Killing Game (Veritas Book 2) (2 page)

“Deliver it where?” Brannon asked.

“Go buy yourself some camping gear, and keep your head down. I’ll call you when I have all the details.” He looked at the stacks of money at Brannon’s feet. “You take off and we’ll find you. We’ll hunt you forever. You got that?”

“I’ll hang around. I’d like to meet the commander. It’s time to take back our country from all these pissy-assed libtards who keep fucking things up,” Brannon replied, coughing up the party line and nearly choking on it. “Time to make things right again.”

“I told you he’s no fed,” Bettis insisted, grinning like a fool.

“Time will tell.” Clarke spat on the ground, his eyes narrowed. “Time will tell.”

Chapter Two

After returning to his two-star hotel room and checking it for bugs of the electronic kind, Brannon called Veritas. The call lasted twenty minutes, and none of it was pleasant. There was no good way to tell your employer that you were now a felon, and that crime had happened on their watch. While the bad news percolated up the command chain to his boss, Brannon headed to the closest big-box store to buy camping gear.

As he shopped in the sporting-goods department, he grumbled under his breath. He had all this at home, and in much higher quality, but that was at the cabin in Kentucky. At least he’d brought his own rucksack and duffle bag on the mission.
Where the hell are they sending me?

As Brannon rolled his cart toward the front of the store, he spied a man following him, and doing a piss-poor job of it. Which meant the guy was either incompetent, or he wanted Brannon to know he was there. Probably a bit of both. After he’d counted the cash, he wasn’t surprised: Clarke had given him fifty thousand dollars, currently stashed in the rucksack on his back until he could find a place to hide it in the hotel room. This was yet another test, and one that could easily bite him in the ass.

He’d just loaded all his supplies in the back of his car when his phone pinged. The text was short and to the point: He was to meet up with Morgan Blake, one of his fellow Veritas operatives, at nine
tonight
. He needed to pick the location and devise the “scenario” to protect his cover.

With a sigh, Brannon sent back the requested information, then deleted both texts. Then he dummied up a text to a buddy in Vermont, telling him that he’d be in Florida for a bit longer and that the fishing was great. He sent that to a fake account at Veritas, so if someone confiscated his phone and managed to hack the security code, it would all look legit.

Grumbling under his breath, Brannon headed back toward his hotel room. His employer didn’t send someone down from Chicago to check on an undercover operation unless things were really heating up. Whether this was because of the robbery, or something else, he didn’t know. He’d find out soon enough.

*~*~*

Though Brannon had been to this particular bar regularly, mostly because it was the best place to meet like-minded separatist types, he still paused just inside the door to conduct a threat assessment. It was habit. As expected, a few of the regulars appeared to be on their third or fourth beers, while the local hustler worked his mark at one of the pool tables. There were new faces, any one of which could be with the militia. Since he was holding their money, he expected to be tracked wherever he went. To his relief, neither Clarke nor the doper was here tonight.

He’d left the cash behind at the hotel because carrying a rucksack into a bar would look suspicious. Fortunately, his seedy room had a serious case of rot just below the so-called air conditioner, the kind that sat just above the floor and managed only a feeble wheeze of air. It’d taken some maneuvering, all of it on his back on the floor, but he’d managed to jam the cash into the hole, encased in a plastic bag. Someone would have to spend a lot of time hunting for it, and he suspected the kind of person who would wasn’t that smart.

The smell of spilled beer and body odor hung heavily in the air, along with perfume. Typical watering hole found in the smaller towns outside Jacksonville. Worn tables and chairs, a dartboard, a big-screen television playing some basketball game. There was an American flag on the wall, right next to a Confederate flag. Which actually wasn’t the official flag of the Confederacy, but the battle flag of the Army of Northern Virginia. But to some, that bit of history didn’t matter.

After winking at a cute server, Brannon made his way to a booth in the back and settled in. His sixth sense told him he was being watched, so he made sure not to let it show. Instead, he pressed an icon on his phone, then tapped in a passcode. A minesweeper game came up, or at least it appeared to be such. He activated the app and the little clock whirled on the screen, then blinked green. No audio bugs, at least not in this corner of the room. That was good news.

Brannon left the game open and set the phone on the table as a server appeared in front of him, her smile genuine. He had that effect on women, and at one time had reveled in it. Not now; something that came easily wasn’t usually worth it. He ordered a beer and a plate of nachos, because the ones they served here were actually good. As he waited, he checked out the clientele. One guy in a Royals T-shirt near the bar kept watching him, but other than that, everyone seemed to be doing their own thing.

The beer arrived first and he took a long sip, thinking through his situation. Why trust him with all that cash? Why the camping gear? It made him wonder if the rumors Veritas had heard about Ellers having a camp in some remote location were true. If he could locate that camp, this whole mission would be worth it.

A few minutes later his Veritas contact arrived, and as he’d anticipated, Morgan Blake was an immediate hit with the testosterone crowd. Darker brown hair swinging freely around her shoulders, she was clad in a tight white T-shirt, painted-on jeans, and cowboy boots. From the male patrons’ reactions, it was as if someone had just dropped a busload of Playboy bunnies into the bar. Which was the whole point. Brannon hitting on a hot woman would be expected, and wouldn’t ring anyone’s alarm bells.

Morgan didn’t immediately head his way, but hung out at the bar, where she drank a bottled beer while chatting up the bartender. A former FBI agent, she was suited to this work. Morgan had been with Veritas for a few years now, and if Brannon was going to have someone watching his back, she was on that very short list. Just last fall, she and her partner, Alex Parkin, had taken down a major Russian drug lord in New Orleans. Brannon had been in Calcutta during that time, but from everything he’d heard about the mission, it was a miracle the two of them were still alive.

After a quick dance with a beefy biker who kept trying to grab her ass, Morgan drifted through the room, laughing and messing with the males’ heads—and the bulges behind their zippers. Brannon had always envied her ability to blend in, be it at a seedy bar or a Fifth Avenue cocktail party.

After ten minutes or so, and after he’d received both his nachos and a second beer, she wandered into Brannon’s part of the bar. Then, as if it all hadn’t been planned ahead, he raised his beer glass at her and she cocked her head and started walking his way.

He made sure to turn on the charm as she reached the table. “Hi there, babe.”

“Hi. You on your own?”

“Not anymore,” he said. Lame, but expected.

“Oh no,” she said, waggling a finger at him. “You have to answer a question, or I won’t waste my time with you.”

“So that’s why you’re not sitting with anyone else?” She nodded. “Okay, what’s the question?”

“Which musician has won the most Grammys in one night?” she asked.

They’d set this up in advance, too. If he answered incorrectly, he was telling her the situation wasn’t secure. At that point, she’d wander away and eventually leave the bar. No one would ever know she was his contact.

“Shit, that’s not easy. You sure you’re worth it?”

She grinned. “Answer correctly and you’ll find out.”

“Ah . . . Grammys, huh. Was it that black guy? Jackson?”

“Michael Jackson. You win.”

“Damn!” he said, grinning back.

When Morgan slipped onto the bench seat next to him, Brannon didn’t need to check the crowd to know there were at least a dozen guys who would have cheerfully castrated him at that moment.

“You’re a hunk,” she said, running a finger down his cheek. He smiled back, though Morgan was way off limits. He’d thought about hitting on her when he’d first come to work for Veritas, but quickly found out he liked her more as a friend. Most times, dating where you work didn’t pan out. But in her case, it had. She and Alex Parkin were a couple, a seriously into-each-other couple likely headed to the altar. Parkin had worked for the DEA, but he’d also been in federal prison. He could hold his own. Brannon knew that crossing the line with this woman was asking to have his nuts cut off. The only question was whether it’d be Morgan or Alex doing the cutting.

“So . . . ” she whispered, nuzzling his ear. “What the hell have you got yourself into?”

In between playing with her hair and acting like he was seducing her, Brannon filled in the missing pieces from his report, mindful to keep his mouth angled toward her so no one could read his lips. He felt her tense when he told her about the dead FBI agent.

“There’s been no word of that from any of our contacts,” she said.

“They might have been lying to me, but it didn’t feel that way.”

“We’ll check it out. I can’t believe they gave you that much money.”

“It’s a test, like the robbery. Has to be.”

She sighed. “The boss isn’t happy with the way things are playing out.”

“Hell, if there had been any other way,” Brannon replied, keeping his voice low.

“He knows that. The D.C. office is acting hinky right now. Something is going on, and they’re not sharing intel.”

He sighed, then laid his arm over her shoulder as if claiming her. “Let the boss know I’ll try to keep in touch, but if I’m out in the middle of nowhere it’s going to be hard.”

She nodded, then leaned forward and ran her hand up the outside of his thigh, pausing at his pocket. He felt her tuck something into it, and then her hand drifted upward onto his chest. “Plant the tracker in with the cash. We need to know where you are twenty-four seven.”

“I will.”

Picking up a nacho, Morgan dropped a hot pepper ring onto it. Popping it into her mouth, she licked her full lips, tempting Brannon to rethink his promise to keep his distance.

“You’re a tease,” he said. No wonder Alex loved her.

She laughed. “You need to get laid, my friend.”

“Yeah, I know. But not until this is all over.”

Morgan leaned closer now. “There’s another problem that might be related to the mission. A significant number of explosives went missing from an Army base in Texas. We think Ellers was behind the theft.”

“What’d they steal?” he asked.

“C-4. Enough to do a helluva lot of damage.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah. Anything else you need from us?” Morgan asked. He shook his head. “Then it’s time for Act Two.”

Puzzled, he watched as she sent a text message, then tucked her phone into her pocket. She scooped up another nacho, smiling the entire time.

“You’re not down here on your own?” Brannon asked, and she shook her head. “But Alex is still in Hungary, right?”

“Nope,” she said with a grin.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the door open and her lover glaring around the bar. The moment Alex saw her, he stomped toward the booth, pushing people out of the way.

“Incoming,” she murmured.

To play to the crowd, Brannon leaned over to collect a kiss from her. He never got the chance, as a hand grabbed Morgan, yanking her from the booth.

“You tramp! What the hell are you doing?” Alex bellowed. He was in a dirty T-shirt and stained jeans, his hair a mess. Just the opposite of the man Brannon knew.

“Just getting what I can’t get at home,” Morgan said, pulling free of his arm.

“The hell you can’t. You just got to put out, that’s the only problem.”

“Well, it helps if I’ve got something worth playing with, you know?”

Brannon whistled under his breath. These two were good. If he didn’t know them, know how much they were in love, he’d believe every word.

“Who’s this bastard?” Alex demanded, his eyes flashing.

Brannon slowly raised his hands. “Hey, no problem, man. I didn’t know she was spoken for.”

“Yeah, damned right,” Alex snarled. “I see you with her again and I’ll kill you.”

“She’s all yours. I don’t need the drama.”

As Alex towed Morgan out of the bar, catcalls followed them. The server returned to Brannon’s table, watching the door slam.

“Wow. That was something,” she said. “Another beer?”

“Nah, I’m done. It’s not my night.” He handed her enough cash for the meal and a good tip, then headed out.

As he strode across the parking lot, he could hear Alex and Morgan arguing. Then suddenly, they were leaning up against a car, making out.

“Get a room!” he called out, fighting to keep the smile off his face.

He was working with a team of solid professionals who would watch his back, no matter how bad it got. Since he might be headed into the devil’s backyard,
that
was a damned good thing.

Chapter Three

Monday, April 13th

South Georgia

Caitlyn Jayne Landry purposely slowed her Jeep as she turned into the long drive that led to the swamp tour’s headquarters, watching for alligators that might be sunning themselves on the path. Sure enough, one rose on its stubby legs and waddled across the road. As the seven-foot prehistoric monster slid back into the water, memories of another gator rose.

When she’d been about ten, Cait’s parents had taken her and her brother on a photography tour in the Everglades. Since her mother was an avid amateur shutterbug, the tour operator had used a trolling motor so they could check out the scenery. Cait had spied a mallard resting on a log, watching the boat as it drew near. As she went to point it out, a gator lurched out of the water, grabbed the duck and vanished back under the surface in the span of a heartbeat.

She’d gaped, stunned at what she’d just seen. When she began to tell the others about it, her dad warned her off. No reason to upset her little brother, or her mom, he’d whispered.

It was the first time she’d seen death up close, and the lesson had struck home: Someone, or something, might be smarter then you, and that could cost you everything. In many ways, her life had changed that day, all due to one hungry alligator.

During her eight years in the Marine Corps, she’d been the predator, but that had taken a toll, so much so that her last six months as a civilian had proven a difficult readjustment. She’d spent most of that time camping on her own in various national forests, or in the swamp. Even visiting her parents in San Diego had proven hard. They pushed her to get back into everyday life, find a job, learn to cope with the horrors she’d seen, lived through. It was like someone telling you to “shake off” an amputation, though she knew they meant well. She’d kept in touch with some of the Marines was her unit, but they had their own problems. Some were homeless, or struggling with drug addiction. Others just wanted to get on with their lives.

As soon as Cait could politely escape the last visit, she’d flown back to Orlando and picked up her old Jeep at a friend’s place. She’d even managed to catch a few hours of fitful sleep at a Motel Six on the way north, trying to ignore a drunk next door arguing with his wife. When the man had begun to beat her, Cait had intervened, told the asshole if he did not knock it off she would put him down. Considering she was wearing a USMC T-shirt and had a tactical knife strapped to her thigh, it got quiet after that.

Though the swamp tour didn’t start until noon—and with it a much-needed opportunity to reconnect with her former commanding officer—she’d risen way before dawn, the nightmares serving as a wake-up call. She slept as little as possible nowadays, in a futile attempt to keep them at bay. Sometimes she’d go two or more days without sleep, then crash, only to have the past roll through her mind, leaving a trail of blood, bodies, and brains in its wake. Sometimes she wasn’t sure if waking up was a blessing or a curse.

After getting breakfast to go, Cait had found a roadside park and eaten at a picnic table, leaving a bit behind for the squirrels. Then she’d taken the scenic route north, over the backroads of rural Florida and Georgia, past cotton fields, peach orchards, and run-down shacks.

Her desire for solitude told her she needed this trip into the wilderness, needed the quiet, the lack of people and everyday noises. Mike Montgomery—her former commander, now the owner of a swamp tour operation—would consistently remind her that this was her reality now, that the endless struggle to adapt to “normal” was worth it. She didn’t want to argue with him, because he was probably right. Some days the noise in her head just got too loud, and all she wanted to do was make it stop.

It wasn’t like Cait hadn’t known what she was getting into when she joined the Marines. Her family had a deep military tradition beginning with her great-grandfather. Her grandfather, also a Marine, had been a veteran of the Vietnam War, her mom had served in the Navy, and her father was an Army major. Even her brother had put in his four years in the Army and was now starting college in Phoenix. To her, none of them had shown outward signs of post-traumatic stress. They claimed otherwise, but Cait knew it was a lie to make her feel better. So far, she’d been the only one to crack.

The doctors at the Veterans Administration had recommended various medications for her “issues.” She’d tried a few of them, and they only made her a zombie. She flushed them all and tried hard to keep it together, though day after day, hour after hour, she felt the darkness talking to her, giving her thoughts that didn’t bode well for a future. With more than twenty-two veterans killing themselves every day, she knew she wasn’t alone on this journey, but it still felt like it.

Only after a trip with Mike into the swamp, she’d realized that the wilderness was her drug of choice, her way of keeping herself alive. Once he’d recognized this as well, he’d invited her to join him on the tours anytime she wanted, no questions asked. He’d obtained the proper camping permits, as well as a permit that allowed her to carry a firearm within the national park. He knew what was at stake if she gave up.

She’d found the first tour difficult because of the other “campers.” Fortunately, Mike had been there as her backup. Once acquainted with the swamp’s natural rhythms, from that point on she would split off from the group, going it alone, seeking whatever didn’t make her blood pound and her heart race. Seek a tangible means to turn off the nightmares, the memories, the feeling that she’d left too much of herself behind in Afghanistan to ever be whole again.

After swinging into a parking place at the far end of the tour headquarters, Cait turned off the Jeep. While she was roughing it, she stored the keys at the office and Mike’s wife Kia would keep an eye on the car. As she pulled out her gear and locked the car, she noticed a group waiting on the building’s broad porch, no doubt the others on the tour. She steered away from them; people asked questions, wanted to know what she did for a living, if she was married, did she have kids. The effort to explain was too much, sometimes even made her head ache.

As was her custom, she would bring up the rear of the group until she reached the point where she’d head off on her own deep into the swamp. Mike insisted she check in with him every day via cell phone or satellite phone, and though it grated, she was willing to accept that stipulation. He knew she could handle almost everything, but having a lifeline back to civilization was wise.

If she was lucky, this trip would buy her another month or so of sanity. Deep down, she knew that one of these days, even nature wouldn’t have the power to save her. That would be the day the war claimed yet another victim.

*~*~*

Brannon parked his rental car near the tour office, next to an old red Jeep with Florida license plates. It was dented and had a bit of rust, but the tires looked new, which seemed an odd combination. He’d spent most of his time trying not to worry, especially when he was getting closer to his goal. To chill, he had taken a five-mile run, worked out, then gone kayaking. The exercise had helped, but he’d still remained on edge. Time spent on the militia boards hadn’t given him any insights into Ellers’s plans either.

The call finally came in late Sunday night, during which Clarke had been short and to the point: Brannon was to head to Georgia the next morning and be at this particular location in time to take a swamp tour at noon. Everything else had been taken care of. During that tour, he’d be contacted and the money would change hands. When Brannon had tried to gain an assurance he’d be meeting Ellers, he had been told to just follow orders and it’d all work out.

As he’d driven north from Jacksonville, the armored truck robbery was still on the news, though so far his name hadn’t been connected with it. His mother would be appalled if she ever learned her eldest son was a criminal, even in the pursuit of justice. Still, to Ellers and his cronies, Brannon was the perfect recruit, an anarchist leader’s wet dream: a former Army Ranger who was a pro with explosives and had experience as a sniper. Both of those skills could easily be turned against a government that the “sovereign citizen” types hated.

There were a number of right-wing militant groups, including those associated with Posse Comitatus, a movement that believed no law-enforcement official above the rank of sheriff was legitimate. To show their defiance, they often refused to file income taxes or obey federal laws. Some even printed their own driver’s licenses. Others were affiliated with the League of the South, a white supremacist group, or the Christian Identity movement, which held that Jews ran the financial institutions and were working with Satan to destroy civilization.

When these people decided to break the law, they were usually heavily armed and had the capacity to inflict maximum body count. No matter their beef with the government, in Brannon’s mind, these guys weren’t any different than the Taliban or Al Qaeda, and he’d had plenty of experience dealing with those bastards. Now that he was out of the Army, it was time to use his expertise and do some much-needed housekeeping stateside. If he’d wanted armed insurgents roaming the streets, he would have stayed in Fallujah.

As he turned off the car, his cell phone rang. “Hardegree.”

“It’s Sanjay. I’ve got mixed news,” Veritas’s chief data analyst replied, his Mumbai accent clipped.

Sanjay was one of the go-to folks for information and often served as the point of contact for those currently on a mission. If the intel was on the Internet or tucked away in some computer database, he would eventually find it. It was like a cyber game of hide-and-seek to him, and he was incredibly good at it.

“The FBI is going ballistic because of the robbery,” Sanjay continued. “Best you complete this mission before they figure out you were part of it, because our boss isn’t sure he’ll be able to shield you if you’re arrested. His contact in the D.C. Bureau office has suddenly grown skittish about our involvement.”

“Affirmative,” Brannon said.
Dammit
.

“We finished the background check on the tour operator you’ll be meeting today. Mike Montgomery is a former Marine with an excellent service record. He’s married, three adult kids, has been conducting the tours since he retired two years ago. Financials are solid.”

“Any sympathies with anti-government groups?”

“Not that we can find. His assistant, Preston Taylor, isn’t as clean. He’s spent some time on a few of the sovereign citizen forums. Mostly, he comes across as a wannabe. Lots of talk, no action.”

“Let’s hope he stays that way.”

“Montgomery conducts his registrations by snail mail, not online. It really screws up what intel I can get for you up front.”

Brannon grinned at the annoyance in Sanjay’s voice because it was a rare thing. “Sounds like the man is a Luddite, or paranoid.”

“Probably a bit of both. If you can get me pictures of the campers, I’ll run facial-recognition software, try to figure out who is who.”

“Consider it done.”

“How often do you intend to check in?” Sanjay asked.

“Every ten to twelve hours, provided I have phone service. You don’t hear from me after twenty-four, something’s wrong.”

“Good. We’ll monitor the tracking chip.”

“At least you’ll know where to send the body-retrieval team.”

“Let’s not joke like that, okay? You may be the Lone Ranger, but we’re here to back you up.”

Brannon rolled his eyes at the nickname. Everyone who went out on missions had one. Well, except Crispin Wilder, the head of Veritas. No one had the balls to call him anything but “sir” or “boss.” It was never smart to jack around with a former international arms-dealer.

“How’s Iceman doing?” Brannon asked. One of his fellow operatives had been on an undercover mission in South America.

“He’s good, headed back to the States. He’s your backup if things go bad.”

“That works for me.” Brannon was originally going to be lead on the South American mission, but the plans hadn’t worked out right. Now he knew he was where he needed to be. “Let them know I hope to bring home the goods soon.”

“I will. Keep safe.”

“Always. Thanks, Sanjay.”

The moment Brannon stepped out of the car, his back twinged. Stretching his arms over his head, he heard a satisfying pop. It sucked to be an “old man.” At least that’s what some of his fellow Rangers had called him, ribbing him about being the graybeard on the team. As if thirty-two was old.

Sometimes it feels that way
.

It was only after his thirtieth birthday that he began to be aware of the passage of time. Before that, he’d been focused only on the missions and the “downtime” in between. Something had shifted, and it made him pensive.

Once his back cooperated, he gave a slow look around, checking out the scenery. The smell of the swamp immediately filled his nose, but he didn’t find it unpleasant. Earthy maybe, but not bad. The vegetation was shrugging off a chilly winter, enthusiastically embracing the warmer temperatures. At least it wasn’t full-on bug season yet or he already would have been bitten to death. In the distance, he could see Spanish moss hanging from sprawling oaks and bald cypress trees, hear the lazy calls of waterfowl. Overhead an egret winged by. In any other circumstances, he’d love to spend time here, just enjoying nature, but this mission was too critical. Especially now that his future hung in the balance.

Brannon stowed away his phone and grabbed his rucksack from the passenger seat. Despite the extra couple of pounds the money added, the ruck felt light in comparison to the seventy-five-plus pounds he’d carried on his Ranger missions.

Once the car was locked, he set off for the building. As he passed the rear end of the Jeep, he spied a Marine Corps bumper sticker—the signature eagle, globe, and anchor. Probably Montgomery’s car.

The tour office was a nondescript structure, weathered, but the roof was in good shape, indicating someone had spent money on the place. He thought it a curious business venture for a retired Marine, but then you had to do something when you reached your “twenty and out.” It was better than sitting at home or comparing war wounds with your buddies down at the VFW.