by Ken Goddard
But then Smallsreed glanced at the young intern — who favored her idol with another naively sensuous dimpled grin — and his fearsome expression dissolved instantly.
Bless you, my dear, Whatley thought to himself. I owe you more than you could possibly know.
But it wasn't over yet. No matter how compelling the self-interest, Regis J. Smallsreed had not managed to survive — much less prosper — during his sixteen terms in Washington, DC, by entrusting his subordinates with the truly important decisions.
"Whatever it takes to resolve the matter to everyone's satisfaction, Simon" — the congressman's eyes bored into Whatley's as he spoke — "I want you to make it happen. These people are very important… constituents. Very important."
These people? What the hell is he talking about? Simon Whatley thought. This is Sam Tisbury's deal all the way. Who else could he be
…?
"Is that understood?" Smallsreed pressed in what Simon Whatley immediately — and correctly — interpreted as a dangerously threatening tone.
"Oh, uh, yes sir, absolutely. I'll take care of everything."
"Fine, you do that." Regis J. Smallsreed's head bobbed approvingly as he moved to the front of the boat and motioned for the young intern to join him. "Now then, my dear, tell me, have you ever been at the helm of one of these infernal machines?"
The young woman's blue eyes grew wide as she took in the smooth curve of the low racing hull, the supercharged engine with the wide blower air scoop, the small steering wheel and thick-knobbed throttle, and the thickly padded cushions. Every inch of the dark green camouflaged boat was a monument to one simple underlying principle:
Power. Pure and sensual.
She shook her blond curls, too awestruck to speak, and the subtle current that zinged through the congressman's crotch verified what he'd already guessed.
First time.
The predatory smile completely engulfed Regis J. Smallsreed's ruddy features.
"Well, in that case, my dear, I think it's about time we expanded your horizons."
Moments later, with the visibly excited young woman at the wheel and one of the country's most influential congressmen nestled close at her side, the powerful jet boat lunged forward, kicking up a long rooster tail as it quickly sped away.
Nodding his head in satisfaction, Simon Whatley watched the small craft disappear around the nearby island.
It's a good thing you're such a lecherous old bastard, Regis, he thought to himself. Otherwise, this entire deal would be a lot more complicated.
Then he turned to Rustman.
"I believe we have some business to discuss?"
Rustman shook his head slowly. "Not quite yet."
Whatley blinked in surprise. "What do you mean, not quite yet?" he demanded irritably.
Ignoring the congressional staffer's officious posturing, the military officer turned to verify that two dark-hooded figures now stood in the nearby blind, one of whom — judging from a flash of purple silk barely visible under a dark-cammo collar — was female. Both held identical stainless-steel Mini-14 rifles.
Satisfied, Rustman turned back to his foreman, who was making a last-minute check of the VIP blind.
"Lou, do you have everything under control here? Everything cleaned up and put away?"
Eliot ran through his mental list — the critical items being to wrap and sink the remains of the illegal Canvasbacks, and exchange the illegal lead-shot rounds in the guns and ammo bags for steel. Then he took one quick look around before nodding. "Yes sir, all clear."
"John, I'm talking to you! What the hell do you mean…?" Simon Whatley's strident interruption caused Eliot to observe both men curiously.
Rustman froze the congressional district office manager with an icy stare.
"Wintersole," he murmured into the collar mike without taking his eyes off of the political staffer, "put him down."
Simon Whatley's pupils dilated in shock a split second before a single high-velocity gunshot echoed sharply across the lake surface.
Lou Eliot's lifeless body tumbled backwards into the cold water of his beloved Loggerhead Lake and disappeared beneath its dark surface as Whatley watched in horrified disbelief.
"Now then" — Rustman's chilling gaze never wavered from the congressional district office manager's shocked eyes — "what was it you wanted to discuss?"
Simon Whatley could barely force the words through his constricted throat.
"Wha… what in God's name…"
"You heard your boss," Rustman cut him off. "'Whatever it takes.' Do you have a problem with that, Simon?" The brutally composed retired military officer deliberately looked over Whatley's left shoulder.
Even though he knew what he would see, the terrified political staffer turned… and discovered both of the hooded figures staring directly at him. His heart froze.
"No, I don't," he whispered hoarsely.
"Fine." Rustman smiled agreeably. "Then let's go finish our business before that damned agent manages to cut himself loose."
Chapter Two
Special Agent Henry Lightstone was stretched out beside the trunk of a thick ponderosa pine, staring across an open clearing at a gravel path leading to a small rustic log cabin, and considering some interesting possibilities, when he sensed, rather than heard, movement among the trees behind his back.
He tensed.
It was 6:35 in the morning. Nearly an hour before the much-anticipated exchange. Still a little early for any kind of adversarial sweep or reconnaissance. But that didn't necessarily mean anything, because the people on the other side didn't necessarily play by the rules.
Then a tiny dry branch cracked under pressure, and he distinctly heard a soft curse.
Henry Lightstone smiled.
"You're getting old, Paxton," he whispered as the supervisor of Bravo Team — the most senior of the three covert agent teams assigned to Special Operations Branch, Division of Law Enforcement, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service — slid down beside him.
"Don't remind me," Larry Paxton muttered, and then fell silent as both men surveyed the area, searching for any sign of movement or — worse — an active counter-surveillance.
But aside from an uneasy pair of geese, which wisely chose to abandon the sanctity of a nesting box under the cabin's back porch in favor of the security of the nearby water, and some unknown species of large snake leaving a visible wake in the tall grass, nothing moved. Or at least nothing that either agent could see through the patchy early-morning fog.
"They're being pretty damned trusting if you ask me," Lightstone finally whispered.
Paxton nodded in agreement. "Yeah, I don't like it either. You check on Woeshack?"
"Uh-huh."
"You double-check his pistol?"
Lightstone smiled. "Relax, Paxton, you're starting to sound like his mother. Woeshack's tucked in tight, loaded and locked, with proper rounds and three full mags in reserve. He's wearing his vest, he knows to keep his head down, and Stoner's keeping an eye on him. He'll be fine."
"Easy for you to say. You're not his supervisor," Paxton muttered darkly. "Eskimos are supposed to be natural-born hunters."
"Yeah, so?"
"So when's the last time you heard about a real honest-to-God Eskimo going out hunting for polar bears and forgetting to bring along any bullets?"
"Probably a self-correcting problem," Lightstone acknowledged. "Besides, I think we can count on Woeshack being an exception to just about any 'genuine Eskimo' definition you happen to run across."
"You know," Larry Paxton went on as if Lightstone hadn't spoken, "only the federal government, in their infinite and mysterious wisdom, would hire a native kid fresh out of Soldotna who hunts polar bears with an empty rifle and is terrified every time he sets foot into a plane, turn him into a Special Agent and a pilot, and then make me responsible for his ass."
"Never let it be said that the government lacks a sense of humor."
"Yeah, right."
P
axton fell silent again.
"So what do you think, Henry?" he finally asked.
Lightstone shrugged. "I think it just might work."
"Might?" Larry Paxton turned to face his fellow agent. "Is that the best you can say about a plan that's just one step shy of brilliant, if I do say so myself?"
Lightstone smiled agreeably. "Okay, Paxton, if it'll make you feel better, I definitely think it might work."
The team leader grumbled something unintelligible.
"Hey, come on, man, lighten up. I'm just giving you a bad time," Lightstone apologized softly as he continued to watch their surroundings. "The plan's fine. We're going to catch them by surprise, take them down clean, and nobody's going to get hurt."
"You sure about that?"
"Yeah, of course I'm sure," Lightstone lied reassuringly, but then added, "Just the same, I wouldn't mind having a couple more options to fall back on if we don't get that security team under control right off the bat."
"You still worried about our boy with the big W tattooed across his chest?"
"Hell yes. Aren't you?"
"Nope, not my problem," Paxton replied with forced cheerfulness. "My job is to come up with a plan, divide the assignments up all fair and equitable like, and then demonstrate my superior leadership skills by handling the most sensitive issues personally while trusting my subordinates to handle all of the little side details."
"Meaning you get the congressman and the bagman, and we get the goon squad and the little wildcat. You call that fair and equitable?"
"Nope. Fair and equitable would mean you guys getting to have all the fun while I stand back out of the way and keep an eye on things.. which ain't gonna happen, 'cause I ain't gonna be standing back watching my supervisory career go up in smoke when one of you guys suddenly get a notion to go ape-shit and blow a congressman's kneecap off."
"You really think anybody'd get mad at us for doing something like that?" Lightstone teased.
Paxton nodded his head glumly. "Shit, my luck, somebody in the DC office would get their shorts in an uproar, decide they want to make an example outta somebody… and there I'd be."
"So what are you going to do — say, for example — if Woeshack suddenly goes into some kind of polar-bear-hunt flashback and starts capping off rounds? Throw yourself in front of the guy like a dedicated Secret Service agent?"
Larry Paxton turned his head and stared incredulously at his wildcard-agent partner. "You think I've lost my goddamned mind?" he demanded.
"Just wondering."
"Yeah, well, you can just keep on wondering too… and speaking of dumb-shit ideas, I don't want to hear about any of you guys getting careless and falling for some 'sweet-little-innocent-kid' bullshit neither. She may look like she's about fifteen, but that little gal is a wildcat, no doubt about it. You back her into a corner, she's liable to rip your nuts right off if you give her half a chance."
Henry Lightstone observed his superior critically.
"Paxton," he finally said, "did anybody ever tell you that you've got a lousy bedside manner for a raid team leader?"
"All I want you guys to do is be careful, and don't do anything completely off-the-wall crazy," the lanky supervising agent warned in a prayerful whisper. "That's all I ask. Just be careful."
Chapter Three
At precisely 7:20 A.M. on that beautiful Sunday morning, three camouflaged boats cautiously approached an isolated dock on the southern shore of Loggerhead Lake from three directions — one coming in straight from the north, while the other two hugged the shoreline in an easterly and westerly flanking move.
About a hundred yards out from the dock and a nearby cabin, the straight-in driver cut his engines and allowed the pressure of the water to bring the flat-bottomed jet boat to a gentle, bobbing stop.
For five long minutes, Lt. Colonel John Rustman scanned the dock, the cabin, a black Lincoln Town Car parked next to the cabin, and the surrounding trees with his binoculars.
Nothing.
"Tango-one, talk to me, by the numbers," he ordered in a raspy whisper.
The responses from First Sergeant Aran Wintersole's hunter-killer team crackled in Rustman's ear receiver in a crisp, professional cadence:
"Tango-one-seven. In position. No targets, no movement. Out."
The east flank.
"One-six. In position. No targets, no movement. Out."
The west flank.
"One-four and one-five. In position. No targets, no movement. Out."
The cabin.
"One-two and one-three. In position. One target, driver's seat. White male, wire-framed glasses, twenty-five to thirty, brown and brown. No visible armament."
The Town Car.
"One-one. Situation is controlled. Out."
The last voice cold and metallic, even through the scrambling filters.
Wintersole.
Lt. Colonel John Rustman smiled.
"Ten-four, stand by," he ordered tersely. He set the binoculars aside and observed the trembling man sitting in the passenger seat beside him.
Congressional district office manager Simon Whatley's composure had improved dramatically over the past half hour. He no longer looked like he could throw up or have a nervous breakdown at any moment.
"I hope, for your sake, that boy is alone and knows nothing at all about what's in that trunk." Rustman spoke in a voice that conveyed absolutely nothing in the way of compassion or understanding.
Simon Whatley was furious at Rustman for placing him in such a horribly compromising position, and at himself for his cowardliness. His pants were soaked with urine, and he knew that Rustman knew the source of the pungent odor as well as he did. The realization that Rustman had been laughing at him during the entire twenty-minute boat trip infuriated the veteran political staffer even more.
Even so, another three or four seconds passed before Whatley could trust his voice to get him beyond the fury, the nausea, and the terror. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't force those horrible images out of his mind.
Lou Eliot's lifeless body disappearing beneath the water.
The dark-hooded figure.
And those eyes. Those terribly cold, strange, and frightening eyes.
Wintersole.
Just the thought of the man's name almost made Simon Whatley lose control of his bladder again.
"You don't have to worry about Bennington. As far as we're concerned, he's just a delivery boy," he finally forced out the words, desperate to put every ounce of authority he possessed into them as he turned to face his fellow conspirator. "I told him to stay in the car and wait for me, and that's exactly what he'll do. He knows nothing about the money, and, in any case, he doesn't have the code to open the briefcase." Whatley hesitated, then went on. "But I want an explanation, Rustman. Right now. No, let me put it more clearly. I demand an explanation. What could you possibly have been thinking of, killing one of your own men like that?"
Rustman gazed dispassionately into the terrified eyes of a man who now represented a potential threat to his freedom, if not his life. For a brief moment, Simon Whatley feared that he might have pushed it too far.
But finally the military officer shrugged.
"I had no choice. Eliot compromised the operation."
Simon Whatley recoiled in shock.
"What do you mean, compromised?"
"He knew exactly where that federal wildlife agent got caught in the nets — along the southeastern shoreline, at the four o'clock position," Rustman replied in an unnervingly calm and emotionless voice.
"So?"
"So I was the only one in the blind who heard the vector heading on Boggs from the sentry, and I deliberately faced north the entire time I took the call. Yet as soon as I told everyone in the blind that Boggs was in the area, Eliot immediately put his glasses on the four-o'clock vector. He knew right where to look."
"But…"
"He knew exactly where Boggs would be because he'd made arrangements to meet the bastard al
ong the southeast shoreline while the congressman was shooting," Rustman explained patiently. "Which is precisely what he would have done if I hadn't changed his schedule at the last minute."
Simon Whatley shook his head in confusion.
"You lost me, Rustman. Why would Lou Eliot want to meet with a federal agent, much less somebody like Boggs? He hated Boggs. Hell, he hated the entire federal government, for that matter. Everybody knew that."
"True, but not everybody knew why," the retired military officer responded. "I'd be willing to bet even you don't know that a little over twenty years ago, Eliot's father was forced to sell this land — in fact, this entire shoreline we're looking at right now — to my father when he couldn't come up with the money to comply with some very specific cleanup regs enacted by our very favorite congressman."
Simon Whatley gasped.
"Smallsreed didn't tell you about that, did he?" Rustman smiled. "Ever stop to wonder what else he might not be telling you?"
Whatley ignored the baiting comment.
"Cleanup regs? Twenty years ago?" he countered skeptically. "You're kidding."
"Afraid not. Check your historical files. Assuming that Smallsreed was stupid enough to keep files on something like that, which I seriously doubt."
"You're damned right I'll check," the congressional district office manager muttered threateningly, but Rustman ignored him.
"Anyway, the place was going to hell. The blinds were falling apart, the wheat fields and cornfields hadn't been planted in years, the shoreline was turning into a dump, and the lake was one big oil slick… which meant hunting got progressively worse each year, because all the clucks went somewhere else."
Rustman's eyes swept the clean waters and lush shores of Loggerhead Lake.
"Back then, my family owned half the shoreline. With the help of Smallsreed and a few of his helpful contributors who liked to shoot on weekends, my father… acquired the rest, and began to turn it around. When Eliot's father finally drank himself to death, I talked my father into hiring Lou to help us bring the ducks back. When my father died ten years ago, I made Lou my foreman."
