Ken Goddard - Double blind

"They're stumbling around a lot, mostly running into trees and getting in each other's way, but nobody's broken a leg or shot anybody yet — which is pretty amazing all by itself."

"How's their spirit holding up?"

Lightstone shrugged. "Probably a lot better than their physical conditioning, but that's not saying much. By the way, I may have insulted Colonel Rice when he offered me a major's rank to join up with the Chosen Brigade. I told him a single stripe would be fine, because every military brigade ought to have at least one private, but I don't think he noticed. Fact is, I get the impression this business of taking prisoners really threw the entire group off their stride," Lightstone added pointedly. "Which brings me to a relevant question. Am I interrupting some critical part of the exercise here?"

He nodded his head in the direction of the two chair-bound figures.

Wintersole shrugged. "No, not really."

The fearsome pale gray-eyed soldier seemed to hesitate for a brief moment, as if not quite certain how he wanted to play the situation. But then he went on in what Lightstone thought was an amazingly calm and controlled voice.

"We have an interesting problem here, Henry. It seems a competing paramilitary group in the neighborhood doesn't think much of the Chosen Brigade's brand of politics or religion. So instead of simply agreeing to disagree, this other group decided to send three of their members to infiltrate the Brigade and monitor their activities."

"I thought you said she was one of the Chosen Brigade women." Lightstone rubbed his aching ribs gingerly as he watched Special Agent Natasha Marashenko's eyes widen in recognition over her duct-tape gag as she reacted to the name "Henry" by turning and staring.

"She was supposed to be." Wintersole appeared to contemplate the fiercely glaring figure who had finally stopped struggling against her bonds. "But it was dark, and we didn't pick up on the switch until we found the woman who was supposed to be part of the exercise out cold in the bushes."

"She doesn't look like much of a spy to me." Lightstone's comment earned him a furious glare from the captive Charlie Team agent.

"None of them look much like federal wildlife agents, either, as far as I'm concerned," Wintersole commented.

Lightstone blinked. "Federal wildlife agents?"

"That's their story, although all four of them apparently forgot to bring along their Special Agent badges or whatever it is they carry for ID. Oh, and by the way, they'd like us all to know that we're under arrest."

"For what, holding a training exercise?"

"Apparently we carried out our roles a little too realistically for their tastes." The hunter-killer recon team leader smiled.

"I don't understand." Henry Lightstone donned a thoroughly confused look. "These people from a competing militant group tried to infiltrate the Chosen Brigade posing as federal wildlife agents? What the hell kind of sense does that make? I mean, how did they… hey, wait a minute, didn't you say three?"

Wintersole nodded his head solemnly.

"According to our sources, the old fart in the far chair was supposed to infiltrate another couple into the Chosen Brigade during our exercise this evening. The woman next to him — the one you captured — and presumably one of these other two supposed federal wildlife agents" — Wintersole smiled again — "who happens to be named Lightstone."

Henry Lightstone felt a cold chill run down his spine, but he forced himself to remain calm and unresponsive.

"For what I assume are obvious reasons, the Brigade leadership would like to identify this third infiltrator," Wintersole went on. "We have a rough ID — male, white, six foot, one-eighty- which both of these guys more or less fit, but nobody here wants to cooperate. And then, as luck would have it, who pops in at just the right moment but you."

"Me?" Lightstone cocked his head curiously, already judging the relative positions of Wintersole and his already-injured young martial-arts instructor, whose right hand had been converted into what was now, unfortunately, a fairly handy club.

Wintersole nodded. "Whoever comes up with a positive identification of Lightstone gets a five-thousand-dollar bonus. We've been interrogating these two for the last couple of hours on a fairly casual basis and getting nowhere. We were getting ready to try a more serious form of persuasion when you showed up."

A decidedly cold look passed through Wintersole's eyes. "However," he went on, staring directly at Lightstone now as if trying to gage his reaction, "before we do, and taking into consideration the amount of damage you took to your ribs from this little hellion a couple of hours ago, I thought you might like a shot at that bonus money first."

"Five grand, just to find out which one of those other yahoos out there is named Lightstone?" A contemplative look appeared on Henry Lightstone's face as he continued to stare down at the four captive agents — all of whom, for very different reasons, continued to glare right back at him.

"That's right."

Henry Lightstone shrugged. "Tell you the truth, I'm kind of tired of listening to this one screaming in my ear." He nodded his head toward Natasha Marashenko. "And those other two don't look like the cooperative types, but if I can have this old fart to myself for an hour or so," he added as he walked over and removed the gag from Wilbur Boggs's mouth, "I think I can make him talk."

A fierce bloody smile formed on the federal wildlife agent's lips as he looked up at Lightstone and said in a nearly exhausted but clearly unimpressed voice:

"I don't think so, asshole."

At precisely 5:44 East Coast time that Tuesday morning, Simon Whatley's call was finally routed through to Regis J. Smallsreed's Georgetown apartment.

Less than an hour and a half later, Whatley found himself transported upward in an elevator and wheeled into a large, dimly illuminated private room in a very secure and restricted area of Fairfax County Hospital reserved for persons of wealth and influence recovering from their socially acceptable or unacceptable ailments in a manner more befitting their station in life.

From Whatley's prone position, he could see the concerned faces of Congressman Smallsreed and Sam Tisbury.

"Hello, Simon, how do you feel?" Tisbury asked solicitously.

Whatley tried to mumble something through his swollen lips while Smallsreed spoke to the white-coated orderly.

"Those are Mr. Whatley's personal effects," the young orderly explained, handing the congressman a large plastic bag.

"Thank you. We'll take care of everything." Smallsreed ushered the hospital employee toward the door as he spoke.

"And please, don't let anyone disturb us for the next hour," the congressman ordered as he began to shut the door. "But…"

"We'll call if Simon needs anything," Smallsreed smiled reassuringly, then firmly shut and bolted the door in the orderly's face. He then drew all the curtains and turned off all the lights, leaving only the overhead night lights as a dim source of illumination in the serenely wallpapered room, while Sam Tisbury spread the contents of the bag on the foot of Whatley's bed.

Moments later, the door to the adjoining bathroom opened and a tall, gracefully moving figure emerged.

"Does he have the drop-box messages?"

Whatley immediately recognized the voice as that of the ominous shadow-dwelling presence in Smallsreed's office, and sucked in his breath.

"Right here." Tisbury held up the three envelopes.

"I tried…" Simon Whatley mumbled, but the three men in the room ignored him.

"What do they say?"

"Just a second." Tisbury tore open the first envelope, unfolded the piece of paper and read out loud: "'What's the game? Blindman's bluff?'"