“Except Frankie isn’t in any shape to get it on. No, he’d passed out, dead drunk. The other guys knew that’d be the case, but if I didn’t bring him down, I’d lose the bet.”
“How much was the bet?”
“Fifty bucks. It wasn’t so much the money as the principle of the thing. They figured since I was a ‘girl,’ I’d freak out about being in a whorehouse.”
“They didn’t know you very well.”
“No, but they learned.” She laughed. “I fireman-carried that Marine’s heavy ass down two flights of stairs and dumped him in a mud puddle in the street. The other guys just stared at me. They paid their debt and I gave most of it to the girl at the brothel.”
“What was your nickname?”
Her grin grew larger. “Wonder Woman.”
“Well deserved.”
“What about you?”
“They just shortened my name to Bran. One guy tried to piss me off by calling me Bran Flakes. I decked his ass and that was the end of that.”
“Bran. It sounds strong,” she said. “It fits you.”
The brush opened up onto a clearing, and in the center stood an old log cabin, which had probably been built in the late nineteenth century. A stacked-stone chimney sat at one end, and a long porch graced the front. The windows were covered with shutters. Made of cedar, it would probably be standing for another hundred years, at least.
“How did you find this place?” Brannon asked.
“Mike is friends with one of the old trappers. Walt said he used to live here as a boy, came out to visit it every now and then. I hiked in to see if it was still standing. I had to run some critters out, do some repairs and fix a few holes in the roof, but it’s pretty sturdy.”
She climbed the stairs, Brannon right behind her. It was then that he noticed the complex knot that secured the door to a bent nail driven into the side of the house.
“Old-fashioned alarm system, huh?”
“Yup. Unless the thief can duplicate a buntline hitch with my own special addition, I know they’ve been inside. And even if they could . . . ” She undid the knot and something fell to the porch. She picked it up, displaying it on her palm. It was a small, rusted fishhook.
“Clever,” he said, nodding his approval.
The door creaked open to reveal a dark interior. Brannon remained out of the way as Cait batted away a spider web, then opened the shutters, letting in the light. She angled out a chair, and he sank into it with weary relief. He could still hike another twenty miles today if needed, but thank God that wasn’t the case. Running a hand over his forehead, he felt a sheen of sweat. That wasn’t good news.
Cait moved the bed aside, which currently had no mattress, just rope serving as the springs. Beneath the bed was a large metal box. She opened the padlock and began pulling out its contents. First a thin mattress, then a large sleeping bag, all wrapped in plastic. She set those aside.
The goods began to pile up on the table: a large first-aid kit, a twelve-pack of water, a bottle of iodine tablets, toilet paper, body wipes, soap, shampoo, all the simple necessities one would require when your house is located miles away from civilization. Finally, a camp stove and kerosene lantern appeared, along with a box of matches.
“You trucked all this in here?”
“Mike helped me. He has a big boat with an outboard motor, so it cut it down to one run.”
“What don’t you have in there?”
“The weapons and the food. They’re stashed elsewhere. Sorry, but some of it is MRE’s.”
He groaned. “No pizza delivery?”
“Gators would probably like pizza just as much as the rest of us. Unfortunately, they’d like the delivery guy more.”
Cait climbed up on the bed frame and clipped a mosquito net above it. After making the bed, which looked pretty comfortable after the night sleeping on the hard ground, she toted all the supplies to a long, narrow table set against the wall, leaving the main table free.
He was intrigued by how she’d stowed all this gear in such a small space. “So where is the food hidden?” he asked, looking around.
Cait opened a rickety cupboard, removing a couple pots, two metal plates and cups, plastic glasses, and silverware. Then, using her knife, she pried off the back of the cupboard to reveal another stash. This time, there were canned goods, medicine, cartridges, a rifle.
And those damned MREs.
“I hate to sound ungrateful, but I swore I’d never eat one of those things again, if I could help it.”
She scooped them up and set them on the table. “Feel free to take the rifle and shoot yourself a squirrel. Me? I’ll eat these before I touch another tree rat.”
“Had to eat a lot of them?”
She nodded. “My dad thought it was a great way to teach my brother and me how to be self-sufficient.”
“Tough dad. Mine wasn’t like that. He believed food should come from the grocery store, and that having the local Chinese place on speed dial was a blessing.”
She smiled. “I like your father already.”
“He’s a good guy. He raised us right. And my mother rocks, except when she’s trying to hook me up with some friend’s daughter.”
“Luckily, I don’t get that so much now. Mom knows I’m not a particularly fun date.”
“Not sure about that. You’ve been a blast so far.”
She huffed and ignored his comment, setting a satellite phone on the table in front of him, followed by a bottle of generic pain tablets and a gallon of water. After refilling his own bottle, he downed the pills while waiting for the sat phone to power up.
The moment the call went through, he said, “It’s Brannon.”
“Thank God,” Sanjay said, heaving an immense sigh of relief. “We were sweating here, my friend. You okay?”
“Yeah, but we got a big problem. So I don’t have to repeat all of this, can you get me on a conference call with the boss?”
“Sure. Give me a minute to set it up.”
He was put on hold and heard blissful silence. If someone was calling this particular phone number, they didn’t need to listen to some tinny version of Madonna’s “Like a Virgin.”
When a noticeable click came through the phone, Brannon pushed the speaker button.
“We’re ready,” Sanjay reported. “Crispin and Morgan are here.”
“Hi guys,” Brannon said.
“Damned glad to hear from you,” his boss replied. “We had concerns.”
“Sorry it took so long. I have Caitlyn Landry listening in on the call.”
“Ms. Landry,” Crispin said. “Good to speak with you.”
“Thank you,” she replied cautiously.
Brannon gave his report, laying out exactly what had happened, where they were, and the situation they faced.
“Well, hell,” Morgan muttered.
“Sanjay, where is the cash now?” He turned to Cait. “We have a tracker stuck to one of the bundles of money.”
“Smart,” she said.
“It’s still in the swamp, stationary since mid-morning,” he reported. “Where are you located?”
Cait retrieved her map and supplied the necessary coordinates.
“Then you’re about nine miles northeast of the tracker,” Sanjay replied.
“You think that’s where Ellers’s compound is?” she asked.
“That’s our guess,” Morgan replied.
“I spoke with Mr. Montgomery about an hour ago,” Crispin began, “and he believes that, if Ellers is anywhere, he’s exactly where the tracker is at this point.”
“How is Mike?” Cait asked.
“Doing well. We’ll let him know you’re alive and unharmed.”
“Thanks.”
Crispin went on to explain how Rockwell and Adams had come to be on that particula
r tour.
“Huh,” Brannon said, shifting in his chair. “No matter what, Ellers isn’t going to surrender without a fight.”
“We have the same concerns, though the feds did learn valuable lessons at Waco and Ruby Ridge. They’ll be more cautious this time around,” Crispin replied. “Would you be able to reach that location and determine if this is indeed Ellers’s compound? And if it is, serve as a forward scouting team?”
Brannon looked over at Cait. She gave him a thumbs-up.
“We’re ‘go’ for that. We’ll need coordinates and anything else you can provide.”
“We’ll get you all we have,” Morgan said. “Give us an hour or so and I’ll pull it together for you.”
“How long would it take you to get down there?” Crispin asked.
Cait answered. “Probably about three hours, if we push it. Usually it would be faster, but there’s a lot of debris in the water after the storm. Since it’ll be best to do the run at night, and we don’t have a full moon, we’ll be feeling our way along.”
“What do you have in the way of weapons?” his boss asked.
“Two knives and a rifle,” Cait answered. “If we encounter any tangos, we’ll acquire more from them.”
“There’s one issue that is going to hamper both us and the FBI,” Morgan said. “As of a couple hours ago, the swamp’s airspace was closed, except for park rangers and fire personnel. The fire is nowhere near you, but to keep the news helicopters out of the way, they’ve shut down the entire area.”
“Okay. We’ll just have to do it the hard way,” Cait said. “‘Embrace the suck’, as they say.”
“There you go,” Brannon replied, smiling now.
“There’s another player in the game that you’re unaware of,” Crispin said.
Brannon raised an eyebrow as his boss explained exactly who Susan was. “I wondered what was going on with her,” he said. “Does she know there’s an arrest warrant for me?”
“Yes,” Morgan replied. “At least you have someone inside that can help you.”
“Provided she’s still alive. If Ellers finds out she’s FBI, she’s dead.”
“Indeed. We’ll send you what info we have, and I’ll call the FBI, let them know the situation,” Crispin said. “You’ll have backup in your area in a few hours; Neil will be positioned in Valdosta by nightfall, and he’ll have access to a helicopter. We’ll obtain permission to access your airspace, if needed.”
“Roger. Always good to have the Iceman on a mission,” Brannon replied. “I’ll check messages in a couple hours, but the phone will be off until then to conserve power.”
“Understood. See you when this is over.”
When the call ended, Brannon turned off the phone and set it aside.
“What happens if they can’t get that permit for the copter?” Cait asked.
“Won’t matter. The boss will ensure that we have backup. He’ll worry about the legal flak later.”
“He sounds like a good commander.”
“He is. Veritas only hires good people. Unfortunately, there are a lot of bad people in this world, and often it doesn’t even out.”
“Then let’s make sure it does, at least this time.”
Chapter Seventeen
As he entered his office, the two hostages behind him, Quinton Ellers felt the need to hurt someone. His nephew in particular.
Lying little bastard. That was the problem with James—he couldn’t be trusted. He wouldn’t even be at New America if it weren’t for his unique skills. So what had really happened between the kid and Hardegree? How had James managed to kill an Army Ranger? No, he’d have sent others to do his dirty work, and it would have been an ambush. There was more to that tale than his nephew was admitting, and Ellers would have to weed out the lies to get to the truth. But first, there were other matters that needed attention.
He sat on the old folding chair behind his desk—not that two planks spread across a pair of sawhorses was a real desk. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t here for the long term.
Two campers stood in front of him now. The writer was nervous, opening and closing his fists at his sides. Ellers had read the man’s last two books and knew he’d be adequate for the task. The photographer wasn’t as scared, or just better at hiding it. Rockwell’s eyes were sharp, focused. His biography had put him in war zones, so this reaction was to be expected.
Time to fuck with their minds. “You know why you’re here?”
“No,” Rockwell replied. Adams just shook his head.
“I’m about to make history, gentlemen, and I need someone to document that moment. That would be you.”
Rockwell blinked. “What kind of history?”
“The kind that will be spoken of in awe for decades to come. The tree of liberty needs to be watered, and I’m the one to do it. It’s the only way the tyrants in Washington will know we mean business.” He let that sink in. “You know anything about Timothy McVeigh?”
Adams frowned. “Yeah, he bombed that building in Oklahoma, killed all those people.”
“He struck a blow for liberty.”
“I’m sure the kids he killed would disagree,” Rockwell said.
Yeah, this one’s got balls. “Not McVeigh’s fault. The feds never should have put a day care in that building. They had to know they were a target. That blood is on their hands.”
Rockwell gaped at him. “You really believe that?”
“Of course I do.”
“And you’d do the same, blow up a bunch of babies just to make your point?”
“Yes, I would.” He kept the smile to himself. “I was there that day. Not near the federal building, but in Oklahoma City. I was visiting a buddy of mine. I wish I’d been closer to see the explosion.”
The photographer clenched his jaw, but managed to hold his silence. The bastard was learning.
“Did you have something to do with the tour owner’s accident?” Adams asked.
The writer was smarter than he looked. “Sure did. I didn’t want a battle-hardened Marine anywhere near my operation. And if you think the FBI are going to rescue you, you’re wrong. The last agent who tried to infiltrate this organization is buried out in the swamp. It took him a long time to die. I enjoyed every damned minute of it.”
Adams swallowed hard. “So what do you want with us?”
“Every great general has someone who writes his memoirs, makes sure the truth is known after the battle is over. You will do that for me. He,” Ellers said, gesturing at Rockwell, “will provide the photos.”
“And if we tell you to fuck off?” the photographer asked.
“Then I take you two out by the flagpole, make you kneel, and put a round in the back of each of your skulls. I can always find someone new. It’s that simple.”
It wasn’t, but they didn’t need to know that. He was on countdown-to-zero hour, and the overnight delay delivering the tour group to the compound had nearly compromised his plans.
The two hostages traded looks and Ellers knew what Adams would say before the words left his mouth.
“Looks like we’re writing your memoir, Commander.”
Yes, you are.
He retrieved the two hundred-plus manuscript pages and the laptop, handing them to Adams. Three spare laptop batteries went on top of the pile, because there was no electricity in the lockup.
“Clean this up,” he said. “It needs to be ready by 0700 two days from now.”
“Two days!” the author blurted. “That’s impossible.”
Ellers only had to touch his weapon to get the man to sputter an apology.
“Sure, sure. Two days. Okay.”
“What am I to do?” Rockwell asked, his tone indicating that he was barely reining in his anger.
“When I’m ready, you’ll walk around with me so you can photograph th
e camp. If I tell you not to take a photo of something, then don’t do it. You do, you’re dead.”
Rockwell gave a curt nod, his jaw locked again.
“Will our names be on this book of yours?” Adams asked.
“Of course,” he lied. It’d be damned hard for them to argue the issue after they were dead. “Any other questions?”
When there were none, he waved them off. As the guard ushered them outside, Ellers called out, “Tell Rafferty I need to talk to him.”
When the man arrived, Ellers could read the worry on his face. That was smart. He had reason to be worried.
“What happened with Hardegree?” Ellers demanded.
Rafferty shook his head. “From what I could tell, he and the tour guide went up to the campsite.” He stalled out, growing more agitated. Ellers smiled to himself. His reputation as a hard bastard worked wonders with his people. They feared him, and that was what it took to be a leader.
“And?”
Rafferty looked down at the floor now. Anywhere but at him. “James sent a couple of our men inland. I just figured they were going to round up Hardegree and the woman. Instead, I hear gunshots and the guys come hot-footing it back with their gear, telling me they’re dead.”
“Did you check the Hardegree’s rucksack like you did the others?”
“No. James had it. Wouldn’t let me touch it.”
The little prick thought he could outfox his old uncle. The kid didn’t have a fucking clue. “That’ll be all.”
Once the door closed, he rose and made his way to the window, looking out on the parade ground. Maybe it was good the Ranger was dead. Hardegree had been too perfect. One of Ellers’s contacts in the Army had said as much, claimed the man didn’t seem to be the kind to cross over to the other side.
Still, Hardegree had gone on the robbery, hadn’t even hesitated that much, according to Clarke. Now that he was gone, Wiley would have to handle the explosives, and he wasn’t a pro. But you did what you had to get the job done.
Ellers still remembered the rumble under his feet, the sound of the car alarms, the shattering of the window glass, and the piercing screams that day in Oklahoma City. At the time, he hadn’t understood what it meant or what it stood for. Now he did. McVeigh had done his best; so would he. And by the time he was done, Tim’s strike would look like child’s play.
Killing Game (Veritas Book 2) Page 13
