Read Online Double Blind by Ken Goddard - Free Book Online

subleasing the place. Don't suppose you might know who could have lost it?"
    Paxton gingerly held a wet and grimy 10mm Smith & Wesson semiautomatic pistol with his right thumb and forefinger, carefully moving his feet to avoid the small stream of raw sewage that poured out the barrel.
    Ignoring Henry Lightstone's offered hand, Special Agent Natasha Marashenko rose unsteadily to her feet, ripped the dripping pistol out of Paxton's hand, muttered something about idiot macho males under her breath, and staggered away in a visible display of injured pride, barely controlled rage, and almost complete exhaustion. Her muscular legs and buttocks visibly stretched the thin fabric of her tight, water-and-mud- soaked jeans as she made her way over to the water station.
    "My, my, my, that gal is definitely an improvement on the standard issue federal agent around here, not to mention a walking endorsement for glasnost," Larry Paxton commented appreciatively as he and Lightstone watched the shapely, dark-haired young agent take the hose from Stoner and then kneel down to help wash the tear gas from the eyes of her fellow covert team members.
    "And nice to look at, too," Lightstone agreed dryly as he gently probed some tender areas around his lower abdomen. "If you happen to like blue-eyed wildcats who fight dirty."
    "You know, Henry, it kinda looked to me like she almost had you on that last go-around," the SAC of Bravo Team commented thoughtfully. "If ol' Freddy hadn't blown that whistle when he did, that little gal just mighta worked her way out of that chokehold and seriously whipped your scrawny ass. Maybe next time around, it oughta be you who gets to dance around that septic tank, and me who gets to mud-wrestle the pretty young lady agents who come on like the Seventh Cavalry."
    Henry Lightstone smiled. "Next exercise, Paxton, she's all yours. But I'm warning you, she kicks and bites, and she doesn't like to lose. You keep trying to piss her off like that, and you're going to find yourself . . ."
    "Ah, speaking of being pissed off, gents —" Special Agent Dwight Stoner gestured in the direction of the observation platform as he limped up beside his partners.
    The three agents watched silently as Special Ops Branch Chief David Halahan climbed down from the platform, took one final look around the exercise area, shook his head in apparent disgust, and started walking toward the distant training office building.
    "Think we mighta gone too far on this one?" Stoner asked.
    Larry Paxton nodded his head. "That's a definite possibility, Stoner my man. A very definite possibility indeed."

 
    Chapter Five
     
    Twenty-six hundred miles west of the practical exercise area of the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center at Glynco, Georgia, Lt. Colonel John Rustman listened patiently as First Sergeant Wintersole explained over their scrambled radio communications net why he had believed it necessary to send Simon Whatley's incredibly foolhardy — or perhaps simply incredibly stupid — aide running frantically back to the Town Car by firing a burst of 5.56mm rounds into a nearby tree.
    Other than slipping in the mud twice, and undoubtedly creating a mess in his pants if not on the rented Town Car's expensive leather upholstery, they had allowed the aide to escape unharmed.
    "What kind of camera?" Rustman asked when Wintersole finished his report.
    "Thirty-five millimeter, long lens," the cold, metallic voice responded.
    "Did he get away with any shots?"
    "Negative."
    "Are you certain?"
    "Affirmative. We recovered the camera."
    "Why did you let him go?"
    "He didn't get in very far. Figured it wasn't worth letting him see a face or digging another hole."
    Rustman nodded his head in satisfaction. "Good call." He glanced down at his watch. "Maintain your positions for another thirty, and then disengage. We'll link up tomorrow morning at the Windmill, civvies, 0700 hours, for a full debriefing."
    "Affirmative. Debrief tomorrow morning, the Windmill,