Killing Game (Veritas Book 2)

by Chandler Steele

  “Caitlyn? You back with me?”

  She slowly nodded, knowing now who held her. Somehow, it felt right that it’d be him. Her mind cleared, the remnants of the nightmare leaking away like Jeremy’s blood into the sand. With it, the darkness receded, at least for now.

  “You’re safe,” Brannon whispered. “No one will hurt you. I won’t let them.”

  She so wanted to believe that.

  He shifted his arms and for a moment, she thought he was pulling away from her. Instead, he moved close, so now her head lay on his chest. She heard his measured breaths, his slow heartbeat. Felt his calm reassurance fill her empty places.

  “You want to talk about it?” he asked.

  “No,” she said. It was the only response she knew.

  “Then go back to sleep,” he said quietly. “I’ll be here. I won’t leave you.”

  “Jeremy did. He died and left me alone.”

  “Your friend had no choice.”

  “You might not either.”

  “You know there are no guarantees,” he replied.

  “No, there never are.”

  So Cait listened to the rain, tried to let it do what Brannon claimed. Could it really clear away the guilt, the loss, the emptiness? The feeling that it should have been her that day, not her best friend?

  “The nightmare,” she began—because she had to tell him what had happened—“it was the day Jeremy died. One of the Afghan soldiers attacked us. Gave no warning, just shot us down.”

  The military had a term for it: green-on-blue killing, when one of the insiders turned on their allies.

  “You feel betrayed,” Brannon said softly.

  “Oh, hell yeah,” she snarled. “We gave our lives to save those people, and they killed . . . ” My best friend. Her voice broke. “Yes. Jeremy and three other Marines. One had just learned he was going to be a father.”

  “Oh God,” Brannon said. “Were you wounded?”

  “No.”

  “I’d argue that.” He touched her chest, just above her heart. “Maybe not physically, but the wound is still there. It always will be, but in time, it’ll ache less.”

  “You’re an expert on that?” she demanded, frowning over at him.

  “Not an expert. Just my experience. When I first came back, I had nightmares as many as four times a night. I went out to my cabin in the woods and stayed there, as far away from people as possible, so I wouldn’t hurt anyone during my flashbacks. I thought of killing myself just to make it all stop.”

  He’s like me. “And now?” she asked, her voice shaking.

  “I get nightmares maybe once a night; sometimes it’ll be a week between them. I no longer want to die.”

  “You haven’t had one on the tour. I would have heard you.”

  “When I’m on a mission, they don’t seem to bother me. It’s when I’m . . . idle.”

  “It doesn’t seem to matter to me.” The yawn caught her before she could stop it. The nightmare had sapped the energy from her body.

  “Do you get these more than once a night?” he asked.

  “Sometimes. That’s why I try not to sleep for more than two or three hours at a stretch.”

  Without asking permission, he laid his hand over her stomach, drawing her even closer. “You’re not alone in this. Never forget that.”

  She looked over at him, hearing the shared sadness. “Neither are you. Alone, I mean.”

  He didn’t reply, as if he didn’t trust himself to find the right words. Cait closed her eyes, wrapped in the arms of a man who still might be the enemy. Betrayal had taught her that trust was a fragile commodity, one easily shattered. Or, this man might be the one soul who understood what it was like to die every second of every day.

  *~*~*

  Their kidnappers had stopped at a small hammock, one of the swamp’s mini islands. This one was just a waypoint in the storm, with no fire pit or no toilet. Still, at close to eight in the pitch-black night, Susan and the others had been herded on shore and told to take a bio break in the woods. She and Patti were moved away from the guys so they could do their thing in private.

  “Get it done,” their guard said, gesturing with his rifle. He was probably in his thirties, with a scruffy beard and a hard frown. His clothes were dirty, like he’d been digging in the mud, and his eyes never left her companion.

  “No way, I’m not peeing with some guy watching,” Patti replied.

  Sighing, Susan tugged a few clean tissues out of her jeans pocket and handed them to her. “He can’t see anything, not with your poncho on.”

  The girl swore, but managed to do the deed. Susan did the same, while their guard watched over them like they were going to bolt into the woods.

  “See? That wasn’t hard,” the man said, smirking.

  Jerk.

  Once they were done, she and Patti were herded back to join the others. The rain continued to pelt down, but at least the wind had finally eased off.

  “Cait and Brannon aren’t here,” Patti whispered.

  “No, they’re not,” Susan replied.

  “Are they . . .”

  “I don’t know.”

  Agitated voices came from the shoreline.

  “I don’t care if he wants us back tonight or not,” a man said. “We can’t see shit in this weather. We stay put until we can. Commander Ellers will just have to chill.”

  Ellers?

  “He gave you an order, Rafferty. You need to follow it.” That was James’s voice.

  “He’s with—?” Patti began, wide eyed, but Susan waved her quiet.

  “I’m not risking my life just to bring a bunch of tourists back to the compound,” Rafferty continued. “We go when the weather’s better.”

  “Then you call him and tell him that. I’m sure as hell not,” James warned.

  “Yeah. I’ll explain it to him.”

  Susan dipped her head down to keep the rain running down the poncho and not into her eyes. James was involved with Quinton Ellers, and they had been kidnapped on his orders. Why wasn’t Hardegree with them? Had there been a falling out among thieves?

  Though she was chuffed that she’d been right, that feeling quickly drained away. Besides the threat to the others, it was anyone’s guess what Ellers would do once he realized he was holding an FBI agent hostage.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Thursday, April 16th

  Chicago, Illinois

  Crispin Wilder, the head of Veritas, looked up as Morgan Blake entered his office. Through the window to his left, the sun rose over Lake Michigan, casting lines of color across the rippling water. A lone sailboat skimmed across the horizon. The office reflected the man: a state-of-the-art computer, antique wooden desk with four cell phones arrayed on top of it. On the brick wall behind him hung a medieval broadsword encased in a worn scabbard. It wasn’t a prop. She knew of at least one enemy who’d died with it buried in his chest.

  Though in his mid-forties, he looked older now, with the dark circles under his eyes. His hair was pulled back in its usual ponytail, but his navy shirt was uncharacteristically rumpled. It’d been a long night ensuring that the authorities in Argentina ignored Veritas’s current mission within their borders. Crispin had been on the phone for hours, calling in favors, promising a few down the line, and making sure sufficient money landed in the right palms. In the end, their two operatives were out of the country alive, and in possession of the data needed to take down a human-trafficking ring.

  “You look like crap,” Morgan said, sinking into a leather chair in front of his desk. She couldn’t stifle the yawn, and it triggered one of his.

  Once the yawn ended, Crispin gave a weary sigh. “I always thought that when I was rich, I’d be on a yacht, sipping fine whiskey, dabbling in online high-stakes poker games. Instead, I keep horrendous hours and find mys
elf longing for a soft bed and a soft woman.”

  That was uncharacteristic of her boss; he was rarely so candid.

  “Sorry to add to your worries, but I think we’ve got trouble in the swamp.”

  “Such as?” he asked, straightening up immediately.

  “Brannon missed his check-in. That might be because of the storm that rolled through there last night. Maybe he can’t communicate with us.”

  “And your gut says?” Crispin asked.

  “It’s more what the tracker on the money is saying: He’s off course. The group should have overnighted at an established campsite, but they didn’t. Instead, they kept moving and finally stopped at about eight o’clock or so. Now they’re going farther southwest into the swamp, closer to the Florida border. That’s not on their itinerary.”

  “So that begs the question: Is Brannon off course, or just the cash?”

  “No way to know unless we talk to him. I’ve got a call into the owner of the tour operation to find out what he thinks. Maybe the group had to be rerouted because of the storm, or because of the fire they’ve got down there now.”

  Crispin rubbed his chin with a thumb. “In between all the Argentinean negotiations, I received a call from my source at the D.C. FBI office. Susan Townsend, the real estate secretary we couldn’t find background on? She’s actually Susan Driscoll, and she’s an agent in their Atlanta office.”

  Morgan blinked in surprise. “What’s an agent doing undercover on the same tour as Brannon?”

  “My source indicated that Ms. Driscoll is there as a favor to a colleague who works out of the Brunswick Field Office. They have an agent missing, one that was undercover trying to gain access into New America.”

  “Like Brannon, then. You think Driscoll knows he’s wanted for armed robbery?”

  “My contact says she does.”

  “I’d hoped he’d have a bit more time. Has she been given the order to arrest him?”

  “Not yet.”

  “That’s something at least. Sanjay says the militia chat rooms have gone quiet. A lot less bombastic, is the way he put it. Almost like radio silence for those guys.”

  “Like right before something big goes down?”

  Morgan gave a shrug. “Ellers is up to something and I’m concerned that Brannon is in the middle of it. He has no idea who to trust. We could lose him if this goes bad.”

  “I agree,” Crispin said, frowning now. “Is Neil back in-house yet?”

  “No, but he will be soon.”

  “When he is, get him as close to the swamp as possible and give him helicopter access. Can you arrange that?”

  “I’ll handle it.”

  “If he’s delayed in any way, let me know and we’ll send someone else down there. One way or another, we must offer Brannon every bit of backup he might need.”

  Morgan smiled. “That’s why we all want to work for you, boss.”

  “You just keep telling yourselves that,” he replied.

  *~*~*

  Less than thirty minutes later, Morgan stuck her head back into her boss’s office. “All the car tags Brannon sent us have been traced, and only one isn’t tied directly to the group. That vehicle is registered to a Wiley Davis. He’s well known in the white-supremacist circles, as well as a longtime associate of Ellers’s. It’s our guess that James Gray was driving it. His mom is Ellers’s sister.”

  “Then he’s most likely Brannon’s contact.”

  “That’s our guess. The tour operator’s wife has discovered that two of the campers, Rockwell and Adams, received free vouchers for that particular tour. They were paid for by Davis. Those vouchers were handled through her husband’s assistant, Preston Taylor, who has also expressed interest in those kinds of separatist causes.”

  Crispin tented his fingers. “That’s curious. Why Rockwell and Adams? Do they have any military background?”

  “None at all. Oh, I’ve arranged for a copter to be on standby for Neil in Valdosta. He’ll remain there until we tell him otherwise.”

  “Good. Let’s get Brannon home safe,” Crispin said, worry reflected in his eyes.

  “You got it.”

  One of his phones rang. He peered at the caller ID, then answered in Portuguese. “Boa tarde, Carlos, conseguiu encontrar o assassino chamado Styx?”

  Morgan closed the door behind her.

  *~*~*

  Brannon woke to the realization that a warm woman slept next to him, and his body responded accordingly. He was so close he could count the faint freckles on Cait’s nose and cheeks. Her blond eyelashes were long; her hair lay unbound over her shoulder. He wanted to touch it, see if it was as soft as it looked, but he held himself in check. A woman and a warrior. Any ancient culture would be pleased to call her their goddess.

  Now that she’d shared a tiny portion of the hell she’d endured, his heart hurt for her. He knew what it was like to watch friends die, how helpless you felt, how that guilt often turned inside, seeking yet another victim. It was a rampant cancer, searching for weakness until it finally consumed you. How you went about the final deed was as individual as the pain—some took a bullet, others died by booze or pills. Some let the cops do it for them.

  Not her. She’s too special.

  Brannon carefully rose, restored his knife to his belt, and began lacing on his boots. His movement woke her and she sat up, her eyes blinking open. She looked kissable, vulnerable even. He wondered if that’s what she looked like after a night of passionate sex. If it were him making love to her, the tension at the corners of her eyes would be gone. He’d make sure of that.

  “Man, was I tired,” she mumbled.

  Knowing if he remained near her any longer, he might try to kiss her, Brannon crawled out of the tent. “I’ll do a perimeter check.”

  The morning air was still heavily laden with the scent of swamp on overdrive. He did a slow three-sixty, not sensing any danger. As he headed away from the tent, his boots sank into the sodden ground, which meant their trek today was going to be slow and that bothered him. They had to get to the others, make sure they were all right. Last night, he’d been careless, not on guard. Fighting an ambush in the middle of a raging storm wasn’t easy; nevertheless, he had been the most qualified to keep those people safe, and he’d blown it. Right now, their enemies held the better hand.

  It’s time to turn that around.

  *~*~*

  “It’s pretty damned bad when you find yourself wishing for an MRE,” Brannon grumbled. They’d taken down the tent, and now he and Cait were sitting on the ground cloth in the feeble sunshine. The tent itself was drying out as best as it could in the hundred-percent humidity.

  “Come on,” Cait replied. “A bottle of water and a bar? It’s nourishing. It’s—”

  “Pretty damned pathetic,” Brannon said. “I figured that once I was back in the world, I’d be eating regular meals. Looks like I was wrong.”

  “Same here.” They grinned at each other like two kids. Some barrier between them had fallen, and it felt good. Brannon wanted to keep it that way.

  “How are you doing this morning?” he asked.

  “Better. You helped. You said all the right things.”

  “Don’t know about that. I just know that it sucks to go it alone.”

  “Yeah, I noticed.” She removed a map from her rucksack. It was waterproofed, and for a moment, Brannon wished he was. He wasn’t one for complaining, but right now too many of his clothes were damp. Including his socks. That, of all things, had always bugged him.

  Cait opened up the map and laid it on the ground cloth, then pointed a finger at a certain section. “West of here, there’s a series of hammocks and then open prairie. On the other side of that prairie is the island where my cabin is located. Well, it’s not my cabin, but the one I use.”

  He studied the map and saw the desti
nation she indicated. “How do we get there? We building a raft?”

  “If I can find it, there’s an abandoned canoe along this shoreline,” she said, pointing to the west side of their island. “I saw it the last time I was paddling around.”

  “You do that, just paddle around?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “What if that canoe isn’t watertight?”

  Cait smirked. “Then we build a raft. Should be a piece of cake for a hotshot Ranger like you.”

  His grin returned. “Sure thing.”

  A calm resolve filled him. He knew this drill, had trained for it. So had she. Between them, they’d get off this island and find help for the others.

  *~*~*

  It didn’t surprise Susan that morning brought sunlight, but no food or water, and yet another heavily guarded bio break in the woods. Once again, they were herded back into a group and told to stay put. By now, the terror had receded and been replaced by anger.

  “What the hell is going on here?” Keith demanded.

  James shot him a sidelong glance, but didn’t answer as he sipped on a bottle of water. Apparently, hydration was only for the captors.

  “Come on, we need to know what’s going on,” Bill insisted. “Why are you working with these people?”

  “You’re being taken to New America,” the young man replied. “You each have a purpose there.” Then his eyes skipped over Susan. “Well, some of you. Others . . .” he continued, his attention moving to Patti now. “Definitely have a purpose.” She shrank back.

  “What’s New America?” Keith asked, eyebrows knitted in confusion.

  “Home,” James said. “That’s all you’re going to find out, so just stop asking about it.”

  “What about Cait? What happened to her?” Preston asked.

  Grinning, the young man pointed his finger at his temple and mimed a single gunshot.

  “You killed her?” Bill murmured, eyes wide.

  “The bitch refused to die when I put that snake in her tent.”

  “Oh my God,” Patti whispered.

  “And Brannon?” Susan asked, suspecting the answer.