"In Medford? Wearing pajamas, slippers, a bathrobe, assorted bandages and a cast on one hand, and dragging an IV bottle rack down the street?" The tech agent raised his eyebrows skeptically.
"They found the IV rack at the curb."
"Meaning somebody probably picked him up?"
Henry Lightstone brought his palms up in a who-knows gesture.
Takahara observed his companion pensively.
"So how does all this link up with Charlie Team and those militant idiots we think slapped a MTEAR on your truck?"
"That's the jackpot question," Lightstone admitted. "We know Charlie Team's been looking for Boggs in a very low-key, behind-the-scenes manner, which is exactly what they ought to be doing if they're really working a legitimate assignment and want to pick up some hints on the local environment. And whatever Boggs is up to sure as hell isn't a game, unless he's got a serious masochistic streak."
"Speaking of games, that reminds me." Mike Takahara walked over to the small desk, where he'd connected his computer notebook and small portable printer to the telephone jack, and picked up another piece of paper. "Take a look at this."
"What is it?"
"Preliminary examination report on those supposed Bigfoot hairs you and Bobby dropped off at the lab last Wednesday."
Lightstone quickly scanned the report, his eyes furrowing in confusion. He read it a second time, much more slowly and carefully.
"Did you look at this?" he asked.
Mike Takahara nodded.
"So what do you make of it?"
"Makes about as much sense as everything else," the tech agent replied, dusting off his keyboard with his sleeve.
"Which means damned little," Lightstone muttered.
"It's just a preliminary report," Takahara reminded him. "Which, I guess, does make some sense, when you stop to think about it. Obviously not the kind of thing a forensic mammalogist runs across every day."
"I guess not. But what does it mean, technically?" Lightstone pressed.
"Well, among other things, I'd say it means your new playmate is deeply involved in this, all the way up to her pretty little eyeballs
… either way you look at it."
"Exactly." Henry Lightstone tossed the report down, looking thoroughly disgusted with himself.
"Hey, it could be worse," Mike Takahara attempted to console his teammate.
"Yeah? How?"
"Well, if it really is a game, then the rest of us could just as easily be involved in it, too. You could be out on the limb all by yourself on this deal… with the possible exception of Larry, who's suffered more than anybody," the tech agent added thoughtfully.
"Yeah, I guess." Henry Lightstone nodded his head slowly, then suddenly looked directly at his friend. "You know what really bothers me about this whole deal?"
"What?"
"Bobby."
"Bobby LaGrange? Your ex-partner?" Mike Takahara blinked in confusion. "I don't follow."
"Unless he's become a lot better actor in his retirement years, I got the distinct impression his blood turned to ice water when I suggested he and Susan might be targets. Bobby's a pretty laid-back guy, and it takes a lot to get him riled, but going after Susan or Justin would definitely do the trick. I really don't think he was faking it."
"Unfortunately, that takes us right back to the rather frightening idea that none of this has anything to do with Halahan wanting to get back at us for screwing up his training program," the tech agent pointed out.
"That's how I see it."
"Which takes us back to the equally frightening idea that Charlie Team may have put themselves right in the crosshairs of some whacked-out militants, and not know anything about it."
"Exactly."
"So what do we do about it, given the fact that Halahan and Moore just gave us direct orders to stay the hell away from Charlie Team?" Mike Takahara asked reasonably.
"Like I've always said, the only way to deal with bullies is to stand your ground, confront the bastards right away, get in their face
… or they'll go right over the top of you."
"Sounds like useful advice for a ten-year-old schoolboy," the tech agent commented. "But how does that apply to Halahan… let alone those militants?"
"I'm not sure it does, but I think it's worth a try. Got a plain piece of paper, a plain envelope, and a first-class stamp handy?"
"I think so."
Two minutes later, Mike Takahara peered over his partner's shoulder as Henry block-printed twelve words in the middle of the sheet of paper.
"You really think that'll draw them out?"
"I think it'll draw someone out," Lightstone promised as he addressed the envelope, folded the paper, sealed it in the envelope, applied the stamp, then handed the envelope to the tech agent. "The relevant question is 'who?' "
"Not to mention when, where, and how," Mike Takahara added thoughtfully.
"Oh yeah; that, too." Henry Lightstone smiled pleasantly. "You know how to find the post office?"
"Dogsfire Inn, at the intersection of Brandywine Road and Loggerhead Creek?"
"That's the place."
Mike Takahara looked at his watch. "I can be there in a half hour, no problem. Then what do we do?"
Henry Lightstone shrugged. "After that, we go back to doing what we always do when things go to shit on us."
"Oh yeah, what's that?"
"We stop playing by the rules."
Chapter Thirty-nine
At almost 1830 hours — six-thirty in civilian terms — that Saturday evening, Lt. Colonel John Rustman's rogue hunter-killer recon team finally re-grouped at a hidden campsite approximately eight miles northeast of the Chosen Brigade of the Seventh Seal's training grounds.
Concerned but not totally surprised by the events of the day, First Sergeant Aran Wintersole maintained a thoughtful silence while his team went through the practiced motions of stowing their assault gear for ready access; establishing a concentric pair of perimeter trip wires, heat sensors and motion detectors; setting up camp; tending to their prisoner; preparing hot water, coffee, and a composite MRE combat ration meal with three dug-in, Sterno-fueled burners; consuming the high-protein, high-carbohydrate rations; then washing the team's cooking and eating utensils and burying the resulting trash before he finally brought them all together.
The campsite was far removed from the militant's compound, the town, rural homes, popular camping sites, and all of the established hiking trails in the area. And the outer-perimeter detection system would alert the team to the presence or movement of any warm-blooded creature larger than a medium-sized dog. So they could have built a small fire to fend off the evening chill without adding any significant risk to their security if they so desired.
But the desire for creature comforts held little appeal for any of these rigorously trained, professionally alert, and highly motivated soldiers.
In the last seventy-two hours, the team had made several forays into enemy territory; spotted, monitored, and photographed members of the opposing team; suffered a casualty; taken a prisoner; and established a very useful aura of superiority over a group of supposed "allies" who ridiculously described themselves as a "paramilitary organization."
In effect, Lt. Colonel John Rustman's rogue hunter-killer recon team had engaged with the enemy.
And until the team accomplished all of the essential steps to disengage safely from that enemy and return to home ground, an after-dinner pot of hot coffee would serve as the highest luxury these soldiers would allow themselves.
"Give me a status report," Wintersole ordered the team seated around him in the growing darkness. "Start with the prisoner."
"The prisoner has been fed, allowed to relieve himself, re-secured, sedated, and put to bed, First Sergeant," one-seven reported.