by Ken Goddard
"And we did pretty much destroy Bobby's boat out there in the Bahamas, Henry," Mike Takahara pointed out. "So Bobby, and probably Susan, too — you have to figure they were in on it together — tag-team you onto this Sage character, who links you up to this post-office seductress with the big cat… or was it a little cat with the big claws?"
"Which, in any case, probably made it real easy to rig a confrontation scene with Henry and this military character, since — knowing our buddy here — he might as well have been wearing the lady's scarf on the end of his lance." Larry Paxton smiled in satisfaction.
"Nicely put," Dwight Stoner commented.
"Thank you."
"I don't understand…" Thomas Woeshack turned to Mike Takahara, looking confused again.
"Knights of the Round Table analogy, Thomas," Mike Takahara explained. "Henry happens to be cursed with a white-knight complex. Can't resist rescuing the fair maiden, no matter how many fire-breathing dragons come popping out of the woodwork. It's a genetic defect. I'll explain it to you later," the tech agent promised.
"You know, we could be stretching ourselves a little too far on this Halahan-scam business," Henry Lightstone cautioned.
"But think about how they'd work it, Henry," Paxton argued. "They set it up so you trip across these military characters at the restaurant, you follow them and spot their surveillance, you warn us, we notify Halahan, he tells us to stand by — let Charlie Team handle things themselves — we ignore him like we usually do, ride to the rescue…"
"Hey, their side even gets a fair maiden too — Natasha!" Thomas Woeshack interrupted, grinning widely. "I'll bet she'll be surprised when Henry rides in wearing the witch's scarf on his lance!"
"Yeah, that's putting it mildly," Stoner chuckled.
"… and we find ourselves surrounded by video cameras and up to our butts in red smoke when the referees — presumably Halahan and Moore — set off all the MTEARs they've probably been tagging us with ever since we landed in Medford," Paxton finished after giving the team's Eskimo agent/pilot a sadly sympathetic look.
"You've got to admit, Henry, the whole thing tracks real nice," Mike Takahara added.
"Yeah, I know… it sounds good, it really does. But for Christ's sake, I broke that guy's wrist!" Lightstone continued to look perplexed in spite of the other's comments. "I know I did. I heard it snap. And the other one — that pale-eyed guy the kid called Sergeant — is definitely a dangerous s.o.b. I can tell you that much for sure, whoever or whatever else he may be."
"Okay, so these particular militants are tougher than the average bear." Larry Paxton shrugged indifferently. "You telling me Halahan couldn't get his hands on a team of marines out of Quantico, or even some Army Rangers out of Fort Bragg? Guys who wouldn't think any more about a broken wrist than you would a sprained toe?"
"The FBI's Hostage Rescue Team trains at Quantico," Mike Takahara reminded Henry. "And I hear they hire a lot of those guys straight out of the military. Halahan would know that… and a training scenario like this would be right down their alley, too."
"There you go." Paxton nodded his head in satisfaction.
"But what if we're wrong?" Lightstone pressed, still not fully convinced.
"You mean what if Charlie Team really is being tagged by a bunch of hard-as-nails characters, for whatever reason, and they don't know it?" Paxton asked.
Lightstone nodded his head.
The Bravo Team leader paused for a moment. "Then they could be in deep shit."
"Exactly."
"So what can we do to make sure… before we go turn things around on Halahan and Moore again?" Stoner asked.
"I think — at a minimum — we have to report what I saw." Lightstone looked over at Paxton for confirmation. "How could we word it? In the process of making contact with subjects linked to suspect Sage, special agent Lightstone observed members of Charlie Team in the area of Jasper County, Oregon, under active surveillance by individuals who appear to have military backgrounds. Request further instructions."
Larry Paxton stared pensively at the floor for a few seconds. Then he nodded his head and consulted his watch. "Henry's right. We've got to be sure. But it's two o'clock now, which makes it five o'clock East Coast time on a Friday night."
"No problem. Halahan and Moore both wear beepers," Mike Takahara reminded.
"Yeah, but for emergency messages only." Paxton scrutinized his troops carefully. "The question is, do we really have an emergency here? Or just a situation?"
"If that surveillance is for real, I sure wouldn't want those guys following me for very long," Lightstone announced firmly, then hesitated. "But as far as an emergency goes, I guess I can't say they did anything especially threatening… outside of leaving that MTEAR device on my truck."
"Which could have been put there by someone from Charlie Team just as easily," Mike Takahara reminded him. "Donato, LiBrandi, and Marashenko are all tech-trained. Fact of the matter is, for all we know, they could've put those things on your truck right after you rented it."
"That's a point," Lightstone agreed.
"So how do we go about reporting all of this to Halahan in a timely manner, without making it sound like we're panicking out here?" Larry Paxton asked his team.
"I can send an e-mail message to Freddy — to the office and to his home computer — along with a couple of 'tell dad to check his e-mail' notes to his son and daughter," Mike Takahara suggested. "I know he spends a lot of time with his kids on the Net. Probably at least one of them will be on-line this evening, and he'll get the message within the next three to four hours. Worst-case scenario is he doesn't get it until he gets to work Monday."
Paxton nodded his head. "Okay, do it, then keep an eye out for any return mail this evening. I really want to see what Freddy has to say about all this."
"No problem. I'll set up an audio alarm so the computer beeps us if we get any incoming messages," the tech agent proposed as he reached for his nearby computer case.
"In the meantime" — Henry Lightstone rubbed his sore arm distractedly — "I've got an idea how we just might be able to find out what's going on around here."
"Yeah? What's that?" Paxton demanded.
"What's the first thing they teach covert agents to do on a new assignment?"
"Check in with the local resident agent," Thomas Woeshack responded immediately.
"You think those characters on Charlie Team would actually do something like that?" Dwight Stoner asked skeptically.
"Oh hell, yes. Rookie agents are like that." Larry Paxton smiled cheerfully and turned to Mike Takahara, who was busy hooking up the modem line to the back of his notebook computer.
"Mike, who's the closest resident agent in southern Oregon?"
"Just a second."
Thirty seconds later, Takahara looked up from his screen. "Looks like Wilbur Boggs."
"Good old Wilbur. The terror of the Chesapeake Bay when he was a young agent. I remember hearing he'd gotten transferred out to Oregon. Pissed off more duck-poaching congressmen than…"
A startled look suddenly appeared on Larry Paxton's face. Then he looked around at his fellow agents. "You guys thinking what I'm thinking?"
"Oh yeah," Henry Lightstone murmured softly, his eyes lighting up with amusement as he and Stoner and Takahara all nodded their heads. "Halahan, Moore, Charlie Team, Glynco, Bobby, Susan, the soothsayer, the witch-lady… and now good old Wilbur. One big happy game-playing family."
"You mean they're all working together to set us up?" Thomas Woeshack asked. "Wilbur Boggs, too?"
"It sure does look that way." Lightstone shook his head slowly, trying to ignore the apprehension that continued to plague him as the pieces of the puzzle apparently fell into place. "One big game, and we're the target."
"You mean we were the target," Dwight Stoner corrected him.
"Exactly." Larry Paxton smiled again. "So where do we find Special Agent Wilbur Boggs these days?"
"You'll love this part," the tech agent pred
icted.
"What?"
"If I remember my map correctly, we're about twenty minutes from his office right now."
Chapter Thirty-five
Awareness, when it came to Wilbur Boggs again, freed him from the stupor that enveloped him like a dank, impenetrable cloud.
The vague feelings of fighting the ropes and nets, struggling in the darkness, or trying to work himself free of obstructions trying to cover his nose and mouth vanished.
Instead, he awoke to a sense of freedom, and brightness, and general well-being marred only by the persistent dryness in his throat, the gentle numbness that didn't quite mask the pain which emanated from several parts of his body, and most unsettling of all, the confusion regarding where he was… and why.
Because of this, it took the federal wildlife agent several long moments finally to understand that the wires and tubes attached to his arms probably signified something important.
Monitors? IVs? Bright lights. Must be in a hospital. No wonder everything feels numb. Probably giving me drugs.
In that case, he decided, in order to figure out what happened, he needed to stop the mind-numbing flow.
Accordingly, Wilbur Boggs carefully reached around with his left hand — for some reason his right hand felt heavy and immobile — followed the thin plastic tubing with his numbed fingers until it ended under a strip of medical tape attached to the inner elbow of his right arm, peeled up the tape, then slowly pulled the IV needle out of his arm.
For reasons he couldn't quite grasp, he'd expected alarms to go off, and people to come running… and felt momentarily confused when nothing happened.
Supposed to happen, because that's what always happens on TV, he finally managed to reason out, but with no idea why that bit of knowledge might be important, much less true. But they wouldn't need to rig any kind of alarm on the IV, because they've already got me connected to at least four or five other electronic doodads and that big monitor over there… with the big ON/OFF switch… right next to the bed. Ah.
Special Agent Wilbur Boggs slowly sat up with his legs dangling over the side of the bed, after finally deciding it might be a good idea to make sure he was more or less okay before he disconnected himself from the monitor. However, then his tongue felt an unfamiliar empty space in his mouth.
What the hell happened to my front teeth?
He brought his right hand up to feel for his missing teeth — and saw the cast on his right hand for the first time. When he did, the memories began to trickle into his head.
Boat.
My boat.
All tangled up and broken, goddamn it, because they…
They?
His eyes grew wide as he continued staring at the thick plaster cast on his right hand. What the hell…?
Rustman.
Whatley.
And Smallsreed. That goddamned sleazy…
Wait a minute. Sleazy what? Congressman? No, something else.
Sleazy bagman. That's it. Political bagman, guy named Simon Whatley. Smallsreed's man. Him and who? The new guy Eliot said scared the shit out of everybody at Rustman's place?
Eliot? Who's that?
Something about Eliot's name made Boggs feel anxious.
Oh yeah, that's right.
Got to tell them about Lou Eliot.
The memories came faster now.
Gotta warn them.
Them? Who's 'them'? And why do I have to…?
And then the flood gates opened, and the entire day's events surged through the agent's dazed mind.
Shots fired.
Two shots, far apart, execution style.
Gotta warn them. Tell them about Lou Eliot… he never showed up.. and the new guy. The one Eliot was afraid of. Sergeant somebody.
Somebody cold and empty, just like win -
Wintersole.
Sergeant Wintersole.
He knew he had it now — almost within his grasp — and Wintersole was the key. If he could just get a focus on that last murky element drifting around in the back of his mind. Something about help. Needing help. Calling for…
Was that it? Calling for help?
No.
He felt a cold chill start up his spine.
He didn't have to call for help because… why?
Because help was already coming.
That's right. They're already on their way, thanks to good old Halahan. Goddamned stubborn Irishman. He'll take care of everything.
But…
But what?
Got to warn them. Gotta tell… Charley?
He blinked again, then immediately felt dizzy and sick to his stomach as the spine-chilling awareness hit home.
Charlie Team. The kids. Oh Christ.
Boggs fumbled for the phone on the monitor table, but he immediately gave that idea up when he realized he couldn't remember a single phone number. Not a one. He thought about asking someone for a phone book, but the door to his room was almost shut, and he didn't feel strong enough to yell. Instead, he simply reached over, shut the monitor off, ripped the rest of the electronic sensors off his head and arms, then staggered to the nearby closet.
And discovered, to his amazement, nothing but a pair of white hospital pajamas, a white bathrobe, and a pair of flat cloth slippers.
Wait a minute. What happened to my clothes?
He tried to remember how he'd wound up there, but the only memory he could dredge up out of his aching head had something to do with crawling toward his truck on his hands and knees, which didn't make any sense at all.
So lacking a better plan, Wilbur Boggs pulled himself out of the open-backed hospital gown, worked himself into the pajamas, robe, and slippers — trying, as he did so, to ignore the cast on his hand — re-taped the IV needle to his arm, and then did what he vaguely remembered seeing someone do on TV.
He got up and staggered out the door of his room and into the wide hallway, dragging the IV rack in his wake.
Incredibly, he made it all the way to the lobby, and then through the wide automatic door and across the covered entryway before anyone reacted to his presence — and appearance — with anything other than a brief, professional smile.
"Mr. Boggs?"
Wilbur Boggs blinked in the unaccustomed daylight.
"That's right," he replied in a raspy voice, trying to remember if the muscular yet attractive young woman standing in front of him was his nurse.
"Are you going somewhere?" she asked hesitantly.
"My office," he mumbled, wondering if he could muster the strength to shove her aside and make a run for it, or find a taxi before she called the security guards to drag him back to his room.
No, probably not, he told himself glumly.
"Oh really?" The young woman smiled. "Do you have a ride?" He looked around the entryway. Except for a single truck parked at the far end of the driveway, it was empty.
"Uh, no, I guess not."
"Well then," she beamed at him, "may I offer you one?"
Chapter Thirty-six
Mike Takahara had based his time estimate for locating Wilbur Boggs on rough distance and the clearly marked speed zones through town, rather than the speed and mobility of the small Honda.
And the uneasy determination of Henry Lightstone.
Consequently, it took Lightstone five minutes less than the tech agent's estimate to find Boggs's office. But he then spent another ten slowly circling a four-block area — until he felt reasonably certain he hadn't been followed — before he risked entering the small office building through a door that opened into the back alleyway.
It took him another five minutes to properly identify himself as a federal agent of the United States Fish and Wildlife Service, and get the relevant information out of Boggs's secretary. No, she hadn't seen Wilbur since last Tuesday. Yes, she was worried, but she felt confident that the other agents who also were looking for Wilbur would find him soon. The names of the other agents? She paused for a moment to scan her notebook. Oh, yes. Gus Donato, Mar
k LiBrandi, and a young woman agent whose name escaped her at the moment.
Gus Donato, Mark LiBrandi, and Natasha Marashenko. Henry Lightstone smiled to himself. The offensive players of Charlie Team, scene two, sleazy congressman and bagman try to make a deal.
Bingo.
Fifteen minutes later, using directions provided by Boggs's eager-to-help secretary, followed by a good half-hour spent on the back-track, searching for any sign of an active or passive surveillance, Lightstone stood in the covered carport next to the resident wildlife agent's home, wondering what out-of-place element had triggered his mental alarms.
He'd done the standard things first. Rang the doorbell, and received no response. Then he carefully examined all the doors and windows — house and garage — and found everything securely locked with no sign of forced entry. A cursory search of the yard led him next to the carport, where he'd stood studying the backed-in pickup truck and boat trailer for a good two minutes now.
Then it finally hit him.
The boat trailer.
It was still attached to the truck.
And not just the bumper hitch, but the safety chains, trailer brakes, and electrical hookup, too.
Not an unusual situation if you planned to go on a trip, or left everything hooked up for a quick run out to the lake; but hardly the way a wildlife agent would leave his personal truck and trailer when working twelve-hour patrol duty shifts with a government truck and trailer. Lightstone moved in closer… and then immediately went on the alert when he saw the blood splatters on the boat's windshield.
What had Boggs's secretary said? Something about the other agents checking Boggs's home every evening?
Which made as much sense as anything else, he decided as he cautiously moved to the rear of the carport — where the back of the boat trailer nudged the back wall — because if Mark or Gus or Natasha had checked the house during the day, at least one of them should have noticed the blood splatters on the windshield… or at the very least, the damage to the back of Boggs's boat.
Pretty hard to miss, guys, even in the middle of the night, Lightstone thought as he knelt and surveyed the external damage sustained by the small watercraft.
