“Caitlyn?” Brannon said quietly, not liking the twitch across the back of his neck.
She was frowning now. “Damn, I don’t know.”
“What’s your gut tell you?”
“To hold position. But I could be wrong.”
“My gut agrees with yours. Let’s hold.”
The boat motor cut out.
“See anything?” one of the men asked.
“No. I don’t know why the hell we’re way up here.”
“Because we were told to check the outer perimeter.”
“Yeah, well, this is damned far away from the compound. Between you and me, Ellers is too paranoid for his own good.”
Brannon smiled to himself. Their instincts had proven correct.
The first man snorted. “What’s with those people they brought in this morning? Who the hell are they?”
“God knows. You see anything?” the second man asked.
“What about over near that log?”
“There’s nothing there. Those turtles would have split right off. Let’s get home. I’m tired of this shit.”
“I’m there with you.”
The motor cranked up, and the boat did a sharp turn, then set off the way it came. Once it was out of sight, both Brannon and Cait sat up. Only now did the turtles crawl off the logs into the water.
“Now we know for sure that it was Ellers who kidnapped the others. Not that I could think of anyone else who would.”
“Why take the risk? He has to know someone will miss them eventually. He could have just had his contact get with me and collect the damned money.” Brannon ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “What possible use could he have with a tour guide, a writer, a photographer, a secretary, and a couple teenagers? It makes no sense.”
Cait shrugged as she picked up her paddle. “Let’s get to the cabin. Maybe things will make more sense there.”
If anything, it would only be more complicated. Him and her, alone in a cabin in the wilderness? He could think of a lot of things they could be doing besides preparing for their mission tomorrow. Somehow, he suspected Cait was not on the same wavelength.
*~*~*
“Susan?” Patti asked, her eyes wide in terror as she stared up at the wire-and-post enclosure in front of them.
“If they wanted us dead, they would have killed us hours ago,” she murmured, keeping her voice low.
The twin gates swung open on creaking hinges, and they were herded inside. If it weren’t for the wire and the armed guards, the compound would look as if it’d been transported from the late 1880s.
The main house was a two-story wooden affair, with a broad porch and a worn roof covered in camo netting. It was encircled with white sand, an old swamper’s trick—made it easier to spot if a snake or an alligator came too close to the house for comfort.
Around the edges of the compound, but still enclosed within the barbed wire, were various run-down outbuildings. There appeared to be a forge and a machine shed, both housed in what had to be original structures.
There were newer buildings as well: a dining hall—some kind of low bunker with netting over the windows. A dozen or so tiny cabins sat inside the wire as well, probably just big enough for one or two families. A smaller building was located well away from the others, with a padlock on the door. Probably a jail or the armory. All of the structures had one thing in common: camo netting on their roofs to hide them from aerial surveillance.
As they were marched forward under the watchful eyes of their guards toward the main house, the compound’s occupants stopped whatever they were doing and stared, as if a circus had suddenly appeared in their midst. Susan’s quick count totaled twenty-six individuals. They were of both sexes, some younger, some older. The kids were barefoot and their clothes had been patched a few times.
The women wore dresses that reached their ankles, plain affairs that looked to have been hand made. None were in bright fabrics, but muted tones that blended in with the swamp around them. Their hair was pinned up, often coiled in braids. Some of them had a careworn look, as if each day was filled with too much work from sunrise to sundown.
Susan knew that some religious sects did not allow women to cut their hair, wear jewelry or makeup, or show their elbows. Her research into Ellers hadn’t indicated a religious component, but perhaps that hadn’t made it into the reports somehow. In contrast, the men were in jeans or camo, and every one of them had a weapon—a rifle, a handgun, or a knife.
“Take their security seriously, don’t they?” Keith said.
“Yeah, they do,” Preston replied.
“You been here before?” Susan asked. The assistant shook his head.
She found herself staring at the oversized American flag hanging from the front of the main house. Right below was a banner that proclaimed, “Death to Traitors!”
“Who the hell are these people?” Bill asked in a low voice.
“Folks you don’t want to cross,” Preston replied, still frowning.
“Line up!” Rafferty ordered. While they shuffled into place, a camo-clad guard on the house’s porch knocked on the door, then returned to his position, at rigid attention.
A minute passed, then another. Susan watched the expressions of the guards around them. Most grew progressively uneasy, as if expecting something to happen. James, on the other hand, appeared bored, as if he really didn’t care. Like he was smarter than everyone. Some of that was to be expected with a teenager, but his complete lack of remorse over the deaths of Hardegree and Landry told her this boy had deeper problems. Every now and then, his eyes would flick toward Patti, and the way he focused on her made Susan’s nerves twitch.
Finally, Quinton Ellers stepped outside the building. After her friend in the Brunswick office had told her about the missing agent, Susan had researched Ellers, reading anything she could find in the FBI’s files. Seeing him in person brought those dry reports to life. He was about six feet tall, heavyset, but didn’t seem to have an ounce of fat on him. He wore camo as well, and his sparse brown hair was sprinkled with gray, trimmed in a regulation high-and-tight style.
The son of an oil-rig worker in Louisiana, Ellers had joined the Army in his mid-twenties. It’d been that or go to jail for assaulting a cop. Unlike for some, the military and Ellers had not proved to be a good fit. After his time in the Army, he’d worked in a factory. He’d gone underground right after the 9/11 terrorist attacks and begun “raising” his militia. He claimed it was in response to the Patriot Act, but he’d been sympathetic to the cause far longer than that.
Over the years, he’d had numerous brushes with the law, ranging from assault to shooting two of his neighbors’ dogs, claiming their barking drove him crazy. The fact that he’d executed them in front of a five-year-old kid said that he was a stone-cold son of a bitch. If Susan’s guess was correct, James wasn’t much different.
The militia leader remained on the porch, hands on his hips, raking his unfeeling gaze down the line of captives. Finally, he stomped down the wooden stairs, then stopped, eyeing his nephew first, then each one of them, as if taking their measure.
“What is going on here?” Keith asked, taking a step forward. “Who the hell are you?”
A second later, the photographer had the muzzle of a Glock 18 pressed up against his forehead, courtesy of their “host.”
“I ask the questions, you give the answers,” Ellers said. “You got that?” Keith carefully nodded, sweat blooming on his forehead now. “Then step back in line and shut the fuck up.”
The photographer did as the man commanded. The remaining captives had gone stone silent now, knowing their lives hung on this man’s whims. Patti looked as if she couldn’t decide between running or vomiting. Susan slipped her hand into the girl’s to keep her in place.
Ellers calmly holstered his weapon. He took the stance again, li
ke he had on the porch, feet spread, hands on hips. It reminded Susan of someone from an old news video.
“Welcome to New America,” the man began, his voice full of gravel. “This is my world. The only people who are allowed to live here are true patriots. Anyone else gets a bullet in their skull. Is that clear?”
Preston gasped. “You’re Quinton Ellers?” A sharp nod returned. “I saw your posts on the Freedom Network message boards.” Which apparently hadn’t included a photo, or the tour assistant wouldn’t have been so stunned.
Ellers ignored him. “Explain to me why I shouldn’t just shoot you all and go back to my breakfast,” he demanded.
“You can’t do that,” Patti protested.
Oh yes, he can.
Ellers glowered. “Where’s Hardegree?”
“Dead,” James said.
“How the hell did that happen?”
“He was trying to take off on us.”
Rafferty stared at him in confusion. “And go where? He was on an island and we had control of the boats.”
“I made the call,” James said. “He wasn’t trustworthy.”
The commander’s steely gaze rested on his nephew. “Hardegree had explosives skills I could have used. Next time, you don’t make decisions on your own, you hear?”
James’s smirk faded.
“Where’s the money?” Ellers asked tightly.
The teen hefted the backpack at his feet and then dumped it out. Stacks of bills hit the dirt. They were of various denominations, denoted by the color of the straps.
“All of it there?”
“Most of it. He must have skimmed some off the top before he came on the tour. Probably figured to take his cut right up front.”
Ellers frowned. “I thought he was being watched.”
“He was. He was smarter than you thought.”
The commander’s frown deepened. “You got over eager. It’s not the first time.”
James’s smirk returned, as if the death of two people was just a joke for his own private amusement.
“I was told there were eight on the trip. Where’s the other one?” Ellers asked.
“Dead. She was with Hardegree.” James gestured toward Patti. “That girl? She’s mine. That’s why I brought her along. You said I should pick someone, so I did.”
“I meant a woman within the camp,” his uncle replied.
“Well, I made my choice and she’s it,” he repeated.
“I’m not your possession, asshole,” Patti shot back.
Susan squeezed her hand in warning. “Don’t push him,” she murmured.
Her action caught Ellers’s notice.
“Who’s this?” he asked, pointing at her.
“She’s a nobody. A secretary,” James said.
“Ah . . . ” Susan began, trying to sound breathy and unsure. She raised a hand, like she was a kid in a classroom. They expected an airhead and that’s what they’d get. “Hi! I think you’ve made a mistake. We’re just people on vacation, not anyone special. You should just let us go home.”
Ellers’s eyes radiated contempt, the muscles in his jaw twitching.
“Be quiet, for God's sake!” Bill hissed. “Don’t make him mad.”
The commander swung away from her, dismissing her just as he had Preston. He appeared to have a narrow focus, and that was a weakness she could exploit.
“Did you check their gear?” he demanded. Rafferty nodded. “Anything I need to know about?”
Susan’s heartbeat ramped up. There was no way he hadn’t found her badge and gun.
“Nothing out of the ordinary,” Rafferty replied.
What had just happened? Why hide her identity from his superior?
“Take the rest of them to the lockup,” the commander ordered. “Adams and Rockwell, you’re coming with me.”
“Why?” Keith asked.
“You two have value. The rest of them don’t.”
“The girl—” James began.
“Doesn’t go with you,” Ellers said. “I told you to pick a woman who’s in the camp, not an outsider. Besides, I need your head in the game, not thinking with your dick.”
The undisguised hatred on James’s face promised payback. Was that a rift Susan could exploit?
At the nudge of a gun in her back, she, Preston, and Patti were herded around the side of the building and deeper into the compound. Guards roamed outside the wire, each armed with an AR-15, or in some cases an AK-47. She counted them as best as she could without drawing attention, making note of their locations, knowing that some might be ex-military. In her mind, that made them even more dangerous.
The first stop was at the latrine. The building was sectioned off, like you’d see in a county park: women on one side, men on the other. Once the bio break was complete, they were led to a shed made of cedar. It looked new, which meant that Ellers had been adding to this compound recently. With its location near the Georgia/Florida border, maybe he had a back way in that hid the bulk of his activities.
Why hadn’t the park rangers noticed all this? Were some of them taking payoffs to ignore the crazies in their own backyard?
Another guard stood in front of the shed, armed with a pistol and a knife, both of which would come in handy if they tried to make a break for it. Susan and the others waited as he opened the door. Once they were inside, the door slammed shut and the bolt was thrown.
Two barred windows were the only source of light, as there appeared to be no electricity in the cabin. At least there was a potbellied woodstove along the back wall. Pellets of some kind were stored next to it in a bucket. No wood, probably because that could possibly be used as a weapon. The strong scent of cedar permeated the place.
Patti looked around, sniffed, and then sighed. “It smells like a hamster cage—you know, like the shavings.” Her eyes met Susan’s. “Who are these crazy guys?”
Before Susan could reply, Preston slumped on one of the six bunk beds. Each of them had a rudimentary mattress and a quilt for a cover, but no pillow.
“Quinton Ellers is . . . a legend,” the guide replied. “He’s stood against a government that doesn’t answer to its people. He’s gotten folks talking about how wrong things are.”
Susan drifted to the wooden table in the center of the room. It had a few chairs and she sat in the one closest to the stove. “So kidnapping us is a blow for freedom?” she asked.
“I don’t know about that. I’ve been reading those message boards for a couple years. Some of those guys are totally on the level. Others?” Preston shook his head. “They’re just nuts.”
“You believe all that stuff?” she asked.
Preston frowned. “Some of it I do. The government is digging into our personal lives, hacking our computers and cell phones. I don’t like that. But I am not good with killing innocent people just because you don’t like how things are going down in Washington. Like that McVeigh guy. That was murder, pure and simple.”
Susan nodded. Preston might be an ally after all.
“My parents are going to freak when they find out I’m missing,” Patti said, shaking her head in dismay. “I never should have trusted James.” She looked over at them, fear flaring in her eyes. “You can’t let him take me away.”
“We won’t,” Susan said. “Right, Preston?”
“Right. That boy needs to learn that he doesn’t rule the world.”
As Patti turned away, Susan could see the tears forming. If they were lucky, this was one promise they could keep.
Chapter Sixteen
As the day grew warmer, Cait and Brannon traded war stories. Not the bad ones that still brought nightmares in the dark of night, but the ones that made them laugh. Helped them remember the good times with good friends. Cait was just about to start another one when she paused and pointed to the shoreline ahead.
/>
“This is it.”
Brannon couldn’t tell anything different about this one stretch of ground from another, but it would be the right place. Cait knew this swamp like she’d lived here for years. With some effort, his sore back not helping the situation, they beached the canoe, then portaged it farther onto the island. From what he could tell, this one was similar to the one they’d left, only a slightly different mix of trees and shrubs. It seemed less marshy, and he appreciated that.
Once she’d propped it up against a tree, Cait frowned at him. “Rest that back of yours while I hide our tracks, just in case the tangos decide to come this far north.”
Brannon nodded, pulling the near-empty bottle of water from his pack and downing the remainder. Stuffing the bottle back inside, he slowly sank to the damp ground. One particular part of his back was throbbing now, which led him to believe that something other than sore muscles was involved. The Army docs had warned him that it would give him trouble now and then, and they hadn’t been lying.
He reached around and put his hand under his T-shirt, touching the area that hurt. And grimaced in response. His hand came away slightly bloody. He looked up to find Cait watching him. “My back’s bleeding.”
“Huh. I couldn’t tell because your T-shirt’s black. You want me to check it out here, or wait until we get to the cabin?”
“It’ll wait.”
She offered him a hand to help him up and they walked side by side through the trees.
“Right before we arrived you were about to tell me a story about a bet you took on your first R-and-R,” he said.
“Oh yeah,” she said, grinning. “It was a hazing. We were in Thailand. The squad made a bet with me that I couldn’t get one of the guys out of a brothel without help. I figure, how hard can that be? Wait until the guy has done the deed, then haul his butt out of there. So I go door to door to find him, seeing things that I really didn’t need to see, and I finally find him.
Killing Game (Veritas Book 2) Page 12
