'No problem. I'll set up an audio alarm so the computer beeps us if we get any incoming messages,' the tech agent proposed as he reached for his nearby computer case.
'In the meantime' — Henry Lightstone rubbed his sore arm distractedly — 'I've got an idea how we just might be able to find out what's going on around here.'
'Yeah? What's that?' Paxton demanded.
'What's the first thing they teach covert agents to do on a new assignment?'
'Check in with the local resident agent,' Thomas Woeshack responded immediately.
'You think those characters on Charlie Team would actually do something like that?' Dwight Stoner asked skeptically.
'Oh hell, yes. Rookie agents are like that.' Larry Paxton smiled cheerfully and turned to Mike Takahara, who was busy hooking up the modem line to the back of his notebook computer.
'Mike, who's the closest resident agent in southern Oregon?'
'Just a second.'
Thirty seconds later, Takahara looked up from his screen. 'Looks like Wilbur Boggs.'
'Good old Wilbur. The terror of the Chesapeake Bay when he was a young agent. I remember hearing he'd gotten transferred out to Oregon. Pissed off more duck-poaching congressmen than…'
A startled look suddenly appeared on Larry Paxton's face. Then he looked around at his fellow agents. 'You guys thinking what I'm thinking?'
'Oh yeah,' Henry Lightstone murmured softly, his eyes lighting up with amusement as he and Stoner and Takahara all nodded their heads. 'Halahan, Moore, Charlie Team, Glynco, Bobby, Susan, the soothsayer, the witch- lady… and now good old Wilbur. One big happy game-playing family.'
'You mean they're all working together to set us up?' Thomas Woeshack asked. 'Wilbur Boggs, too?'
'It sure does look that way.' Lightstone shook his head slowly, trying to ignore the apprehension that continued to plague him as the pieces of the puzzle apparently fell into place. 'One big game, and we're the target.'
'You mean we were the target,' Dwight Stoner corrected him.
'Exactly.' Larry Paxton smiled again. 'So where do we find Special Agent Wilbur Boggs these days?'
'You'll love this part,' the tech agent predicted.
'What?'
'If I remember my map correctly, we're about twenty minutes from his office right now.'
Chapter Thirty-five
Awareness, when it came to Wilbur Boggs again, freed him from the stupor that enveloped him like a dank, impenetrable cloud.
The vague feelings of fighting the ropes and nets, struggling in the darkness, or trying to work himself free of obstructions trying to cover his nose and mouth vanished.
Instead, he awoke to a sense of freedom, and brightness, and general well-being marred only by the persistent dryness in his throat, the gentle numbness that didn't quite mask the pain which emanated from several parts of his body, and most unsettling of all, the confusion regarding where he was… and why.
Because of this, it took the federal wildlife agent several long moments finally to understand that the wires and tubes attached to his arms probably signified something important.
Monitors? IVs? Bright lights. Must be in a hospital. No wonder everything feels numb. Probably giving me drugs.
In that case, he decided, in order to figure out what happened, he needed to stop the mind-numbing flow.
Accordingly, Wilbur Boggs carefully reached around with his left hand — for some reason his right hand felt heavy and immobile — followed the thin plastic tubing with his numbed fingers until it ended under a strip of medical tape attached to the inner elbow of his right arm, peeled up the tape, then slowly pulled the IV needle out of his arm.
For reasons he couldn't quite grasp, he'd expected alarms to go off, and people to come running… and felt momentarily confused when nothing happened.
Supposed to happen, because that's what always happens on TV, he finally managed to reason out, but with no idea why that bit of knowledge might be important, much less true. But they wouldn't need to rig any kind of alarm on the IV, because they've already got me connected to at least four or five other electronic doodads and that big monitor over there… with the big ON/OFF switch… right next to the bed. Ah.
Special Agent Wilbur Boggs slowly sat up with his legs dangling over the side of the bed, after finally deciding it might be a good idea to make sure he was more or less okay before he disconnected himself from the monitor. However, then his tongue felt an unfamiliar empty space in his mouth.
What the hell happened to my front teeth?
He brought his right hand up to feel for his missing teeth — and saw the cast on his right hand for the first time. When he did, the memories began to trickle into his head.
Boat.
My boat.
All tangled up and broken, goddamn it, because they…
They?
His eyes grew wide as he continued staring at the thick plaster cast on his right hand. What the hell…?
Rustman.
Whatley.
And Smallsreed. That goddamned sleazy…
Wait a minute. Sleazy what? Congressman? No, something else.
Sleazy bagman. That's it. Political bagman, guy named Simon Whatley. Smallsreed's man. Him and who? The new guy Eliot said scared the shit out of everybody at Rustman's place?
Eliot? Who's that?
Something about Eliot's name made Boggs feel anxious.
Oh yeah, that's right.
Got to tell them about Lou Eliot.
The memories came faster now.
Gotta warn them.
Them? Who's 'them'? And why do I have to…?
And then the flood gates opened, and the entire day's events surged through the agent's dazed mind.
Shots fired.
Two shots, far apart, execution style.
Gotta warn them. Tell them about Lou Eliot… he never showed up.. and the new guy. The one Eliot was afraid of. Sergeant somebody.
Somebody cold and empty, just like win -
Wintersole.
Sergeant Wintersole.
He knew he had it now — almost within his grasp — and Wintersole was the key. If he could just get a focus on that last murky element drifting around in the back of his mind. Something about help. Needing help. Calling for…
Was that it? Calling for help?
No.
He felt a cold chill start up his spine.
He didn't have to call for help because… why?
Because help was already coming.
That's right. They're already on their way, thanks to good old Halahan. Goddamned stubborn Irishman. He'll
