Authors: Ken Goddard
"Who knows." The tech agent shrugged. "Being a law-enforcement agent. Representing the federal government. Intruding on the God-given rights of local deer poachers. Something like that."
"What the hell kind of sense does that make?" Paxton demanded.
"Hey, I only tap the conversations. I don't psychoanalyze them."
"So what's Charlie Team going to do? Notify Halahan and have him send us in as backup?" Dwight Stoner asked hopefully.
"I don't think so." Mike Takahara shook his head. "In fact, not only do they seem to have no idea that we're here, I got the distinct impression they're planning to play hero."
"Oh no . . ." Lightstone whispered.
"You mean they intend to send Donato and LiBrandi in on the illicit hunt, tag everybody, and then try to take everybody down and rescue Boggs . . . all by themselves?" Larry Paxton's face turned a distinctly paler shade of brown.
"That's the way it sounded to me." The tech agent nodded solemnly.
"Oh, shit." The Bravo Team leader said what every one of them was thinking.
"We need to call them. Right now," Henry Lightstone declared emphatically. "I don't give a damn what Halahan said. They may think they're taking on a bunch of incompetent losers, but from what I've seen and heard, they're walking right into a nest of ex-Army Rangers."
"Assuming these ex-Rangers are part of the plan," Larry Paxton reminded his wild-card agent.
"Hey, if they're not, fine. We end up looking like a bunch of idiots. Who cares?" Lightstone shrugged indifferently. "But if I'm right, and this night-exercise deal is nothing more than a setup to trap Charlie Team, then everything's going to go to shit real fast. And if it does," the covert agent went on, "we're going to lose a bunch of agents."
"And if it is a setup, Henry, where does that leave you?" Bobby LaGrange reminded his former partner.
"I'll worry about that later." Henry Lightstone gave Paxton a pleading look. "We've got to call them, Larry. Right now."
Larry Paxton hesitated for a brief moment, then nodded at Mike Takahara, who immediately reached for his cell phone and punched in a memorized number.
For a good thirty seconds everyone stared at the tech agent—who finally folded up the phone and shook his head.
"No answer. They probably left the cell phones at the hotel."
"Which means they're already gone." Henry Lightstone looked stricken.
"Doing it just like we taught them," Dwight Stoner growled. "Get out to the meet site early, monitor the area, see what happens."
"Shit!" Larry Paxton exploded angrily.
"Did Riley or Donato give any indication of what they planned to do?" Lightstone asked hopefully.
Mike Takahara shook his head silently.
"Nothing about the Chosen Brigade compound at all?"
The tech agent shook his head again and held his hands out in a helpless gesture.
"They could meet their contacts for an illegal hunt anywhere on the outskirts of the refuge, Henry," Bobby LaGrange pointed out. "And that includes literally hundreds of miles. Plus, don't forget, this whole night- exercise business could be a ruse, just to distract you, too."
"I think we need to call Halahan, brief him on the situation, tell him to get us some help out here," Dwight Stoner suggested. "FBI, DEA, somebody with some serious firepower."
"Yeah, but what about right now?" Lightstone looked down at his watch. "It's almost quarter to eight now, and I'm due back at the compound in fifteen minutes. By the time he manages to get anybody out here, whatever's going to happen will be all over."
For a while, only the sounds of the crickets filled the warehouse.
Everyone in the warehouse was silent for a long moment.
"One thing's for certain" — Larry Paxton finally spoke slowly and deliberately—"we can't let them walk into a trap completely blind. Regardless of anything else, we have to at least try to back them up."
Everyone nodded in agreement.
"Trouble is, though, Henry's right." Bobby LaGrange noted as he slowly pulled an old .45 semiautomatic pistol out of his waistband, dropped the magazine into his hand, and stared forlornly at the exposed round-nosed bullet. "If we try to face down a team of hotshot Army Rangers armed with assault rifles on our own, we could get ourselves seriously killed."
Henry Lightstone stared gloomily down at the warehouse floor, only vaguely aware of the scattered clumps of tangled duct tape and discarded plastic bags.
Suddenly, a smile appeared on his face.
"But then again," he whispered softly, "who says we have to fight fair."
Chapter Forty-eight
Remembering his new employer's comment that it would take no more than fifteen minutes to learn how to use the night-vision gear, Henry Lightstone made a show of paying careful attention while his wrist-cast-hampered fellow instructor demonstrated how to secure the binocular night-sight goggles over his head, and adjust the spacing, aperture, and focus of the eyepieces to give him nearly perfect stereoscopic vision.
Unbelievable
, he thought to himself, amazed at the degree of improvement in the latest generation of night-vision equipment. Unlike with the second-and third-generation light-magnifying tubes Lightstone was familiar with, the flow of light green images in these new goggles appeared multi-contrasted and almost razor-sharp.
Pretending to master the technology, Lightstone rotated his body in a 180-degree arc. In doing so, he observed two other members of Sergeant Aran Wintersole's training team standing in the trees about twenty yards away from the main group.
A chill went up his spine when he realized that both of these men carried night-vision-scoped bolt-action rifles — very much in contrast to the five trainers grouped around him who all wore standard military-issue Beretta 9mm semiautomatic pistols. In addition, all of the men wore military camouflaged flak jackets with a bullet-deflecting breastplate insert. A half dozen canister grenades dangled from rings on each side of the breastplate on Wintersole's and two of the other soldiers' jackets, and all three carried what looked like a roll of duct tape attached to a loop at waist level opposite their pistol holsters. The other two instructors carried a roll of tape, but no grenades.
Two plus five equals seven
, Lightstone told himself. The same number of soldiers he'd seen conducting the surveillance of Charlie Team, all present and accounted for.
In spite of the chilling sight of the two night-vision-equipped snipers partially concealed in the nearby woods, Lightstone felt relieved. That meant that if Charlie Team wasn't the focused target of this supposed night training exercise, they wouldn't be wandering around the perimeter of the nearby Windgate National Wildlife Refuge in the dark and under active surveillance by a bunch of lethally trained combat troops . . . unless, of course, Lightstone reminded himself, the retired Army Ranger first sergeant had held some of his resources in reserve.
But in any case, Charlie Team wouldn't be out there alone. Whether they liked it or not, Lightstone smiled, the more experienced, manipulative, and treacherous members of Bravo Team would cover them on the perimeter, once again ready to do whatever it took to win.
Not that we'll be much help if things don't go our way,
the covert agent's smile faded as he returned his attention to his injured companion.
"Feel comfortable?" the young soldier inquired.
"Just fine," Lightstone acknowledged.
"How do you like them?"
"Pretty amazing." Lightstone put just the right amount of wonder in his voice. "I feel like I'm walking around in some kind of green daylight."
"That's exactly the idea." The young soldier laughed. "The earphones are separate from the goggles, so if you ever have to take the goggles off, you'll stay linked to the rest of us. Your collar mike's an auto-sensor, so just talk and listen. Try not to interrupt someone else, unless it's an emergency. Everything clear?"
Henry nodded.
"Good." The young soldier removed something from the box behind him. "Here, let me help you put this on."
"What is it?"
"Flak jacket. Basically an armored vest."
"What the hell do I need an armored vest for?" Lightstone asked as the young soldier secured the wide Velcro straps tightly around his shoulders, chest, and waist.
"Didn't the sergeant tell you?"
"Tell me what?" Lightstone wheeled to face Wintersole who, to Lightstone's amazement, actually appeared less menacing with the binocular night-sights over his cold pale gray eyes.
"Just to make it a little more interesting for our side, our opponents are going to be firing live rounds tonight."
"What?"
"Don't worry about it." Wintersole noted then casually dismissed Lightstone's reaction. "They have pop-up reflector targets — which they can hardly hit in the daylight when they're twenty feet away — to aim at. And they'll be stumbling in the woods, about 90 percent blind, even before the first flash-bang goes off. Just stay low, maintain your cool, keep your goggles on, and you'll be fine. Probably'll have a better chance of getting taken out by a falling meteor."
"Yeah, right." Henry Lightstone shook his head in amazement. "What the hell's a flash-bang?"
"These little gems here." Wintersole reached forward with both hands and tapped the underside of the two grenades that hung from Lightstone's flak jacket like a pair of small firm breasts. "They're basically stun grenades, but they generate an extremely bright flash in addition to the concussion. You ever throw a hand grenade?"
"I've seen it done in the movies," Lightstone responded dryly.
Wintersole chuckled. "Same basic process. But if you do your job right — move in close, take them down one at a time, disarm them, and then tape them up tight — you won't need any grenades. But, in case you get caught out in the open, just slip the grenade off your vest, hold the lever with two fingers of your throwing hand like this" — he demonstrated with a grenade from his own vest — "pull the pin with your other hand, and throw."
"Wonderful," Lightstone muttered.
"Just remember," Wintersole warned him, "you've only got about two and a half seconds after the lever kicks out before it goes off, so try to aim for something thirty feet away — or at the very least, get behind a big tree after you throw it. Otherwise, you end up on your ass with your clock rung. And don't look directly at the flash. These fourth-generation tubes aren't supposed to flare out if they get too much light, but there's no sense in taking a chance."
Wintersole looked around at his team.
"One more thing. I was just advised that the Brigade leaders authorized one of their women to take part in the exercise tonight. I don't want her hurt, so I figure we'll leave her to our martial-arts expert."
"Watch out for your balls, man," one of the soldiers chuckled, and immediately froze when Wintersole glared at him sharply.
"Any more questions?" the eerie team leader inquired.
"Yeah, several," Lightstone replied evenly.
"Then come with me," Wintersole ordered as the rest of the team dispersed into the woods. "I'll see if I can properly educate you before your students show up."
Forty-five minutes later, settled into a concealed position on the outer perimeter of the designated contact zone, Henry Lightstone saw the first sign of movement.
Fifteen minutes later, feeling both relieved and increasingly uneasy, he had all of them spotted but one.
Riley and Green in place on the far side. Wu on the near side. Which means it's going to be Donato and LiBrandi on the hunt.
He moved his head slowly in a 270-degree sweep, searching the entire outer perimeter of the contact zone one more time. No more bodies. And no movement.
So where's the wildcat?
He began another slow sweep knowing full well that Riley wouldn't let his most volatile and unpredictable agent get too far out of his sight, but then two bright red flashes at the edge of his vision suddenly brought his head back to the designated contact point.
He immediately spotted Special Agents Gus Donato and Mark LiBrandi standing in the clearing, each of them holding a bolt-action hunting rifle and a flashlight.
Moments later, a second pair of red flashes emerged from the light in Donato's hand, and an identical pair of flashes immediately answered from the far edge of the clearing.
As Lightstone watched, two figures wearing military flak jackets — sans grenades — entered the clearing carrying flashlights that now emitted steady, bobbing bright red beams within the light green world of the night-vision goggles. The four men stood together talking for perhaps thirty seconds when the familiar voice of First Sergeant Aran Wintersole whispered in Lightstone's earphones:
"Okay, take them down, now!"
Lightstone had only a brief moment to see the four distant figures suddenly become two paired sets of grappling combatants when three intensely bright green explosions erupted within the perimeter zone, sending three bodies tumbling. He had just started to come up to his knees, and out of his concealed position, when the first gunshot streaked over his head.
Special Agent Natasha Marashenko was still moving forward, holding the old second-generation night-vision spotting scope to her left eye with one hand and firing her Smith & Wesson 10mm semiautomatic pistol with the other when Lightstone came up, knocked the pistol out of her hand, and then drove his shoulder into her stomach in a lunging tackle that sent the two of them tumbling to the rock-and-brush-covered ground.
Only the fact that he'd knocked most of the air out of her lungs with his shoulder tackle saved Henry Lightstone from serious injury in those first few seconds when — unable to give her any kind of reassuring warning because of the microphone attached to his collar — he tried to get into position for the chokehold while Natasha Marashenko kicked, bit, gouged, scratched, and otherwise fought for her life.
Even so, by the time he finally managed to get the inner portion of his right elbow pulled tight under her chin, grabbed his left biceps with his right hand, looped his left arm around the back of her thrashing head, and then tucked his head in tight against the side of her head as her carotid arteries became tightly compressed against the biceps and forearm muscles of his right arm, Lightstone felt convinced the female agent's jackhammering elbow had broken every one of his ribs.