Behind him, Deb was feebly saying, “Jenner! No, stop!”
But she didn’t understand: this man lived to kill and torture, and he’d butchered Marty, and he had come there to kill them, and Jenner had no choice but to kill him, and if you’re going to kill someone, you don’t stop killing them until they’re dead. Jenner knew this, Jenner had killed before: Jenner was a killer.
He let the head drop and stabbed the back of the man’s neck from the side, driving the blade home until it hit bone.
Jenner lifted his arm again, but Deb caught his elbow and dropped to her knees against him in the mud, crying, holding on to him, and murmuring, “Enough, please Jenner, enough, please stop it! He’s dead, Jenner, he’s dead…”
Jenner kneeled over Tony’s body, crying, feeling the horror and effort and fear roaring away inside him. And then he felt her head against his, felt her hand holding his swaying forehead, felt her breast on his back. His body shook as she held him, her arms pulling him from Tony’s body and into her.
He wiped the tears and the blood from his face, looked down at the body.
Tony wasn’t breathing. Jenner shook Deb’s arm off, reached out, felt for a pulse. There was none.
Jenner turned to her and said, “Go back inside the shed, Deb. Stay dry, okay? I’ll deal with him.”
She pulled herself to her feet, wincing. She was looking at him differently now, but Jenner barely saw her at all.
CHAPTER 116
Jenner needed to get rid of the body, get it out of sight. Get it out of his sight.
It was darker now, between the rain and the clouds that blacked out the setting sun; they were hidden from the farmhouse by the shed.
Tony had been a big man in life; in death he was massive. Jenner struggled to drag him across the muddy grass. He pulled the corpse down the slope to the short boat ramp; the rain flowing down the ramp made it easier, but the man’s clothes dragged on the rough concrete, and it took all Jenner’s strength to get the body down to the water.
And then Jenner was knee-deep in the brackish water, and the water supported Tony, and it got easier, and Tony floated a bit as Jenner pulled him out deeper, Jenner’s feet sinking into the mud, slimy and membranous and rooty, until he was almost waist-deep in the water, and Tony was floating up against him as if he were a drowning man and Jenner the lifeguard saving him. Then Jenner let him go, pushed him out into the dark mangrove river; the body drifted forward but quickly sank under the rain-splashed surface.
And Jenner had killed the man who had killed his friend.
CHAPTER 117
In the dull light in the shed, Deb was sitting up, her head leaning back against the bench, her arm across her belly. She’d stopped crying. When Jenner came over to her, she clutched herself with both arms, as if cold, and looked up at him. When he leaned over her, she seemed to pull away.
Jenner understood.
She said, “What did you do with his body?”
“I put him in the water. We’re pretty close to the sea here, I think—the farm ends in a mangrove swamp.”
Deb nodded dully. “I’m a park ranger, Jenner—I know how the farm ends.”
She looked him up and down. “The blood’s gone.”
“I had to wade him out to make sure he was deep enough.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yes. He was too surprised to really hit me—all he did was try to defend himself.”
Deb was crying again. “I went to kindergarten with Tom Nash.”
“I know he was your friend.” He sat next to her, back against the bench. “I don’t know why they killed him. I think maybe he refused to kill us.”
“You…you think he did?”
“I don’t know. But maybe.”
He sat back and watched her cry.
“We have to go, Deb. We’ll take a boat, make our way down the channel to the sea.”
“They’ll see us.” She looked exhausted, pale and weak.
“Not if we’re quiet. Not if they’re busy. Not if it’s dark.”
“Then they’ll hear us.”
Jenner stood and went to the window to check the farmhouse. The men were still there.
Deb said, “If it’s dark, we’ll get caught in the mangroves. We need to think this through. Have you ever even driven an airboat?”
He murmured, “No.”
There was movement up on the porch. One of the men stood quickly as a ground-floor window swung open. A small girl climbed through it and ran past the men, hands clamped over her ears. She ran to the Volvo, climbed inside, and slammed the door shut.
Lucy Craine.
Christ.
The dome light inside the car stayed on for about thirty seconds. The men on the porch were all standing now, staring at her as she clambered around the passenger compartment; Jenner realized she was locking all the doors.
CHAPTER 118
They had to get moving. Now.
Brodie would realize he hadn’t heard from Tony and come looking for him. More men would come for them soon.
Jenner felt Deb’s pulse; a little faster than the last time he’d checked. Her bleeding might have slowed, but she was clearly washed out from blood loss and stress. He would help her move.
And Lucy Craine—what could Jenner do for her? The Volvo was in the driveway, so her grandfather had to be in the farmhouse.
Shit.
First things first. They wouldn’t hurt Lucy—she was with Craine—but they would kill him and Deb.
Deb first, then Lucy.
Jenner cracked the door and peered out. He saw no one.
He slipped out into the rain, crouching as he neared the dock. Two boats—a shallow draft Go-Devil swamp boat with a large outboard motor, and a big airboat—were tied to the dock; the airboat was half up on the grass bank.
If he took either, he’d be caught. By the time he got the outboard running, the men would sprint down the slope and across the field. Then they’d just hop in the airboat and hunt them down. Besides, what if the outboard wasn’t even gassed, or if he couldn’t start it?
And, even beyond the deafening roar of its huge aircraft engine, the airboat was a complete nonstarter—it was controlled with a stick, like a World War I fighter plane, and Jenner had no clue how to pilot it.
Jenner saw a large green canoe lying facedown alongside the boat shed, and a canary-yellow kayak next to it. The deep grass around the canoe gave it a neglected air, but it could hold two people, whereas the slender kayak was built for one.
The canoe, then. There would be risk—it could be seen from the farmhouse porch—but he didn’t have any choice. He’d be paddling alone, so it would be slow, too, but it would be silent.
He went back in, told Deb the plan. She listened and, when he’d finished, nodded somberly.
“I’ll bring the canoe down to the water now, then come back for you, okay?”
“Be careful, Jenner.”
He smiled and nodded, and went out into the dark and the rain.
CHAPTER 119
Brodie watched Chip Craine, shirt untucked, face ruddy and glistening with sweat, plead with his granddaughter in the Volvo. He’d been in there five minutes; Brodie, disgusted by the whole thing, had called dinner, and the men were chowing down in Bunkhouse B.
What could that fucker possibly say to her? The girl knew what she’d heard, would’ve recognized the whimpering of another little girl.
But Craine had been working on Lucy her entire life, and Brodie couldn’t comprehend the isolation and vulnerability Craine had engineered. A few minutes later, Chip led the sobbing child from the car, holding her little hand in his. Despite the rain, they walked to the farmhouse slowly.
As they passed Brodie, Craine gave the foreman a vulpine smile, teeth bared in triumph. He’d clearly won—or was about to win—a major victory, to move on to a new stage in his relationship with his granddaughter.
It made Brodie’s skin crawl. He watched the door close behind Craine, and lingered on
the deck. He thought about ringing the bell and telling Craine about the mess in the boat shed, knock the wind out of his sails, maybe buy the little girl a few more days of innocence. But his instructions were clear—completely hands-off with Craine. And even he didn’t cross the people who’d made the rules.
Brodie told himself that, had it been anyone else, he’d have gone in there and killed them. This was certainly true, but it had never occurred to him to question his role in supplying Craine with girls. And even if it were pointed out to him, he’d have said it was Bentas who arranged the girls for Craine, that the girls were older than Lucy, got paid for what happened in the basement, and usually came to the farm with the consent of their guardians. Besides, they were Mexican.
CHAPTER 120
From the shadows along the shed, Jenner watched Craine take Lucy into the house. Good: he didn’t like the idea of the girl being out there among those scumbags. At least she’d be safe with Craine.
He crept to the canoe; it was wooden, and much heavier than he’d expected. Or maybe it was because of the exposure—the canoe was visible from the porch, and he couldn’t move it without risking being seen by someone at the farmhouse. If anyone upstairs was watching, he’d be spotted instantly.
He’d just have to hope that the rain and the gathering dark hid him.
Jenner knelt up and slowly tipped the canoe sideways, supporting it with his arms, straining to keep it from rolling and banging as the bow hit the ground. There was an audible thump; Jenner lay alongside it, sprawled on his stomach, staring up at the porch, looking for motion. He saw nothing.
Indeed, he couldn’t see anyone on the porch—where were they? Were they coming for Deb and him right now?
He crawled quickly toward the water, then turned to drag the canoe. It slid slowly forward, inching toward the ramp. When the bottom of the canoe hit the concrete, the noise grew louder, a dull, sawing scrape that sounded to Jenner like it would be audible in Miami. But there was still no motion up at the farmhouse.
He squatted, lifted the bow, and walked backward to the water supporting it. This method was quieter, but he was now completely in the open, and if anyone was sitting in the shadows of the porch, he was a dead man.
When the canoe was fully in the water, Jenner tied the rope to a cleat on the dock and left the bow of the canoe to float.
Then he went to get Deb.
CHAPTER 121
The hierarchy at the farm was preserved at dinnertime as strictly as if they were aboard the Titanic. Field hands ate in Bunkhouse B, the dormitory bunkhouse, while Brodie’s core team ate in the farmhouse. Tonight, with Craine at the farm, Brodie’s crew were eating on the porch; the meth cooks rarely left Bunkhouse A during a cook cycle.
Brodie shoved his plate of chicken aside—too fucking spicy, even without his ulcer. His crew was chatty tonight—they were always that way near a pay weekend. Bentas was cracking jokes, Smith was fake-laughing in response, and Tarver was whining.
Brodie hadn’t told them they were closing the operation down—they didn’t need to know yet. And not all of them would be going on to the next location.
His cell buzzed in his lap. Brodie pushed away from the table and went outside. The rain had eased; in the gloom, a low shroud of pale mist hung over the fields, floating out over the road and down past the shed to the water.
“You’re being raided. You’ve got maybe twenty, thirty minutes.”
“Thanks for the heads-up. Who is it? How many?”
“Locals, Port Fontaine law enforcement. Maybe six, seven, led by Bartley—you were right about him. They’ll be SWAT; they’ll be wearing body armor.”
“That’s not a problem,” Brodie said.
“Good. Blow what you can, then get out.”
“Okay.”
“If you can clean up and get out without engaging them, do it; but we don’t think you’ll have time. We figure Bartley will go for the money, and he’ll go after you—he can’t let you survive. He’s leading this—take him out first.”
“Of course.”
“Are you prepared for an assault? Our information is that the county doesn’t have a tactical vehicle.”
“We’re all set.”
“Good. Where are we with the cook-up?”
“Bad. We’d need another day at least.”
“Forget it. We’ve heard the feds are on their way, too. They’re mobilizing in Miami, so you have some time there. Just blow it and get out. No witnesses, no one gets taken, okay?”
“Okay.”
Brodie’s bags were packed, sitting in the trunk of his car. He had cash stashed in a storage locker in Port Fontaine, hidden in neatly packed cardboard boxes filled with books, the boxes marked LIBRARY in Magic Marker. He’d paid to have the boxes shipped to him in Costa Rica. He was clean and ready to go.
In front of the far bunkhouse, several field hands sat drinking beer. One had a guitar, and was singing a narcocorrido, a ballad about the life of the drug trafficker. Brodie grinned; this night would give musicians something to sing about for years.
CHAPTER 122
Bartley finished strapping on his body armor standing inside the open door of the impounded black Expedition. He pulled his lucky Saint Christopher out of his shirt, kissed it, then carefully tucked the saint down inside the Kevlar vest.
He walked back to the black Escalade parked on the bridge, and shook each man’s hand in turn. The six officers—tanned, crew-cut young men in camo pants, khaki T-shirts, and modular bulletproof vests—knew the mission was exceptional. When he’d called them up, Bartley had explained that neither the captain nor the lieutenant had signed off on this: they were on their own here.
They stood by the bridge railing, looking over the low mangrove forest to the farm beyond, barely visible in the distance. The target was the farmhouse and two bunkhouses at the top of a low hill built on mud dug from the swamp to create the river. The approach would be over open ground, slightly uphill, with small outbuildings to provide cover during the attack; the approach from the north, across freshly plowed fields, was too dangerous, because it was longer and offered absolutely no cover.
Bartley gathered them into a circle around him. He looked at them gravely, then began.
“This is the real deal, people. You’ve trained for this, and now it’s here. Forget serving warrants, forget bank robberies—that’s penny ante stuff. We’re moving on a well-armed force, approaching a fortified, possibly booby-trapped stronghold uphill over open ground. Resistance may be strong; we’re likely to encounter automatic weapons fire. Cover will be minimal. This will be a stealth operation.
“The target is a meth lab located on a farm belonging to one of this city’s richest citizens. This man has deep ties in the community, so our chances of getting a no-knock warrant through the usual channels are pretty much zip.
“This is unacceptable. I can now tell you that this target must be penetrated emergently for two reasons: first, we have established that the individuals responsible for the murder yesterday of Detective David Rudge are presently on site. Second…” He paused and looked grimly around the circle.
“This afternoon, these same individuals took fellow DCSO deputy Tom Nash. I was able to communicate with Deputy Nash by cell phone; he is being held by these men, and is unable to move. He has informed me that his situation is becoming increasingly untenable, and asked that I gather the team and respond ASAP.”
He looked around. “I knew when I put out the alert that you’d show, and show quick. I’m proud to see just how right I was. I need you to understand that this is a commando action and, as such, it is not officially sanctioned. Anyone who wants to drop out should just do so; there will be no penalty, no retribution.”
He looked around. No one moved, no one spoke.
“However, if you’re coming with us, well…it’s time to get the fucking show on the fucking road…”
He held up a fist. “And let me make one last thing very clear: every worker on that farm
is involved in the manufacture of pharmaceutical-grade speed. Every one of them will kill you if he sees you coming. Gentlemen, this mission is shoot-to-kill. Understand me when I tell you this: your goal is to kill these drug dealers before they kill you…”
CHAPTER 123
Brodie was relaxed. He’d been planning for this moment for some time. He’d spent the last fifteen minutes making sure he was all set. He’d spoken quietly with Smith and Bentas, and told Tarver to round up the Mexicans and move them all into Bunkhouse B and stay there with them. There was to be no argument: if they resisted, even slightly, kill one to let the others know he was serious.
It went like clockwork: less than five minutes later, he heard the sharp crack of a pistol shot from somewhere in the bunkhouses—Tarver taking care of business. Where had Tony got to?
At every operation Brodie conducted, he had a five-minute exit strategy—a simple scorched-earth policy, involving explosive, a few blasting caps, a spool or two of det cord, and the remote detonator box. Which he needed to get from the farmhouse.
He rang the bell. Craine opened the door; he appeared surprised and unhappy to find Brodie standing there.
“Mr. Craine, sorry to bother you, but we have a problem.” Leaning slightly to his right, Brodie saw the ghostly little girl sitting at the dinner table.
“What’s that, Brodie?”
“Your pal Nash brought in the medical examiner and a female park ranger.”
“What?”
“He’s shot the ranger. He’s got them locked up down in the boat shed.”
“My God! He shot the ranger?” Craine looked like it was him who’d been shot.
A Hard Death Page 32