Ken Goddard - Double blind

More accustomed to such landings by Fish and Wildlife Service agent/pilots, Wilbur Boggs let go with one hand, waved his replacement Special Agent badge, and jubilantly roared, "Federal agent, you're all under arrest!" Meanwhile Grynard clung to the struts with both hands and glared at the pilot until he remembered why they had attempted an insane landing like that. Then he quickly fumbled for his gun.

By this time, Lt. Colonel John Rustman had staggered to his feet at the far corner of the blind, holding a pair of shotgun shells in his left hand and his pump shotgun in his right.

The retired military officer prepared to combat-load the empty shotgun — to pull back on the slide, palm the first shell in through the ejector port, jack the slide forward with his left hand, and then trigger the high-based round into the face of the still-fumbling A1 Grynard with his right.

But then he, too, appeared to remember something.

First Rustman — and then Tisbury — turned and stared across the water at the two now un-hooded figures still standing in the adjoining duck blind with their Ruger Mini-14s held up in a ready position.

That's right, Colonel. Real bad idea, Henry Lightstone thought to himself as he and Karla stood side by side in the slowly rocking blind. If she can hit a moving duck at eighty yards…

He slid his index finger inside the trigger guard of the stainless-steel semiautomatic rifle.

And don't even think about turning that gun this way, in her direction, or you're a dead man.

"Lightstone," Sam Tisbury whispered in disbelief.

Numbed with shock, Lt. Colonel John Rustman allowed the pump shotgun to slide out of his hands.

"You know, I think the older fellow on the left — the one who looks like he's about ready to have a heart attack — recognizes you," Karla suggested, easing her own index finger away from the trigger of her Mini-14 as she watched her noticeably displeased and airsick boss order the two men to put their hands over their heads… right now.

"Oh yeah, he knows me, all right," Henry Lightstone whispered as the missing pieces all began to fall into place. "That's Sam Tisbury."

Karla turned her head and stared at Lightstone with a puzzled look on her face.

"Okay, I give up. Who's Sam Tisbury?" she asked reasonably.

Henry Lightstone shrugged. "Just a very wealthy and crooked industrialist who doesn't like me very much."

"You mean seriously doesn't like you?"

Lightstone nodded his head.

"So what you're telling me is all of this rogue-Army-Ranger-hunter-killer-team-for-hire business is finally starting to make some sense?"

"Actually, I think it's starting to make a great deal of sense." Henry Lightstone wore a thoughtful look on his face. "Tisbury's an extremely rich and powerful man from an even richer and more influential family. And I'm pretty sure he blames me for the deaths of his father, son, and daughter. But if that's what this whole deal is all about, then I think he just screwed up big-time."

"Sounds like it couldn't have happened to a nicer person," she remarked as they watched Wilbur Boggs — from his sitting position on the aircraft float — lean out and grab Simon Whatley's frantically waving left hand, slap one end of a set of handcuffs around the wrist, pull Whatley's arm around the float strut, then close the second cuff around the right wrist of a red-faced and sputtering Regis J. Smallsreed, leaving the congressman and his bagman dangling in the fetid water on either side of the main float strut.

"Him and Rustman both," Lightstone agreed. "In fact — "

"Hold it a second." Karla held up her hand and listened intently to the voice in her earphones for almost two minutes.

"Okay, we copy. Good job, Danny. Thanks." She terminated the exchange and then turned to Lightstone. "The Hostage Rescue Team found Wintersole and Marashenko a few minutes ago, about five miles north of here," she reported in a peculiarly quiet voice.

Lightstone noticed the unusual inflection immediately.

"Found? You mean alive?"

She shook her head. "No, they were both very dead."

It took Lightstone a couple of seconds.

"Not by us, I take it?"

She shook her head again, this time more slowly. "Apparently somebody put a single bullet through each of their foreheads, at point-blank range. Danny could see powder burns on both wounds."

Henry Lightstone blinked in disbelief.

"That's not…" he started to say it wasn't possible, but then he hesitated. "Were they tied up?"

"No. According to Danny, their hands were free and both of them were armed with M-16s. They found them lying on their backs in the middle of a small clearing barely big enough for our chopper to land."

"So they were executed… presumably by the same people sent in to pick them up," Lightstone murmured softly as he stared across the water at Sam Tisbury. "That's interesting."

"If you say so." She shuddered as if suddenly very cold… but her mood improved almost immediately when she replaced the Mini-14 in the blind's gun rack. "Oh well, look on the bright side" — she smiled — "at least they didn't show up here."

"We'd have had our hands full if they had, no doubt about it." Lightstone placed his rifle in the rack next to hers, then stared across the water again.

"You sound disappointed."

"What, that we didn't get to take on a vindictive Army Ranger first sergeant, fully armed, in his playground, with the element of surprise on his side?" Lightstone smiled. "Are you crazy?"

"Don't give me that bullshit, Henry Lightstone." She cocked her head and studied him thoughtfully. "When you get right down to it, Wintersole was just another bully, and you couldn't wait to confront him, could you? In fact, I'm really amazed you didn't throw a fit and insist on being part of the search team."

Lightstone couldn't keep from smiling.

"If you must know," he replied as he once again considered the sensuous features of the beautiful young woman in the early light, "Wintersole and I had our confrontation. In the warehouse. I guess from his perspective — and mine, to some degree — he was just a professional trying to do his job. And long as I kept him away from the people I cared about…" Lightstone shrugged. "I don't know, I guess I just didn't see him as all that evil. Malicious, and scary, and dangerous as hell, sure, but not evil. So I figured let the FBI Hostage Rescue Team — or whoever," he added thoughtfully, "hunt him down. The more interesting people — the truly evil ones, if you will — are right here. And in my own way, I got to confront them, too."

Lightstone remained quiet for a while, then added, "Larry and A1 were right. Once that female Ranger told us virtually everything that happened out here the day Wintersole executed Boggs's informant — and we won't discuss how Sasha just happened to brush by her shoulder when she wouldn't talk and Grynard turned his back for a moment," he added with a brief smile — "somebody had to go after Rustman and Smallsreed. And who better than us? I'm just glad they found Wintersole's body, so we won't have to spend the next few months looking over our shoulders and wondering where the hell he is."

"What do you mean 'they'?" she demanded indignantly. "Who do you think put the transmitter on him in the first place?"

"Well, okay, you, Danny, and that crazy-old-fart retired agent Sage, whoever he is."

"You mean Dad?"

Henry Lightstone blinked in shock.

"What?"

Karla shrugged. "Figured I'd better tell you before Grynard did.. just in case you're concerned about my background," she added with a cheerful smile. "However, I wouldn't worry about it too much. Mom claims that Dad's more of the sleight-of-hand, carny-barker type. All of the serious witchcraft runs in her side of the family, and only gets passed on to the daughters."