Running Dark by Joseph Heywood Read Free Book Online

enough to be affected by the confusion and lack of direction. If you volunteer, you’ll report to me directly until you can authenticate the veracity of the volunteer informant. If you develop doubts—and I mean the slightest tickle in your gut—we’re gonna drop this. But if you think it feels right, I want you to go undercover to observe and gather information. You will be there strictly for surveillance. You will not be enforcing laws. Your job will be to stay invisible until you can gather what we need and get the hell out. Capisce? ”
    â€œWhat about the Mosquito?”
    â€œOthers will cover your area for you, and you’re going to be out at a time when there won’t be much going on anyway. Are you in?”
    Service said, “Who’s my contact?”
    â€œIt’s good you volunteered,” Attalienti said with a grin. “You were asked for by name.” He had a twinkle in his eye. “The contact is a prominent personality in the Garden and is concerned about maintaining confidentiality. They’ll come to you.”
    â€œWhen?”
    â€œSoon, I’d think,” the acting captain said. “Come see me afterwards.”
    Service asked, “How will Lansing react to this?”
    Attalienti grinned, “Hell of a lot easier to ask for forgiveness than permission. I want to know who the rats are, who leads them, how they stage operations, their land-side tactics, meeting and gathering places—everything you can learn that will help us to understand who and what we’re dealing with. Observe and learn—do not act. Understood?”
    Service nodded, but he wasn’t really paying attention. Why had he been asked for by name, and why the hell did this feel more and more like Vietnam?

6
    SLIPPERY CREEK, DECEMBER 17, 1975
    . . . he wondered if having one leg halved discomfort, or doubled it . . .
    It had been two days since the meeting in Rock, two days of routine patrols in the Mosquito. Conservation Officer Grady Service arrived home at Slippery Creek the way he had departed the night before—running dark, no interior lights, no headlights. It had begun to snow the previous afternoon, and overnight the storm had left six fluffy inches on the ground.
    There were tracks leading up his road, and next to the trailer he saw a small dark pickup still sweating snow off its metal skin. The tracks told him it had arrived not long before him.
    He parked behind the truck and approached it cautiously. He had spent last night’s patrol alone, and the sudden appearance of another human being always put him on alert.
    The driver’s window slid down. “Officer Service?” He nodded. “We need to talk.” The voice came from a face cocooned in a parka hood pulled tight around a gaunt face.
    He nodded, opened the cabin door, and left it open as he shed his own parka and boots.
    â€œSorry to barge in on you like this,” the voice said from the doorway.
    â€œCoffee?” he asked, glancing over and seeing that she had no left leg and a metal crutch attached to her left wrist.
    â€œCould use it,” the woman said, closing the door. She took off her parka and unzipped her knee-high boot, which folded over. It had a feminine contour and a low heel.
    â€œFixings or black?” Service asked over his shoulder.
    â€œNatural,” she said.
    The woman sat silently while Service began to boil coffee. His father had always boiled coffee and though it was too strong for most people, it was what Service preferred.
    â€œAm I interrupting something?” she asked when he turned back to the table with cups and saucers that didn’t match.
    â€œNo.” He was used to being called on at all hours.
    He brought the pot to the table, filled two cups, and sat down. His feet felt cold from a night in boots and snow, and he wondered if having one leg halved discomfort, or doubled it, from winter cold.
    She grinned slyly. “One