Killing Game (Veritas Book 2) (3 page)

A knot of people stood on the building’s porch, unevenly split between the sexes: two females, four males. One of the females appeared to be in her late teens, with pale-blond hair slashed with a thick streak of blue. Tall and thin, she was accompanied by a young man of the same age. His hair was less outlandish, just everyday brown, a little on the short side.

The other woman was older, prettier, probably in her early thirties. Her light-brown hair was pulled up in a messy bun, and she wore shorts and a pink T-shirt. The remaining men were nothing out of the ordinary, and Brannon guessed at least one of them had a desk job, if the guy’s spreading middle was any indication. Any one of these people might be his militia contact, the person who would lead him deep inside the organization. With a heavy sigh, he put on his happy tourist face and joined them.

Chapter Four

Cait had avoided the group and headed directly to the dock to check over her canoe in preparation for the trip. Mike kept an eye on it when she was gone, and as usual, it had its cover on. She stripped it off and was pleased to see the canoe looked in good shape.

Her phone rang. “Landry,” she said.

“It’s Kia. We’ve got a problem.”

Cait looked back at the tour office and realized Mike wasn’t around. As the tour operator, he usually went out of his way to make the campers feel welcome, ease their nerves. “What’s up?”

“We got in an accident this morning on the way to the office. We’re at the hospital now. Mike needs surgery and—” There was a pause. “Hold on. He wants to talk to you.”

“Landry?” a gruff voice called out.

“Colonel.” It was impossible not to refer to his rank. “What’s going on?”

“It’s all fucked up,” he said. “Can you believe it? I busted up my leg in some goddamned car accident.”

If he was swearing, he was fine; for Mike, cursing was like breathing. Cait began mentally editing out those particular words. Because if she didn’t, her own curse rate went up dramatically, something her mother would not tolerate, despite being married to an Army major. Cait’s expletives had earned her more than one lecture at the dinner table, even
after
she’d left the Marines.

“Is Kia okay?” she asked.

“Just a few bruises. She got lucky.”

“So what happened? Did you hit a deer or something?” she asked.

“No. The brakes failed, and I just had the car serviced last week. The problem is that I have a full tour today.”

“I’m sure your assistant can handle it.”

“Yeah, but I don’t want Preston to handle it. I want you to lead the tour.”

“What?” she blurted.

“You heard me.”

“I—”

“Sergeant, I need you to keep those folks safe.”

He was pulling rank. “You know I’m not in a good place right now.”

“What I know is that you’re not accepting the fact that you’re no different than any other damned soldier who’s seen action. That you have bad shit in your head that’s doing a number on you. I get that, but you need to SITFU.”

Suck it the fuck up
.

“Mike . . . ” she said. There were voices in the background now.

“Do this for me, Cait. You owe me.”

He’d never thrown a guilt card like that before, not in all the years they’d served together. “What’s really going on?” The noises increased, then ended. “Hello?” Cait called out.

“They took him back to surgery,” Kia said.

“How bad is it?”

“Two fractures in the right leg, both real nasty. They’re going to put in some pins.”

“Damn.” Cait hesitated. “I owe him everything, but I can’t handle the tour right now.”
I can’t handle me, let alone anyone else
.

“I know you’re in rough shape, but there’s a reason Mike wants you out there. In the last few months, there’s been increased activity in certain parts of the swamp. More boats, for one. Mike thought it was because it was spring, more tourists, but now he’s not so sure. There’ve been rumors of people camping out on some of the remote islands.”

“Like me?”

“You’re not running guns, Cait.”

“
What?
He has proof of that?”

“No, but Mike met up with a couple guys in a Jon boat who didn’t act right. They didn’t have any fishing poles or cameras, and when he tried to talk to them, they blew him off. There was a big wooden box in the bottom of the boat. Mike said it reminded him of what you’d use to ship AR-15’s.”

“Not dissing him, but that’s a stretch. Somebody would have to be crazy to bring unauthorized weapons into a national wildlife area.”

“He knows that, but he says something feels wrong and that’s why he wants you on the tour. His sixth sense has kicked in. You know what that’s like.”

Damn
. Her former commander’s instincts were why Cait was still above ground, or not a prisoner of Al Qaeda. She took a shaky breath. Could she handle it?

Before she could reply, Kia added, “I know what it’s like for you. I was there when Mike was going through it. He’s better now. You’ll get there too someday.”

So you all keep telling me
.

“We have no one else we can trust,” she added. “It has to be you.”

“Why not Preston? He knows what he’s doing.”

“He’s not a Marine.”

Which meant Mike thought those skills would be needed. Now Cait really had no choice. “Okay, I’ll do it. But just this once.”

“Thank you,” Kia said, not bothering to hide her relief. “I’ll call Preston and explain the situation. You met him before?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Oh, okay. He only comes along when the tours are full. Where are you now?”

“I’m at the boat dock.”

“After I give him the news, I’ll send Pres down to talk to you. Don’t be surprised if he’s way pissed. Please be very careful,” Kia added.

Cait ended the call, her hands shaking. She took a series of calming breaths, which failed.

I can’t do this. I can’t do this. I can’t do this
. But she had no choice. She owed Mike her life.
Six days. Just six days
. Then Cait was going off grid for a long time. Maybe she’d never come back.

*~*~*

Brannon had assumed his role with ease. He’d claimed to work in a lawyer’s office—that part was easy as his dad was an attorney, so he knew the lingo—and that he was from Florida. Also the truth. It was easier to keep track of your cover story if part of it was based on reality. If someone went digging, they would find information that matched what he’d told them, though his work with Veritas would not be public knowledge.

The others in the group were a mixed lot: an Atlanta real estate secretary named Susan Townsend; a teenaged couple, James Gray and Patti Irwin; Bill Adams, an author; and Keith Rockwell, a professional photographer.

Not one of them struck his “you don’t feel real” meter. Which meant they were what they claimed, or someone was as adept at being undercover as he was. None of them had seen the tour operator, though it was nearing noon. That had provoked some concern.

The door to the office opened and a man in his mid-forties exited. Sanjay’s research bio pegged this guy as Preston Taylor, the assistant guide. Instead of greeting them, he plowed right through the group and then down the stairs. Looking around, he spied a woman near the dock and set off to intersect her.

“Is that our guide?” Rockwell asked.

“No, I think he’s the assistant,” the author replied. “I saw his picture on their website.”

When Preston intercepted the woman, he gestured animatedly. She appeared about Brannon’s age, probably five foot eight or so. She obviously worked out, the subtle curve of her arms showing muscles, and her tan indicated she was not a cube dweller. Her ash-blond hair was caught up in a ponytail and threaded through the back of a baseball cap. He guessed it would reach just past her shoulders if unbound. She wore khaki green, both T-shirt and pants. The edge of a Blackwork tattoo peeked out from the right sleeve of the shirt. But it was her boots that made him pause; they were military issue, her pants properly tucked and bloused. He’d done the same in the Rangers, mostly to keep out the sand flies. In fact, his were the same today.

Brannon checked her over again, more critically this time. The woman’s posture was ramrod straight; the way she balanced her weight, telling. He’d bet a month’s pay she was either on leave, or ex-military. Was she part of Ellers’s team, his contact to guide him to the militia leader? From the woman’s expression, he could tell she was growing irritated with Preston, who continued to wave his arms around. Unfortunately, they were far enough away that Brannon couldn’t hear them.

Time to change that
. He purposefully walked down to join the pair, putting on a pleasant smile. As he drew near, he called out, “Hi. I’m Brannon Hardegree. Are you guys with the tour?”

Two sets of eyes swung toward him. Hers were dark brown with amber and gold flecks. The assistant frowned at the interruption, but the woman pointedly checked him out, from the top of his head to his combat boots. Only fair, since he had done the same to her.

“Yes, we are,” she replied, not missing a beat. “I’m Cait. This is Preston.”

Brannon nodded at both of them politely.

“The rest of the group is right over there,” she said, indicating the others on the porch, as if she hadn’t known he’d just come from the office. “We’ll be with you in a bit to start the orientation.” Which was a polite way of telling him to scram.

“Thanks.”

As he walked away, he heard Preston say, “Look, I don’t give a damn how long you’ve known Mike. This is
my
job, not yours. How do I know you can handle this tour?”

“Kia told you this is how it’s going down. I don’t like it any more than you, but if that’s what Mike wants, that’s what’s going to happen.”

“You have no clue what you’re doing,” Preston argued.

“Actually, I do. So when you’re done nursing your butthurt, come join us and let’s get this tour on the water,” she replied, heading toward the office.

Brannon smirked. Maybe this mission wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

Cait walked away from Preston, counting slowly to ten. The little prick had gotten in her face the moment he’d heard the news, even though Kia had no doubt patiently explained the situation, which meant Preston was going to be a giant pain in the ass if she didn’t get him on board quickly. Sadly, she wasn’t in the habit of ego stroking, and wasn’t particularly good at it.

As she walked toward the tour group, she couldn’t help but notice the fine butt on the Hardegree guy. At least that was a plus. He was at least six foot three, probably weighed two-twenty. All muscle, but not buff just for vanity’s sake. This was working muscle, the kind that kept you alive in dangerous situations. His face was angular, but not so much that it overwhelmed his good looks, with trimmed dark hair and a hint of a beard. She noted that his brown eyes were highlighted by a touch of rust.

Like her, he wore a T-shirt and cargo pants. She’d already made note of his worn rucksack and how it seemed to be part of him, not just something he’d bought the weekend before. The combat boots, properly bloused, told her he was probably ex-military. She doubted an active-duty soldier would bother to take a tour like this one. Most guys on leave, unless they were married, headed for the nearest bar and a horny female, or male if he swung that way. Once upon a time, Hardegree would have been the type she’d take for a spin, but not now.

If her guess was right, this man already knew wilderness-survival techniques, could probably teach a grad-level course on the subject. Why saddle himself with a group of clueless newbies? In so many ways, he reminded her of the men on her team, Special Forces hunters the country sent to handle the dirty and dangerous jobs. The kind that rarely made the evening news, because they were off the radar or top secret.

She pulled her attention away from Hardegree and checked out the remaining members of the group. A couple of them appeared nervous, others were trying to act like this was no big deal. Once Preston chilled down, she needed him to give her the skinny on each one of these people. A successful mission required intelligence, and this one was no different.

When she stopped at the bottom of the stairs, she gave one last look at her Jeep, the desire to take off colliding with her responsibility to an old friend.

All of the campers were watching her now.

You can do this
. At least here, no one was shooting at her.

“Hi. I’m Ser—” She stumbled, nearly revealing her rank. She started over. “I’m Cait Landry and I’m filling in for Mike Montgomery on this tour. Mike had a car accident this morning, and he’s laid up in the hospital.”

“What?” one of the men said. He was older, with salt-and-pepper hair and tired eyes. “I decided to come on this tour just because of him. He knows everything about the swamp.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure to handle everything just like he would.”

Preston joined them now, still sullen, but trying not to look like he’d been sidelined.

Time to throw him a bone. “This is Preston. He’s Mike’s assistant and he’ll be helping me on the tour. If you have any questions, ask either of us and we’ll get you what you need.”

That seemed to mollify Preston, and he nodded solemnly.

“You qualified to take us into the swamp?” the older man asked, frowning now.

“Yes, I am.” The Hardegree guy chuckled quietly, which she thought was odd. She ignored him and eyed the skeptic. “How many varieties of snake are in this swamp, Mr. . . . ?”

“Adams. Bill Adams. And I don’t know.”

“Thirty-six. The water moccasin, or cottonmouth, is the deadliest. It’s a pit viper, like a rattlesnake. You get bitten, things go bad very quickly. But it isn’t aggressive until you get in its face.” The man stopped looking angry, pulled out a notebook, and began penciling notes. “What do you know about alligators?”

“Not much. Go on.”

“Are you a reporter, Mr. Adams?” she asked, confused.

He hesitated, then shook his head. “I’m an author. I’m working on a novel.”

Of course you are
.

“Then let’s make this a learning experience for all of you.” She turned to include the others. “You will encounter alligators during the tour. To keep from losing your arm like Captain Hook, your body parts must remain inside the boat. If you come across a gator on dry land, slowly back away. Those things can move a whole lot faster than you’d think, and they can weigh up to nine hundred pounds. I repeat, no leaning over a body of water. Alligators lurk just under the surface and will reach up and make you a meal.”

“But wouldn’t you be able to see them?” the teenaged girl asked.

“No. The swamp waters have a mirror effect, so you can’t see below the surface. The gators take advantage of that. They’re very well adapted predators. They’ve had eons to learn how to hunt.”

“Is it true they eat you alive?” She sounded fascinated, not afraid.