Killing Game (Veritas Book 2) (15 page)

She didn’t know it, but there was more than one mission in play; dealing with Ellers was the obvious one. For Brannon, there was another one: getting Cait to realize that her life hadn’t ended that day in Afghanistan. That her friend would want her to live on, to find happiness, to have the kind of life he’d been fighting for. Of the two missions, Brannon suspected that hers would be the hardest.

Chapter Twenty-One

They were on the water right on time, with sunrise three hours in the future. Cait found that her mind kept skipping back to what had happened between her and the Ranger. The second time they’d had sex had changed everything, revealing that underneath all her military-grade emotional armor, she was still a woman who needed a man, if nowhere else than in her bed.

Irrational as it was, that revelation made her feel weak. And made her angry. Trying to keep her surly temper in check hadn’t worked, and she’d growled at Brannon a couple of times for no good reason. He didn’t respond in kind, which pissed her off more.

“Hey, Caitlyn? What’s wrong?”

What could she say? That she had found more happiness in his arms than she had in years, maybe forever? That she was just as silly as Patti, all crazy for some dude with six-pack abs and the lovemaking skills of a romance-novel hero?

“It’s not my fault that we hit it off in bed,” he added.

Oh, hell.
“No comment.”

“You came, what, five times? We hit it off big time, sweetheart, at least by any sane person’s measure.”

Six orgasms
. She wasn’t going to correct him. “It’s just that—”

“You didn’t want to feel that close to anyone ever again. I got that,” he said, keeping up his measured paddling as if this conversation wasn’t punching little holes in her armor. “Something happened between us, and I’m not going to let you act like it didn’t.”

Damn you
. “Just paddle.”

“I am. You’re the one who’s
back
paddling, at least when it comes to us.”

She ground her teeth. “Okay, damn you, it was good. Great. Actually . . . the best sex I’ve ever had, but that doesn’t mean you have a place in my life.”
Because there isn’t much life left in me
.

He stopped paddling and turned toward her now. “That darkness in your head doesn’t like good things. It’ll lie to you, tell you you’re not worthy of any of it. Warn you that getting close to someone else will destroy you. I’ve been there, Caitlyn. I know what it’s like.”

“You could destroy me,” she said.

He sobered. “The risk goes both ways, honey. Remember that when you push me away, because it’s going to hurt me just as much as it does you.”

He turned his back on her and resumed paddling, his warning ricocheting around her brain like a bullet in a metal pail. Her anger fizzled and now she just felt tired. Old. Nearly an empty husk. Deep down, she knew the man in front of her could make it better, help her feel alive again. For a time last night, she’d felt that way, and those emotions had been as strong and rich as they once were.

Biting her lip, she took the risk. “Okay, we’ve got something going. Maybe . . . ”
God, why is this so difficult?
“Once this is done, we could . . . spend a weekend together. See if all this is just a flash in the pan or something else.”

Brannon’s posture relaxed. “I’d like that. A lot.” He looked over his shoulder now, his eyes laced with desire, making her breath catch.

“Mission first, then . . . whatever happens.”

“Roger that,” he said, pushing the canoe forward with renewed conviction.

She made sure to memorize every movement of his arms, his muscles, how he looked on the water. Because she knew as sure as the sun rose every morning that what he thought they had would never survive.

*~*~*

As per Cait’s prediction, they made the island right before dawn. To Brannon’s relief, they didn’t run into any patrols. After camouflaging the canoe under a pile of brush, they pulled on their rucksacks and headed inland. Cait carried her rifle, the strap slung over her shoulder, her knife in its sheath, attached to her right thigh. He had his attached to his belt.

Once they got their bearings, Brannon used the sat phone to call in a report. “We’re on the island.”

“Good,” Morgan replied, followed by a long yawn. He heard the unmistakable sound of a coffeemaker gurgling in the background. He bet it’d been going all night. “When Crispin told them about the hostages, the FBI suddenly became more helpful.

“They put the thumb screws to a couple of their informants and confirmed you are in the right place— Ellers has his compound on that island. They’re trying to decide how to handle the situation.”

“Which means?” Brannon asked. Since Morgan used to be with the Bureau, she understood how they worked better than most.

“There’ll be a bunch of meetings, a lot of weighing of risk factors, you name it. Once everyone signs off on a plan, they’ll be in the air headed your way. They don’t really have any other choice.”

“How long will that process take?”

“No clue. Sorry.”

So was he. “Any idea of how many people are inside the compound?”

“Forty or so. About a third of those are women and children.”

“Okay. I’ll contact you after we’ve completed our recon,” Brannon replied.

“Stay safe, my friend,” she replied, and she ended the call.

He turned off the phone and then relayed the information to his companion.

“So we’re on the right track then,” Cait said.

He nodded, sweeping his eyes along the area in front of them. “Ellers is enough of a paranoid bastard that he’ll have patrols outside the compound. It’s what I would do.”

“If you were a paranoid bastard, that is.”

He smiled over at her. “Who says I’m not?”

She chuckled. “Want me to take point?”

“No. Let’s fan out. I’m wondering if he’s set some surprises out here.”

“IEDs?”

“Possible. Or maybe not. Best not to find out the hard way.”

“Roger that.”

As they moved cautiously through the swamp, Cait about twenty or so feet away to his left, Brannon could feel the warrior taking full control—the constant reevaluation of his surroundings for any potential threats, the heightened senses.

Like a human computer, his training gave him an edge, one that might keep both of them alive. The adrenaline buzz was full throttle now, and he lived for that. Missed it. A quick glance over at Cait told him she was feeling the same way. They’d become nearly silent, carefully placing their feet in a way that caused them to pass unnoticed.

Birds were waking up in the trees around them. A raccoon pushed his way through some brush after a night’s foraging. Above them, clouds built as more weather moved in. As they donned their rain ponchos, he smiled, knowing the crappy weather worked in their favor.

Guards would hunker down, trying to stay dry, and that inattention increased Cait’s and his odds of survival by a slight margin. Raindrops began to patter down, heavy at first, then growing lighter. A Georgia spring in all its wet beauty.

Brannon slowed, then halted. Glancing over at Cait, he gave the “stop” hand signal and she immediately complied.

“What have you got?” she asked.

“Not sure. The ground looks wrong.” Kneeling down, he studied the muddy depression that sat about five feet ahead of him. He carefully edged forward and pushed back some of the brush. Then stared down into a remnant of the Vietnam War.

“What the hell?”

It was a tiger trap, a hole about six feet deep, filled with stagnant water. Sharpened stakes rose from that muddy water, promising serious injury or death to anyone who bumbled into it. They’d been used by the Viet Cong, an ingenious and low-tech weapon.

“Believe it or not, we got a tiger trap,” he said.

“You’re kidding me.”

He shook his head. “There has to be some sort of marking up where the guards can see it, or they’d fall into one of their own pits.”

Rising, he took a slow look around and then finally spied a thin paint stripe on the closest tree. “Got it. Red slash on the tree about seven feet up.”

“Roger that,” came his companion’s calm response.

Brannon carefully skirted around the trap, and they continued to work toward where the tracker had indicated the compound might lie. Through the rain came a sound he hadn’t heard in a long time: a bugle blowing “Reveille,” the military’s version of a wake-up call.

Cait stared over at him. He gave her a thumbs-up, and she returned it. They’d found Ellers and he was leading them right to him.

*~*~*

“Reveille” pulled all the hostages out of their bed.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Patti muttered. “What time is it?”

“Too damned early,” Bill replied, rubbing his eyes.

Susan had barely swung her feet off the side of her bunk when the door to their jail opened.

“Everybody out!” the guard barked. “Move it!”

She laced on her shoes as the others struggled into theirs. Once they were ready, they were marched toward the front of the compound. It was barely dawn, the air heavy with oppressive humidity from the recent rain. Occasional droplets still fell on their heads.

For Susan, there’d been little sleep. While the others had crawled into their bunks one by one, she’d read Ellers’s ravings by the light of an electric lantern. When she had finally given up at about two, the dreams were so damned vivid, she could have sworn she wasn’t sleeping at all.

Then came “Reveille,” one of the many reasons she’d never wanted to join the military. That thought brought her back to Landry and Hardegree. Were they really dead? Someone might have gotten the drop on one of them, but both? Especially Hardegree—not that the guide didn’t look like she could take care of herself. If Cait had survived, she’d be letting the world know exactly what had happened to the rest of them. Unless Hardegree had killed her and then got topped himself.

Prodded by rifles, she and the others were lined up in front of Ellers’s house. They weren’t the only ones present; other militia members slowly formed up in groups on either side of them. Mothers did their best to quiet the young kids as they whined or cried, having been pulled out of bed far too early for their liking. Susan gave a quick look around but didn’t spy a bugler. The morning wake-up call must have been a recording.

Rafferty stood by a tall blond woman and a pair of young boys, his family no doubt. His eyes met Susan’s, then quickly looked away. So far, he’d kept her secret, but for how much longer?

While she waited, eyes gritty and the urge to yawn nearly overwhelming, she sorted through what she’d learned from Ellers’s writing. The manuscript had been a jumbled mess, almost a steady stream of diatribe, something that had driven Bill nuts. But ignoring all the bullshit, Susan had begun to see the man behind the rhetoric and Ellers was as scary as she’d feared.

Anyone in authority, especially a female, was never to be trusted. Unless, of course, that person with the authority was Ellers. He had a quartet of “ists” going for him: misogynist, racist, egotist, and anarchist. He was convinced that he was the only one who could save America from the blacks, the Jews, the government, and the “feminazis.” Susan knew where she’d fall on his hate list: She was Jewish, had two X chromosomes, and was a federal agent. Three for four. He wouldn’t even hesitate to put a bullet in her brain.

The commander had an arrest record, which included domestic violence, which in the manuscript, he had explained that away as his wives’ fault. Wives, as in plural. In short, he was a loud-mouthed, hateful, and abusive SOB.
Who holds us hostage
. Which said he wasn’t as stupid as she’d hoped.

The door of the house swung open and their lord and master strutted out to study them. His hands were on his waist as he turned to survey his minions. The way he held himself twitched Susan’s memory again. This time, the answer came to her.

Mussolini. He acts just like him
. Which made total sense, as Ellers had devoted one whole chapter of his memoirs to his admiration for the Italian dictator.

“How do we start and end every day?” he bellowed.

“By remembering we are the ones who will restore liberty to this once-great nation,” came the rote response from the members of the compound. Most sounded a lot less enthused than their boss probably expected.

“How will you do that?”

“By shedding our blood and that of our children and that of the traitors.”

Susan blinked.
Their blood, even their children’s, but not Ellers’s
.

Of those she could see, the expression on his followers’ faces ranged from true zeal to sad resignation. Rafferty’s and his wife’s were the latter, as if they were trapped and had no way to get out.

Maybe I can change that
.

“When will you give yourselves to this noble cause?” Ellers continued.

“When you command us to do so,” the others chanted.

“And what will be the result?”

“A free nation, clothed in liberty and justice.”

It was pure indoctrination. Repeat the same phrases, most likely day after day at the crack of dawn, and the message would sink in: an unintentional affirmation that these people were nothing more than cannon fodder for this man’s delusional fantasy. The Pledge of Allegiance came next. As they reached the end, Susan frowned, realizing it’d been changed. She replayed what she’d just heard.

‘
. . .
one nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all
. . .
who believe
.
”

“For all who believe?” she whispered. What did that mean?

Then Ellers tromped down the steps to take his place in front of them. “Are you working on my book?” he asked, his eyes on Bill.

“I am.”

“Be done tomorrow, will it?”

Lie, Bill. He hates challenges to his authority
. Not delivering the manuscript on his insane time schedule would be just that.

“Yes,” the writer replied, sweat forming on his forehead, despite the chilly temperature.

Ellers looked over at the photographer now. “What about you? What pictures do you need?”

Keith swallowed hard. “I’ll need some of you, whatever parts of the compound you’re willing to reveal.”

“All of it! No reason to hold back.”

“But yesterday you said—”

“All of it! This will be our final battleground. We will all be martyrs here. No one will be left standing.”