the shapely, dark-haired young agent take the hose from Stoner and then kneel down to help wash the tear gas from the eyes of her fellow covert team members.
'And nice to look at, too,' Lightstone agreed dryly as he gently probed some tender areas around his lower abdomen. 'If you happen to like blue-eyed wildcats who fight dirty.'
'You know, Henry, it kinda looked to me like she almost had you on that last go-around,' the SAC of Bravo Team commented thoughtfully. 'If ol' Freddy hadn't blown that whistle when he did, that little gal just mighta worked her way out of that chokehold and seriously whipped your scrawny ass. Maybe next time around, it oughta be you who gets to dance around that septic tank, and me who gets to mud-wrestle the pretty young lady agents who come on like the Seventh Cavalry.'
Henry Lightstone smiled. 'Next exercise, Paxton, she's all yours. But I'm warning you, she kicks and bites, and she doesn't like to lose. You keep trying to piss her off like that, and you're going to find yourself…'
'Ah, speaking of being pissed off, gents — ' Special Agent Dwight Stoner gestured in the direction of the observation platform as he limped up beside his partners.
The three agents watched silently as Special Ops Branch Chief David Halahan climbed down from the platform, took one final look around the exercise area, shook his head in apparent disgust, and started walking toward the distant training office building.
'Think we mighta gone too far on this one?' Stoner asked.
Larry Paxton nodded his head. 'That's a definite possibility, Stoner my man. A very definite possibility indeed.'
Chapter Five
Twenty-six hundred miles west of the practical exercise area of the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center at Glynco, Georgia, Lt. Colonel John Rustman listened patiently as First Sergeant Wintersole explained over their scrambled radio communications net why he had believed it necessary to send Simon Whatley's incredibly foolhardy — or perhaps simply incredibly stupid — aide running frantically back to the Town Car by firing a burst of 5.56mm rounds into a nearby tree.
Other than slipping in the mud twice, and undoubtedly creating a mess in his pants if not on the rented Town Car's expensive leather upholstery, they had allowed the aide to escape unharmed.
'What kind of camera?' Rustman asked when Wintersole finished his report.
'Thirty-five millimeter, long lens,' the cold, metallic voice responded.
'Did he get away with any shots?'
'Negative.'
'Are you certain?'
'Affirmative. We recovered the camera.'
'Why did you let him go?'
'He didn't get in very far. Figured it wasn't worth letting him see a face or digging another hole.'
Rustman nodded his head in satisfaction. 'Good call.' He glanced down at his watch. 'Maintain your positions for another thirty, and then disengage. We'll link up tomorrow morning at the Windmill, civvies, 0700 hours, for a full debriefing.'
'Affirmative. Debrief tomorrow morning, the Windmill, civvies, 0700 hours. Tango-one-one, out.'
'One-zero, out,' Rustman spoke into his collar mike. Then he turned to confront Simon Whatley, who sat ashen-faced against the far side of the boat.
'Was that your stupid idea, or his?'
If possible, Simon Whatley's face turned even whiter.
'I don't know what you're talking about.' He tried to act as though he had no idea what Rustman meant, but failed completely.
Rustman didn't even bother to react. Instead, the retired military officer simply fixed his cold gaze on the senior congressional staffer's watery eyes.
'One more time, Whatley. And this time, I want you to think very carefully before answering. Was the camera your idea, or his?'
Whatley hesitated briefly, then murmured, 'Mine.'
Rustman shook his head when he received the expected confirmation.
'Let me guess. You thought it'd be a good idea to have pictures in case you ever had to claim that you and Smallsreed were running your own covert investigation?'
The congressional district office manager nodded his head silently.
'But I bet you came up with that brilliant idea yesterday, before you understood how completely and unalterably committed you and Smallsreed are to this operation now. And I bet you just forgot to call the kid off when you picked up the money packet, right?'
Whatley nodded again.
'What's his name?'
'Bennington,' Whatley barely whispered.
'First name?'
'Uh, uh, Keith, but I can assure you…'
The military officer brought his right hand up in a cautioning manner. 'Are you capable of convincing Mr. Bennington that something very unpleasant will happen to him if he tries any more of these stupid stunts on his own?'
'Of course.' The congressional staffer bobbed his head up and down frantically. 'I can assure you that — '
'Good.' Rustman reached forward and started up the boat engine again. 'Then it won't be necessary to send Wintersole.'
Chapter Six
She was exactly as the Sage described.
And more.
Much more.
When she arrived, they all gathered around to greet her, the men and women of the Chosen Brigade of the Seventh Seal who rarely saw a new face or heard a new story in their severely isolated mountainside retreat, let alone two. The men were especially curious and hovered until they got close enough to see for themselves. Then they swallowed hard and quickly moved back a respectful distance.
The women offered her tea, made from a scarce dried herb which she immediately recognized, and the most comfortable seat in the communal meeting place. She accepted both with a natural grace that captivated them all.
The women felt tense, for obvious reasons, but also intrigued.. and, a tribute to their inherent grace, only slightly jealous.
The children stared wide-eyed and enchanted — especially the older boys.
But the men just stood there, stunned, and mesmerized, and in the fullest sense of the expression, terrified out of their minds.
They all learned, as she sipped her tea, that she had moved into the old Dogsfire Inn — an ancient house built around an ancient tree about a mile or so down the creek from their isolated community. She had recently purchased it from the estate of the previous owner, an elderly woman of indeterminate age who had operated the inn's small restaurant, held seances, and told fortunes when she wasn't attending her duties as the local postmistress and cursing the government in at least three different foreign languages.
Yes, the woman smiled warmly at them. She, too, had heard the stories about the previous owner being a
