Lt. Colonel John Rustman stared at Whatley in disbelief.
'Are you out of your fucking mind?'
'We would expect you to edit the tape in an appropriate manner,' Whatley continued hurriedly. 'I can assure you that our client has absolutely no interest in the identities of your team, and, for obvious reasons, he's the last person who would want such a tape to fall in the hands of a federal agent or prosecutor. He did, however, anticipate that you might object to this provision and asked me to convey his assurances that once he receives the tape, he will review and destroy it immediately.
'I realize we're adding a number of frustrating restrictions to your plan,' Whatley added when Rustman remained silent, 'but I can assure you that all of this is very important to our client.'
The military officer eventually shrugged indifferently. 'I'm not that concerned about your restrictions,' he informed Whatley gruffly. 'They're minor, and civilian interference is a fact of life for any military operation these days. And as it happens, the communications specialist on the team is fully qualified in photo and video surveillance. We'll see to it that she's fully equipped with all the necessary photo and video gear. All I need to know now is how we go about finding these agents.'
'I think you'll like that part the best.' A smug smile appeared on Whatley's face. 'You don't need to find them. We're going to bring them to you.'
'And just how…' Rustman started to ask, when a barrage of gunfire suddenly erupted across the water.
Chapter Four
The confrontation had been going on for a good three minutes — a flow of events highlighted by an unexpected kiss, a vicious roundhouse left, a countering hip throw, a lunging dive for a discarded pistol, the sharp crack of partially sawed-through support beams suddenly giving way, the muffled pop of an activated tear-gas canister, and an impressive variety of grunts, shouts, splashing, and cursing — when a bloodcurdling scream of terror suddenly and irrevocably destroyed the remnants of what had begun as a calm and peaceful Sunday morning.
For a brief moment, all eyes turned in the direction of the scream.
Which was immediately drowned out by the concussive roar of a 12-gauge shotgun and three rapid eardrum-piercing gunshots from a 10mm semiautomatic pistol.
Then in rapid succession:
Two figures burst through a pair of ancient attic window shutters and leaped onto a second-story roof.
Rubber-soled shoes frantically scrambled against the incredibly slippery surface.
Two desperately flailing individuals lost their balance and crashed face-first onto the sun-baked shingles.
A burst of furious curses exploded in two distinct ethnic dialects as both men grabbed the edges of the burning hot gutters with bare hands to keep from sliding off the liquid-soap-covered roof.
And then, finally, a 10mm Smith amp; Wesson semiautomatic pistol and a Model 870 Remington pump shotgun scraped and slid down the slippery sloped roof, then hit the thick mud with two audible plops.
Shaking his head in visible dismay, David Halahan, Chief of the Branch of Special Operations, Division of Law Enforcement, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, muttered a heartfelt curse, and turned to his deputy.
'Okay, I've seen enough. Shut it down before somebody gets hurt.'
Special Ops Deputy Chief Freddy Moore nodded in agreement. He stood at the edge of the raised wooden platform, pulled a military police whistle from his shirt pocket, and sounded a single, shrill blast.
The familiar noise caused the eleven field agents to pause in their varying endeavors and glance at the raised instructor's platform that overlooked the entire practical exercise course.
Setting aside the whistle, Moore reached for the bullhorn.
'All right, boys and girls, that'll be all for today,' he ordered in a distinct deep, Southern drawl. 'Referees will submit all score sheets to the tower, and firearms instructors will collect all weapons and ammunition.'
'And Henry,' Moore added as an afterthought, 'let her go.'
Special Agent Henry Lightstone slowly and cautiously released the tight leg lock and nearly secured chokehold on his mud-and-swamp-water-soaked opponent — who, in turn, reluctantly stopped struggling to break loose from the carotid choke with one hand while trying to slash, claw, and strike any vital organ she could reach with the other. Instead, she twisted away and then lay there on her back, red-faced, gasping for breath, and glared at Lightstone with furious blue eyes.
'Paxton,' Freddy Moore went on in a calm and orderly manner, 'would you and Stoner kindly un-handcuff our designated congressman and designated bagman and help them out of the septic tank?'
The tall, lanky Special Agent in Charge of Bravo Team held a handcuff key up in plain view of his sprawled, filthy, watery-eyed, and thoroughly frustrated counterparts. Smiling cheerfully, he let the tiny key drop down into the ankle-deep sewage.
'And Michael,' Moore added with a sigh, 'if it's not too much trouble, would you and Agent Woeshack mind going back up in that attic, catching that damned snake, and putting it back in its cage before you help Agents Wu and Green to get down off that roof?'
'But they got out there all by…' Special Agent/Pilot Thomas Woeshack started to protest. But then he saw the look on Halahan's face and hurried over to the three-story rustic cabin/training structure to help his tech-agent partner cautiously corner and retrieve the hissing twelve-foot reticulated python they'd borrowed from the local zoo.
Moments later, Special Agent Dwight Stoner knelt at the edge of the once-camouflaged septic tank. One by one, he dead-lifted Special Agent/ Congressman Donato and Special Agent/bagman LiBrandi out of the slippery, nine-foot-deep concrete tank with his muscular arms, wrinkling his nose at the pungent smell of decomposing sewage and the wispy remnants of the tear gas.
As Stoner thoughtfully directed a stream of water from a nearby hose on the faces of the two olifactorily stunned agents, Larry Paxton walked over to the middle of the practical exercise area and reached down to help Henry Lightstone up out of the mud.
'Made some real nice moves on the lady here, Henry, my man. Real nice,' Paxton congratulated his wild card agent in his deep South Carolina drawl as he pulled Lightstone to his feet, then made a show of wiping the mud off his hands. 'Can't say as I ever seen anything quite like it. Must be one of them crazy white folk mating rituals my dear ol' daddy used to tell me about. The girl walks up smiling all pretty-like, the boy gives the girl a great big hug and kiss, then the girl proceeds to stomp the living shit outta him. My, my, my.'
Paxton paused for a moment to consider the disheveled condition of his Special Agent partner. 'Man, I sure do hope she didn't rip off anything you're gonna need later.'
'That's good, Paxton.' Henry Lightstone winced as he gently probed at his smashed and bleeding nose. 'See if you can piss her off just a little bit more by rubbing it in.'
'Hell, there ain't no need to be doing any more rubbing. Any fool could see you two already done plenty of that. Tell you the truth, the way you were going with that leg lock, I was kinda thinking we might have to spray you two down with a hose. Which reminds me, Agent Marashenko,' the Bravo Team leader added with a cheerful smile as he looked down at Lightstone's sprawled, muddy, and clearly still-furious opponent, 'we found this here genuine federal agent pistol down in the septic tank, along with a couple of very sleazy political types who were probably subleasing the place. Don't suppose you might know who could have lost it?'
Paxton gingerly held a wet and grimy 10mm Smith amp; Wesson semiautomatic pistol with his right thumb and forefinger, carefully moving his feet to avoid the small stream of raw sewage that poured out the barrel.
Ignoring Henry Lightstone's offered hand, Special Agent Natasha Marashenko rose unsteadily to her feet, ripped the dripping pistol out of Paxton's hand, muttered something about idiot macho males under her breath, and staggered away in a visible display of injured pride, barely controlled rage, and almost complete exhaustion. Her muscular legs and buttocks visibly stretched the thin fabric of her tight, water-and-mud- soaked jeans as she made her way over to the water station.
'My, my, my, that gal is definitely an improvement on the standard issue federal agent around here, not to mention a walking endorsement for glasnost,' Larry Paxton commented appreciatively as he and Lightstone watched
