Henry gets to play on the table with a very sexy lady.'
'Who may or may not be a witch,' Mike Takahara added.
'Hey, yeah, wow! That's right!' Thomas Woeshack exclaimed.
'Still looks like a very sexy lady to me,' Stoner commented as he refocused his spotting scope.
'But Henry does tend to get bitten, scratched, beaten up, and shot at a whole lot more than we do, which probably does sort of even things out,' the team's tech agent reminded them. 'Speaking of which, I think she just bit him.'
'Yeah.' Stoner sighed sadly.
Another interval passed during which the four men continued to monitor their colleague.
'I don't know about you, Larry, but I'm starting to feel like a Peeping Tom,' Mike Takahara finally announced. 'Think it's about time to get Thomas out of here and go back to keeping an eye on Charlie Team?'
'Yeah, I suppose so.' The Bravo Team leader sighed sadly, too.
'Fine with me,' Dwight Stoner commented. 'I don't think Henry would be real appreciative if we tried to rescue him now anyway.'
Two hours later, as the members of Bravo Team moved onto the second shift of their all-night surveillance, and as the huge panther stretched her sleek body then snuggled in closer to the limp, naked form of Henry Lightstone, the woman who called herself Karla sat up in bed and stared down at the two figures who — much to her dismay — now shared her heart as well as her bed.
It wasn't supposed to work out this way.
Chapter Forty-one
Henry Lightstone woke up at seven-thirty that Sunday morning with a throbbing head, an equally tender forearm, long bristly whiskers in his face, and the claw-studded paw of a gently snoring hundred-pound panther draped across his chest.
What?
Indistinct images flickered through the covert agent's momentarily disoriented mind. Bizarre, sweaty, muscular, clawing, and undeniably erotic post-dining room images that he immediately — and prayerfully — hoped had nothing whatsoever to do with the huge predatory cat beside him.
But then the images sorted themselves out, and Lightstone recalled how the panther had yowled and raked at the door of her cage with her razor-sharp claws until the temporarily sated Karla finally groaned in surrender and staggered to the adjoining room to release her.
'We need to get one thing absolutely clear here,' Lightstone had pronounced emphatically when the naked woman gracefully tumbled back into bed with the enthusiastically bounding feline close behind. 'I like cats. I really do. But I don't care what you say — or what either of you do, for that matter — I am not going to get romantically involved with a completely different species.'
'You explain the biology to her, I'm tired,' Lightstone remembered Karla mumbling before cuddling up next to him, pulling the sheet and blankets over them, and immediately falling into a deep sleep.
He also vaguely remembered the panther's diesel-like purring, her claws rhythmically digging into his skin as she happily kneaded his other shoulder, and her bewhiskered head rubbing his for what seemed like a very long time, until finally — after thinking how odd it was that the idea of lying in bed next to a predatory creature who was perfectly capable of tearing him apart with either her teeth or her claws no longer frightened, or even seriously unnerved him — he, too, fell into a deep, exhausted sleep.
This entire situation is getting out of hand, Henry Lightstone told himself as he carefully extracted himself from the sheet, the blanket, and the paw, ignored the bright yellow eyes that blinked open momentarily and slowly closed again, staggered into the bathroom, then considered the haggard face that stared back at him in the mirror.
Gotta get a grip.
Not to mention some sleep.
And… wait a minute, what time is it?
He fumbled in the pocket of his jeans for his watch.
Shit. Gotta get dressed.
Ten minutes later, shaved, showered, and dressed, Lightstone hurried down the hallway toward the post office and dining room, hesitated at the small intersecting corridor, looked around, tried the post office door, smiled when he once again discovered it unlocked, and quickly entered.
The first thing he did was check the contents of box fifteen.
Two letters. He immediately recognized the one on top as being the envelope he'd asked Mike Takahara to deliver the previous afternoon.
Good job, Michael, my man. How does that old saying go? Neither rain nor sleet, nor warehouse full of loose snakes and giant tarantulas…?
Lightstone smiled, wondering for a brief moment how Larry Paxton was dealing with the latest emergency, whatever that might be.
He was about to reach into the box, to examine the other letter, noticing as he did so that the box thirteen — the one that had been full of mail the other day, and the one he'd slipped Wintersole's letter into — was now empty, when he heard a key rattling in a lock. Then he saw a hand reach into box fifteen and remove its contents.
For a brief moment, Henry Lightstone simply stood there, stunned.
Then, realizing fate had just presented him with a wonderful opportunity to track back on the militant sergeant's drop-box system, he hurried back out of the office, and pulled the door shut behind him
… only to find himself staring into the cold pale gray eyes of First Sergeant Aran Wintersole.
Completely unaware of the sudden, unexpected, and potentially violent confrontation that had just occurred within a few feet of his back, congressional aide Keith Bennington walked out of the small post office and over to the staff car with the latest batch of messages in his hand.
Emotionally and physically exhausted, and thus completely oblivious to the lethal nature of his surroundings, Bennington had no idea that only a matter of seconds had prevented a fiercely protective federal wildlife agent named Henry Lightstone from tracking him back to his mentor, Simon Whatley, and worse, to Whatley's ever-so- powerful boss, Congressman Regis J. Smallsreed.
Which, for Keith Bennington, turned out to be a very unfortunate situation indeed.
For had the young congressional aide possessed even the slightest sense of the impact his actions were about to have on the impending clash between terribly powerful and violent foes, he would have deposited those two letters in the nearest Dumpster and run for his life.
That would have been the smart thing to do.
But Keith Bennington had no idea of the importance of his role in this gathering battle between the forces of darkness and light; and in spite of his quite impressive IQ test scores, he wasn't especially smart.
So he simply drove away from the Dogsfire Inn and rural post office with the two fateful letters lying next to him on the front seat, wondering instead if he really, truly coveted the job of his mentor, Simon Whatley, or if he should set his sights a little bit higher.
After all, he reasoned as he turned off of Brandywine Lane, heading back into town, Regis J. Smallsreed wouldn't be a congressman forever.
And for the first time in several days, Bennington actually smiled.
Henry Lightstone sipped from the mug of hot coffee in his hands as he continued to stare at the muscular, pale gray-eyed man seated across from him who, oddly, appeared uncertain about what he should do next.
It's your move, buddy-boy. I've got all the time in the world — especially where you and your sneaky, cammo-wearing friends are concerned.
Lightstone completely ignored the younger man with the cast on his wrist because the older one definitely posed the greater threat.
You can see it in his hands, and in his body language, the experienced covert agent reminded himself, even if you can't see anything in those damn eyes of his.
