in the swamp?”
“I was told that someone would contact me on this particular tour, and then I would hand over the cash. That I might have a chance to meet up with Ellers.”
“Were the guys who attacked us part of Ellers’s group, or someone else?”
That was a good question. “I’m guessing they’re his people. Not many knew I was out here with that kind of cash.”
“When you say this Ellers guy wants to be the next McVeigh, is he a bad enough customer to pull it off, or does he just have a big mouth?”
“Everything indicates that he’s crazy enough to try something big. It’s possible he’s behind the theft of some C-4. We do know he’s been stockpiling weapons. We just don’t know his target, or targets, yet.”
“It fits,” Cait replied. At his puzzled look, she added, “Mike said he saw a couple guys in the swamp who made him uneasy, mostly because they seemed out of place. He said there was a large wooden box in the bottom of the boat. He figured it held guns. Or maybe it was that C-4 you mentioned.”
“But how can Ellers hide in a national wildlife area? There are rangers all over the place,” Brannon said, frustrated. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“Unless a few of them are on his side. All it would take is one to turn a blind eye. Besides, parts of the refuge are pretty remote, which means if he is out here, he’s figured out a way to bring in men and supplies without being obvious,” she said.
“Which might explain why one of those guys was wearing a ranger’s uniform.”
“Yup. Tell me more about this private security agency you work for.”
He took a long swig of his Gatorade, finishing off the bottle. “Veritas is multi-national. We take on missions that governmental agencies won’t tackle, perhaps because of potential political fallout, or because the risks are too high. Or because the bad guys have bribed the local authorities.”
“What types of missions?”
“Just about anything. Human trafficking, illegal drug manufacturing, arms sales, terrorism, you name it.”
“The FBI is okay with you folks?”
“It all depends on the day. The D.C. office is decent with us, others not so much. Sometimes they don’t like that we can get the job done. I know that sounds arrogant, but it’s the truth. We’re damned good at what we do.”
She cocked her head in thought. “Do you like working for these guys?”
“Yes, they’re good people,” he said, smiling now. “They watch my back, and there are no bullshit mind games about not treading on someone else’s toes. My boss is there for us, one hundred percent.”
“So you were supposed to connect with someone on the tour and hand over the money. Why didn’t that happen?”
“I have no idea. Originally, I thought you might be the contact, but that’s obviously wrong. Preston’s still high on the list. He’s been sympathetic to some of the militia’s propaganda.”
“Hmm . . . what about James? I know he’s young, but something about that kid bugs me.”
“It’s possible. He’s a prick, but he’s a smart one. He had to have had some ulterior motive for bringing Patti on this tour.”
“You mean besides having someone to screw for the week?” she asked.
He grinned. “Do I detect overt hostility to the male sex?”
“Only assholes, which James is.”
“I’ll give you that one.”
She yawned, then rubbed the back of her neck. “I need some sleep. My brain’s getting foggy.”
“Unfortunately, the sleeping bag is damp,” he said. “And there’s only one.” He gave her a look. “No, I’m not going to be a gentleman and let you use it. We can share.”
He knew she wouldn’t pull the fragile-female card, not this woman.
“Okay. We share. Remember what you learned in kindergarten?”
“To drink all my juice, then take a nap?” he asked, puzzled.
“To keep your hands to yourself. Because in this case, you violate that rule and you won’t have hands come morning.”
“Roger that.” Cait looked away now. For a half second he wondered if he’d acquiesced too easily. “Now that I’ve told you my story, what’s your plan to get us out of here?”
“I’m going to take us to my cabin. We can restock weapons and food and contact the authorities there.”
“Your cabin?”
“Yup. I usually follow the tour partway, then go off on my own. Well, except this time.”
He thought that through. “I’m liking this plan, Sergeant.”
Her mouth twitched upward. “Let me guess—you were a lieutenant, right?”
“Yes, ma’am, I was.”
“Figures.”
When he rolled out the sleeping bag, she hesitated. “I have nightmares. Sometimes I react . . . violently.”
He knew what it had taken for her to admit that. “Same with me. Let’s find a way to ensure that neither of us kills the other.”
“What do you recommend?”
“We put our knives in a neutral location. That way it’s down to hand-to-hand combat if one of us isn’t connected to reality.” A nice way to say that either of them might be having a full-blown flashback.
Cait weighed his offer, probably working through all the negatives.
“Do you honestly believe I would knowingly try to kill you?” he asked, disappointed.
“You’re still on probation. It’s more that I’m not used to someone who understands what’s going on in my head.”
He nodded. “Let’s put the knives inside our boots. That’ll require an extra step to get to them. I find I’m better if the weapons are some distance away. I have a stronger chance of waking up before I reach them.”
“Same with me,” she said.
Pleased they had worked out a compromise, he stored their blades as he’d suggested, then draped his wet clothes over the footwear. He turned off the flashlight as Cait stretched out in the sleeping bag, scooting to its edge. He lay next to her, adjusting to the lumpy ground and the drone of rain on the tent roof. He smelled flowers, perhaps her shampoo, but he wasn’t sure. It was pleasant, and for a moment, he just enjoyed that fact.
Over the last year or so, he’d had a few one-nighters, but even those didn’t seem to work as well as they once did. He was still gun-shy after his fiancée had left him behind. What with the job at Veritas, he’d been too busy for anything more than the occasional hit-it-and-quit-it.
Watching this woman, the soft rise and fall of her shoulder with each breath, made him realize he envied what other men had. He wanted a
wife, maybe a few kids. Wanted to share his days with someone who loved him as much as her loved her.
He shook his head at his daydreams. First, he had to finish the mission.
Chapter Twelve
The sun burned down on them like it always did. The other Marines were horsing around, relaxing. One of them had just told a crude joke, and there was laughter. Her best friend Jeremy said something that made them laugh even harder.
In slow motion, one of the Afghan soldiers turned toward them, his weapon up. She heard his coarse yell, and then the sharp bark of bullets as they sped toward their targets. Even before she could move, one of them struck Jeremy in the forehead. He blinked once, then crumpled to the scorching sand.
Cait screamed and fired back at the rogue soldier, emptying her gun into him just as the others did, at least those still standing. Then she was holding Jeremy, crying, begging him to live. He heard none of her words, already gone, already another statistic in a war full of them.
Now the familiar darkness rose, pulling at her, chiding her. Demanding to know why she was still alive when he was dead. Why did she think she was so special? If she’d been quicker, she could have saved him. It was her fault he was gone.
Cait cried out, flailing in the sleeping bag. Warm hands touched her, and she tried to wrench away. The hands became arms and they cradled her, strong and secure, rocking her like a baby.
“Come back, Marine. It’s over. Let it go.”
She fought the arms, but they didn’t release her. Not hurting her, just keeping her secured.
“It’s over,” the voice repeated, soft and low. “Come back to me, Caitlyn. You can do it.”
She fought again, but only halfheartedly.
“Can you hear the rain?” Brannon whispered. “Hear how it falls on the tent? It’s washing us clean, one drop at a time. All the blood, all the guilt. Do you hear it?”
She felt the sobs inside of her, but couldn’t set them free. If she could just cry, maybe it would stop hurting, stop suffocating her.
Killing Game (Veritas Book 2) Page 9