Ken Goddard - Double blind

As his eyes swept the shoreline, searching for movement, Rustman pressed his left elbow against his waist, confirming the positioning of the cross-draw-holstered. 45-caliber semiautomatic pistol concealed under his jacket. Then he took a slow, deep, steadying breath.

This is the crucial juncture, he reminded himself. If Smallsreed and his ass-kissing chief of staff had lost their nerve at the last minute and called in the FBI, this was the logical time and place for a team of federal agents to try for a photograph… or a takedown.

During the initial exchange. Which was why he'd insisted that Whatley bring the money with him on Smallsreed's hunting trip. So that they could make the exchange at a location where effective surveillance would be extremely difficult, if not impossible.

Wintersole's terse words echoed in Lt. Colonel John Rustman's mind.

Situation is still controlled.

Not "Clear." Controlled.

Translation: Wintersole's team hadn't yet searched the cabin, the car, or the surrounding woods. They had simply placed themselves in position to detect, monitor, capture, or kill any individuals who suddenly appeared in any of those locations. That would, if necessary, include all members of any surveillance or raid team, because Lt. Colonel John Rustman and his people were completely committed now, and he was a realist.

The federal prosecutors wouldn't bargain with him over the death of a federal agent, and he had no intention of spending the remainder of his life in a federal or military prison.

Better to go down fighting than rot in a cell, he thought as he watched Simon Whatley grab a weather-bleached plank with one gloved hand, hold the boat snugly against the thick wooden pillar, and quickly secure the bowline to the dock cleat.

The congressional district office manager turned and started to say something, but Rustman shook his head firmly.

"Go get it," he ordered. "Now. And then tell him to go home. We'll send you back in the Cessna."

The shaken political hack scrambled onto the dock and hurried across the road to the rear of the parked Town Car.

Less than two minutes later — immediately after Whatley closed the trunk and headed back to the dock with a briefcase in his hand — the vehicle started up, made a quick U-turn onto the dirt road, and headed back the way it had come while Whatley awkwardly worked himself back down into the boat one-handed. He hastily untied the craft, then almost catapulted into the water when Rustman slammed the throttle into reverse, backed the boat away from the pier, spun it in a tight turn, and accelerated toward the open water.

Once back at their original surveillance position, Rustman cut the engine and waited for Whatley to open the briefcase and hand over the thick sealed envelope.

"Is this everything?" The colonel automatically turned his back to the shore before slipping the envelope into his jacket pocket.

"Except for the personal information on the agents," Whatley reported, still shaken but determined to carry through his crucial part of the project. "You'll get that soon."

"What does 'soon' mean?"

"Tuesday, at the latest," the congressional district office manager promised.

"Including where to find them, I assume."

"We'll get to that in a moment. First, I want you to understand the money situation. There's five thousand in cash, small bills, for miscellaneous expenses. In addition, there are four separate account books. You've got a total of 2.3 million in one account to equip and fund the operation, which is not to exceed a one-year duration, regardless of what happens. There's eight hundred thousand for basic salaries in the second. Two hundred for Wintersole and a hundred apiece for the others. You have immediate access to both of those accounts with the IDs, linked credit cards, security codes, and other documents in the packet."

"And the bonus money?"

"There's 2.4 million in the bonus account. It's not accessible yet, but it will be — "

"— when the operation is successfully completed," Rustman finished.

"Correct. That money will be authorized for distribution to the survivors, or their designated beneficiaries, if and when the operation is successfully completed," Simon Whatley replied. "We added the beneficiary clause, and the necessary signature cards, based on what I… uh, I mean we think is a reasonable assumption that you could suffer a few casualties in an operation of this nature, because we don't want any dependents making a fuss."

"We'll expect authorization when the operation's completed, not if," Lt. Colonel John Rustman calmly corrected his companion. "We'll cover any dependents, regardless, but I wouldn't worry too much about casualties if I were you. This is going to be a professional operation. In hard and out fast. I don't anticipate anything more serious than a few minor wounds, at most. You did say four accounts?"

"Your account is separate, of course," Simon Whatley rushed to clarify that particular point. "Four and a half million dollars in designated amounts. Same conditions. One-third down, the remaining two-thirds on completion of the mission. You have to succeed completely, or there's no final payoff. Our client will accept nothing less."

"Complete success defined as the complete destruction of a small covert team of federal wildlife agents?"

"As well as the completion of the aforementioned diversions," Whatley reminded the lieutenant colonel. "Yes, that's correct."

Rustman smiled thinly.

"Just out of curiosity, what exactly did these agents do to piss off Smallsreed and Tisbury? Interfere with their deer poaching?"

"This project has absolutely nothing to do with the congressman!" Simon Whatley forced an indignant edge into his voice. "I… we're simply functioning as a go-between to assist a mutual friend. That's all you need to know."

"Ten million dollars is a hell of a lot of money, Whatley." Rustman ignored the other man's ridiculous effort to intimidate him. "I think it's reasonable to assume that these federal agents seriously pissed off somebody. And somewhere down the line, it might be helpful if we knew who… and why."

"You can assume whatever you please," Simon Whatley responded curtly, "but you must understand one thing very clearly. There have been two previous attempts to eliminate these agents. Both attempts failed. As far as our client is concerned, failure is no longer an acceptable option."

"You know, it amazes me that you've survived this long." John Rustman shook his head slowly.

"I'll have you know I'm perfectly capable of covering my own bases!" the senior congressional staffer retorted hotly.

"Yeah, I'm sure you are." The military officer dismissed Whatley's comment disdainfully. "But let's just make sure I understand all this correctly. We're only talking about five agents, correct? Not soldiers. Not spies. Federal wildlife agents. Basically game wardens with federal badges."

"That's right."

"So tell me something about them."

"Like I said, you'll get the complete dossiers later." Whatley mentally sifted through the briefing data he'd been compiling over the last several weeks. "But in summary, they range in age from twenty-four to thirty-nine. They've worked together as a covert team on two major operations to date."

The congressional district office manager hesitated long enough to organize his thoughts before going on.

"The team's Special Agent in Charge is a black male named Larry Paxton. He's described as well educated, highly intelligent, habitually sarcastic, and occasionally insubordinate. But he gets high marks for motivation and leadership as a team leader. He's also a qualified single-engine pilot, but suffered some fairly serious injuries on the two previous operations. The government pulled his pilot's license, and he may be offered an early-out on a medical disability."