1
It was a black night, but not the darkest he’d ever experienced. Time spent in the Afghan mountains on cloudy nights without a hint of a campfire in sight anywhere in the distance had caused the kind of darkness where it was easy to become disoriented and fear sucked at your soul. No, this night was not like that. Not by a long shot.
Tonight, an occasional glimpse of moonlight peeking through the drifting clouds, plus the fact that he had two teammates nearby and wasn’t in peril of an enemy ready to kill, made this mission seem like a leisurely stroll in the park compared to earlier years.
Surrounded by thousands of acres of woods, disorientation would affect most men. But then, as a former Ranger and CIA operative and now employed as a Keeper for Lighthouse Security Investigation, he was not most men.
Massive, thick trees covered the area. In the daylight, the lush green forests nestled at the Maine-Canadian border would have been the stuff of dreams for campers, hikers, and nature lovers. Although to get there would have made the trek unpleasant for vacationers. The deep-rutted road he had just driven would have given the heaviest lumber truck difficulty, not to mention the heavily-fortified military SUV he’d traveled in. Now, with his vehicle tucked away, he was settled in the crook of a thick limb of a large tree, his night vision goggles providing eerie visibility.
The calendar might indicate spring, but the cold breeze blowing was an easy reminder that he was in one of the most northern sections of the mainland United States. Leaves rustled all around, and the fresh scent of uninhabited, unsullied, unpolluted air filled his nostrils.
For Hank Claiborne, known as Clay since his first day in Army boot camp, it was just another day at the office. He’d earned the nickname when he’d stumbled on a long walk and the drill sergeant claimed he had feet of clay. Later, proving he was anything but clumsy while in the Army Rangers, he was recruited to be a CIA special operator where he met Mace Hanson, his boss once they both got out of the service.
Mace had started his own business known as Lighthouse Security Investigations, hiring men and women who had served with special operations in the military or CIA. Known as the Keepers, Clay had developed his closest friendships with his coworkers.
He grinned, thinking of earlier that evening. He and two of his fellow Keepers, Tate and Walker, had stopped at a local bar en route to the mission for a bite to eat. Clay munched on his burger, keeping an eye on the small crowd, chatting with the others. Just as they were walking out, the sound of drums and bagpipes filled the back of the bar. Twisting his head around, he watched as a small band belted out Celtic rock. A singer added his voice to the ensemble, and then a woman jumped onto the stage playing an electric violin. Her dark hair swirled around her shoulders as she played. Entranced by her performance, he wanted to walk back toward the front just to get closer, but Tate’s voice cut through his musing.
“Clay!”
He startled, cursing both the disruption of his appreciation of the fiddler and his inattention to their mission. “Fuck,” he mumbled. Hustling after the others, they climbed into their vehicle and got back onto the road.
Now, perched in the tree, he heard the whistling of the wind through the branches and thought of the music. I wonder if I could find out who they were—
“Incoming.”
Josh’s voice in Clay’s ear kept him grounded in the vast forests of northern Maine even though his teammate was back in the compound, eyes on the satellite and real-time images coming from their contacts. “Copy that.”
Even though he could not see them, Tate and Walker would also have the rutted logging road in their sights. It only took a moment before he began to hear the rumbling sounds of a Hummer and see the lighted pinpricks of headlights in the distance. Grinning, he shifted ever so slightly, ready for the waiting and watching to be over.
He had chosen his position at the sharp curve in the winding road, knowing the vehicle would either need to slow greatly to make the turn or skid into the woods. Either was fine with him.
Shifting slightly, he waited patiently. Patience was truly a virtue to a man in his field. As a Ranger, he’d learned to not rush a mission, enjoying the careful planning while knowing it would assist in keeping his squad safe. As CIA Special Ops, those skills had served him well. And now, he was in no rush to allow his prey to discover his presence.
“I’ve got a visual,” he said, the Hummer rumbling toward him, now completely in his sights. The vehicle was equipped with upgrades, but he was surprised they had not opted for a full military Humvee bought on the black market. His prey must have been overly sure of their success. From the sound of the tires on the gravel, he knew they weren’t reinforced. A slow grin spread over his face. This’ll be fuckin’ easy.
The Hummer continued forward, moving steadily. But, just as he anticipated, it slowed at the curve. Taking aim with his long-range sniper rifle, Clay shot into both back tires, knowing that Tate would be taking out the front tires at the same time. The sound ricocheted throughout the night, music to his ears, knowing the hit was successful.
Again showing that the smugglers had no military training, the passenger threw open his door to see what had happened. Walker fired tear gas inside, and the two men stumbled out, making more noise than Clay could have imagined. Walker approached with his gun raised, and Clay dropped to the ground from his tree perch. Approaching from the back, he held his weapon on one while Tate and Walker secured the other.
The men were huge, and the tats on their knuckles and neck indicated their gang affiliation. Minotaurs… fuckin’ drug smugglers. The Minotaurs MC gang was affiliated with Hell’s Angels and plied the drug trade in Montréal.
As Tate and Walker had secured the second man, Clay opened the back door and peered inside. Camping equipment, tool chests, dirty boots, and extra clothing filled the space. “Looks like we’ve got a couple of campers,” he said, catching Walker’s grin.
The toolboxes were locked but he gained access with ease. Flipping open the lids, he spied plastic-wrapped bricks. Pulling out his knife, he slit the top of one, exposing compressed powder inside. Using the color strips for a quick initial test, he radioed, “Suspects secured. Got the package. Heroin.”
Tate called out, “FBI and International Drug Task Force are on their way. Their contacts were apprehended on the Canadian side.”
During the two-hour wait for the members of the task force to arrive, Clay, Tate, and Walker secured the vehicle and the heroin along with the prisoners. Finally, once law enforcement made their way to the obscure location, the government agents took over. Clay, Tate, and Walker finally walked away from the scene to their vehicle parked a mile away. By now, daylight streaked the dark sky with pale blue.
“Once again, we do the nasty and they take the glory.”
Clay looked over at Walker and shook his head. “That’s what we’re hired for.” His grin widened, and he added, “And what we get paid very well to do.”
Tate and Walker laughed as the three pulled off their equipment and stowed it in the back of their vehicle. With Tate behind the wheel, they made their way out of the thick Maine forests, glad when they finally felt their tires land on paved roads.
“It took the shipment so long to get there, I thought we were going to spend all night up in the trees,” Tate said. “At least Nora isn’t on duty today, so she’ll still be home when I get there.”