For a brief moment, the terrorizing aftereffects of the panther's near-lethal charge flickered across the young man's face.
'I don't believe this.'
The three men turned at the sound of Karla's voice.
'When I walked out of here with Sasha a couple minutes ago, all three of you were ready to go at each other's throats, and you damned near got yourselves killed because of it. I come back and find you shaking hands like the whole thing was just some kind of male-bonding ritual. What the hell is it with you guys anyway?' she demanded angrily.
Wintersole stepped forward before Lightstone or the younger man could respond.
'Ma'am, I'm extremely sorry for the way my associate and I acted,' he graciously apologized. 'I was completely out of line. That's no excuse at all, but as I was explaining to your friend, that letter's crucial to a very important project we're working on. It didn't arrive, which means we lose a great deal of valuable time. But that's not your problem… and we had no right to take our frustration out on you.'
Karla appeared unimpressed, but Wintersole soldiered on.
'To tell you the truth, I'm so embarrassed that I'm reluctant to ever show my face here again, except' — he averted his eyes momentarily before meeting her gaze again — 'that letter really is important to us, and' — the team leader paused for effect — 'we really do like the food and the company here.'
It was such an inspired performance that Henry Lightstone almost felt like applauding.
Karla peered at Wintersole's strange eyes for several seconds. Then, without a trace of warmth in her voice, she asked: 'Where are you from? Georgia?'
'No ma'am, South Carolina.'
'I knew it. That goddamned Southern male charm.' She shook her head, then sighed. 'Unfortunately, much as I hate to admit it' — she flashed him a slight smile that made Lightstone feel inexplicably jealous — 'it works on us dumb Southern women every time.'
'I'd never call a lady from the South dumb, ma'am, especially you. Does that mean we're forgiven?' Wintersole peered at her hopefully.
'Yes, apology accepted.'
'Well, that being the case' — the hunter-killer recon team leader breathed a visible sigh of relief and distractedly ran his fingers over the bear-claw necklace — 'would I be pushing my luck if I asked to buy a piece of paper, an envelope, and a first-class stamp?'
Karla cocked her head curiously.
'You didn't get a letter today, so now you want to send one?' She smiled at him.
'Yes ma'am.'
'I think that can be arranged.'
Three minutes later, Wintersole handed her the sealed envelope. She glanced down at the address.
'P.O. Box fifteen? Not going very far, is it?' she remarked pleasantly. 'Almost hate to charge for the stamp.'
'That's all right, ma'am, I'm sure the government needs the money.' Wintersole motioned the younger man toward the door. 'Unless you change your mind, we'll see you tomorrow, same time.'
Karla waited until the two men got into their pickup and started backing out of the parking space. Then she turned to Lightstone, who stood next to her, his eyes fixed on the departing vehicle, which was painted in an unusual mottled green color.
Almost like military camouflage, but not quite. Interesting.
'Would you care to explain to me what the hell just happened in here?' the sensuous young woman asked pointedly.
'I'd love to, except I haven't the slightest idea,' Henry Lightstone replied truthfully as he watched the younger man give one final glance at the restaurant before driving off. 'You get some interesting customers.'
'That's putting it mildly.'
'Uh, listen, uh… Karla, I think I've probably caused enough trouble around here for one morning. Would you mind if I — ?'
'Came back tomorrow… for breakfast?' she finished his question for him.
Lightstone nodded.
'That's probably a good idea,' she agreed, massaging her neck. 'I think we all need to cool down a little.'
He started to say something, but simply nodded again.
The sensuous young woman with the gold-flecked green eyes concealed herself behind the kitchen door and watched Henry Lightstone walk across the porch, look back briefly, then run to his truck when he thought no one observed him.
Okay, Henry, Karla thought as she watched him start up his truck and accelerate out of the parking lot in the same direction as the other vehicle, I give up, just who are you? And more importantly, what the hell are you doing here?
Chapter Twenty-seven
As directed, the other members of the Army Ranger hunter-killer recon team awaited Wintersole when he returned to the rented KOA campsite. All except one.
'Where's one-seven?' Wintersole demanded as he and the younger, injured soldier joined the other casually dressed members of the team around the small cook fire.
'Unable to leave his position at this time, First Sergeant,' the team's communication specialist and medic responded immediately. She had immediately noticed the fresh cast on one-four's left wrist under his jacket, but like the others, knew better than to ask. First Sergeant Aran Wintersole would tell them what he wanted them to know, when and if he wanted them to know. End of discussion.
'Why?'
Wintersole's brief coded message, transmitted from his truck over the secured long-range comm-net, directed the entire team to regroup at campsite Foxtrot at 1300 hours, sharp. While it wasn't unheard-of for a member of an elite, handpicked Ranger hunter-killer team to disregard a team leader's directive — as opposed to disregarding a team leader's direct order, which simply was unthinkable — the circumstances that might justify such an action were extremely limited.
And the fact that an Army Ranger first sergeant of Aran Wintersole's caliber and reputation led this particular hunter-killer recon team, instead of a more customary buck or staff sergeant, made one-seven's decision all the more intriguing.
'Unknown, First Sergeant. His entire signal was 'one-seven, unable to disengage, out,'' the comm specialist responded.
Wintersole nodded.
'Okay, we'll debrief him when he arrives. Let's have the status reports — weapons first.'
'One-five and I picked up the weapons for the militia group this morning, First Sergeant.' One-two, the team's weapon specialist and ranking corporal, pulled a small notebook out of his pocket and began to read from his list. 'Twenty refurbished M16Als — one assault rifle each for the fourteen adult males and two teenage males in the group plus four spares; one hundred thousand rounds of five-five-six ball ammo; two hundred twenty-round magazines; two magazine loaders; twenty sets of Nam-era web gear, complete with canteens and first-aid kits; a used reloading outfit rigged for five-five-six military ball; sufficient supplies — bullets, powder, and primers — to reload an additional fifty thousand rounds; and twenty cleaning kits. All weapons, magazines, ammo, loaders, re- loaders, supplies, and kits manufactured prior to 1976.'
'Where are they now?' Wintersole asked.
'We established a temporary supply dump two klicks south of the militant compound. The site's camouflaged with rocks and local vegetation, but we were limited on the latter.' The soldier shrugged. 'You can only lay out so much fresh-cut pine before it starts drawing attention.'
'Will it be okay out there until Saturday?'
