Killing Game (Veritas Book 2) Read Online Free PDF Page B

someday.”
    So you all keep telling me .
    “We have no one else we can trust,” she added. “It has to be you.”
    “Why not Preston? He knows what he’s doing.”
    “He’s not a Marine.”
    Which meant Mike thought those skills would be needed. Now Cait really had no choice. “Okay, I’ll do it. But just this once.”
    “Thank you,” Kia said, not bothering to hide her relief. “I’ll call Preston and explain the situation. You met him before?”
    “No, I haven’t.”
    “Oh, okay. He only comes along when the tours are full. Where are you now?”
    “I’m at the boat dock.”
    “After I give him the news, I’ll send Pres down to talk to you. Don’t be surprised if he’s way pissed. Please be very careful,” Kia added.
    Cait ended the call, her hands shaking. She took a series of calming breaths, which failed.
    I can’t do this. I can’t do this. I can’t do this . But she had no choice. She owed Mike her life. Six days. Just six days . Then Cait was going off grid for a long time. Maybe she’d never come back.
    *~*~*
    Brannon had assumed his role with ease. He’d claimed to work in a lawyer’s office—that part was easy as his dad was an attorney, so he knew the lingo—and that he was from Florida. Also the truth. It was easier to keep track of your cover story if part of it was based on reality. If someone went digging, they would find information that matched what he’d told them, though his work with Veritas would not be public knowledge.
    The others in the group were a mixed lot: an Atlanta real estate secretary named Susan Townsend; a teenaged couple, James Gray and Patti Irwin; Bill Adams, an author; and Keith Rockwell, a professional photographer.
    Not one of them struck his “you don’t feel real” meter. Which meant they were what they claimed, or someone was as adept at being undercover as he was. None of them had seen the tour operator, though it was nearing noon. That had provoked some concern.
    The door to the office opened and a man in his mid-forties exited. Sanjay’s research bio pegged this guy as Preston Taylor, the assistant guide. Instead of greeting them, he plowed right through the group and then down the stairs. Looking around, he spied a woman near the dock and set off to intersect her.
    “Is that our guide?” Rockwell asked.
    “No, I think he’s the assistant,” the author replied. “I saw his picture on their website.”
    When Preston intercepted the woman, he gestured animatedly. She appeared about Brannon’s age, probably five foot eight or so. She obviously worked out, the subtle curve of her arms showing muscles, and her tan indicated she was not a cube dweller. Her ash-blond hair was caught up in a ponytail and threaded through the back of a baseball cap. He guessed it would reach just past her shoulders if unbound. She wore khaki green, both T-shirt and pants. The edge of a Blackwork tattoo peeked out from the right sleeve of the shirt. But it was her boots that made him pause; they were military issue, her pants properly tucked and bloused. He’d done the same in the Rangers, mostly to keep out the sand flies. In fact, his were the same today.
    Brannon checked her over again, more critically this time. The woman’s posture was ramrod straight; the way she balanced her weight, telling. He’d bet a month’s pay she was either on leave, or ex-military. Was she part of Ellers’s team, his contact to guide him to the militia leader? From the woman’s expression, he could tell she was growing irritated with Preston, who continued to wave his arms around. Unfortunately, they were far enough away that Brannon couldn’t hear them.
    Time to change that . He purposefully walked down to join the pair, putting on a pleasant smile. As he drew near, he called out, “Hi. I’m Brannon Hardegree. Are you guys with the tour?”
    Two sets of eyes swung toward him. Hers were dark brown with amber and gold flecks. The assistant frowned at the interruption, but the