Killing Game (Veritas Book 2) (18 page)

It was Susan’s turn to laugh. “My mother will be ecstatic. She’s given up on me ever getting married.”

“Mine too—or remarried, that is.”

“What about Brannon? You two looked good together.”

Cait’s eyes shuttered, the mirth gone in an instant. “He’s not the problem. It’s me. I’m not the marrying kind.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yeah. Ellers’s mines and I have a lot in common. We’re unstable and can destroy anyone who comes too near.” She handed Susan the bar, then rose. “I’ll take first watch.” Before she could reply, the former Marine vanished into the night.

Shaking her head, Susan fired up the satellite phone to deliver her report. Hopefully, her fellow agents would have a plan. If not, it’d be up to her, Cait, and Brannon to rescue the hostages and stop the bad guy. Only in Hollywood would that plot have a happy ending.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Brannon ended up bunking with ten other guys in a small hut. Since all the beds were filled, he took a thin sleeping bag to a corner and curled up. His gear hadn’t been returned to him yet and neither had his knife, so he had only his hands to protect him if someone decided to get rough. That was enough.

His sleep was light, each new noise registered, evaluated, and then eventually discarded as a threat. Which is why he overheard the whispered conversation a few hours after lights-out.

“Commander says we’re to be ready during ‘Reveille,’” a thick voice said.

“So it’s actually gonna happen. I’m not sure exactly what I think about this.”

“Just do what you’re told and it’ll go fine.”

“For us, maybe, but not for the others.”

“You chicken out, and you know what will happen to you.”

“Yeah, I know,” the second man said. “Us or them.”

“It’s all part of the plan. Now get some sleep. We gotta be up before dawn.”

Silence fell after that, leaving Brannon to parse through the conversation. Ellers’s people weren’t giving him trouble, so why was there an “us versus them” mentality? What did the man have planned for his people?

Rolling over, he stared at the roof of the hut for a time, wondering if Cait missed him as much as he missed her. He swore he could feel her skin under his fingers, what it was like to make love to her; feel her take her pleasure from him. He hardened at the thought, and barely kept the groan silent.

Mission first
. He let his eyes drift shut. Dawn would bring the answers to his questions. Hopefully, it would also bring him closer to freeing the hostages and returning to the woman he was beginning to love.

*~*~*

Cait watched the FBI agent sleep, wondering how long it had been since she’d slept that soundly.
Last night with Brannon in the cabin
. Was he still alive? She hadn’t heard any gunshots, but that didn’t mean Ellers hadn’t cut his throat. Or tortured him.
Don’t go there. You’re just freaking yourself out
.

With her gentle shake of Susan’s shoulder, the woman woke. After blinking open her eyes, her companion frowned.

“You didn’t wake me,” she said, sitting up. From the way she moved, she was stiff in places that didn’t appreciate that kind of discomfort.

“You needed the rest.”

“And you didn’t?” Susan asked, running her hands through her tangled hair.

“I’m used to running on little or no sleep. You’re not. I managed to catch a power nap for a couple of hours since it’s been quiet.”

“I wanted to stay awake until you got back, but my brain just shut down.” Susan yawned, then stretched. “I got a call right before I crashed. Our reinforcements will be here this afternoon about three. They have all the details worked out, and I gave them everything we know. They’re aware of what they’re walking into.”

“What about Brannon? Do they know he’s here?”

“Yes. And I told them he’s trying to help us out. That met with a great deal of skepticism.”

Cait gave a nod. “When you’re ready, I’d like to check out that structure we saw last night.” They’d seen it in the distance but had decided not to do a recon in the dark, in case the hut, or the area around it, was booby trapped.

“You got it. Give me a couple minutes and I’ll be moveable.”

Cait handed over a bottle of water. “This will taste different. I used the iodine tabs to purify it.”

“Oh, yum. You got eggs Benedict in that backpack of yours?”

“Dream on. I could grill you some alligator, if you want.”

“No, I’ll pass.”

“What are the chances that the FBI won’t arrest Brannon for the robbery?” Cait asked.

“The truth? Slim to none. But if we can pull this off without anyone dying, that’ll give me leverage to try to talk them out of it.”

“And if you don’t?”

“He’s going down for some seriously hard time.”

“Jesus.”

“I know. But it sounds like he knew the risks,” Susan replied.

“Yeah, but that won’t make it easier.”

When Cait tossed her a small packet of tissues, Susan nodded her thanks.

“I deserve a damned raise for this.” With a groan, she rose to her feet and headed off into the woods.

Folding up the ground cloth, Cait packed it into the rucksack. Scanning the area, she ensured that they’d left no trace other than the flattened earth. A glance at her watch told her they were about an hour from dawn. If they were lucky, by this afternoon, all of this would be over.

*~*~*

They were nearing the location of the hut when Cait heard voices. She held up her hand for her companion to stop, then realized that Susan wouldn’t know the hand signals.

She turned and whispered, “We got someone coming this way.” Susan didn’t reply, but followed her into deeper brush, where they crouched down and waited. A short time later, two men crossed not ten feet away from them. Between them was a five-gallon carboy hanging from a thick wooden pole, filled with what looked to be water.

“This shit is heavy,” one man said.

“Duh,” the other guy replied. “Forty pounds, what did you expect?”

“Why the hell are we doing this?”

“Don’t know. I just do what Ellers tells me, okay? He says we fetch this water, we fetch it.”

They staggered on, heading for the compound.

“We could have mugged them for that. Had to taste better than the stuff you have,” Susan said.

Cait didn’t reply. Something wasn’t right about what they’d just seen.

“What’s wrong?” her companion asked.

She looked in the direction of the compound, then back at Susan. “So you’re Ellers, and you’ve made your own little country in the middle of the swamp. You’re dead sure that the ratbag feds are going to attack you, so what do you do?”

“Build an armed compound, which he did. I’ll ignore the ratbag fed comment for now.”

“Probably best. Let’s take it a step further: How do you withstand a long siege? With food and water, right?”

“He’s got that covered. I saw dried food and there’s a cistern. With the way it rains here, he and his camp can hold out for a very long time.” Then, slowly, it seemed to dawn on her where Cait was headed with her questions. “But if he has all that water, why are they carrying more into the compound?”

“Why, indeed?”

*~*~*

Brannon was up before dawn, tired of listening to the others snore. With his years in the Rangers, the sounds shouldn’t have bugged him, but somehow they did. He was more on edge than usual, and with that twitchy feeling crawling up the back of his neck, he knew something was going down soon.

After making a quick stop at the latrine, then washing his face and smoothing back his hair, he headed toward the front of the compound. People were taking care of their chores, even the children; he passed one little kid feeding the chickens, another one milking a nanny goat. Yesterday, when he’d been given the tour he noticed there were no dogs here. When he’d asked why, Rafferty had told him the commander didn’t like them, thought them a waste of time. Apparently the IEDs were deterrent enough.

Curious eyes followed his every step, all because he was the new guy in town, the man who’d stolen for them and still brought the cash to their commander after being double-crossed. Some of the others’ expressions held respect; most looked at him like he was a sucker. Once again, he checked the security arrangements and found that they were unchanged this morning. A quick look up at the towers proved nothing was different there, either. So why was he on edge?

Rafferty joined him as he headed toward the parade ground. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” Brannon replied.

“You sleep good?”

“Pretty fair.”

When they reached the flagpole, there were groups of men chatting among themselves.

A man walked up to the front, then called out for silence. When the crowd obeyed, he said, “Okay, guys, time to get those weapons inspected. Bring ’em up!”

“Again?” someone called out.

“Yeah, again.”

“But why?”

“Don’t know. I just follow orders. Come on, let’s get it done,” the man snapped, pointing at the long table in front of him. “Firearms on the right, knives on the left. You know the drill.”

Men began to file up now, discarding their weapons as ordered.

“What’s happening?” Brannon asked, puzzled. It was an odd request and he didn’t know how to read it.

“Once a month, we turn in all our weapons so they can be inspected,” Rafferty replied. “That way Ellers can ensure that we’re taking proper care of them. Makes no damned sense to me, but that’s the way the commander wants it done.”

“And if someone isn’t keeping their weapon properly?”

“There’re penalties. Trust me, you don’t want to find out what they are.”

Rafferty walked up, removed his firearm, and added it to the pile. His knife went into the other stack and then he returned to Brannon’s side.

“Don’t know why we’re doing this again,” he added. “We already went through the inspection earlier this month.”

“Reveille” sounded and the men lined up in rows. Once it ended, someone coughed behind them. There were barely stifled yawns as well.

“Now what?” Brannon asked.

“Next will be the morning pep talk,” Rafferty said. “Sometimes it’s short. Sometimes it’s long. I’m hoping it’s a short one today. I’m hungry and we don’t eat until he’s done talking.”

Minutes passed. The men didn’t break ranks, but they began to chat with one another. Meanwhile, nothing was happening with the weapons on the table.

“Usually he’s out here by now,” Rafferty said.

Brannon studied the guards again and found that the ones in the towers were still in place, but the others were not where they’d been the day before.

“Your perimeter guards are inside the wire now,” Brannon said. “Is that normal?”

“What?” Rafferty said, looking around. “No, it’s not.” Then he frowned. “Where are the women and kids? They always join us for ‘Reveille.’”

The twitching was getting to Brannon, growing in intensity. His heart rate kicked up, his muscles tightening. A battle was coming, and he wasn’t sure it was going to be survivable.

He did the math. “You have six guys still armed. Wouldn’t they turn in their weapons as well?”

Rafferty paid more attention now. “Yeah, they should have. What the hell is going on?”

From the looks of it, Brannon wasn’t the only one who’d read the situation. Some of the others began shooting anxious glances toward the main house.

“If this goes bad, don’t charge the table. Go lateral, work around from the back.”

“Are all you Rangers this paranoid?”

“Only the ones who are still alive.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

Cait and Susan’s progress to the hut had been halted by the IEDs, the first of which involved a pressure plate. Since her companion seemed genuinely interested in explosives, that had led to Cait patiently explaining the difference between a VI, or victim-initiated IED, and a command-detonated one, those that required human assistance to explode. How some in the military called them IEDs, others called them mines. There seemed to be a lot of gray area in the terminology.

“So what do you call them?” Susan asked.

“Shit that can totally ruin my day.”

The agent laughed. “You know way too much about this stuff. I’m guessing that learning didn’t come out of a book.”

“You would be right.”

“If I haven’t said it already, thank you for what you did for us over there, in the service.”

“You’re welcome,” Cait replied, sensing that the sentiment was sincere. “Thank you for keeping the streets safe back at home.”

“Yeah, well, sometimes we have mixed success with that.”

“Same on our end,” Cait said.

The hut stood about fifty feet in front of them. She was guessing that there were multiple IEDs around it, carefully placed to make it damned hard to figure out where they were located. If the hut had been used regularly, there would have been a discernable path to follow, but the constant rain had made the grass grow too quickly.

“How do those guys get in here without blowing their asses up?” Susan asked, frowning.

“Probably had a map,” Cait said. “I’ll go in, you stay back here.”

“I’m willing to take the risk.”

“Won’t argue with that, but Brannon will need you alive to call in updates, coordinate things with the FBI. We both go in and we both get dead, he’s without backup.”

Susan grumbled under her breath, then gave in. Cait stripped off her rucksack and dropped it near the woman’s feet, then handed her the rifle.

“Sometimes I think you have a death wish,” Susan said.

Cait stopped breathing for a brief moment, then turned her back so Susan couldn’t see how close she’d hit to the bone. There was no way the fed could know that the dark voice in her head kept guilting her, telling her that it should have been her, not Jeremy, who’d gotten the flag-draped coffin, the rifle volley, the grieving relatives. Instead, he’d died, not her, and she had a job to do, so she tried to hush that dark voice, if just for now.

As she moved forward, one cautious step at a time, she smiled. Once again, the rain had been her friend. Now that she knew what to look for, faint depressions marked where the earth had sunk after the recent heavy downpours, and they formed a discernable pattern.

With a final glance toward Susan, she began to thread her way through the minefield. Sweat formed on her forehead, then ran down her face. Cait wiped it away, swatting at a mosquito who’d come to call. When she reached the door, she knelt to study the lock, but found no sign of it being booby trapped. The padlock was solid, but the hasp in which it was slotted was anchored in wood that had seen better days. With only a few solid kicks, the door swung open, trembling on its rusty hinges. Cait wasn’t sure what she expected, but a room full of wooden racks wasn’t it.

“What’s in there?” Susan called out, wisely keeping her distance.

“Not sure yet. Hold on.”

The five racks were homemade, with five shelves to a rack. On each of those shelves were three cookie sheets, the cheap kind you’d buy at Walmart, seventy-five of them in total. A small worktable sat nearby with empty bottles of acetone, a grungy blender, tweezers, and a stack of newspapers. A heavy-duty electrical cord lay curled on the floor, but since there was no electricity, that meant someone had to have brought in a portable generator at some point. Judging from the dust patterns on the table, there’d been other equipment, perhaps too valuable to leave behind.

“What the hell were they making?” she muttered.

“Cait? What have you got?”

She stepped to the door and listed off what she’d found inside. As she did, Susan’s frown grew deeper.

“Sorry, but I need to see this stuff. I insist.”

“Okay, I’ll guide you in. Go slow.”

It took another gut-knotting five minutes for Susan to reach the hut without getting herself blown to bits. The moment the FBI agent cleared the door, she froze.

“Is it like a meth lab or something?” Cait asked.

Susan didn’t reply, but did a quick inventory of the equipment on the table. Then she dropped to her knees and began peering under the racks. Reaching far under one, she retrieved something. When she regained her feet, she displayed the item on her palm, a large seed or nut of some kind.

“This is a castor bean,” she announced.

“Okay,” Cait replied, not understanding the significance.

“Castor beans, when properly processed, make ricin.”

Cait felt the bottom fall out of her stomach.

“Yeah, our wingnut commander has managed to create one of the deadliest poisons in the world, right in his own backyard.” Susan gestured. “That’s what the racks are for. You process it out, then let it dry, which would have taken some doing given the humidity out here.”

“So the water those guys were carrying was to make the poison?”

“Probably.” The agent rolled the bean around her palm a few times, then jammed it into her pants pocket. “After I phone this in, let’s get closer to the compound, see what’s happening. We can’t have Ellers leaving with this stuff. There’s no antidote.”

Cait pulled the door closed behind them, then studied the open ground in front of her. “‘Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more,’” she murmured, then walked out into the minefield.

“A Marine quoting Shakespeare? Now I’ve heard it all,” Susan said, following her.

“Wait until I break out the Dylan Thomas.”

The FBI agent’s laughter filled the air once again and brought Cait a smile. The smile continued as they walked out of the minefield, into the clear.

*~*~*

“Everything ready?” Ellers asked. Both men standing in front of his desk nodded. He could sense their tension, like smoke in the air.

Jason was one of his more loyal men, and recently, Cyrus had taken up the call. Both should be proud of the service they were about to perform.

“The boats loaded?” he asked.

This time only Jason nodded.

“Then go on outside and wait for me.”

“Sir—” the other one began. Cyrus wasn’t much more than nineteen.

“Go on,” Ellers barked.

“Just wonderin’ if it has to be this way. We’ve worked so hard buildin’ up this camp and—”

“Do you want our enemies to win this war? Is that what you’re telling me?”

Cyrus shook his head. “It’s just that those folks are friends of mine, and I don’t . . . ”

Ellers shifted his eyes to Jason. “Do it.”

The man’s arm was around Cyrus’s neck before the kid could react. It took a while for the hold to kill him, and all that time, the boy fought for his life, kicking, struggling as the smell of urine filled the air. When he finally slumped to the ground, Jason picked up the boy’s gun and stuck it into his jeans, then dragged the body out of sight of the door, propping it in the corner.

“Go on, I’ll be out in a moment,” Ellers said.

“Yes, sir,” Jason replied.

When the door closed behind him, his eyes moved back to the body in the corner. “Coward,” he muttered.

He’d planned this moment for almost a year, once he’d realized what it would take. Only a bold move, something no one anticipated, would bring this country to glory. He knew some would fault him down the line, but the rewards would nullify the sacrifices.

Ellers would ignite a conflagration that would roar through the country like a fire through dry timber, cleansing every state, every city. At the very end, once the blood had stopped flowing and the bodies had been buried, America would be free, and they would know that he’d been right. That he, Quinton Ellers, had shown them the way forward, all because he wasn’t afraid.

“God Bless America,” he said, smiling to himself as he shouldered his pack and headed for the door, and his destiny.

The door to the house finally opened and Commander Ellers took a position at the top of the stairs. It was the perfect location—everyone could see him—and Brannon knew he did it on purpose. The man was as much showman as tyrant. The commander wore camo, like the day before, and had his gun in hand. He raised it into the air and fired twice. All movement ceased.

“Good morning, patriots!” he called out, holstering his weapon.

“Good morning, Commander!” the men shouted back.

Ellers’s eyes sought out Brannon, and he felt his hackles rise. “Twenty years ago tomorrow, on April nineteenth, 1995, a true patriot struck a blow that was heard round the world. He taught the traitors that one man could paint the sky red with the blood of his oppressors. That one man could bring a nation to its knees.”

April nineteenth, 1995.

Brannon’s twelfth birthday. He’d been so wired for the party his parents had planned for him, time with his best friends at a paintball range, then pizza, cake, the whole works. Then his father said something bad had happened and it was all cancelled. Brannon couldn’t believe it. Demanded to know exactly why. His parents had left him in the kitchen, went into their room for a private discussion. No voices were raised, but when they came back out his mother was crying.

“I’m so damned sorry this had to happen today,” his father said, clicking on the television. “Or any day, for that matter.”

On Brannon’s twelfth birthday, a white supremacist named Timothy McVeigh had detonated a Ryder truck full of ANFO (ammonium nitrate) outside the Murrah Building in Oklahoma City. He’d parked in the drop-off zone for the day-care center.

As Brannon had watched the news reports, he’d been just as stunned as the rest of the world. 168 people dead, many of whom were children, and over 600 wounded. The blast had been felt over fifty miles away.

It was the day Brannon learned that not all of America’s enemies were overseas, that some of them lived right next door. They shared the same restaurants, the same churches, schools and bars. Even if it was homegrown, their hatred was no less fanatic than their counterparts in the Middle East.

He’d never forgotten that day, and every year on his birthday, he’d say a prayer for those who’d lost their lives to a cause that was more butchery than liberty.

Now, listening to this asshole laud McVeigh’s “blow for freedom” made him furious. He bit the inside of his lip, drawing blood, trying to keep from launching himself at Ellers and ripping him apart.

“But today will be just as important as tomorrow. For today, you people will be remembered for your bravery, for your love of your country, for the sacrifice you will be making.”

“What’s he talkin’ about?” someone whispered.

“Today, our enemies will come to this place in an attempt to roust us from our chosen home, but we will not let that happen. For this is New America and here, we are free!”

There were a few cheers, but for the most part the onlookers were confused.

“Is this the way he usually is?” Brannon asked Rafferty.

“Not really. I don’t know what he’s talking about.”

“You must guard your liberties, your families, your freedom,” Ellers continued, pacing now. “Tomorrow the world will see the truth. I’ll make sure they count you among the most loyal patriots this country has ever known.”

Then Ellers hefted his backpack onto his shoulder and marched right down the center of them. He shook hands with those closest to him, slapping some on the back.

“I don’t get it. What’s he doing?” Rafferty asked.

Once the commander was free of the group, he walked to the front gates and waited as two of his men opened them. He marched out, turned smartly on a heel, and saluted Old Glory. Then he took off down the path, double time, his escorts right behind.

“What the fuck was that?” one man asked.

“Damned if I know,” another responded.

The gates swung closed and then bars were engaged, locking down the compound. Ellers’s message had a finality to it, one that made Brannon shift uncomfortably. As if by instinct, his eyes rose to the towers again. This time they were manned, but the guards were facing
inward
. As were their weapons.

Now he understood what Ellers had meant.

The bloodbath would start here, but the FBI would have nothing to do with it.

“Oh hell, no!” he said.