Killing
Game
by Chandler Steele
SteeleRomance
From the Back Cover
Brannon Hardegree, a Veritas operative and former Army Ranger, finds his undercover assignment increasingly dangerous. After being forced to participate in an armed robbery—or have his deep cover blown—Brannon is ordered to take a portion of the loot on a swamp tour, one headed deep into the Georgia wilderness. There he hopes to “join up” with Quinton Ellers, the leader of a violent anti-government militia who has vowed to “water the tree of liberty” to kick-start the coming revolution. Brannon’s job is to stop Ellers before he has a chance to use his cache of military-grade explosives.
For former Marine Sergeant Caitlyn Landry, just back from Afghanistan, the swamp offers a brief respite from her debilitating flashbacks. When Cait’s former commander, now the owner of the tour operation, is injured in a mysterious car crash, she reluctantly agrees to lead the tour. Still, she knows that her time is running out, that soon she’ll stop fighting the darkness and end the pain.
What begins as a peaceful canoe ride into the swamp quickly becomes a nightmare. When the loot is stolen and the other campers taken hostage, Brannon and Cait are the only ones who can stop Ellers’s murderous plans. To defeat their ruthless enemy, they will need every bit of their courage. To fail is unthinkable, even if it means destroying their one chance for a future together.
“We are all broken . . . that’s how the light gets in.”
– Ernest Hemingway
“The evil that men do lives after them.”
– Wm. Shakespeare (Julius Caesar)
Chapter One
Saturday, April 11th
Jacksonville, Florida
They were waiting for him. The two good old boys near the rusty beige pickup—the one sporting a faded bumper sticker of a U.S. map made of guns—had always been lackadaisical about meeting times, showing up whenever they damned well pleased. But today, they were waiting for him.
Something’s going down.
As Brannon Hardegree pulled his cheap rental car into the parking lot, he swept his eyes over the open area around them. It was early on a Saturday morning, so there were only a few cyclers taking advantage of the Baldwin-Jackson Rail Trail nearby. This lot was empty but for the three of them.
Mason Clarke leaned up against the pickup, his arms crossed and resting on his prominent beer belly. He wore his usual wrinkled shirt, worn jeans, and shitkickers. In his mid-fifties, he had a string of arrests in his past and had been a member of various anti-government groups for over two decades. Right now, he was affiliated with one called New America.
It was the other man, Clarke’s cousin Craig Bettis, who bothered Brannon most. Bettis was in his mid-thirties, hooked on what he cooked. This morning he was amped up like a high-tension wire, constantly on the move, the drug burning out his system, fix by fix. Bettis had all the classic meth-addict markers: rotting gums, skeletal appearance, delusions. He’d be in his grave by summer. The problem was who else Bettis might take with him on that final ride.
Veritas, a private security agency and Brannon’s employer, had been monitoring a series of armed robberies across the South during the last three months. To date, over one million dollars had been stolen, and it looked to have been funneled toward New America, the latest in a growing number of sovereign-citizen militias. New America’s leader, a man named Quinton Ellers, had a long history of anti-government sentiment. Sources within the Department of Homeland Security and the FBI office in Washington, D.C. believed that Ellers had something big planned, something as deadly as the Oklahoma City bombing nearly twenty years earlier.
Which was why Veritas was involved; sometimes it was easier to have a private agency do the legwork before you turned the might of the U.S. government loose. In this case, the FBI’s D.C. office and the DHS were turning a blind eye to Veritas’s operation, which meant Brannon was on his own, at least until he gathered enough intel to interest the feds. In particular, he’d been instructed to remain off the local FBI office’s radar, and so far, he’d done just that.
For nearly a month he’d been undercover as himself, a former Army Ranger, supposedly pissed off at the government and mouthing the expected nauseating rhetoric. Getting these losers to believe he was just as much a racist and anti-Semitic asshole as they were. Did these two finally trust him enough to bring him into the militia? Tell him where all the money from the armed robberies had gone? Was this the day it’d all pay off?
Brannon parked the car, then climbed out, scanning the area again. It was in the low seventies, with a light wind. Typical north Florida day—though right now, it felt anything but.
“Hey guys,” he said, keeping his tone light. He also kept his arms hanging loosely at his side so he could easily reach the Glock in a paddle holster under his shirt.
“About goddamned time you got here,” Bettis said, still jittering around.
“So what’s up? Why we meeting here instead of the bar?”
“Got business to attend to,” Clarke replied, his brows furrowed.
Brannon walked toward them with deliberate steps. He could feel the tension in the air, smell it. “More important than having a brew and banging some babe?”
“Even more important than that.”
Brannon halted about ten feet out from them. Had he been made? He channeled his own tension into hyperawareness, the kind that had kept him alive as an Army Ranger, and beyond. “So what’s this about?” he asked.
“We got a job. We need a third,” Clarke said.
“Doing what?”
“We’re gonna rob an armored truck, Bettis said, grinning. The sight was repulsive.
Maybe I’m further inside this group than I thought. Then he felt that familiar twitch across the back of his neck, the one wired to his survival instincts. The same instincts that had ensured he came back from Afghanistan alive rather than in a flag-draped coffin.
“Armored truck, huh? How much?” he asked.
“Usually three hundred thou per haul,” Clarke replied, watching him carefully. “You in?”
It’s a test. If he declined, they’d think he was a federal agent, and that might buy him a bullet. Brannon’s mind whirled through his options, such as they were. This may be his only chance to burrow deep into the heart of the militia. If he backed away, and they didn’t try to kill him, he might lose weeks of undercover work. But if he went along, he’d be committing a felony. His eyes moved to Clarke’s cousin as the man twitched around. Bettis was unpredictable, and nothing prevented him from killing someone during the robbery.
Dammit. Brannon really had no choice.
“Let’s see,” he began, pasting on a fake grin. “Have a couple cold brews or rack up some serious cash? What do you think my answer would be?”
“You’re in?” Clarke asked, surprised.
“Hell yes, I’m in. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Didn’t figure a war hee-ro like you’d go for this kind of thing.”
Brannon never liked being called a hero. Especially out of this bastard’s mouth. “I need money just like everyone else. So when and where?” he asked.
Once he got the details, he’d let Veritas know. That way the cops would be in position to take them down. Faced with thirty years in prison for armed robbery, maybe these two would roll over on Ellers, reveal whatever plans he had in the works.
Clarke leveraged himself off the truck. It was only then that Brannon saw the gun stuck in the man’s waistband. “We’re going now,” he said. “We got ju
st enough time to get to the third pick up point.”
Now?
“Am I following you to the site?” Brannon asked.
“No.”
So much for calling Veritas and giving them a heads-up. They’d done this on purpose.
Clarke noticed his hesitation. “You changing your mind?” the man asked, his hand closer to his weapon now.
“No. Just didn’t expect it to go down so quick.”
Brannon could take both of these men down now, but then what? So far, they hadn’t committed a crime, at least not one in his presence. With no opportunity to warn anyone, he had no choice but to go along with the heist. He knew that with Bettis flying high—mumbling to himself about the roaches running under his skin now—this whole thing could go south in a heartbeat.
Brannon paused. “So who’s driving? You or me?” He nodded toward the meth head. “Sure as hell isn’t gonna be crazy pants over there.”
Clarke frowned. “I’ll drive. Once it’s done, we’ll come back here.”
“And then?”
“Then we’re all golden.”
The hell we are.
*~*~*
As an Army Ranger, Brannon had a decade’s worth of missions under his belt, missions planned and executed with a precision that bordered on obsession. That’s what gained you success, and a chance to keep breathing.
Clarke had a plan as well, one fairly well thought out, if not a bit amateur: They’d wait until the armored truck parked in the liquor store parking lot, and when the guard came out with the cash, they’d ambush him, grab the money, and run. Every plan had a flaw, and this one was Bettis.
As they waited at the edge of the parking lot, on foot, the doper quickly began to unravel, his movements increasingly erratic, his head swiveling around like a hyperactive owl. He kept touching his gun under his shirt. Any little noise made him jump.
“Get him on a leash,” Brannon warned. “I’m not doing hard time because of some damned meth head.”
Clarke glowered at him, then sighed because Brannon was right. “Craig, you with us now?” The man nodded five times more than necessary.
God help me, he’s going to blow.
The door to the liquor store opened and the guard exited. The plan had been for the three of them to walk casually across the lot and surround the man. But even before Clarke gave the order for them to move, Bettis took off across the pavement. Shouting obscenities, he grabbed the guard before he could react, and forced him to his knees.
“Shit, I’m going to do him right here. I’m going to kill the fucker,” Bettis cried.
As he shouted, a woman exited from her car, talking on her phone. The instant she took in the scene, she screamed. Bettis shifted his gun in her direction. “Shut up, bitch!” he shouted. “Shut up!”
Brannon sprinted across the lot and slapped Bettis’s hand down before he could take the shot. “Get the hell out of here!”
“No, I’m gonna do him,” he said, raising the weapon in line with the back of the guard’s skull. The man’s eyes grew wide as he trembled in fear.
“No! Let’s go!” Clarke called out, grabbing the bag full of cash where it had fallen on the pavement. “Go!”
Brannon shoved Bettis away, this time extracting the gun from his grip. The fool tried to fight him, but lost.
“Run!” Clarke bellowed.
Swearing, Bettis finally got a clue and ran across the lot, right behind his cousin.
“Don’t kill me, please don’t kill me,” the guard begged, shaking so hard it was difficult to understand him.
“It’s not your day to die, man,” Brannon said, then took off at a jog.
He heard a shout as the guard inside the truck broke company rules to come to his buddy’s rescue. Bullets impacted the fence near him, and he picked up speed. Once they finally reached the truck, Brannon’s temper blew. He shoved Bettis up against the vehicle.
“What the fuck were you doing?” he demanded.
“I was going to kill that spook!” Bettis said. “You stopped me! Why’d you do that?”
“Shut the hell up!” Clarke bellowed. “Let’s get out of here.”
Brannon muscled the doper inside the cab, and the engine roared to life. As they drove out of town, Bettis continued to fidget, laughing and making shooting noises. Brannon glared out the window while his guts churned.
Jesus, what have I gotten myself into?
Bottom line? He was facing a long prison sentence if his boss couldn’t pull a few strings and get the charges dropped. Crispin Wilder would go to bat for him, there was no doubt of that, but it all depended on whether someone at the DHS or FBI was willing to play nice. If Brannon couldn’t deliver more than a couple of low-level militia members, he was history. All his years in the Rangers would have been for nothing.
I have to get deeper inside the group. No matter the cost.
As soon as they reached the bike trail, and his car, Brannon hopped out of the truck, his anger down to a slow burn now. If they hadn’t been extremely lucky, there’d have been bodies all over that parking lot.
“Next time, lose this damned fool,” he said, jabbing a finger at Bettis. “I don’t work with dope heads.”
“Not your call,” Clarke argued. “My cousin goes where I go.”
“Then you’re both headed to prison, or the grave.”
Bettis’s high had finally wound down. He crawled out of the truck and settled on the gravel. Humming tunelessly to himself, he pulled out the straps of cash from the bag and played with them like they were building blocks, stacking them, then knocking them over.
“God,” Brannon muttered. He frowned over at Clarke. “Give me my cut. I want out of here. I got a beer calling my name.”
Clarke ignored him, pulled out his phone and punched in a number. His posture straightened the moment the call went through.
“Sir, it’s Clarke.” A pause. “Yes, sir, he did.” The man’s eyes tracked to Brannon now. “You sure you want to do that?” The voice on the other end of the phone grew louder. “No, sir. Sorry, sir. I’ll tell him.”
Sir? Could he be talking to Quinton Ellers?
The call ended and Clarke shook his head in resignation. “Word is you need to stick around until I get further orders.”
“Word from who?”
“Commander Ellers.”
It appeared that Brannon had just taken one big step closer to his goal.
When he didn’t reply, Clarke continued, “You said you wanted to help us make this country better, right?” Brannon nodded. “Then you have to learn how to take orders.”
“So my time as an Army Ranger counts for nothing?”
“That’s the government’s army, not ours. I’ll call you when it’s all put together. Until then, stay in town and keep your phone on.”
“If you’re just messing with me . . . ”
“I’m not. You rat us out to the cops, you’re going down for a very long time. And we got people on the inside who will shiv you the moment you turn your back.”
“Is that what this was all about? Insurance? What if I hadn’t gone along with the robbery?”
“Then you would have gone missing, just like that other guy,” Bettis said, smiling up at him as he dug grimy nails into his arm, drawing blood.
Brannon tensed. “What other guy?”
“FBI agent,” Clarke replied. “He was trying to play us, but we figured him out. He’s history now.”
“Dead?” Clarke nodded. “What did you do with the body?”
“It’s not anywhere it’s gonna be found.”
No one had mentioned a missing agent during Brannon’s mission briefing, which meant that bit of news had been kept so quiet, even Veritas couldn’t sniff it out.
“When was this?” he asked.
“A couple days a
fter we met up with you at the bar.”
Hell. Would the FBI believe he’d had something to do with the death of one of their own? If they did, he’d have zero chance of walking away from all this.
Clarke squatted down near his cousin, counted out the cash, then tossed it at Brannon’s feet. The brown currency straps around the cash indicated that each strap held fifty-dollar bills.
“You need to deliver this when I give you the word.”
Brannon stared down at the cash, doing a quick count. If his questimate was correct, there had to be at least forty or fifty thousand dollars. Why is he giving me this?
“Deliver it where?” Brannon asked.
“Go buy yourself some camping gear, and keep your head down. I’ll call you when I have all the details.” He looked at the stacks of money at Brannon’s feet. “You take off and we’ll find you. We’ll hunt you forever. You got that?”
“I’ll hang around. I’d like to meet the commander. It’s time to take back our country from all these pissy-assed libtards who keep fucking things up,” Brannon replied, coughing up the party line and nearly choking on it. “Time to make things right again.”
“I told you he’s no fed,” Bettis insisted, grinning like a fool.
“Time will tell.” Clarke spat on the ground, his eyes narrowed. “Time will tell.”
Chapter Two
After returning to his two-star hotel room and checking it for bugs of the electronic kind, Brannon called Veritas. The call lasted twenty minutes, and none of it was pleasant. There was no good way to tell your employer that you were now a felon, and that crime had happened on their watch. While the bad news percolated up the command chain to his boss, Brannon headed to the closest big-box store to buy camping gear.
As he shopped in the sporting-goods department, he grumbled under his breath. He had all this at home, and in much higher quality, but that was at the cabin in Kentucky. At least he’d brought his own rucksack and duffle bag on the mission. Where the hell are they sending me?
As Brannon rolled his cart toward the front of the store, he spied a man following him, and doing a piss-poor job of it. Which meant the guy was either incompetent, or he wanted Brannon to know he was there. Probably a bit of both. After he’d counted the cash, he wasn’t surprised: Clarke had given him fifty thousand dollars, currently stashed in the rucksack on his back until he could find a place to hide it in the hotel room. This was yet another test, and one that could easily bite him in the ass.
Killing Game (Veritas Book 2) Page 1
