As was her custom, she would bring up the rear of the group until she reached the point where she’d head off on her own deep into the swamp. Mike insisted she check in with him every day via cell phone or satellite phone, and though it grated, she was willing to accept that stipulation. He knew she could handle almost everything, but having a lifeline back to civilization was wise.
If she was lucky, this trip would buy her another month or so of sanity. Deep down, she knew that one of these days, even nature wouldn’t have the power to save her. That would be the day the war claimed yet another victim.
*~*~*
Brannon parked his rental car near the tour office, next to an old red Jeep with Florida license plates. It was dented and had a bit of rust, but the tires looked new, which seemed an odd combination. He’d spent most of his time trying not to worry, especially when he was getting closer to his goal. To chill, he had taken a five-mile run, worked out, then gone kayaking. The exercise had helped, but he’d still remained on edge. Time spent on the militia boards hadn’t given him any insights into Ellers’s plans either.
The call finally came in late Sunday night, during which Clarke had been short and to the point: Brannon was to head to Georgia the next morning and be at this particular location in time to take a swamp tour at noon. Everything else had been taken care of. During that tour, he’d be contacted and the money would change hands. When Brannon had tried to gain an assurance he’d be meeting Ellers, he had been told to just follow orders and it’d all work out.
As he’d driven north from Jacksonville, the armored truck robbery was still on the news, though so far his name hadn’t been connected with it. His mother would be appalled if she ever learned her eldest son was a criminal, even in the pursuit of justice. Still, to Ellers and his cronies, Brannon was the perfect recruit, an anarchist leader’s wet dream: a former Army Ranger who was a pro with explosives and had experience as a sniper. Both of those skills could easily be turned against a government that the “sovereign citizen” types hated.
There were a number of right-wing militant groups, including those associated with Posse Comitatus, a movement that believed no law-enforcement official above the rank of sheriff was legitimate. To show their defiance, they often refused to file income taxes or obey federal laws. Some even printed their own driver’s licenses. Others were affiliated with the League of the South, a white supremacist group, or the Christian Identity movement, which held that Jews ran the financial institutions and were working with Satan to destroy civilization.
When these people decided to break the law, they were usually heavily armed and had the capacity to inflict maximum body count. No matter their beef with the government, in Brannon’s mind, these guys weren’t any different than the Taliban or Al Qaeda, and he’d had plenty of experience dealing with those bastards. Now that he was out of the Army, it was time to use his expertise and do some much-needed housekeeping stateside. If he’d wanted armed insurgents roaming the streets, he would have stayed in Fallujah.
As he turned off the car, his cell phone rang. “Hardegree.”
“It’s Sanjay. I’ve got mixed news,” Veritas’s chief data analyst replied, his Mumbai accent clipped.
Sanjay was one of the go-to folks for information and often served as the point of contact for those currently on a mission. If the intel was on the Internet or tucked away in some computer database, he would eventually find it. It was like a cyber game of hide-and-seek to him, and he was incredibly good at it.
“The FBI is going ballistic because of the robbery,” Sanjay continued. “Best you complete this mission before they figure out you were part of it, because our boss isn’t sure he’ll be able to shield you if you’re arrested. His contact in the D.C. Bureau office has suddenly grown skittish about our involvement.”
“Affirmative,” Brannon said. Dammit.
“We finished the background check on the tour operator you’ll be meeting today. Mike Montgomery is a former Marine with an excellent service record. He’s married, three adult kids, has been conducting the tours since he retired two years ago. Financials are solid.”
“Any sympathies with anti-government groups?”
“Not that we can find. His assistant, Preston Taylor, isn’t as clean. He’s spent some time on a few of the sovereign citizen forums. Mostly, he comes across as a wannabe. Lots of talk, no action.”
“Let’s hope he stays that way.”
“Montgomery conducts his registrations by snail mail, not online. It really screws up what intel I can get for you up front.”
Brannon grinned at the annoyance in Sanjay’s voice because it was a rare thing. “Sounds like the man is a Luddite, or paranoid.”
“Probably a bit of both. If you can get me pictures of the campers, I’ll run facial-recognition software, try to figure out who is who.”
“Consider it done.”
“How often do you intend to check in?” Sanjay asked.
“Every ten to twelve hours, provided I have phone service. You don’t hear from me after twenty-four, something’s wrong.”
“Good. We’ll monitor the tracking chip.”
“At least you’ll know where to send the body-retrieval team.”
“Let’s not joke like that, okay? You may be the Lone Ranger, but we’re here to back you up.”
Brannon rolled his eyes at the nickname. Everyone who went out on missions had one. Well, except Crispin Wilder, the head of Veritas. No one had the balls to call him anything but “sir” or “boss.” It was never smart to jack around with a former international arms-dealer.
“How’s Iceman doing?” Brannon asked. One of his fellow operatives had been on an undercover mission in South America.
“He’s good, headed back to the States. He’s your backup if things go bad.”
“That works for me.” Brannon was originally going to be lead on the South American mission, but the plans hadn’t worked out right. Now he knew he was where he needed to be. “Let them know I hope to bring home the goods soon.”
“I will. Keep safe.”
“Always. Thanks, Sanjay.”
The moment Brannon stepped out of the car, his back twinged. Stretching his arms over his head, he heard a satisfying pop. It sucked to be an “old man.” At least that’s what some of his fellow Rangers had called him, ribbing him about being the graybeard on the team. As if thirty-two was old.
Sometimes it feels that way.
It was only after his thirtieth birthday that he began to be aware of the passage of time. Before that, he’d been focused only on the missions and the “downtime” in between. Something had shifted, and it made him pensive.
Once his back cooperated, he gave a slow look around, checking out the scenery. The smell of the swamp immediately filled his nose, but he didn’t find it unpleasant. Earthy maybe, but not bad. The vegetation was shrugging off a chilly winter, enthusiastically embracing the warmer temperatures. At least it wasn’t full-on bug season yet or he already would have been bitten to death. In the distance, he could see Spanish moss hanging from sprawling oaks and bald cypress trees, hear the lazy calls of waterfowl. Overhead an egret winged by. In any other circumstances, he’d love to spend time here, just enjoying nature, but this mission was too critical. Especially now that his future hung in the balance.
Brannon stowed away his phone and grabbed his rucksack from the passenger seat. Despite the extra couple of pounds the money added, the ruck felt light in comparison to the seventy-five-plus pounds he’d carried on his Ranger missions.
Once the car was locked, he set off for the building. As he passed the rear end of the Jeep, he spied a Marine Corps bumper sticker—the signature eagle, globe, and anchor. Probably Montgomery’s car.
The tour office was a nondescript structure, weathered, but the roof was in good shape, indicating someone had spent money on the place. He thought it
a curious business venture for a retired Marine, but then you had to do something when you reached your “twenty and out.” It was better than sitting at home or comparing war wounds with your buddies down at the VFW.
A knot of people stood on the building’s porch, unevenly split between the sexes: two females, four males. One of the females appeared to be in her late teens, with pale-blond hair slashed with a thick streak of blue. Tall and thin, she was accompanied by a young man of the same age. His hair was less outlandish, just everyday brown, a little on the short side.
The other woman was older, prettier, probably in her early thirties. Her light-brown hair was pulled up in a messy bun, and she wore shorts and a pink T-shirt. The remaining men were nothing out of the ordinary, and Brannon guessed at least one of them had a desk job, if the guy’s spreading middle was any indication. Any one of these people might be his militia contact, the person who would lead him deep inside the organization. With a heavy sigh, he put on his happy tourist face and joined them.
Chapter Four
Cait had avoided the group and headed directly to the dock to check over her canoe in preparation for the trip. Mike kept an eye on it when she was gone, and as usual, it had its cover on. She stripped it off and was pleased to see the canoe looked in good shape.
Her phone rang. “Landry,” she said.
“It’s Kia. We’ve got a problem.”
Cait looked back at the tour office and realized Mike wasn’t around. As the tour operator, he usually went out of his way to make the campers feel welcome, ease their nerves. “What’s up?”
“We got in an accident this morning on the way to the office. We’re at the hospital now. Mike needs surgery and—” There was a pause. “Hold on. He wants to talk to you.”
“Landry?” a gruff voice called out.
“Colonel.” It was impossible not to refer to his rank. “What’s going on?”
“It’s all fucked up,” he said. “Can you believe it? I busted up my leg in some goddamned car accident.”
If he was swearing, he was fine; for Mike, cursing was like breathing. Cait began mentally editing out those particular words. Because if she didn’t, her own curse rate went up dramatically, something her mother would not tolerate, despite being married to an Army major. Cait’s expletives had earned her more than one lecture at the dinner table, even after she’d left the Marines.
“Is Kia okay?” she asked.
“Just a few bruises. She got lucky.”
“So what happened? Did you hit a deer or something?” she asked.
“No. The brakes failed, and I just had the car serviced last week. The problem is that I have a full tour today.”
“I’m sure your assistant can handle it.”
“Yeah, but I don’t want Preston to handle it. I want you to lead the tour.”
“What?” she blurted.
“You heard me.”
“I—”
“Sergeant, I need you to keep those folks safe.”
He was pulling rank. “You know I’m not in a good place right now.”
“What I know is that you’re not accepting the fact that you’re no different than any other damned soldier who’s seen action. That you have bad shit in your head that’s doing a number on you. I get that, but you need to SITFU.”
Suck it the fuck up.
“Mike . . . ” she said. There were voices in the background now.
“Do this for me, Cait. You owe me.”
He’d never thrown a guilt card like that before, not in all the years they’d served together. “What’s really going on?” The noises increased, then ended. “Hello?” Cait called out.
“They took him back to surgery,” Kia said.
“How bad is it?”
“Two fractures in the right leg, both real nasty. They’re going to put in some pins.”
“Damn.” Cait hesitated. “I owe him everything, but I can’t handle the tour right now.” I can’t handle me, let alone anyone else.
“I know you’re in rough shape, but there’s a reason Mike wants you out there. In the last few months, there’s been increased activity in certain parts of the swamp. More boats, for one. Mike thought it was because it was spring, more tourists, but now he’s not so sure. There’ve been rumors of people camping out on some of the remote islands.”
“Like me?”
“You’re not running guns, Cait.”
“What? He has proof of that?”
“No, but Mike met up with a couple guys in a Jon boat who didn’t act right. They didn’t have any fishing poles or cameras, and when he tried to talk to them, they blew him off. There was a big wooden box in the bottom of the boat. Mike said it reminded him of what you’d use to ship AR-15’s.”
“Not dissing him, but that’s a stretch. Somebody would have to be crazy to bring unauthorized weapons into a national wildlife area.”
“He knows that, but he says something feels wrong and that’s why he wants you on the tour. His sixth sense has kicked in. You know what that’s like.”
Damn. Her former commander’s instincts were why Cait was still above ground, or not a prisoner of Al Qaeda. She took a shaky breath. Could she handle it?
Before she could reply, Kia added, “I know what it’s like for you. I was there when Mike was going through it. He’s better now. You’ll get there too someday.”
So you all keep telling me.
“We have no one else we can trust,” she added. “It has to be you.”
“Why not Preston? He knows what he’s doing.”
“He’s not a Marine.”
Which meant Mike thought those skills would be needed. Now Cait really had no choice. “Okay, I’ll do it. But just this once.”
“Thank you,” Kia said, not bothering to hide her relief. “I’ll call Preston and explain the situation. You met him before?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Oh, okay. He only comes along when the tours are full. Where are you now?”
“I’m at the boat dock.”
“After I give him the news, I’ll send Pres down to talk to you. Don’t be surprised if he’s way pissed. Please be very careful,” Kia added.
Cait ended the call, her hands shaking. She took a series of calming breaths, which failed.
I can’t do this. I can’t do this. I can’t do this. But she had no choice. She owed Mike her life. Six days. Just six days. Then Cait was going off grid for a long time. Maybe she’d never come back.
*~*~*
Brannon had assumed his role with ease. He’d claimed to work in a lawyer’s office—that part was easy as his dad was an attorney, so he knew the lingo—and that he was from Florida. Also the truth. It was easier to keep track of your cover story if part of it was based on reality. If someone went digging, they would find information that matched what he’d told them, though his work with Veritas would not be public knowledge.
The others in the group were a mixed lot: an Atlanta real estate secretary named Susan Townsend; a teenaged couple, James Gray and Patti Irwin; Bill Adams, an author; and Keith Rockwell, a professional photographer.
Not one of them struck his “you don’t feel real” meter. Which meant they were what they claimed, or someone was as adept at being undercover as he was. None of them had seen the tour operator, though it was nearing noon. That had provoked some concern.
The door to the office opened and a man in his mid-forties exited. Sanjay’s research bio pegged this guy as Preston Taylor, the assistant guide. Instead of greeting them, he plowed right through the group and then down the stairs. Looking around, he spied a woman near the dock and set off to intersect her.
“Is that our guide?” Rockwell asked.
“No, I think he’s the assistant,” the author replied. “I saw his picture on their website.”
When
Preston intercepted the woman, he gestured animatedly. She appeared about Brannon’s age, probably five foot eight or so. She obviously worked out, the subtle curve of her arms showing muscles, and her tan indicated she was not a cube dweller. Her ash-blond hair was caught up in a ponytail and threaded through the back of a baseball cap. He guessed it would reach just past her shoulders if unbound. She wore khaki green, both T-shirt and pants. The edge of a Blackwork tattoo peeked out from the right sleeve of the shirt. But it was her boots that made him pause; they were military issue, her pants properly tucked and bloused. He’d done the same in the Rangers, mostly to keep out the sand flies. In fact, his were the same today.
Brannon checked her over again, more critically this time. The woman’s posture was ramrod straight; the way she balanced her weight, telling. He’d bet a month’s pay she was either on leave, or ex-military. Was she part of Ellers’s team, his contact to guide him to the militia leader? From the woman’s expression, he could tell she was growing irritated with Preston, who continued to wave his arms around. Unfortunately, they were far enough away that Brannon couldn’t hear them.
Time to change that. He purposefully walked down to join the pair, putting on a pleasant smile. As he drew near, he called out, “Hi. I’m Brannon Hardegree. Are you guys with the tour?”
Two sets of eyes swung toward him. Hers were dark brown with amber and gold flecks. The assistant frowned at the interruption, but the woman pointedly checked him out, from the top of his head to his combat boots. Only fair, since he had done the same to her.
“Yes, we are,” she replied, not missing a beat. “I’m Cait. This is Preston.”
Brannon nodded at both of them politely.
“The rest of the group is right over there,” she said, indicating the others on the porch, as if she hadn’t known he’d just come from the office. “We’ll be with you in a bit to start the orientation.” Which was a polite way of telling him to scram.
Killing Game (Veritas Book 2) Page 3
