Double blind

Chapter One

At precisely 5:45 in the morning, the first flight came in low on the horizon.

Eight glistening figures, flying in a near perfect V-formation and silhouetted against the brightening sky. An increasingly rare sight in the southern marshlands of Jasper County, Oregon.

Congressman Regis J. Smallsreed smiled in anticipation.

"Look, over there!" Maria Cordovian whispered excitedly.

The eighteen-year-old intern — just completing one of the more miserable hours of her life, crouched down and shivering in the far corner of the concealed duck blind with a heavy shotgun cradled awkwardly in her arms — started to come up from the low wooden bench as she pointed in the direction of the oncoming V, but a cold glare from the imposing white-haired figure seated in the padded center shooting chair warned her back down.

"You stay put, young lady, and keep that shotgun out of sight," Smallsreed ordered as he slowly brought his own intricately engraved and tightly choked auto-loading shotgun up to a ready position. "I can see them just fine."

"My God, Regis, I think they're all cans," Simon Whatley, the congressman's longtime district office manager whispered hoarsely as he lowered his binoculars. "Every damned one of them."

Cans.

Canvasbacks.

The elusive Holy Grail of the southern Oregon duck hunter.

For a brief moment, every pair of male eyes in the concealed blind — both human and canine — watched in lustful awe as the unbalanced formation of migratory birds announced their approach with intermittent quacks, long necks craning forward as their powerful wings sliced through the chilled morning air in precise, synchronized strokes.

From his crouched position in Lt. Colonel John Rustman's spacious VIP blind, Congressman Regis J. Smallsreed convinced himself that he could actually hear the cold air hissing through the microscopic gaps in the primary feathers of the glistening wings that stroked the air with choreographed precision.

Seconds passed, the soft anticipatory whine of the pair of chocolate Labrador retrievers underscoring the reverential silence that enveloped the occupants of the expensively constructed, below-water-level blind as they each absorbed, in their own way, the richness of the moment.

It was one of those precious intervals of time that any true waterfowler would later describe in hushed and respectful tones, in the quiet corner of a darkened bar or the luxurious solitude of a pristine boardroom, as being as close to absolute perfection as mankind could ever experience.

But like all such moments, it ended too soon.

The concussive roar of the 12-gauge auto-loading shotgun instantly shattered the treasured memory into illusionary fragments as the lead canvasback erupted in an explosion of feathers, tissue, and blood.

The shock wave had barely registered on the gun-wary instincts of the remaining birds when four more blasts erupted from the blind, sending four more tight patterns of lead pellets streaking upward in intersecting paths with the entire left side of the rapidly separating formation. Four more bloody explosions sent four more lifeless canvasbacks plummeting into the water.

In the brief interval it took for the remaining three Canvasbacks to veer off in three separate zigzagging paths in a desperate effort to escape the deadly barrage, Regis J. Smallsreed quickly set the still-smoking empty shotgun against the insulated wall of the blind. Then he reached down and took an identical, fully loaded shotgun out of the ice-cold hands of the stunned young intern, all the while keeping his eyes locked on the nearest surviving canvasback.

In one smooth, swift motion, he brought the stock of the handcrafted weapon against his right cheek, calculated the lead in his head, and squeezed the trigger.

Nothing.

Cursing furiously, the congressman glared down at the offending weapon, quickly spotted the problem, and thumbed the safety to the OFF position. Looking back up, he whipped the shotgun to the left, sensed rather than saw his target, and instinctively fired… then grunted in satisfaction when the close-range shot caused a shower of Canvasback blood, tissue, and feathers to rain on the occupants of the concealed blind.

A spectacular shot by any measure… and one well worth a momentary pause to savor the appreciative nods and comments of his hunting companions. But at that particular moment, one of the country's most powerful and influential politicians didn't care about applause. Smallsreed could get all the ego-massaging he needed simply by stepping outside the door of his congressional office on any morning of the congressional work week.

What he wanted on this particular morning, or more to the point, what he craved far more than any of his usual pleasures — expensive liquor, illicit sex, exquisite food, or completely untraceable campaign cash — was the thrill and taste of blood.

Congressman Regis J. Smallsreed was greedy.

He wanted to kill them all.

Completely focused on the frantic escape efforts of the remaining birds, Smallsreed swung the smoking shotgun barrel directly over the rapidly ducking heads of his companions and fired two more times, the expended hulls ejecting over his shoulder in wide parabolic arcs.

The seventh canvasback died instantly as three of the tightly patterned number-two shot pellets tore through its neck and fragile skull.

But the delay created by the mistakenly armed safety on the congressman's backup shotgun allowed the eighth to come within an extra fifteen feet from the blind before the white-haired legislator triggered his last two shots — just far enough to reduce both the number and the velocity of the number-two lead pellets striking the bird.

Smallsreed saw a small cloud of feathers burst away from the rear of the bird, and started to smile. But his pleasure gave way to anguished disbelief when the injured bird remained airborne — desperately quacking and flapping its wings as it tried to reach the reed-choked sanctuary of the far-distant western shoreline.

John Rustman, fourth-generation owner and manager of this private hunting preserve, and a retired lieutenant colonel in the U.S. Army Ranger Reserves, took one look at the directional vector of the duck's erratic but determined course, cursed silently, activated a small radio transmitter on his belt, and made a minor adjustment of the headset microphone almost completely hidden by his black knit cap and the high collar of his windbreaker.

"Wintersole," he whispered tersely into the mike. "Take it out."

Congressman Regis J. Smallsreed was still standing there, clutching his empty smoking shotgun and staring at the rapidly escaping Canvasback — his Canvasback-a good eighty yards away and gaining distance with each frantic wing stroke, when a dark-hooded figure suddenly stood in one of the smaller adjoining blinds.

A moment later, a single sharp, explosive crack echoed across the water.

Ninety yards away, the injured bird suddenly tumbled in midair, its bloody feathers momentarily fluttering protectively over the splash point where the dead Canvasback struck the water.

So that's Wintersole, Lou Eliot, Rustman's foreman, thought. Damn.

For reasons that he didn't care to think about right then, Eliot suddenly felt very grateful that Rustman had unexpectedly taken him off perimeter duty and ordered him to assist in the VIP blind that morning.

"Holy shit!" As Simon Whatley's astonished exclamation rang out across the water, Regis J. Smallsreed wheeled and stared openmouthed at the dark-hooded figure casually replacing the. 223 Ruger Mini-14 semiautomatic rifle in the blind's gun rack.

Before Smallsreed could say anything, however, the hooded figure locked eyes with the stunned congressman for a brief instant, then shrugged with visible indifference before sinking out of view into the blind.

"Who… the hell is that?" Smallsreed gasped, his voice — when he finally found it again — tottering on the brink of uncontrolled rage.

"That's Win — uh, one of John's new employees," Simon Whatley quickly corrected himself when he noticed the deadly look the military officer shot in his direction.

"I don't give a good goddamn how new the son of a bitch is," the furious politician spit at his district office manager. "I want to know who gave him permission to shoot at one of my cans… and with a rifle — a goddamned rifle — to boot. That's… that's outrageous!"

Although Whatley cringed, Smallsreed's anger failed to ruffle the retired military officer long accustomed to the temper tantrums of his superiors.

"Guilty as charged, Congressman," Rustman admitted calmly. "My people have standing orders to pick off any cripples that fly out of shotgun range."

"But…" the congressman started to protest, but Rustman continued.

"Thing is, it's a real pain in the ass trying to find the damned things when they get out too far. And I don't like leaving a bunch of birds lying around where people can find them and maybe get curious, especially when we're running one of our, uh, lead-shot experiments," he added, a casual but deliberate reference to the fact that the only hunter shooting in this particular instance was already six Canvasbacks over his limit — not counting the one blown apart with a single. 22 rifle round — and had killed them all illegally with unplugged shotguns and lead shot.

"Makes a lot of sense to me," Simon Whatley automatically pitched

But the sixteen-term congressman was in no mood to be mollified that easily.

"Well, as far as I'm concerned, there aren't going to be any more cripples flying out of shotgun range when I'm the one driving the goddamned lead around here."

Smallsreed looked at the expensive shotgun in his hand, then at the pretty young intern who stared wide-eyed and openmouthed at the carnage floating around the sunken duck blind.

"Damn it to hell, young lady!" he roared, hurling the shotgun into the corner of the blind with such force, the startled young woman nearly wet her pants. "When I put that safety in the OFF position, I expected it to stay that way!"

Simon Whatley quickly stepped in to protect the terrified underling.

"That was my fault, Regis. My fault all the way," he whispered soothingly behind Smallsreed's left ear. "I should've checked the safety myself. I forgot that this was Maria's first time out duck hunting. You know how easy it is to get caught up in the excitement of seeing that first V coming in low over the water, and taking in that first lungful of burnt powder. Bet you probably remember your first time like it was yesterday."

"The first time" was one of Congressman Regis J. Smallsreed's most reliable response buttons, and Simon Whatley knew exactly when and how to press it to get the desired effect.

The first time.

Oh yes.

Regis J. Smallsreed nodded his head slowly. "It's been a whole bunch of yesterdays since my first duck hunt. Hate to think how many. But I certainly do remember every minute of that gloriously beautiful morning." The congressman's anger visibly subsided as he reminisced, one beefy hand rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

"Glorious as that day was, though, I bet you didn't even come close to the kind of shooting you did today," Whatley added, automatically massaging the congressman's shoulder while Rustman signaled Lou Eliot to release the two increasingly anxious retrievers. "That was a damned fine recovery shot. Best I've ever seen."

"It was a hell of a shot, Congressman." Rustman smiled agreeably as his two highly trained dogs hit the water and joyfully churned toward the closest of the floating carcasses.

Incapable of letting it rest there, Smallsreed's chief local sycophant and deal-maker turned to the lieutenant colonel's longtime foreman. "You've seen a few drops in your day, Lou. What do you think? Forget that the man happens to be one of the most powerful congressmen in the entire country — hell, one of the most powerful men in the whole damned world. Tell him what you think."

Lou Eliot smiled, savoring the underlying ironies for a long moment while he absorbed the breathtaking beauty of the marshland that comprised the huge northern shore of Loggerhead Lake.

His lake.

His marshland.

His preserve.

He never thought of it in any other way.

Lou Eliot had long since lost what little awe or respect he once felt for the select representatives of wealth, power, and influence who frequented the Rustman family preserve to savor the end of a sport doomed to disappear for the simple reason that the flyways were rapidly running out of ducks. Few of those privileged men and women possessed the vigor or hunting skills of a dedicated waterfowler like Regis J. Smallsreed. Fewer still would forsake the comforts of a warm bed — and an even warmer companion — in one of the three VIP cabins to camp out in a cold, damp duck blind on the far northern shore of Loggerhead Lake, awaiting daybreak when the pleasures of waterfowl hunting peaked.

As Eliot learned, a late-morning shoot at a few dozen pen-raised and covertly released mallards easily satisfied the sporting urges of most of his employer's VIP guests. And the avian survivors — the sixty-some percent of the birds which somehow managed to evade a virtual blizzard of shot pellets, often fired at distances of less than twenty-five yards — earned the right to make that same suicidal run over the next visiting "hunter."

All of which explained why Simon Whatley's comment so amused Lou Eliot.

Forget that the man happens to be one of the most powerful congressmen in the entire county-hell, one of the most powerful men in the whole damned world. Tell him what you think.

Yeah, right.

Okay, Congressman, I think you're a greedy, self-serving son of a bitch, who'd rather drink smooth whiskey, shoot wild ducks, screw willing and not-so-willing women and backstab people over money than anything else in the world, Eliot thought to himself. Just like me.

Powerful words, those.

Just like me.

For a brief moment, he wondered what it would feel like when he destroyed Smallsreed. Destroyed one of the most powerful men in Congress. Hell, in the whole damned world.

Probably just like wringing the neck of one of them goddamned grain-sucking Canada geese that spent their entire whole lives screwing, honking, and shitting all over the place and driving decent, hardworking people crazy.

The irresistible imagery caused Eliot to smile, and momentarily to forget the chilling presence of the hooded figure in the nearby blind.

But in spite of his treacherous thoughts, and most recent treacherous actions, Lou Eliot never allowed himself to forget the most critical element of his job: the need to be ready and willing — if not necessarily eager — to soothe and stroke and bolster a wide range of terribly fragile egos. Even a skilled waterfowler like Smallsreed, who certainly knew better than to trust the ready status of his weapons to a young and inexperienced aide, required an occasional, albeit exaggerated, reaffirmation of status.

Fortunately for the veteran foreman's self-respect, however, he didn't need to exaggerate his praise this time. Simon Whatley, the shameless ass-kisser, and U.S. Army Ranger Reserve Battalion Commander Lt. Colonel John Rustman — who, as Eliot knew all too well, much preferred to kick ass than kiss it — had called it exactly right.

It was a hell of a shot.

"First-rate shooting, Congressman. Can't think of more than a half dozen times I've ever seen anyone match it, far back as I can remember." The deeply tanned marsh foreman flashed Smallsreed a thumbs-up sign of approval before accepting the two Canvasback carcasses from his employer's prize retrievers.

The genuine praise from a respected waterfowl expert like Eliot placated the testy legislator.

"God as my judge, it felt right all the way." Smallsreed squinted up at the empty sky smugly. "Been lucky that way all my life. Blessed with good genetic stock. Steady hands, sharp eyes, clear lungs. And a nose for the kill," he added, tapping his prominently veined and pockmarked beak with a mischievous wink.

"Looks like the dogs approve, too." Simon Whatley chuckled as the two exuberant chocolate Labs shook and sprayed the blind's occupants after enthusiastically retrieving another pair of the dead Canvasbacks.

"If the rest of my constituents were that cheerful, loyal, and obedient, I'd never need to attend another fund-raiser for the rest of my career," the congressman cracked to his solicitous audience as he wiped the water from his face.

"Uh-oh, looks like another flight coming in from the north." His host nodded toward some distant flecks of black in the sky as he expertly reloaded the first shotgun and handed it to Smallsreed. "Better hold the dogs, Lou," he added, pointing at the grinning Labs eager to retrieve the floating remains of the last duck.

Eliot quickly wiped his bloody hands on his jeans and grabbed the dogs' collars.

"Another batch of cans?" The gleam of unsatiated greed made Smallsreed's deep-set eyes appear much larger than they actually were.

Rustman nodded his head thoughtfully. "Wouldn't surprise me one bit. Maybe even a redhead or two, if our luck holds. Been having some real nice shooting out here the past couple days."

The military officer didn't bother to mention that the congressman owed most of his luck to Lou Eliot's considerable skill in capturing young wild Canvasbacks from Canadian nesting sites, smuggling them across the border, and concealing them in pens in a remote area of the Rustman family preserve. There, fed sparingly and protected from natural and human predators, the ducks awaited the opportune moment — such as a visit from a dependably generous and influential congressman — when another well-trained employee released them, a few at a time. Like plump golden magnets, they flew right back into the migratory flyway, and directly over the Rustman Preserve's VIP blinds.

Not exactly like shooting ducks in a barrel, the lieutenant colonel thought. But close. Damned close.

He smiled, pleased by the idea that even an experienced waterfowler like Smallsreed could be fooled if enough money were put into the effort.

"Redheads?" The politician's porcine eyes blinked greedily. Redheads were even rarer than Canvasbacks.

Rustman nodded. "Keep your eyes peeled. We…"

But before the wealthy landowner could expand on his meticulously orchestrated optimistic prediction, a pair of barely audible beeps caused him to reach for the small transmitter/receiver on his belt again.

"Rustman," he acknowledged the summons softly into the collar mike, his wary eyes systematically sweeping the surrounding weeds, waterways, and sky while everyone else in the blind fell silent. Other than a single small plane flying high above the distant clouds to the west and the approaching flight of birds, he saw no other signs of life in the area.

"Looks like we got ourselves a bogey on your four o'clock position, Colonel."

The voice Rustman heard through the small receiver in his right ear sounded flat and monotone, a result of the encryption software hard-programmed into the radios.

"How far out?"

The voice designated a vector point in a roughly southeasterly direction, but the military officer kept his eyes fixed on Loggerhead Lake's northern shore.

"Two — maybe three klicks," the voice added.

"Any ID?" Rustman knew the others all watched him, and undoubtedly listened carefully to his softly spoken words.

"Don't recognize the boat, but it sure looks like that damned duck cop to me."

Rustman nodded to himself. "Damned duck cop" was the unofficial designation for Special Agent Wilbur Boggs — the sole law enforcement investigator of the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service assigned to this beautiful part of southern Oregon. And from Rustman's entirely prejudiced point of view, the sole impediment to unrestricted waterfowl hunting on the Rustman family preserve.

"Is he coming our way?" The question sounded foolish to Rustman even as he asked it. Boggs was a persistent and bullheaded investigator, and he knew the precise locations of Rustman's two VIP blinds. Of course he'd be coming this way. Why else would a federal wildlife agent work on a weekend, and trespass on private property, except to harass Rustman and his very important clients?

You goddamned officious asshole, the lieutenant colonel swore silently. Why can't you have a price like everybody else?

"He's been hanging out near the shore with a line out since early this morning. He could've just been fishing, but he acted like he was waiting for something, or somebody. Kept looking around with his binoculars, and I never did see him bait a hook," the voice in Rustman's earpiece reported. "Then he took off all of a sudden, like he intended to loop around and come into the blind area from the south, but I think it's going to be a while before he gets there. Looks like he got his prop caught up in a net real bad, and probably smacked his head pretty hard, too. Want us to make sure he stays put for a while?"

Lt. Colonel John Rustman's lips curled in a taut, thin-lipped smile, pleased at the success of the precautionary additions to his security system. Two days previously, he'd hired a couple of locals to come out at night and string a thousand yards of sun-rotted polyester netting a few inches beneath the water in specific patterns along the outer, lakeside perimeter of the blind area.

Rustman designed the system so that at least ten feet of netting would wrap tightly around an outboard propeller before one or more of the thick hemp ropes holding the net pulled tight and brought everything — prop, motor, boat, and occupants — to a dead stop. And from the sound of things, it had worked perfectly. If all went as planned, it would take Special Agent Wilbur Boggs at least an hour to cut away the netting and rope tightly wound around his prop.

Plenty of time to get Congressman Regis J. Smallsreed out of the area and settled in for a little R amp;R. No need to make things more difficult now. No need at all.

"Who is it?" His foreman's voice disrupted Rustman's train of thought.

"That damned duck cop again." Rustman made no effort to hide the disgust in his voice.

"Shit!" Eliot swore as he quickly brought a small pair of binoculars up to his eyes to scan the distant shoreline at the four o'clock position. "Are we ever going to get rid of that guy?"

Rustman's smile remained fixed, but the expression in his eyes changed to something far more chilling than amused.

"Colonel, you want us to make sure he stays put?" the voice in his ear repeated insistently.

Rustman continued to stare at his foreman for a long moment with cold, empty eyes before finally answering:

"No, leave him be. Just keep an eye on him and let me know when he cuts himself loose. But send the boats in for a pickup, right now," Rustman ordered in that same subdued voice. Then he turned to his foreman.

"Lou, let's get things cleaned up."

"Yes sir," Eliot acknowledged, tensing in response to the edge in Rustman's voice as the military officer moved toward the other occupants of the blind.

"Hate to be the bearer of bad news, folks," Rustman apologized as he removed the loaded shotgun from Smallsreed's hands, "but it looks like we've got to cut things short this morning."

"Is there a problem?"

Rustman shrugged at his famous guest. "Not really a problem, Congressman. Just a federal wildlife agent poking his nose around private property where he's got no damned business."

Smallsreed stared wistfully at the newly arriving formation swooping low over a distant patch of reeds and cattails, but a trio of small jet boats immediately distracted him.

"I thought you said you had this sort of thing under control, Simon?" he accused his district office manager angrily.

"I thought I did, sir," Simon Whatley admitted. "I'll look into it immediately, as soon as we get back to the office."

"I'd deeply appreciate anything you could do to help, Congressman," Rustman declared solemnly. "I'm getting pretty damned tired of being treated like a criminal by a bunch of overzealous, badge-wearing thugs who have the gall to call themselves law enforcement officers. I'm a God-fearing, churchgoing patriot who votes and pays his taxes like every other decent landowner in this county. And I'm all in favor of good law enforcement. You know that. But those fellows are getting out of hand. Somebody needs to rein them in."

"Consider it done," Smallsreed snapped irritably, still staring at the distant reeds and cattails where the formation of covertly released Canvasbacks had long since disappeared.

"In the meantime, while Lou and I get things squared away out here," Rustman went on smoothly as he grabbed the bowline of the first boat and tied it up while his foreman quickly began the familiar cleanup routine. "I believe there's a hot breakfast waiting back at the main house."

"And speaking of getting warm" — Simon Whatley's faint leer communicated far more than his words — "I understand that Maria here makes a mean hot toddy."

"Is that so?" The senior congressman arched an inquisitive eyebrow as he appeared to notice the attractive young intern for the first time that morning. She nodded her head cautiously in his direction. Other interns had warned her about Smallsreed's infamous temper, but the shotgun incident had been her first clear view of him as anything other than an extremely calm and powerful — and therefore, from her youthful perspective, strangely attractive — older man who vaguely reminded her of her grandfather.

"In that case, my dear" — Smallsreed wrapped a thick arm around her jacketed shoulders and gave her a firm hug along with a conspiratorial wink — "we'll all agree that the incident with the safety was completely Simon's fault. You are unquestionably and unconditionally forgiven."

The concerned expression of the girl's pretty face immediately blossomed into a warm and dimpled smile that Smallsreed greeted with a wide, predatory grin.

Long accustomed and completely indifferent to the extracurricular antics of his VIP guest, Lt. Colonel John Rustman released the knot on a tie-down line, and pulled an expensive jet boat in close to the blind.

"Congressman?" He gestured with his head, then stepped back to give Smallsreed room to step cautiously into the shallow-bottomed craft.

"John, I've got to be honest with you. I've never seen a hot toddy yet that I'd swap for a daybreak shot at a flight of cans." Smallsreed's conciliatory mood dimmed noticeably as he settled himself into the rear passenger seat and watched Eliot expertly wrap the six bloody canvasback carcasses and expended lead-shot hulls in a camouflaged sink-container, then draw six freshly — and legally — killed mallards and an equal number of expended steel-shot hulls out of a similar dripping container.

"However," he sighed deeply, "if all we're going to see is more of those goddamned horny greenheads, then I suppose I could be tempted to indulge myself a bit this morning."

"In that case" — Simon Whatley played his role to perfection — "why don't you and Maria go on ahead and get those hot toddies ready while I help John and Lou get everything cleaned up out here… including that little matter we talked about yesterday," he added meaningfully.

Smallsreed blinked in momentary confusion.

"Oh, you mean the Tisbury — ?"

"Yes, I'll take care of it," Whatley uncharacteristically cut off his superior, an obvious reminder that at least two people in the blind really shouldn't have heard the name that Smallsreed had just blurted out.

For a brief moment, the arrogant congressman's eyes glinted dangerously, and Whatley held his breath, praying that his short-tempered boss wouldn't blow it all, right here, right now.

But then Smallsreed glanced at the young intern — who favored her idol with another naively sensuous dimpled grin — and his fearsome expression dissolved instantly.

Bless you, my dear, Whatley thought to himself. I owe you more than you could possibly know.

But it wasn't over yet. No matter how compelling the self-interest, Regis J. Smallsreed had not managed to survive — much less prosper — during his sixteen terms in Washington, DC, by entrusting his subordinates with the truly important decisions.

"Whatever it takes to resolve the matter to everyone's satisfaction, Simon" — the congressman's eyes bored into Whatley's as he spoke — "I want you to make it happen. These people are very important… constituents. Very important."

These people? What the hell is he talking about? Simon Whatley thought. This is Sam Tisbury's deal all the way. Who else could he be

…?

"Is that understood?" Smallsreed pressed in what Simon Whatley immediately — and correctly — interpreted as a dangerously threatening tone.

"Oh, uh, yes sir, absolutely. I'll take care of everything."

"Fine, you do that." Regis J. Smallsreed's head bobbed approvingly as he moved to the front of the boat and motioned for the young intern to join him. "Now then, my dear, tell me, have you ever been at the helm of one of these infernal machines?"

The young woman's blue eyes grew wide as she took in the smooth curve of the low racing hull, the supercharged engine with the wide blower air scoop, the small steering wheel and thick-knobbed throttle, and the thickly padded cushions. Every inch of the dark green camouflaged boat was a monument to one simple underlying principle:

Power. Pure and sensual.

She shook her blond curls, too awestruck to speak, and the subtle current that zinged through the congressman's crotch verified what he'd already guessed.

First time.

The predatory smile completely engulfed Regis J. Smallsreed's ruddy features.

"Well, in that case, my dear, I think it's about time we expanded your horizons."

Moments later, with the visibly excited young woman at the wheel and one of the country's most influential congressmen nestled close at her side, the powerful jet boat lunged forward, kicking up a long rooster tail as it quickly sped away.

Nodding his head in satisfaction, Simon Whatley watched the small craft disappear around the nearby island.

It's a good thing you're such a lecherous old bastard, Regis, he thought to himself. Otherwise, this entire deal would be a lot more complicated.

Then he turned to Rustman.

"I believe we have some business to discuss?"

Rustman shook his head slowly. "Not quite yet."

Whatley blinked in surprise. "What do you mean, not quite yet?" he demanded irritably.

Ignoring the congressional staffer's officious posturing, the military officer turned to verify that two dark-hooded figures now stood in the nearby blind, one of whom — judging from a flash of purple silk barely visible under a dark-cammo collar — was female. Both held identical stainless-steel Mini-14 rifles.

Satisfied, Rustman turned back to his foreman, who was making a last-minute check of the VIP blind.

"Lou, do you have everything under control here? Everything cleaned up and put away?"

Eliot ran through his mental list — the critical items being to wrap and sink the remains of the illegal Canvasbacks, and exchange the illegal lead-shot rounds in the guns and ammo bags for steel. Then he took one quick look around before nodding. "Yes sir, all clear."

"John, I'm talking to you! What the hell do you mean…?" Simon Whatley's strident interruption caused Eliot to observe both men curiously.

Rustman froze the congressional district office manager with an icy stare.

"Wintersole," he murmured into the collar mike without taking his eyes off of the political staffer, "put him down."

Simon Whatley's pupils dilated in shock a split second before a single high-velocity gunshot echoed sharply across the lake surface.

Lou Eliot's lifeless body tumbled backwards into the cold water of his beloved Loggerhead Lake and disappeared beneath its dark surface as Whatley watched in horrified disbelief.

"Now then" — Rustman's chilling gaze never wavered from the congressional district office manager's shocked eyes — "what was it you wanted to discuss?"

Simon Whatley could barely force the words through his constricted throat.

"Wha… what in God's name…"

"You heard your boss," Rustman cut him off. "'Whatever it takes.' Do you have a problem with that, Simon?" The brutally composed retired military officer deliberately looked over Whatley's left shoulder.

Even though he knew what he would see, the terrified political staffer turned… and discovered both of the hooded figures staring directly at him. His heart froze.

"No, I don't," he whispered hoarsely.

"Fine." Rustman smiled agreeably. "Then let's go finish our business before that damned agent manages to cut himself loose."