Authors: Ken Goddard
Emotionally and physically exhausted, and thus completely oblivious to the lethal nature of his surroundings, Bennington had no idea that only a matter of seconds had prevented a fiercely protective federal wildlife agent named Henry Lightstone from tracking him back to his mentor, Simon Whatley, and worse, to Whatley's ever-so-powerful boss, Congressman Regis J. Smallsreed.
Which, for Keith Bennington, turned out to be a very unfortunate situation indeed.
For had the young congressional aide possessed even the slightest sense of the impact his actions were about to have on the impending clash between terribly powerful and violent foes, he would have deposited those two letters in the nearest Dumpster and run for his life.
That would have been the smart thing to do.
But Keith Bennington had no idea of the importance of his role in this gathering battle between the forces of darkness and light; and in spite of his quite impressive IQ test scores, he wasn't especially smart.
So he simply drove away from the Dogsfire Inn and rural post office with the two fateful letters lying next to him on the front seat, wondering instead if he really, truly coveted the job of his mentor, Simon Whatley, or if he should set his sights a little bit higher.
After all, he reasoned as he turned off of Brandywine Lane, heading back into town, Regis J. Smallsreed wouldn't be a congressman forever.
And for the first time in several days, Bennington actually smiled.
Henry Lightstone sipped from the mug of hot coffee in his hands as he continued to stare at the muscular, pale gray-eyed man seated across from him who, oddly, appeared uncertain about what he should do next.
It's your move, buddy-boy. I've got all the time in the world — especially where you and your sneaky, cammo-wearing friends are concerned.
Lightstone completely ignored the younger man with the cast on his wrist because the older one definitely posed the greater threat.
You can see it in his hands, and in his body language,
the experienced covert agent reminded himself,
even if you can't see anything in those damn eyes of his.
"If I seem hesitant, Henry," the hunter-killer recon team leader finally began formally, "it's because we don't wish to . . . How should I say it? . . . offend your sensibilities any more than we already have."
Bullshit. You didn't give a rat's ass about my "sensibilities" when you and your friends slapped that MTEAR device under the transmission of my truck,
Lightstone thought to himself.
Outwardly, he simply smiled politely and continued sipping at his coffee.
"On the other hand, it turns out that your response to David's unquestionably misdirected enthusiasm put us in a rather difficult situation."
Lightstone cocked his head curiously, but remained silent.
"My associates and I were hired to provide some advanced training to a group of — what should I call them: dedicated survivalists? militants? — located just outside of Loggerhead City," Wintersole went on smoothly. "One segment of that training included basic hand-to-hand defensive tactics. Unfortunately, David is our only qualified martial-arts instructor. And now he's going to be on limited duty for a while . . ."
"So you're looking for a substitute instructor," Lightstone finished helpfully, making a mental note of the term "limited duty."
"Exactly."
"I'm curious to know what makes you think I'm qualified to instruct hand-to-hand tactics, or that I'm available."
"Well, first of all, you strike me as a fellow who's spent a few hours in a dojo."
Lightstone shrugged. "A reasonable assumption. But that doesn't necessarily make me a qualified instructor."
"No, it doesn't," Wintersole admitted affably. "But to tell you the truth, Henry, we'd be perfectly happy if you only taught these guys a couple of basic wristlock techniques. They really aren't what you'd call action-oriented types. As far as your availability, it simply occurred to me — since you don't appear to work an eight-to-five shift — that some part-time employment might appeal to you."
"I could be working a swing or graveyard shift," Lightstone pointed out.
"Well, yes, that's true, although . . ." The hunter-killer recon team leader made what Lightstone considered a poor attempt to look embarrassed.
"Although you and your associates are also under the impression that I don't go to work at night either?" Lightstone finished, smiling slightly.
"We do have a couple of people on our staff qualified to teach basic surveillance techniques," Wintersole conceded. "And, for what I hope are understandable reasons, your qualifications are of great interest to us at the moment. We try to be discreet, and would be the first to acknowledge your right to privacy. But given the, uh, rather sensitive political orientation of our clients, and the fact that we don't know much about you — your surname, for example — we thought it wise at least to get a sense of your politics — not to mention your views regarding the federal government — before we made you an offer."
"So what did you find out?"
"As it turns out, not much. For obvious reasons, we believe you were trained — and have stayed active — in some contact form of martial arts. You don't appear to be employed, although you may just be on vacation. And we know almost nothing about your political leanings . . . other than the fact that you appear to have a close relationship with a woman who is certainly very vocal about her views of the federal government, which, I might add, are surprisingly negative for someone presumably employed by the federal government."
"Karla's pretty open about expressing her opinions," Lightstone agreed. "I find that a refreshing trait in a woman ... in anyone, for that matter."
"No argument there."
"So who are your clients?"
"They call themselves the Chosen Brigade of the Seventh Seal," Wintersole replied casually. "Ever heard of them?"
Lightstone nodded. "It's a small town."
"Yes, of course." The hunter-killer recon team leader hesitated momentarily. "What do you think of them?"
"Personally, from what little I know or have heard, I think they're a bunch of flakes, losers, and lazy idiots. But being what passes for a typical Oregonian around here, I also believe they have every right to live like flakes, losers, and lazy idiots if they so choose . . . just as long as they don't intrude on anyone else's right to live the way they want to."
"A commendably open-minded attitude." Wintersole nodded his head approvingly.
"Us Oregonians are like that." Lightstone smiled briefly. "And to answer a couple other questions you haven't gotten around to asking me yet: First of all, my name's Lee. Henry Randolph Lee."
"Good Southern name," Wintersole nodded approvingly.
"My grandmother thought so. And secondly, I'm not the least bit interested in politics or the federal government."
"When you say you're not interested . . ."
"I mean I'm not interested in working for the feds, or being recruited by a federal agency."
Wintersole blinked.
"Then you think I . . ."
"That's right." Lightstone nodded, meeting the hunter-killer recon team leader's gaze.
"If you don't mind my asking" — Wintersole appeared genuinely surprised by the accusation — "why do you think that?"
"I don't know. I guess it occurs to me that the federal government might want to keep an eye on these Seventh Seal characters, no matter how incompetent and disorganized they may be." Lightstone shrugged. "And, I recall reading somewhere that certain federal government agencies like to recruit—what do they call them? Operatives? — from the local community."
"If you're talking about the CIA, I believe they call the local people they recruit 'agents' or 'resources,'" Wintersole replied. "I have no idea what the FBI calls them."
"You have some practical experience with the CIA?"
"In Vietnam," the team leader explained. "The spooks pretty much ran that war. Every now and then, one of them would suit up and go out on recon with us."
"'Us' being . . . ?"
"U.S. Army Rangers. At the time, I was a combat infantryman, buck sergeant, in charge of a long-range recon team," Wintersole tossed out casually. "I retired as an E-8, first sergeant. I'm not a spook, Henry. Just a thirty-year man trying to get by on a military pension."
Lightstone gestured toward the young man seated to his left. "Your associate looks a little young for retirement," he noted, watching to see if the comment caused the quasi-soldier with the cast on his wrist to lose any of his polite, respectful, and attentive demeanor.
He didn't.
Wintersole smiled pleasantly.
"David's a classic example of all the highly trained and extremely dedicated young men who, sadly, are being tossed aside — wasted, actually — by the current downsizing of our military forces," the hunter-killer recon team leader explained. "But then, too, I suppose our nation's loss is my gain. Once I decided to go into business for myself, I found it very easy to put together a small team of highly qualified instructors."
'Your business being a civilian version of basic infantry training?"
"That's right."
"And you want to add me to that team?"
"Only temporarily." Wintersole nodded. "I won't insult your intelligence by making any promises I can't keep, Henry. David's an excellent hand-to-hand instructor, and I expect him to recover very quickly. However, if things work out in the manner in which we hope . . ." The hunter- killer team leader shrugged.
"And for whatever it's worth, I want you to know I don't hold any grudges." Wintersole's young associate spoke for the first time. "I would personally welcome you on board as an associate. Only thing I ask is that you walk me through that wristlock sequence a few times . . . ideally after I get this thing off." He held up the cast and smiled.
"That's the least I owe you, whether I work for you or not." Lightstone nodded agreeably.
The young man grinned openly. "Fair deal."
Lightstone searched for some hint of anger or frustration beneath that controlled smile, but saw nothing.
Where in the hell do they get these guys?
he wondered.
Shrugging internally, Henry Lightstone turned back to the supposedly retired Army Ranger first sergeant.
"So what are we talking about in terms of hours and pay?"
"I've scheduled eight hours of hand-to-hand instruction per student, broken down into two four-hour blocks. We've got a total of sixteen students, and we're training them in four-man teams. Figure thirty-two hours of instruction, eight hours for prep and grading, which makes it a full forty-hour week. I'm offering two grand even, payment in cash at the end of the week, if you handle your own taxes."
"Pretty decent pay," Lightstone noted casually.
Wintersole shrugged. "We're interested in generating repeat customers and picking up more through word of mouth. You don't accomplish that by providing your customers with second-rate instruction. These are unusual circumstances; however, I do expect you to earn your pay. Any questions?"
"Just one. When do I start?"
"How about tomorrow?"
Lightstone hesitated briefly. "Tomorrow's as good a day as any, but there's one thing about me you probably need to know."
"What's that?" Wintersole's eyes narrowed slightly.
"In spite of my Southern heritage, I'm not very good at saying 'yes sir' to people."
"That won't be a problem, Henry." Wintersole smiled. "The very first thing we teach raw recruits in the army is never to call a sergeant 'sir.' We like to think we work for a living."
"I take it that goes for retired first sergeants, too?"
"Especially for the retired ones," the hunter-killer team recon leader replied, his cold gray eyes glistening with a sense of amusement that Henry Lightstone couldn't even begin to interpret.
Henry Lightstone was still sitting at the table, sipping his nearly cold coffee, when Karla came over and sat down beside him.
"So what was that all about?" she asked softly.
"I seem to have stumbled into a temporary employment situation."
"With them?"
Lightstone nodded solemnly. "Looks that way."
"Would you care to explain what the hell is going on?" A half-troubled, half-dangerous glint brightened her gold-flecked green eyes.
He described the retired army sergeant's job offer.
"They want you to teach hand-to-hand combat techniques to the Chosen Brigade?" Her expression suggested that she couldn't quite believe her ears.
"Apparently."
"Are they serious?"
"I guess so. At any rate, two grand for forty hours of work sounds pretty serious to me."
"But why you? I mean, no offense, my friend, but it's not like you go around waving a 'Don't Tread On Me' flag. And you may not have been around here long enough to notice," she added, "but these Chosen Brigade folks are pretty paranoid about newcomers."
"I have no idea why they chose me," Lightstone confessed. "Maybe they figure it's my fault their martial-arts instructor got hurt."
"They're lucky I managed to get Sasha stopped in time, or that broken wrist would have been the least of that kid's problems," Karla muttered darkly.
"Yeah, well, she definitely put the fear of God into those two," Lightstone smiled, remembering the expression on the retired Army Ranger sergeant's face. "And besides," he added, "it's not like I'm going to teach them something dangerous."
"You're not?"
"In eight hours? Not hardly. If these guys are anything like I've heard, I'll be doing good to teach them how to fall down without getting hurt. And besides," he added with a smile, "I can use the money. Two grand is two grand. Might even be able to make a dent in my restaurant tab."
She dismissed his teasing comment with an aggravated wave of her hand.
"You do realize that these future students of yours advocate the violent overthrow of the federal government?" she asked after a long moment.
"So what? You do, too," he reminded her.
"All I'm doing is exercising my First Amendment rights to express my opinion," she argued irritably. "There's a big difference between mouthing off and taking action, Henry. A very big difference."