Ken Goddard - Double blind

… only to find himself staring into the cold pale gray eyes of First Sergeant Aran Wintersole.

Completely unaware of the sudden, unexpected, and potentially violent confrontation that had just occurred within a few feet of his back, congressional aide Keith Bennington walked out of the small post office and over to the staff car with the latest batch of messages in his hand.

Emotionally and physically exhausted, and thus completely oblivious to the lethal nature of his surroundings, Bennington had no idea that only a matter of seconds had prevented a fiercely protective federal wildlife agent named Henry Lightstone from tracking him back to his mentor, Simon Whatley, and worse, to Whatley's ever-so-powerful boss, Congressman Regis J. Smallsreed.

Which, for Keith Bennington, turned out to be a very unfortunate situation indeed.

For had the young congressional aide possessed even the slightest sense of the impact his actions were about to have on the impending clash between terribly powerful and violent foes, he would have deposited those two letters in the nearest Dumpster and run for his life.

That would have been the smart thing to do.

But Keith Bennington had no idea of the importance of his role in this gathering battle between the forces of darkness and light; and in spite of his quite impressive IQ test scores, he wasn't especially smart.

So he simply drove away from the Dogsfire Inn and rural post office with the two fateful letters lying next to him on the front seat, wondering instead if he really, truly coveted the job of his mentor, Simon Whatley, or if he should set his sights a little bit higher.

After all, he reasoned as he turned off of Brandywine Lane, heading back into town, Regis J. Smallsreed wouldn't be a congressman forever.

And for the first time in several days, Bennington actually smiled.

Henry Lightstone sipped from the mug of hot coffee in his hands as he continued to stare at the muscular, pale gray-eyed man seated across from him who, oddly, appeared uncertain about what he should do next.

It's your move, buddy-boy. I've got all the time in the world — especially where you and your sneaky, cammo-wearing friends are concerned.

Lightstone completely ignored the younger man with the cast on his wrist because the older one definitely posed the greater threat.

You can see it in his hands, and in his body language, the experienced covert agent reminded himself, even if you can't see anything in those damn eyes of his.

"If I seem hesitant, Henry," the hunter-killer recon team leader finally began formally, "it's because we don't wish to… How should I say it?… offend your sensibilities any more than we already have."

Bullshit. You didn't give a rat's ass about my "sensibilities" when you and your friends slapped that MTEAR device under the transmission of my truck, Lightstone thought to himself.

Outwardly, he simply smiled politely and continued sipping at his coffee.

"On the other hand, it turns out that your response to David's unquestionably misdirected enthusiasm put us in a rather difficult situation."

Lightstone cocked his head curiously, but remained silent.

"My associates and I were hired to provide some advanced training to a group of — what should I call them: dedicated survivalists? militants? — located just outside of Loggerhead City," Wintersole went on smoothly. "One segment of that training included basic hand-to-hand defensive tactics. Unfortunately, David is our only qualified martial-arts instructor. And now he's going to be on limited duty for a while…"

"So you're looking for a substitute instructor," Lightstone finished helpfully, making a mental note of the term "limited duty."

"Exactly."

"I'm curious to know what makes you think I'm qualified to instruct hand-to-hand tactics, or that I'm available."

"Well, first of all, you strike me as a fellow who's spent a few hours in a dojo."

Lightstone shrugged. "A reasonable assumption. But that doesn't necessarily make me a qualified instructor."

"No, it doesn't," Wintersole admitted affably. "But to tell you the truth, Henry, we'd be perfectly happy if you only taught these guys a couple of basic wristlock techniques. They really aren't what you'd call action-oriented types. As far as your availability, it simply occurred to me — since you don't appear to work an eight-to-five shift — that some part-time employment might appeal to you."

"I could be working a swing or graveyard shift," Lightstone pointed out.

"Well, yes, that's true, although…" The hunter-killer recon team leader made what Lightstone considered a poor attempt to look embarrassed.

"Although you and your associates are also under the impression that I don't go to work at night either?" Lightstone finished, smiling slightly.

"We do have a couple of people on our staff qualified to teach basic surveillance techniques," Wintersole conceded. "And, for what I hope are understandable reasons, your qualifications are of great interest to us at the moment. We try to be discreet, and would be the first to acknowledge your right to privacy. But given the, uh, rather sensitive political orientation of our clients, and the fact that we don't know much about you — your surname, for example — we thought it wise at least to get a sense of your politics — not to mention your views regarding the federal government — before we made you an offer."

"So what did you find out?"

"As it turns out, not much. For obvious reasons, we believe you were trained — and have stayed active — in some contact form of martial arts. You don't appear to be employed, although you may just be on vacation. And we know almost nothing about your political leanings… other than the fact that you appear to have a close relationship with a woman who is certainly very vocal about her views of the federal government, which, I might add, are surprisingly negative for someone presumably employed by the federal government."

"Karla's pretty open about expressing her opinions," Lightstone agreed. "I find that a refreshing trait in a woman… in anyone, for that matter."

"No argument there."

"So who are your clients?"

"They call themselves the Chosen Brigade of the Seventh Seal," Wintersole replied casually. "Ever heard of them?"

Lightstone nodded. "It's a small town."

"Yes, of course." The hunter-killer recon team leader hesitated momentarily. "What do you think of them?"

"Personally, from what little I know or have heard, I think they're a bunch of flakes, losers, and lazy idiots. But being what passes for a typical Oregonian around here, I also believe they have every right to live like flakes, losers, and lazy idiots if they so choose… just as long as they don't intrude on anyone else's right to live the way they want to."

"A commendably open-minded attitude." Wintersole nodded his head approvingly.

"Us Oregonians are like that." Lightstone smiled briefly. "And to answer a couple other questions you haven't gotten around to asking me yet: First of all, my name's Lee. Henry Randolph Lee."

"Good Southern name," Wintersole nodded approvingly.

"My grandmother thought so. And secondly, I'm not the least bit interested in politics or the federal government."

"When you say you're not interested…"

"I mean I'm not interested in working for the feds, or being recruited by a federal agency."

Wintersole blinked.

"Then you think I…"

"That's right." Lightstone nodded, meeting the hunter-killer recon team leader's gaze.

"If you don't mind my asking" — Wintersole appeared genuinely surprised by the accusation — "why do you think that?"

"I don't know. I guess it occurs to me that the federal government might want to keep an eye on these Seventh Seal characters, no matter how incompetent and disorganized they may be." Lightstone shrugged. "And, I recall reading somewhere that certain federal government agencies like to recruit-what do they call them? Operatives? — from the local community."