Ken Goddard - Double blind

"Yes sir, we do."

"And wouldn't you expect agent Boggs to recognize Special Agent Lightstone?"

Wintersole shrugged. "Yes sir, I guess I would."

"Well, then, why don't you ask him?"

Consciousness returned to Simon Whatley in the form of pain.

Deep, throbbing, and — evidently thanks to whatever mixture dripped into his IV tube — essentially controlled pain; so controlled he felt tempted simply to lie there on the firm but yielding mattress and allow the soothing drugs to work their wonders on the frazzled synapses of his severely battered nervous system.

But something drifting around in the back of Simon Whatley's sedated mind kept demanding his attention.

Something about a plane ride.

And a meeting.

And some letters that had something to do with his being-what? — early?

No, not early.

Late.

Simon Whatley's eyes flew open…

Oh my God. Where am I?

… and then immediately slammed shut in response to the agonizing burst of pain the light caused to shoot through the back of his eyeballs and then ricochet repeatedly in the center of his brain.

His deep and heartfelt moan caught the attention of one of the floor nurses.

"Hi there, sport, how are we doing this morning?" she whispered in a professionally gentle and concerned voice as she automatically felt for his pulse.

Morning? Thank God. Maybe I'm not too late.

He tried to whisper a question, but his lips and tongue simply refused to cooperate.

"What's that, hon?" The nurse put her head down next to Simon Whatley's bandaged face.

He tried again, this time forcing the air through his vocal cords with an effort that sent another streak of pain ripping through his muddled brain.

"Time is it?"

The nurse glanced down at her watch.

"Five-thirty, almost exactly on the nose."

Five-thirty. Five-thirty. What time do I have to be there? Eleven in the morning? Whatley sagged down into the mattress in relief. Thank God. Plenty of time to call Smallsreed, tell him… wait a minute. Five-thirty? How can that be? It was seven forty-five when…

"Nurse?" he rasped again.

"Yes, hon?"

"Are you… sure… it's five-thirty?" It hurt his mouth very badly to articulate the words, but he had to know.

The nurse glanced down at her watch again.

"Five-thirty-two, to be precise, on what is supposed to be a beautiful Tuesday morning. But before you start…"

Tuesday?

No, can't be. It's Monday morning. Has to be Monday morning.

Simon Whatley felt his chest constrict in fear and pain.

What happened? Got off the plane in Dulles at seven-forty-five. I remember that. Terrible ride. Goddamned kids. Filthy smelly toilets. Too tired to read the drop-box messages. Got into the cab. Driving to the hotel… was going to read the messages… reaching into my jacket pocket when the cab swerved… everything went crazy… upside down…

Accident.

Oh God, no.

"Nurse, get me a phone!"

He thought he yelled the words at the top of his lungs, but in fact, what barely sputtered through his painfully swollen lips and missing teeth sounded like little more than incomprehensible muttering.

The nurse laid a soothing hand across Simon Whatley's forehead. "Take it easy, hon. Don't try to talk."

"Need a phone!"

Another burst of sputtering, but this time she heard the word "phone" clearly.

"Listen," the nurse stroked his feverish brow, "you just rest. I really don't think you're up to talking with anybody yet."

"Please!" He implored the caregiver with his reddened eyes, putting every bit of energy he could muster into an effort to speak clearly through his damaged mouth. "I need a phone. Right now! Please!"

Three time zones to the west, another seriously injured man experienced equal difficulties communicating with the people trying to provide him with basic medical care. But in this case, however, the breakdown in communications didn't occur because of a lack of understanding.

Special Agent Wilbur Boggs knew exactly what the young man in the military fatigues wanted to know.

And the young Army Ranger — recon team designation one-six — sitting in the chair in front of him knew exactly what the severely injured federal wildlife agent thought about his persistent questioning. Boggs had been very explicit in his commentary, which was why he was now wearing a wide strip of duct tape across his mouth.

In fact, only the numerous loops of duct tape that held the middle-aged agent's muscular arms and legs securely to the chair kept the absolutely furious Boggs from demonstrating in much more explicit — not to mention extremely violent-detail, exactly how much the young man's questioning displeased him.

But the restraining loops of tape didn't prevent the enraged and nearly exhausted wildlife officer from driving his forehead into his first inquisitor's face, smashing the young Army Ranger's nose in a virtual explosion of blood, and causing him to retaliate with a savage backhand to the face that sent Boggs rocking backwards in his chair just as First Sergeant Aran Wintersole entered the small shed.

Unimpressed by his soldier's carelessness, as well as his lack of control, Wintersole had immediately ordered the chagrined and bleeding soldier outside, and replaced him with one-four — his other injured instructor — along with orders to get the information out of Boggs in whatever manner proved necessary.

That had occurred almost two hours ago and, as Boggs appeared no closer to talking now than before, the frustrated young soldier abandoned his threats and pressure points, braced his plaster-covered hand against Boggs's cast… and ripped the nail off the federal agent's right little finger with a pair of pliers. That, to the young soldier's absolute amazement, only fueled the severely injured agent's stubborn resistance.

It was a mistake to bring the female in, the young soldier thought, looking over at the bound and gagged young woman who, if anything, was making more of an effort than Boggs to get loose and tear into her captors. She's as bad as he is, if not worse. And having the two unidentified agents in here, too, isn't helping things either. They're just egging him on. But he wasn't about to voice that opinion. Not with Sergeant Aran Wintersole in the room.

Sighing to himself, one-four prepared for the next phase, which would almost certainly mean carrying out his threat to do precisely the same thing to the young woman's right little finger if he — Boggs — didn't get with the program.

Suddenly, another figure entered the shed.

"Does anybody here know where I can find Sergeant… hey, what's going on here?" Henry Lightstone demanded from the doorway.

"What are you doing here?" the youthful inquisitor responded. "You're supposed to be with the Brigade."

The young soldier started up out of his chair, immediately suspicious and on the alert because Wintersole had made it very clear that their newly hired replacement was to be given run of the Chosen Brigade's training facility, but he was not to be trusted with any sensitive aspect of their mission.

But before one-four could do or say anything else, First Sergeant Aran Wintersole intervened.

"It's all right, David," Wintersole said as he came up beside Lightstone. "Come on in." He reached around and pulled the shed door shut. "So how are the Brigade members getting along with their night field problems?" the hunter-killer team leader asked calmly.

Henry Lightstone spent a few moments staring at the four figures who were bound to the chairs — noting that the glassy-eyed and bandaged older male strapped into the chair farthest away from the door and the young soldier whose wrist he had broken in the Dogsfire Inn both had fresh blood all over their plaster casts — before he finally answered.