Special Agent Natasha Marashenko was still moving forward, holding the old second-generation night-vision spotting scope to her left eye with one hand and firing her Smith amp; Wesson 10mm semiautomatic pistol with the other when Lightstone came up, knocked the pistol out of her hand, and then drove his shoulder into her stomach in a lunging tackle that sent the two of them tumbling to the rock-and-brush-covered ground.
Only the fact that he'd knocked most of the air out of her lungs with his shoulder tackle saved Henry Lightstone from serious injury in those first few seconds when — unable to give her any kind of reassuring warning because of the microphone attached to his collar — he tried to get into position for the chokehold while Natasha Marashenko kicked, bit, gouged, scratched, and otherwise fought for her life.
Even so, by the time he finally managed to get the inner portion of his right elbow pulled tight under her chin, grabbed his left biceps with his right hand, looped his left arm around the back of her thrashing head, and then tucked his head in tight against the side of her head as her carotid arteries became tightly compressed against the biceps and forearm muscles of his right arm, Lightstone felt convinced the female agent's jackhammering elbow had broken every one of his ribs.
Several very long moments later, Lightstone felt her go limp in his arms… just as Wintersole and one of his soldiers came running up.
'Get… her… off… me,' Lightstone gasped.
'Hey, man, I warned you,' the soldier whispered as he knelt down and pulled the limp body of Marashenko aside.
'She… okay?' Lightstone had a hard time getting the words out. Among many other things, his solar plexus seemed unwilling to cooperate.
First Sergeant Aran Wintersole quickly knelt and pressed two fingers against the side of the young woman's throat.
'Good strong pulse. She's fine,' he announced, then motioned for the soldier to tape her up quickly.
Then he moved to Lightstone.
'You okay?' the hunter-killer recon team leader asked with what Lightstone considered a very mild degree of interest or curiosity.
'That was one of the Brigade women?' he whispered in what he hoped sounded like a sufficiently raspy and disbelieving voice.
'That's right.'
'Then I take back every smart-ass thing I ever said about these people confronting the federal government,' Lightstone apologized as Wintersole easily pulled him to his unsteady feet and helped him readjust the night vision goggles. 'Tell those Brigade characters to stay home and send their women out to fight. The damn government won't stand a chance.'
At a little after midnight that Tuesday morning, while Wintersole's soldiers secured the stunned, bound, and gagged agents from Charlie Team into their new underground jail quarters, the hunter-killer team's medic tended the wounds of their severely beaten new martial-arts instructor, and the Chosen Brigade stared in awe at their new captives while animatedly chattering about their long-awaited trial, First Sergeant Aran Wintersole hiked up the narrow pathway to the rocky outcrop overlooking the blackened expanse of the Brigade's training grounds, where Lt. Colonel John Rustman stood waiting.
'How did it go?' the retired military officer asked.
'Real smooth. By the way, that little female agent was everything you said — and more.' Wintersole chuckled coldly. 'Damn near beat our new hand-to-hand instructor half to death before he managed to choke her out. But other than that, everybody looks like they're in pretty good shape.'
'No other injuries?'
'Just a few cuts and bruises. Nothing serious.'
'Excellent.' Rustman nodded approvingly. 'Now all we need to do is identify and isolate Lightstone, set up a reasonably secure area for the trial — they're going to use that old barn, right?'
Wintersole nodded.
'Good. Then rig the explosives, and call the media,' Rustman finished with a look of satisfaction on his tanned face.
'Well, there is one more problem, sir.
'What's that?'
'Agent Lightstone. We still don't know what he looks like.'
'Right.' Lt. Colonel John Rustman mused silently for a long moment. 'Tell me, Sergeant,' he finally spoke, 'you still have Special Agent Boggs in custody, do you not?'
'Yes sir, we do.'
'And wouldn't you expect agent Boggs to recognize Special Agent Lightstone?'
Wintersole shrugged. 'Yes sir, I guess I would.'
'Well, then, why don't you ask him?'
Chapter Forty-nine
Consciousness returned to Simon Whatley in the form of pain.
Deep, throbbing, and — evidently thanks to whatever mixture dripped into his IV tube — essentially controlled pain; so controlled he felt tempted simply to lie there on the firm but yielding mattress and allow the soothing drugs to work their wonders on the frazzled synapses of his severely battered nervous system.
But something drifting around in the back of Simon Whatley's sedated mind kept demanding his attention.
Something about a plane ride.
And a meeting.
And some letters that had something to do with his being-what? — early?
No, not early.
Late.
Simon Whatley's eyes flew open…
Oh my God. Where am I?
… and then immediately slammed shut in response to the agonizing burst of pain the light caused to shoot through the back of his eyeballs and then ricochet repeatedly in the center of his brain.
His deep and heartfelt moan caught the attention of one of the floor nurses.
'Hi there, sport, how are we doing this morning?' she whispered in a professionally gentle and concerned voice as she automatically felt for his pulse.
Morning? Thank God. Maybe I'm not too late.
He tried to whisper a question, but his lips and tongue simply refused to cooperate.
'What's that, hon?' The nurse put her head down next to Simon Whatley's bandaged face.
He tried again, this time forcing the air through his vocal cords with an effort that sent another streak of pain ripping through his muddled brain.
'Time is it?'
The nurse glanced down at her watch.
'Five-thirty, almost exactly on the nose.'
Five-thirty. Five-thirty. What time do I have to be there? Eleven in the morning? Whatley sagged down into the mattress in relief. Thank God. Plenty of time to call Smallsreed, tell him… wait a minute. Five-thirty? How can that be? It was seven forty-five when…
'Nurse?' he rasped again.
'Yes, hon?'
'Are you… sure… it's five-thirty?' It hurt his mouth very badly to articulate the words, but he had to know.
The nurse glanced down at her watch again.
'Five-thirty-two, to be precise, on what is supposed to be a beautiful Tuesday morning. But before you
