Wintersole nodded his head approvingly, then looked at the other members of the team.
"Questions?"
One-five raised his hand. "Do you think the boyfriend could be a cop or a federal agent?"
The injured soldier thought about the question for a long moment.
"I suppose either one is a possibility," he responded hesitantly, "but I don't believe so. If he was, he probably would have pulled a badge instead of going for the wristlock. He's martial-arts trained, no doubt about that, but at a higher level than most cops — I'm guessing third or fourth Dan — and he's definitely in competition shape. He let me think I could power out of the wristlock and put him down, then he snapped my wrist one-handed. And he stayed pretty damned cool when confronted by the first sergeant," the soldier added meaningfully. "Way I saw it, if that damned panther hadn't popped out from under that table, I think we would have had our hands full."
One-four's last statement told the other attentive members of the Ranger hunter-killer team a great deal.
One-four, the Ranger Reserve company's secondary hand-to-hand instructor, held a brown belt in judo, and a first-degree black belt in the Army Rangers' lethal version of contact karate. The black cloth belt that Company First Sergeant Wintersole wore while instructing hand-to-hand drills at Fort Bragg was worn and faded. He never mentioned his black belt rank, and no one ever had the nerve to ask. But the entire team had seen Wintersole work — on the mats, at the range, and in the live-fire Hogan's Alley exercises. The idea of an experienced and deadly senior noncom like Wintersole "having his hands full" with any single individual — with or without the backup of a fellow combat-trained Ranger — was an eye-opening concept, to put it mildly.
"I agree with one-four," Wintersole stated flatly. "The man's been in his share of scraps, no doubt about it. But he maintained control and, more importantly, made no effort to push weight. I'm guessing he's just one of the local good-old-boys, but he may have a military background.
We can't discount that possibility. I suspect he works an evening or night shift, instructs at one of the local dojos, wants to maintain a good reputation in the community, but won't back off if somebody gives his girlfriend a bad time. We won't repeat that mistake," he added meaningfully. "We need that drop point."
"Uh, one thing, First Sergeant," one-four ventured hesitantly.
"Go ahead."
"That damned cat came out from under the table where the boyfriend was sitting. I'm sure no expert on panthers, but it seems to me that might mean this guy's either real comfortable around wild animals, or has something to do with wildlife."
"That's a good observation, soldier." Wintersole nodded his head thoughtfully. "The next time we…"
However, he never completed that statement because at that moment, the missing member of the Ranger hunter-killer team came roaring up on his motorcycle.
All six members of the team turned and watched as the combat rifleman designated one-seven (the seventh member of Fire Team One, First Squad, Second Platoon, Delta Company, Third Battalion of the 54th Army Ranger Reserves) set the kickstand on the motorcycle and ran toward them.
He turned to Wintersole and announced breathlessly, "One-seven reporting, First Sergeant. I think I found them."
It took the Ranger hunter-killer recon team almost an hour to camouflage themselves appropriately and work their way along the low, tree-filled ridge overlooking the designated site.
"I spotted the black guy first, coming out of the local 7-Eleven," one- seven explained, speaking softly into the short-range radio mike mounted on his shirt collar as the spread-out team members focused their field glasses and spotting scopes. "It's not all that unusual to see twenty-to-forty-year-old black males walking around town, so I didn't necessarily think too much about it until I saw him hop into a beat-up car with an Asian dude. We know local real-estate figures classify this as a pretty much white, conservative, working-class community — say 3 % Asian, 1 % black and Hispanic combined — so I figured the odds real quick, decided I might be on to something, followed them out to a warehouse just outside town, and dug myself in deep."
"Understood." Wintersole acknowledged the soldier's perfectly valid justification for ignoring his "disengage and report back to Charlie Foxtrot immediately" directive.
"The third guy, the smaller one in the long-sleeved red shirt and vest there in the back of the booth, kinda fit the profile the colonel gave us — male, white, six-foot, one-eighty — but I wasn't convinced until I saw the big guy. He should be… wait a minute, there he is, coming back from latrine duty. Right side, gray plaid shirt, big belt buckle. Looks like a goddamned Abrams without the gun, don't he? I figure six-seven, six-eight, maybe three-twenty. Looks like he's done his share of weight lifting, probably even played a little pro ball back when. That's when I decided, hey, these have gotta be our boys, and reported in."
"Good job, soldier," Wintersole spoke softly into his collar mike, and then: "One-three, do you have them all?"
"Negative, First Sergeant. Two more to go," the comm specialist replied as she made a slight focus adjustment, dropped down a half stop, snapped one more quick telephoto shot, and then shifted the viewfinder of her camouflaged, telephoto-lensed and tripod-mounted camera to the next figure in the restaurant.
"Take your time," Wintersole directed her. "Let me know when you finish. We need them all for verification. Tango-one-one out."
First Sergeant Aran Wintersole smiled as he put down his field glasses.
Very good job, soldier, he thought to himself. Now we can get down to the serious work.
Henry Lightstone remained in place a good fifteen minutes after the camouflaged surveillance team packed up and moved off the ridgeline… and gave thanks that he did so when he sensed movement to his left, waited another five, then observed another camouflaged figure come up to a kneeling position in the concealing brush before moving out.
Spotter. Covering the back door, just in case. Jesus.
Lightstone felt extremely unhappy with himself, knowing that he probably wouldn't have played it safe — that he more likely would have opted to follow the group — if he hadn't been watching for the cast. When the first six figures appeared to use their left hands freely as they moved out, Lightstone had remained in place… and discovered that his young, muscular, trim, short-haired, intense, and ever-so-disciplined and obedient new friend with the cleverly camouflaged cast was the one who had been given — or, more likely, volunteered for — the tail-end-Charley detail.
What was I waiting for, a goddamned salute? The experienced covert agent chastised himself as he watched the camouflaged figure disappear over the ridgeline.
So that makes seven, he thought as he shifted his field glasses back to the interior of the restaurant and mentally ticked off the very familiar faces in his head.
As he did, he tried very hard to ignore the cold sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that slowly yielded to a burning, protective rage. A feeling accentuated by several pertinent overriding questions: Just who are these people working for?
And what the hell are they doing here?
Chapter Twenty-eight
It took Henry Lightstone a good forty-five minutes to work himself back to his truck, and another hour slowly and methodically to make a 360-degree search of the surrounding area until he felt as certain as he could that they — whoever they were — hadn't posted another spotter on the vehicle.