Authors: Ken Goddard
"To tell the truth," Lightstone chuckled as he accepted the young man's hand, "I'm not sure she needed defending . . . at least not from me."
"Man, that's sure the truth."
For a brief moment, the terrorizing aftereffects of the panther's near-lethal charge flickered across the young man's face.
"I don't believe this."
The three men turned at the sound of Karla's voice.
"When I walked out of here with Sasha a couple minutes ago, all three of you were ready to go at each other's throats, and you damned near got yourselves killed because of it. I come back and find you shaking hands like the whole thing was just some kind of male-bonding ritual. What the hell is it with you guys anyway?" she demanded angrily.
Wintersole stepped forward before Lightstone or the younger man could respond.
"Ma'am, I'm extremely sorry for the way my associate and I acted," he graciously apologized. "I was completely out of line. That's no excuse at all, but as I was explaining to your friend, that letter's crucial to a very important project we're working on. It didn't arrive, which means we lose a great deal of valuable time. But that's not your problem . . . and we had no right to take our frustration out on you."
Karla appeared unimpressed, but Wintersole soldiered on.
"To tell you the truth, I'm so embarrassed that I'm reluctant to ever show my face here again, except" — he averted his eyes momentarily before meeting her gaze again — "that letter really is important to us, and" — the team leader paused for effect — "we really do like the food and the company here."
It was such an inspired performance that Henry Lightstone almost felt like applauding.
Karla peered at Wintersole's strange eyes for several seconds. Then, without a trace of warmth in her voice, she asked: "Where are you from? Georgia?"
"No ma'am, South Carolina."
"I knew it. That goddamned Southern male charm." She shook her head, then sighed. "Unfortunately, much as I hate to admit it" — she flashed him a slight smile that made Lightstone feel inexplicably jealous — "it works on us dumb Southern women every time."
"I'd never call a lady from the South dumb, ma'am, especially you. Does that mean we're forgiven?" Wintersole peered at her hopefully.
"Yes, apology accepted."
"Well, that being the case" — the hunter-killer recon team leader breathed a visible sigh of relief and distractedly ran his fingers over the bear-claw necklace — "would I be pushing my luck if I asked to buy a piece of paper, an envelope, and a first-class stamp?"
Karla cocked her head curiously.
"You didn't get a letter today, so now you want to send one?" She smiled at him.
"Yes ma'am."
"I think that can be arranged."
Three minutes later, Wintersole handed her the sealed envelope. She glanced down at the address.
"P.O. Box fifteen? Not going very far, is it?" she remarked pleasantly. "Almost hate to charge for the stamp."
"That's all right, ma'am, I'm sure the government needs the money." Wintersole motioned the younger man toward the door. "Unless you change your mind, we'll see you tomorrow, same time."
Karla waited until the two men got into their pickup and started backing out of the parking space. Then she turned to Lightstone, who stood next to her, his eyes fixed on the departing vehicle, which was painted in an unusual mottled green color.
Almost like military camouflage, but not quite. Interesting.
"Would you care to explain to me what the hell just happened in here?" the sensuous young woman asked pointedly.
"I'd love to, except I haven't the slightest idea," Henry Lightstone replied truthfully as he watched the younger man give one final glance at the restaurant before driving off. "You get some interesting customers."
"That's putting it mildly."
"Uh, listen, uh . . . Karla, I think I've probably caused enough trouble around here for one morning. Would you mind if I —?"
"Came back tomorrow . . . for breakfast?" she finished his question for him.
Lightstone nodded.
"That's probably a good idea," she agreed, massaging her neck. "I think we all need to cool down a little."
He started to say something, but simply nodded again.
The sensuous young woman with the gold-flecked green eyes concealed herself behind the kitchen door and watched Henry Lightstone walk across the porch, look back briefly, then run to his truck when he thought no one observed him.
Okay, Henry
, Karla thought as she watched him start up his truck and accelerate out of the parking lot in the same direction as the other vehicle,
I give up, just who are you? And more importantly, what the hell are you doing here?
Chapter Twenty-seven
As directed, the other members of the Army Ranger hunter-killer recon team awaited Wintersole when he returned to the rented KOA campsite. All except one.
"Where's one-seven?" Wintersole demanded as he and the younger, injured soldier joined the other casually dressed members of the team around the small cook fire.
"Unable to leave his position at this time, First Sergeant," the team's communication specialist and medic responded immediately. She had immediately noticed the fresh cast on one-four's left wrist under his jacket, but like the others, knew better than to ask. First Sergeant Aran Wintersole would tell them what he wanted them to know, when and if he wanted them to know. End of discussion.
"Why?"
Wintersole's brief coded message, transmitted from his truck over the secured long-range comm-net, directed the entire team to regroup at campsite Foxtrot at 1300 hours, sharp. While it wasn't unheard-of for a member of an elite, handpicked Ranger hunter-killer team to disregard a team leader's directive — as opposed to disregarding a team leader's direct order, which simply was unthinkable — the circumstances that might justify such an action were extremely limited.
And the fact that an Army Ranger first sergeant of Aran Wintersole's caliber and reputation led this particular hunter-killer recon team, instead of a more customary buck or staff sergeant, made one-seven's decision all the more intriguing.
"Unknown, First Sergeant. His entire signal was 'one-seven, unable to disengage, out,'" the comm specialist responded.
Wintersole nodded.
"Okay, we'll debrief him when he arrives. Let's have the status reports — weapons first."
"One-five and I picked up the weapons for the militia group this morning, First Sergeant." One-two, the team's weapon specialist and ranking corporal, pulled a small notebook out of his pocket and began to read from his list. "Twenty refurbished M16Als — one assault rifle each for the fourteen adult males and two teenage males in the group plus four spares; one hundred thousand rounds of five-five-six ball ammo; two hundred twenty-round magazines; two magazine loaders; twenty sets of Nam-era web gear, complete with canteens and first-aid kits; a used reloading outfit rigged for five-five-six military ball; sufficient supplies — bullets, powder, and primers — to reload an additional fifty thousand rounds; and twenty cleaning kits. All weapons, magazines, ammo, loaders, re-loaders, supplies, and kits manufactured prior to 1976."
"Where are they now?" Wintersole asked.
"We established a temporary supply dump two klicks south of the militant compound. The site's camouflaged with rocks and local vegetation, but we were limited on the latter." The soldier shrugged. "You can only lay out so much fresh-cut pine before it starts drawing attention."
"Will it be okay out there until Saturday?"
"Yes, First Sergeant. No problem."
"Okay, good job, soldier. Next status report — recon."
One-three and one-six both reported essentially the same thing: they had cruised the local motels, bars, grocery stores, restaurants, and gas stations all morning. Neither of them had seen any sign of the Special Ops agent team Lt. Colonel John Rustman had described — federal wildlife agents who, according to their informant, supposedly had been operating in the general area for the past three and a half days. As far as they knew, one-seven would likely report the same situation. Neither soldier had any idea why their teammate suddenly found it impossible to disengage from the recon assignment.
It was left to one-three to state the obvious.
"It'll be a lot easier to spot these people once we get their profiles, First Sergeant," she offered hesitantly.
"The profiles weren't there when we checked a little while ago," Wintersole announced matter-of-factly.
No one seemed surprised. Simon Whatley was a civilian and a politician, and his young aide was an easily frightened wanna-be. That said it all.
"However, we did run across something interesting at the Dogsfire Inn, where we also suffered our first casualty: one-four's broken wrist."
Wintersole turned his attention to the injured soldier. "Give them a sit-rep," he ordered.
One-four, also known as David for any civilian purposes, presented his situation report in clear, precise, and dispassionate detail, describing his error in grabbing the woman, the response and subsequent actions of the woman's apparent boyfriend, his own failed attempt to counter the wristlock takedown, the disruptive role played by the woman's pet panther, the careful disengagement of the three men, and the brief stop he and the first sergeant had made at the local hospital for a quick set of X-rays and a cast. The injury was inconvenient, he conceded, but it would not impede his effectiveness as a member of the team. Per the first sergeant's orders, he would switch to sidearms, and trade duties with one-three for the duration. He would camouflage the white plaster cast for any fieldwork. End of report.
Wintersole nodded his head approvingly, then looked at the other members of the team.
"Questions?"
One-five raised his hand. "Do you think the boyfriend could be a cop or a federal agent?"
The injured soldier thought about the question for a long moment.
"I suppose either one is a possibility," he responded hesitantly, "but I don't believe so. If he was, he probably would have pulled a badge instead of going for the wristlock. He's martial-arts trained, no doubt about that, but at a higher level than most cops — I'm guessing third or fourth Dan — and he's definitely in competition shape. He let me think I could power out of the wristlock and put him down, then he snapped my wrist one-handed. And he stayed pretty damned cool when confronted by the first sergeant," the soldier added meaningfully. "Way I saw it, if that damned panther hadn't popped out from under that table, I think we would have had our hands full."
One-four's last statement told the other attentive members of the Ranger hunter-killer team a great deal.
One-four, the Ranger Reserve company's secondary hand-to-hand instructor, held a brown belt in judo, and a first-degree black belt in the Army Rangers' lethal version of contact karate. The black cloth belt that Company First Sergeant Wintersole wore while instructing hand-to-hand drills at Fort Bragg was worn and faded. He never mentioned his black belt rank, and no one ever had the nerve to ask. But the entire team had seen Wintersole work — on the mats, at the range, and in the live-fire Hogan's Alley exercises. The idea of an experienced and deadly senior noncom like Wintersole "having his hands full" with any single individual — with or without the backup of a fellow combat-trained Ranger — was an eye-opening concept, to put it mildly.
"I agree with one-four," Wintersole stated flatly. "The man's been in his share of scraps, no doubt about it. But he maintained control and, more importantly, made no effort to push weight. I'm guessing he's just one of the local good-old-boys, but he may have a military background.
We can't discount that possibility. I suspect he works an evening or night shift, instructs at one of the local dojos, wants to maintain a good reputation in the community, but won't back off if somebody gives his girlfriend a bad time. We won't repeat that mistake," he added meaningfully. "We need that drop point."
"Uh, one thing, First Sergeant," one-four ventured hesitantly.
"Go ahead."
"That damned cat came out from under the table where the boyfriend was sitting. I'm sure no expert on panthers, but it seems to me that might mean this guy's either real comfortable around wild animals, or has something to do with wildlife."
"That's a good observation, soldier." Wintersole nodded his head thoughtfully. "The next time we . . ."
However, he never completed that statement because at that moment, the missing member of the Ranger hunter-killer team came roaring up on his motorcycle.
All six members of the team turned and watched as the combat rifleman designated one-seven (the seventh member of Fire Team One, First Squad, Second Platoon, Delta Company, Third Battalion of the 54th Army Ranger Reserves) set the kickstand on the motorcycle and ran toward them.
He turned to Wintersole and announced breathlessly, "One-seven reporting, First Sergeant. I think I found them."
It took the Ranger hunter-killer recon team almost an hour to camouflage themselves appropriately and work their way along the low, tree-filled ridge overlooking the designated site.
"I spotted the black guy first, coming out of the local 7-Eleven," one- seven explained, speaking softly into the short-range radio mike mounted on his shirt collar as the spread-out team members focused their field glasses and spotting scopes. "It's not all that unusual to see twenty-to-forty-year-old black males walking around town, so I didn't necessarily think too much about it until I saw him hop into a beat-up car with an Asian dude. We know local real-estate figures classify this as a pretty much white, conservative, working-class community — say 3% Asian, 1% black and Hispanic combined — so I figured the odds real quick, decided I might be on to something, followed them out to a warehouse just outside town, and dug myself in deep."
"Understood." Wintersole acknowledged the soldier's perfectly valid justification for ignoring his "disengage and report back to Charlie Foxtrot immediately" directive.