Killing Game - Chapter Three

​​Killing Game
Chapter Three

​

​Monday, April 13th
South Georgia

​Caitlyn Jayne Landry purposely slowed her Jeep as she turned into the long drive that led to the swamp tour’s headquarters, watching for alligators that might be sunning themselves on the path. Sure enough, one rose on its stubby legs and waddled across the road. As the seven-foot prehistoric monster slid back into the water, memories of another gator rose. 

When she’d been about ten Cait’s parents had taken her and her brother on a photography tour in the Everglades. Since her mother was an avid amateur shutterbug, the tour operator had used a trolling motor so they could check out the scenery. Cait had spied a mallard resting on a log, watching the boat as it drew near. As she went to point it out, a gator lurched out of the water, grabbed the duck and vanished back under the surface in the span of a heartbeat. 

She’d gaped, stunned at what she’d just seen. When she began to tell the others about it, her dad warned her off. No reason to upset her little brother, or her mom, he’d whispered.
It was the first time she’d seen death up close, and the lesson had struck home: Someone, or something, might be smarter then you, and that could cost you everything. In many ways, her life had changed that day, all due to one hungry alligator. 

During her eight years in the Marine Corps she’d been the predator, but that had taken a toll, so much so that her last six months as a civilian had proven a difficult readjustment. She’d spent most of that time camping on her own in various national forests, or in the swamp. 

Even visiting her parents in San Diego had proven hard. They pushed her to get back into everyday life, find a job, learn to cope with the horrors she’d seen, lived through. It was like someone telling you to “shake off” an amputation, though she knew they meant well. She’d kept in touch with some of the Marines was her unit, but they had their own problems. Some were homeless, or struggling with drug addiction. Others just wanted to get on with their lives.

 As soon as Cait could politely escape the last visit she’d flown back to Orlando and picked up her old Jeep at a friend’s place. She’d even managed to catch a few hours of fitful sleep at a Motel Six on the way north, trying to ignore a drunk next door arguing with his wife. When the man had begun to beat her, Cait had intervened, told the asshole if he did not knock it off she would put him down. Considering she was wearing a USMC T-shirt and had a tactical knife strapped to her thigh, it got quiet after that.

Though the swamp tour didn’t start until noon—and with it a much-needed opportunity to reconnect with her former commanding officer—she’d risen way before dawn, the nightmares serving as a wake-up call. She slept as little as possible nowadays in a futile attempt to keep them at bay. Sometimes she’d go two or more days without sleep, then crash, only to have the past roll through her mind leaving a trail of blood, bodies, and brains in its wake. Sometimes she wasn’t sure if waking up was a blessing or a curse.

After getting breakfast to go, Cait had found a roadside park and eaten at a picnic table, leaving a bit behind for the squirrels. Then she’d taken the scenic route north over the backroads of rural Florida and Georgia, past cotton fields, peach orchards, and run-down shacks. 

Her desire for solitude told her she needed this trip into the wilderness, needed the quiet, the lack of people and everyday noises. Mike Montgomery, her former commander and now the owner of a swamp tour operation, would consistently remind her that this was her reality now, that the endless struggle to adapt to “normal” was worth it. She didn’t want to argue with him, because he was probably right. Some days the noise in her head just got too loud, and all she wanted to do was make it stop. 

It wasn’t like Cait hadn’t known what she was getting into when she joined the Marines. Her family had a deep military tradition beginning with her great-grandfather. Her grandfather, also a Marine, had been a veteran of the Vietnam War, her mom had served in the Navy, and her father was an Army major. Even her brother had put in his four years in the Army and was now starting college in Phoenix. To her, none of them had shown outward signs of post-traumatic stress. They claimed otherwise, but Cait knew it was a lie to make her feel better. So far, she’d been the only one to crack. 

The doctors at the Veterans Administration had recommended various medications for her “issues.” She’d tried a few of them, and they only made her a zombie. She flushed them all and tried hard to keep it together, though day after day, hour after hour, she felt the darkness talking to her, giving her thoughts that didn’t bode well for a future. With more than twenty-two veterans killing themselves every day, she knew she wasn’t alone on this journey, but it still felt like it.

Only after a trip with Mike into the swamp, she’d realized that the wilderness was her drug of choice, her way of keeping herself alive. Once he’d recognized this as well, he’d invited her to join him on the tours anytime she wanted, no questions asked. He’d obtained the proper camping permits, as well as a permit that allowed her to carry a firearm within the national park. He knew what was at stake if she gave up.

She’d found the first tour difficult because of the other campers. Fortunately, Mike had been there as her backup. Once acquainted with the swamp’s natural rhythms, from that point on she would split off from the group, going it alone, seeking whatever didn’t make her blood pound and her heart race. Seek a tangible means to turn off the nightmares, the memories, the feeling that she’d left too much of herself behind in Afghanistan to ever be whole again. 

After swinging into a parking place at the far end of the tour headquarters, Cait turned off the Jeep. While she was roughing it, she stored the keys at the office and Mike’s wife Kia would keep an eye on the car. As she pulled out her gear and locked the vehicle, she noticed a group waiting on the building’s broad porch, no doubt the others on the tour. She steered away from them; people asked questions, wanted to know what she did for a living, if she was married, did she have kids. The effort to explain was too much, sometimes even made her head ache. 

As was her custom, she would bring up the rear of the group until she reached the point where she’d head off on her own deep into the swamp. Mike insisted she check in with him every day via cell phone or satellite phone, and though it grated, she was willing to accept that stipulation. He knew she could handle almost everything, but having a lifeline back to civilization was wise. 
​
If she was lucky this trip would buy her another month or so of sanity. Deep down she knew that one of these days, even nature wouldn’t have the power to save her. That would be the day the war claimed yet another victim.

* * * 
​

​Brannon parked his rental car near the tour office, next to an old red Jeep with Florida license plates. It was dented and had a bit of rust, but the tires looked new which seemed an odd combination. 

He’d spent most of his time trying not to worry, especially when he was getting closer to his goal. To chill, he had taken a five-mile run, worked out, then gone kayaking. The exercise had helped, but he’d still remained on edge. Time spent on the militia boards hadn’t given him any insights into Ellers’s plans, either. 

The call finally came in late Sunday night, during which Clarke had been short and to the point: Brannon was to head to Georgia the next morning and be at this particular location in time to take a swamp tour at noon. Everything else had been taken care of. During that tour, he’d be contacted and the money would change hands. When Brannon had tried to gain an assurance he’d be meeting Ellers, he had been told to just follow orders and it’d all work out.

As he’d driven north from Jacksonville, the armored truck robbery was still on the news, though so far his name hadn’t been connected with it. His mother would be appalled if she ever learned her eldest son was a criminal, even in the pursuit of justice. Still, to Ellers and his cronies, Brannon was the perfect recruit, an anarchist leader’s wet dream: a former Army Ranger who was a pro with explosives and had experience as a sniper. Both of those skills could easily be turned against a government that the “sovereign citizen” types hated. 

There were a number of right-wing militant groups, including those associated with Posse Comitatus, a movement that believed no law-enforcement official above the rank of sheriff was legitimate. To show their defiance they often refused to file income taxes or obey federal laws. Some even printed their own driver’s licenses. Others were affiliated with the League of the South, a white supremacist group, or the Christian Identity Movement, which held that Jews ran the financial institutions and were working with Satan to destroy civilization. 

When these people decided to break the law they were usually heavily armed and had the capacity to generate maximum body count. No matter their beef with the government these guys weren’t any different than the Taliban or Al Qaeda, and he’d had plenty of experience dealing with those bastards. It was time to use his expertise and do some much-needed housekeeping stateside. If he’d wanted armed insurgents roaming the streets he would have stayed in Fallujah. 

As he turned off the car, his cell phone rang. “Hardegree.” 

“It’s Sanjay. I’ve got mixed news,” Veritas’s chief data analyst replied, his Mumbai accent clipped. 

Sanjay was one of the go-to folks for information and often served as the point of contact for those currently on a mission. If the intel was on the internet or tucked away in some computer database, he would eventually find it. It was like a cyber game of hide-and-seek to him, and he was incredibly good at it. 

“The FBI is going ballistic because of the robbery,” Sanjay continued. “Best you complete this mission before they figure out you were part of it, because our boss isn’t sure he’ll be able to shield you if you’re arrested. His contact in the D.C. Bureau office has suddenly grown skittish about our involvement.”

“Affirmative,” Brannon said. Dammit. 

“We finished the background check on the tour operator you’ll be meeting today. Mike Montgomery is a former Marine with an excellent service record. He’s married, three adult kids, has been conducting the tours since he retired two years ago. Financials are solid.”

“Any sympathies with anti-government groups?”

“Not that we can find. His assistant, Preston Taylor, isn’t as clean. He’s spent some time on a few of the sovereign citizen forums. Mostly, he comes across as a wannabe. Lots of talk, no action.”

“Let’s hope he stays that way.” 

“Montgomery conducts his registrations by snail mail, not online. It really screws up what intel I can get for you up front.” 

Brannon grinned at the annoyance in Sanjay’s voice because it was a rare thing. “Sounds like the man is a Luddite, or paranoid.” 

“Probably a bit of both. If you can get me pictures of the campers, I’ll run facial-recognition software, try to figure out who is who.” 

“Consider it done.”

“How often do you intend to check in?” Sanjay asked.

“Every ten to twelve hours, provided I have phone service. You don’t hear from me after twenty-four, something’s wrong.” 

“Good. We’ll monitor the tracking chip.”

“At least you’ll know where to send the body-retrieval team.”

“Let’s not joke like that, okay? You may be the Lone Ranger, but we’re here to back you up.”

Brannon rolled his eyes at the nickname. Everyone who went out on missions had one. Well, except Crispin Wilder, the head of Veritas. No one had the balls to call him anything but “sir” or “boss.” It was never smart to jack around with a former international arms dealer.

“How’s Iceman doing?” Brannon asked. One of his fellow operatives had been on an undercover mission in South America.

“He’s good, headed back to the States. He’s your backup if things go bad.”

“That works for me.” Brannon was originally going to be lead on the South American mission, but the plans hadn’t worked out right. Now he knew he was where he needed to be. “Let them know I hope to wrap this up soon.”

“I will. Keep safe.” 

“Always. Thanks, Sanjay.”

The moment Brannon stepped out of the car, his back twinged. Stretching his arms over his head, he heard a satisfying pop. It sucked to be an “old man.” At least that’s what some of his fellow Rangers had called him, ribbing him about being the graybeard on the team. As if thirty-two was old. 

Sometimes it feels that way.

It was only after his thirtieth birthday that he began to be aware of the passage of time. Before that he’d been totally focused on the missions and the “downtime” in between. Something had shifted, and it made him pensive.

Once his back cooperated, he gave a slow look around, checking out the scenery. The smell of the swamp immediately filled his nose, but he didn’t find it unpleasant. Earthy maybe, but not bad. The vegetation was shrugging off a chilly winter, enthusiastically embracing the warmer temperatures. At least it wasn’t full-on bug season yet or he already would have been bitten to death. In the distance, he could see Spanish moss hanging from sprawling oaks and bald cypress trees, hear the lazy calls of waterfowl. Overhead an egret winged by. He’d love to spend time here just enjoying nature, but this mission was too critical. Especially now that his future hung in the balance.

Brannon stowed away his phone and grabbed his rucksack from the passenger seat. Despite the extra couple of pounds the money added, the ruck felt light in comparison to the seventy-five-plus pounds he’d carried on his Ranger missions. 

Once the car was locked, he set off for the building. As he passed the rear end of the Jeep, he spied a Marine Corps bumper sticker—the signature eagle, globe, and anchor. Probably Montgomery’s car.

The tour office was a nondescript structure, weathered, but the roof was in good shape which meant someone had spent money on the place. He thought it a curious business venture for a retired Marine, but then you had to do something when you reached your “twenty and out.” It was better than sitting at home, or comparing war wounds with your buddies down at the VFW.

A knot of people stood on the building’s porch, unevenly split between the sexes: two females, four males. One of the females appeared to be in her late teens, with pale-blond hair slashed with a thick streak of blue. Tall and thin, she was accompanied by a young man of the same age. His hair was less outlandish, just everyday brown, a little on the short side.

The other woman was older, prettier, probably in her thirties. Her light-brown hair was pulled up in a messy bun, and she wore shorts and a pink T-shirt. The remaining men were nothing out of the ordinary. Brannon guessed at least one of them had a desk job, if the guy’s spreading middle was any indication. 
​
Any one of these people might be his militia contact, the person who would lead him deep inside the organization. With a heavy sigh, he put on his happy tourist face and joined them.

Chapter Four


​​​Killing Game
​Veritas Book 2
(c) 2016 Jana G. Oliver
 All Rights Reserved.

Available on Amazon