Ken Goddard - Double blind

"You're an FBI agent." Lightstone said it more out of wonder than anything else.

"Brilliant deduction, Sherlock," Karla chuckled in his ear. "We'll make a federal agent out of you yet."

"And so am I, sonny. Been retired for a lotta years, but they brought me back special just for this case… so there," the skinny, bearded, and supposedly blind old soothsayer otherwise known as the Sage announced with a wide grin as he proudly displayed his FBI raid jacket and badge.

"Dear God," whispered Lightstone as he looked around at the other familiar faces — Larry Paxton, Mike Takahara, Dwight Stoner, Thomas Woeshack, Bobby LaGrange, and Danny-the-Cook in an FBI raid jacket — who all wisely kept their distance from the glaring, but seemingly contented panther.

"And just in case you wondered, sport," Karla spoke softly in his ear, "Danny's one of our tech agents, in addition to being a half-decent cook."

"You swear in this damned cat, too?" Lightstone inquired, glaring into the adoring bright yellow eyes, and wincing when her claws dug deeper into his chest.

"I'd be happy to, but I don't think she'd take the demotion."

"Ah."

"Okay, Karla, I think you and Sasha can let him go now." FBI Supervisory Agent A1 Grynard let out an exaggerated sigh as he joined the group, looking down at the female members of his unconventional FBI covert agent team disapprovingly as he re-holstered his sidearm.

"Umm, no, I can't," Karla announced after a moment.

"Why not?"

"Because you just arrested him."

"But that was just for show… to keep them running," the FBI supervisory agent — who now radiated the aura of a man sorely put upon — reminded her less than patiently.

"I know, but who cares? I got him, and we won." The dirty-faced female grinned, much to her supervisor's visible dismay.

"You know, Grynard, you FBI folks run one hell of an undercover investigation when you put your minds to it," Larry Paxton commented as he gingerly brushed off some of the fetid debris adhering to Grynard's dark blue FBI raid jacket. "Supposedly blind old-fart soothsayers who ride around on motorbikes, witches who run government post offices, Cajun cooks, real live panthers, exploding sacks of chicken shit. Don't think I've ever seen anything quite like it."

"I was not responsible for the chicken shit," the supervisory FBI agent muttered darkly.

"Right, which was why I was thinking maybe we could just transfer Henry directly over to you guys, seeing as how…" Larry Paxton smiled hopefully.

"Actually, I kinda liked the way two female agents in a row stomped the shit out of Henry," Dwight Stoner interrupted before the incredulous FBI supervisor could respond in some manner that he might later regret.

"Yeah, speaking of which," Lightstone remarked, looking up from his sprawled and — digging panther claws aside — relatively comfortable position, "how come you guys held back so long, and then just let them… oh."

"The light dawns." Karla smiled.

"It's about time," Mike Takahara commented.

"From the FBI's standpoint," A1 Grynard explained, trying his best to maintain his dignity and composure in spite of his splattered and odorous jacket, "the Chosen Brigade of the Seventh Seal was a classic example of a basically inept and disorganized militant group ripe for manipulation by a more serious antigovernment organization. Jim — the Sage — Karla and Danny were keeping a loose eye on them as well as a couple of other groups in southern Oregon, when Wintersole and his team showed up and started nosing around… which put us on alert."

"And then a bunch of our Special Ops agents wandered into the picture, followed by Bobby LaGrange and me, and things started to get confusing?" Lightstone easily completed the sequence.

"Yeah, to put it mildly," Grynard replied sarcastically. "Only nobody knew who you were because it took so long to get any decent surveillance photos," he added, glaring down at Karla.

"Hey, you try to run a post office and a restaurant in between taking covert pictures of every federal undercover agent who wanders through the door." The female FBI agent shrugged. "And besides," she added with a mischievous grin on her dirt-smeared face, "he wouldn't go to sleep so I could take his picture. Sasha kept waking him up."

The huge panther purred agreeably at the mention of her name.

"I don't want to hear about it," A1 Grynard repeated.

"Yeah, me neither," the Sage agreed.

"As I was saying, seeing as how this is supposed to be a real, honest-to-God FBI investigation, the plan was — and still is — to track Wintersole back to what we assume are the main players in this little put-the-federal-government-on-trial scenario," the FBI agent supervisor made no attempt to control his sarcasm.

"But then, Mr. White Knight" — Grynard pointed at Lightstone — "you almost screw everything up when you decide to come to the rescue of a covert FBI agent perfectly capable of protecting herself…"

"Yeah, so I noticed," Lightstone grumbled, rubbing his neck.

"… not to mention also being protected by her two cover agents and a goddamned panther, and break the arm of one of Wintersole's men, which distracts Wintersole who, for some unaccountable reason, decides to drag you into their game. And then, of course, after everything goes to shit at the compound and it looks like Wintersole and this Marashenko — whoever the hell she is, in addition to being one of your agents — just might try to link up with somebody higher up in the organization to tell them what went wrong, you," — Grynard glared down at Lightstone — "manage to end up in the way… again."

"He's not real smart in that department," Karla conceded as she rubbed the carotid-choke-inducing edge of her wrist against Henry Lightstone's exposed throat, "but he is kind of cute."

"Wait a minute," Lightstone protested. "It was you guys… and these two in particular," he added, referring to Karla and Sasha, "who deliberately let Wintersole and Marashenko get away, in the middle of the woods, and in the middle of the night, I might add. So just how in the hell do you intend to follow them anywhere?"

"Actually, Henry," Mike Takahara glanced down at his still confused partner, "I think Danny's planning to track your Army Ranger pal electronically."

"What?"

"Come on, Henry, use that cat brain for a minute or two," Karla smiled pleasantly as she adjusted herself more comfortably under her captive, and then lightly fingered the center medallion of the cougar-claw necklace around his neck. "How do you think we kept track of you?"

The next day dawned cold, wet and dismal, an absolutely perfect day for hunting ducks.

Or at least that's what Regis J. Smallsreed told Simon Whatley, who sat mute and huddled in the far corner of the main VIP blind, numbed by the only partially effective painkillers, shivering from the cold in spite of his down pants and jacket, and, in every other way imaginable, feeling more miserable than he had ever felt in his entire life.

"They're calling it an 'unexplained explosion' at the training compound of the Chosen Brigade of the Seventh Seal," Lt. Colonel John Rustman read from the second page of the Loggerhead City Gazette now that he had enough light to see the fine print. "An unidentified source reported seeing what looked like numerous body bags being loaded into a refrigerated truck. The FBI sealed off the scene and refuses to answer any questions at this time."

"What the hell does all that mean?" Sam Tisbury cradled one of Smallsreed's expensive auto-loading shotguns and watched the horizon, to all outward appearances a man at peace with himself and the world.

"Probably means there was a bunch of federal wildlife agents in those bags, and they're not happy about it," Rustman explained, "but we'll find out soon enough. Wintersole reported in last night. Said he'd meet us here sometime this morning to brief us in person."