Double blind sahl-3

by Ken Goddard

  Lightstone nodded.

  "The State Fish and Game people weren't exactly thrilled. I was fortunate that the zoo director was well connected… but I guess that's pretty much how government operates anyway, isn't it? It's always who you know, not what you know," Karla added with a cynical twist to her voice. "However, I guess I should be grateful because they finally did give me a permit, as long as I agreed to keep her collared and within my range of control whenever she's out of her enclosure."

  "I'm not much of a fan of government, but you can kind of see their point. A creature like this is bound to terrify people if she's running around loose," Lightstone remarked, feeling the cat's rib cage rhythmically rise and fall against his outstretched leg. Even asleep, she was such an awesome creature, he couldn't imagine her unable to defend or feed herself.

  "And then, too," he added thoughtfully, "I suppose it probably goes both ways. A blind panther probably wouldn't stand much of a chance out in the wild."

  "She'd have a rough time on her own, but if she could get close enough to the prey before she attacked… or had a protective mate." Karla shrugged as if to say "Who knows." "But the fact that I raised her, rather than another panther, would probably undermine her chances as much as her limited sight."

  "Then she's not really blind?"

  "Not totally. Like most cats, her vision is more motion- than detail-sensitive. But as best we can tell, anything beyond two or three feet probably looks like a blur to her."

  Lightstone frowned. "That's strange. I got the impression she saw me from farther away than that."

  "No, I think she smelled you." Karla smiled again. "It may have something to do with your friend's cattle ranch."

  "So what should I do, rub up against one of Bobby's cows every morning before breakfast just to keep her happy?"

  "I couldn't even begin to advise you on that subject," the sensuous woman replied cryptically.

  Interesting answer, Lightstone thought uneasily.

  But before he could follow up on that curious remark, Karla suddenly responded to the young cook's appearance at the doorway to the dining room.

  "Say, speaking of eating," she changed the subject completely. "Want to give it one more try? I forgot to warn you that Sasha considers Danny's scrambled eggs with onions and China peas one of her favorite snacks. But from the looks of things" — she glanced down at the loudly snoring animal — "I'd say she's sacked out, and I know Danny's got more."

  The event so captivated him, he'd completely forgotten he hadn't eaten.

  "That sounds real good to me," he gratefully accepted Karla's offer.

  She relayed the order to the young cook, who smiled and returned to his kitchen.

  "So what…?" Lightstone started to ask, when the exterior door to the enclosed porch suddenly opened behind them.

  "Uh-oh, time to work," Karla automatically reacted to the familiar sound. She started to get up, but hesitated when she remembered the blissfully sleeping panther.

  "That's okay, leave her," Lightstone assured her, "she'll be fine."

  "I don't know…"

  "I won't move. Just don't go too far way, in case she wakes up and decides she wants another snack."

  It was obvious that Karla still felt uncertain, but Lightstone's relaxed smile reassured her. Then she glanced back over her shoulder and saw who had entered the restaurant.

  "All right, you stay here. I'll be right back," she agreed with a subtle but distinct edge to her voice.

  "May I help you?" Karla asked as she approached the two men — Wintersole, whose eyes had given her cold chills, and another, younger one she'd never seen before. She noticed Wintersole still wore the bear-claw necklace.

  "I was expecting a letter this morning, but it's not in my box." Wintersole's eyes flickered toward the lone diner sitting at the nearby table.

  "I'm sorry, but all the mail is in the boxes. Next delivery will be in late this afternoon."

  "This would have been a personal delivery to the post office," Wintersole persisted. "Sometime yesterday morning."

  Karla shook her head. "I'm sorry, but everything's in the boxes, and no one dropped off anything this morning."

  "Would you mind checking, just to be sure?"

  He probably intended it as a question, but it came out as a direct order.

  "We don't get that much mail here." The young woman forced herself to control her irritation and stare directly into those disconcerting gray eyes. "You have box fourteen, correct?"

  The hunter-killer team leader hesitated a split second, then nodded.

  "Then there's no need to check. I'm absolutely certain there's no mail for you."

  She started to turn away, but a strong, restraining hand suddenly grabbed her arm.

  "The sergeant asked you to check." Wintersole's younger companion glared at her. "I suggest you do that. Now."

  "Take your hand off…!" Karla started to exclaim, when the younger soldier let out a startled yelp and went down on his knees, hard.

  "I believe I heard her say you don't have any mail in this post office. Perhaps you misunderstood that?" Henry Lightstone held the young soldier down on his knees with the painful, single-handed wristlock, but his eyes transfixed Wintersole's.

  "Hey, knock it off, you two, I don't want…!" Karla stepped in fast, but not fast enough.

  The young well-trained soldier relaxed, seemingly giving in to the wristlock. Then, when he sensed the opportunity, he dipped his shoulder, brought his feet around, and started to come up with a knuckle strike to Lightstone's exposed groin.

  But the martial-arts-trained ex-cop had anticipated the move.

  A high-pitched scream immediately masked the sound of crunching wrist bones.

  "Oh, shit!" This time Karla made no effort to disguise her true feelings as she quickly reached into her apron pocket.

  Responding instantly to the enraged look in Wintersole's eyes, Henry Lightstone released the young man's broken wrist and was shifting into a defensive stance when the enclosed room suddenly reverberated with a spine-chilling feral scream.

  Wintersole, already in motion with his hand clenched for a crippling strike, and Lightstone, instinctively set for the block and counterstrike, both turned.

  "SASHA! NO! TO ME, NOW!"

  The cat was already in mid-lunge, her hind legs driving her claw-extended forepaws within striking range of the two blurry targets, when the familiar, reassuring, and commanding tones of the woman's voice caused her to abort her lethal charge. She twisted midair, sprang in the direction of the woman's voice, and then — once she made physical contact with her queen — spun toward the others with bared teeth and let out a defiant, rafter-shaking roar.

  "Don't move, any of you!" the woman spit out angrily.

  She needn't have bothered. All three men were frozen in place.

  "Just stay where you are, all of you," the woman ordered again, her eyes blazed with fury as she slowly dropped her right hand — the one clutching the small transmitter — to her side. "I'm taking her out of here."

  The young soldier, shaken by his eye-level view of imminent and savage death, remained on his knees while the woman and the cat disappeared into the inn. But Lightstone and Wintersole automatically moved apart, even though both of them still mentally reeled from the shock.

  Lightstone recovered first.

  "I'm terribly sorry," he apologized, turning to face the man he immediately — and instinctively — recognized as a trained and experienced killer. "I had no business interfering. I thought — "

  The sound of Henry Lightstone's voice appeared to snap Wintersole out of his trance. He looked down and saw that his left hand tightly clenched the bear-claw necklace. He smiled when he looked at Lightstone with his strange pale eyes.

  "No, it was our fault, entirely our fault." Wintersole briefly glanced down at the injured soldier. "We were expecting a very important letter that involved… a great deal of money. It wasn't her fault — or yours — that it didn't arrive. We
were out of line, and I apologize," he added, as he extended his hand.

  Lightstone accepted the peace offering, immediately aware of the extraordinary, controlled strength in the man's handshake as he did so. Then he looked down at the still-sprawled younger man.

  "I'm really sorry about his wrist." Lightstone shook his head regretfully. "I'll be happy to pay for his medical treatment."

  "That won't be necessary." Wintersole reached down and brought the younger man to his feet. "You're not hurt bad, are you, David?"

  "No sir," the pale-faced young man spoke with surprising calmness under the circumstances.

  Another one just like him. Muscular, trim, short-haired, and intense, but younger and nowhere near as cold… or dangerous, Lightstone decided, surprised to see disciplined obedience in the young man's face rather than anger. Who the hell are these guys? Cops?

  To Lightstone's absolute amazement, the young man extended his uninjured right hand. "My sincere apologies, sir. It was my fault for grabbing the woman. That was inexcusable. You had every right to come to her defense, and I had no call to go at you like that."

  "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.