Authors: Ken Goddard
Which was immediately drowned out by the concussive roar of a 12-gauge shotgun and three rapid eardrum-piercing gunshots from a 10mm semiautomatic pistol.
Then in rapid succession:
Two figures burst through a pair of ancient attic window shutters and leaped onto a second-story roof.
Rubber-soled shoes frantically scrambled against the incredibly slippery surface.
Two desperately flailing individuals lost their balance and crashed face-first onto the sun-baked shingles.
A burst of furious curses exploded in two distinct ethnic dialects as both men grabbed the edges of the burning hot gutters with bare hands to keep from sliding off the liquid-soap-covered roof.
And then, finally, a 10mm Smith & Wesson semiautomatic pistol and a Model 870 Remington pump shotgun scraped and slid down the slippery sloped roof, then hit the thick mud with two audible plops.
Shaking his head in visible dismay, David Halahan, Chief of the Branch of Special Operations, Division of Law Enforcement, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, muttered a heartfelt curse, and turned to his deputy.
"Okay, I've seen enough. Shut it down before somebody gets hurt."
Special Ops Deputy Chief Freddy Moore nodded in agreement. He stood at the edge of the raised wooden platform, pulled a military police whistle from his shirt pocket, and sounded a single, shrill blast.
The familiar noise caused the eleven field agents to pause in their varying endeavors and glance at the raised instructor's platform that overlooked the entire practical exercise course.
Setting aside the whistle, Moore reached for the bullhorn.
"All right, boys and girls, that'll be all for today," he ordered in a distinct deep, Southern drawl. "Referees will submit all score sheets to the tower, and firearms instructors will collect all weapons and ammunition."
"And Henry," Moore added as an afterthought, "let her go."
Special Agent Henry Lightstone slowly and cautiously released the tight leg lock and nearly secured chokehold on his mud-and-swamp-water-soaked opponent — who, in turn, reluctantly stopped struggling to break loose from the carotid choke with one hand while trying to slash, claw, and strike any vital organ she could reach with the other. Instead, she twisted away and then lay there on her back, red-faced, gasping for breath, and glared at Lightstone with furious blue eyes.
"Paxton," Freddy Moore went on in a calm and orderly manner, "would you and Stoner kindly un-handcuff our designated congressman and designated bagman and help them out of the septic tank?"
The tall, lanky Special Agent in Charge of Bravo Team held a handcuff key up in plain view of his sprawled, filthy, watery-eyed, and thoroughly frustrated counterparts. Smiling cheerfully, he let the tiny key drop down into the ankle-deep sewage.
"And Michael," Moore added with a sigh, "if it's not too much trouble, would you and Agent Woeshack mind going back up in that attic, catching that damned snake, and putting it back in its cage before you help Agents Wu and Green to get down off that roof?"
"But they got out there all by . . ." Special Agent/Pilot Thomas Woeshack started to protest. But then he saw the look on Halahan's face and hurried over to the three-story rustic cabin/training structure to help his tech-agent partner cautiously corner and retrieve the hissing twelve-foot reticulated python they'd borrowed from the local zoo.
Moments later, Special Agent Dwight Stoner knelt at the edge of the once-camouflaged septic tank. One by one, he dead-lifted Special Agent/ Congressman Donato and Special Agent/bagman LiBrandi out of the slippery, nine-foot-deep concrete tank with his muscular arms, wrinkling his nose at the pungent smell of decomposing sewage and the wispy remnants of the tear gas.
As Stoner thoughtfully directed a stream of water from a nearby hose on the faces of the two olifactorily stunned agents, Larry Paxton walked over to the middle of the practical exercise area and reached down to help Henry Lightstone up out of the mud.
"Made some real nice moves on the lady here, Henry, my man. Real nice," Paxton congratulated his wild card agent in his deep South Carolina drawl as he pulled Lightstone to his feet, then made a show of wiping the mud off his hands. "Can't say as I ever seen anything quite like it. Must be one of them crazy white folk mating rituals my dear ol' daddy used to tell me about. The girl walks up smiling all pretty-like, the boy gives the girl a great big hug and kiss, then the girl proceeds to stomp the living shit outta him. My, my, my."
Paxton paused for a moment to consider the disheveled condition of his Special Agent partner. "Man, I sure do hope she didn't rip off anything you're gonna need later."
"That's good, Paxton." Henry Lightstone winced as he gently probed at his smashed and bleeding nose. "See if you can piss her off just a little bit more by rubbing it in."
"Hell, there ain't no need to be doing any more rubbing. Any fool could see you two already done plenty of that. Tell you the truth, the way you were going with that leg lock, I was kinda thinking we might have to spray you two down with a hose. Which reminds me, Agent Marashenko," the Bravo Team leader added with a cheerful smile as he looked down at Lightstone's sprawled, muddy, and clearly still-furious opponent, "we found this here genuine federal agent pistol down in the septic tank, along with a couple of very sleazy political types who were probably subleasing the place. Don't suppose you might know who could have lost it?"
Paxton gingerly held a wet and grimy 10mm Smith & Wesson semiautomatic pistol with his right thumb and forefinger, carefully moving his feet to avoid the small stream of raw sewage that poured out the barrel.
Ignoring Henry Lightstone's offered hand, Special Agent Natasha Marashenko rose unsteadily to her feet, ripped the dripping pistol out of Paxton's hand, muttered something about idiot macho males under her breath, and staggered away in a visible display of injured pride, barely controlled rage, and almost complete exhaustion. Her muscular legs and buttocks visibly stretched the thin fabric of her tight, water-and-mud- soaked jeans as she made her way over to the water station.
"My, my, my, that gal is definitely an improvement on the standard issue federal agent around here, not to mention a walking endorsement for glasnost," Larry Paxton commented appreciatively as he and Lightstone watched the shapely, dark-haired young agent take the hose from Stoner and then kneel down to help wash the tear gas from the eyes of her fellow covert team members.
"And nice to look at, too," Lightstone agreed dryly as he gently probed some tender areas around his lower abdomen. "If you happen to like blue-eyed wildcats who fight dirty."
"You know, Henry, it kinda looked to me like she almost had you on that last go-around," the SAC of Bravo Team commented thoughtfully. "If ol' Freddy hadn't blown that whistle when he did, that little gal just mighta worked her way out of that chokehold and seriously whipped your scrawny ass. Maybe next time around, it oughta be you who gets to dance around that septic tank, and me who gets to mud-wrestle the pretty young lady agents who come on like the Seventh Cavalry."
Henry Lightstone smiled. "Next exercise, Paxton, she's all yours. But I'm warning you, she kicks and bites, and she doesn't like to lose. You keep trying to piss her off like that, and you're going to find yourself . . ."
"Ah, speaking of being pissed off, gents —" Special Agent Dwight Stoner gestured in the direction of the observation platform as he limped up beside his partners.
The three agents watched silently as Special Ops Branch Chief David Halahan climbed down from the platform, took one final look around the exercise area, shook his head in apparent disgust, and started walking toward the distant training office building.
"Think we mighta gone too far on this one?" Stoner asked.
Larry Paxton nodded his head. "That's a definite possibility, Stoner my man. A very definite possibility indeed."
Chapter Five
Twenty-six hundred miles west of the practical exercise area of the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center at Glynco, Georgia, Lt. Colonel John Rustman listened patiently as First Sergeant Wintersole explained over their scrambled radio communications net why he had believed it necessary to send Simon Whatley's incredibly foolhardy — or perhaps simply incredibly stupid — aide running frantically back to the Town Car by firing a burst of 5.56mm rounds into a nearby tree.
Other than slipping in the mud twice, and undoubtedly creating a mess in his pants if not on the rented Town Car's expensive leather upholstery, they had allowed the aide to escape unharmed.
"What kind of camera?" Rustman asked when Wintersole finished his report.
"Thirty-five millimeter, long lens," the cold, metallic voice responded.
"Did he get away with any shots?"
"Negative."
"Are you certain?"
"Affirmative. We recovered the camera."
"Why did you let him go?"
"He didn't get in very far. Figured it wasn't worth letting him see a face or digging another hole."
Rustman nodded his head in satisfaction. "Good call." He glanced down at his watch. "Maintain your positions for another thirty, and then disengage. We'll link up tomorrow morning at the Windmill, civvies, 0700 hours, for a full debriefing."
"Affirmative. Debrief tomorrow morning, the Windmill, civvies, 0700 hours. Tango-one-one, out."
"One-zero, out," Rustman spoke into his collar mike. Then he turned to confront Simon Whatley, who sat ashen-faced against the far side of the boat.
"Was that your stupid idea, or his?"
If possible, Simon Whatley's face turned even whiter.
"I don't know what you're talking about." He tried to act as though he had no idea what Rustman meant, but failed completely.
Rustman didn't even bother to react. Instead, the retired military officer simply fixed his cold gaze on the senior congressional staffer's watery eyes.
"One more time, Whatley. And this time, I want you to think very carefully before answering. Was the camera your idea, or his?"
Whatley hesitated briefly, then murmured, "Mine."
Rustman shook his head when he received the expected confirmation.
"Let me guess. You thought it'd be a good idea to have pictures in case you ever had to claim that you and Smallsreed were running your own covert investigation?"
The congressional district office manager nodded his head silently.
"But I bet you came up with that brilliant idea yesterday, before you understood how completely and unalterably committed you and Smallsreed are to this operation now. And I bet you just forgot to call the kid off when you picked up the money packet, right?"
Whatley nodded again.
"What's his name?"
"Bennington," Whatley barely whispered.
"First name?"
"Uh, uh, Keith, but I can assure you . . ."
The military officer brought his right hand up in a cautioning manner. "Are you capable of convincing Mr. Bennington that something very unpleasant will happen to him if he tries any more of these stupid stunts on his own?"
"Of course." The congressional staffer bobbed his head up and down frantically. "I can assure you that —"
"Good." Rustman reached forward and started up the boat engine again. "Then it won't be necessary to send Wintersole."
Chapter Six
She was exactly as the Sage described.
And more.
Much more.
When she arrived, they all gathered around to greet her, the men and women of the Chosen Brigade of the Seventh Seal who rarely saw a new face or heard a new story in their severely isolated mountainside retreat, let alone two. The men were especially curious and hovered until they got close enough to see for themselves. Then they swallowed hard and quickly moved back a respectful distance.
The women offered her tea, made from a scarce dried herb which she immediately recognized, and the most comfortable seat in the communal meeting place. She accepted both with a natural grace that captivated them all.
The women felt tense, for obvious reasons, but also intrigued . . . and, a tribute to their inherent grace, only slightly jealous.
The children stared wide-eyed and enchanted — especially the older boys.
But the men just stood there, stunned, and mesmerized, and in the fullest sense of the expression, terrified out of their minds.
They all learned, as she sipped her tea, that she had moved into the old Dogsfire Inn — an ancient house built around an ancient tree about a mile or so down the creek from their isolated community. She had recently purchased it from the estate of the previous owner, an elderly woman of indeterminate age who had operated the inn's small restaurant, held séances, and told fortunes when she wasn't attending her duties as the local postmistress and cursing the government in at least three different foreign languages.
Yes, the woman smiled warmly at them. She, too, had heard the stories about the previous owner being a gypsy whose parents died in a fire way back in 1862. Such interesting stories. Very imaginative.
She took another sip of tea.
Wasn't she scared, a young and attractive woman like her, to live in a place like that, all by herself? They all wanted to know.
She smiled pleasantly and then stretched, unintentionally — perhaps — revealing a taut and slender figure beneath a loose tunic that embodied the very essence of everything sleek and sensual.
Scared? No, of course not. Why should she be scared? She laughed. Such a beautiful location, and such a beautiful old house — or it would be once she furnished it. And, as they could all clearly see, it wasn't as if she lived there alone.
The children bobbed their heads, completely entranced by this once barely imaginable fantasy suddenly there among them in the flesh.
The men gulped nervously and made a conscious effort to hold their bladders.
She thanked them for the tea and stood, causing the men to step back hastily and give her — or rather them — plenty of room.
What was it the Sage had said? Very very dangerous.