by Karen Young
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
RICK sTREETER STARED in disbelief. “You can’t be serious, Jake! The DEA’s got nearly two years invested in this operation. We’re ready to take Ramirez and his whole organization down and you say cancel it?”
The fear that had tied Jake’s stomach in a knot suddenly exploded in fury. “I don’t care about Ramirez or his organization, Rick. Both my sons are hostages to those sleazes out there in the swamp, and I’m going after them. You know as well as I do that there’s going to be enough firepower to start another war when you come down on Ramirez. I don’t want my sons caught in it.”
“I sympathize with your position, Jake, but—”
“No offense, Rick, but your sympathy doesn’t mean much when it comes to my sons’ lives. Now you can work with me on this if you want to, but this is my county, and the people in it take precedence over any scum that might be hiding in the swamps.”
“I don’t want to pull rank on you, Jake.”
“Then don’t, Rick. I’m speaking as the ranking law-enforcement officer in Kinard County with a mandate from the public to uphold order, to protect and serve as I see fit. I know the agency has a lot invested in this bust. I don’t want to see it scrapped any more than you do, but you’ll have to let me get my sons out of Cross Corners before you go in there. That’s just the way it is.”
Rick grimaced. “Jake…”
Jake knew he’d won. He drew in an unsteady breath. It had been close for a minute. No telling how many DEA dollars were tied up in the Cross Corners bust. He felt for Rick. As a former agency man himself, he understood too well what it would mean if Ramirez was tipped off.
Thank goodness Rick Streeter was his friend.
“I’M COMING WITH YOU.”
In the act of strapping on his service revolver, Jake paused to stare at the ceiling. “Rachel, this is not the time for one of your lectures on chauvinism. Cross Corners is no place for you. These people are vicious. They have no respect for the law or lawmen, and even less for civilians. Once they realize the threat to their organization, they’ll open up with all the firepower they’ve got. And they’ve got plenty.”
“I didn’t mean that I wanted to storm the grounds with you, Jake,” Rachel said patiently. “But I don’t want to sit at home and wait, either.” She knew no one was willing to allow her within miles of Cross Corners; Jake because he feared for her safety, and Rick Streeter because any civilian added a complication he didn’t need.
“Please, Jake.” At her whispered plea, he reluctantly faced her.
“Be reasonable, Rachel. Rick is already sticking his neck out by holding off long enough for me to find out if the boys are anywhere near Ramirez’s compound. This is the only way.”
“Uh, Sheriff…”
“What is it, Todd?”
“You don’t have any idea where Mike and Scotty are, do you?”
“No. I’m going in to try to locate them.” His mouth was a thin line as he clamped his hat on his head. “If they’re there, I’ll find them. And when I find them, I’ll bring them out.”
Todd shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other. “Well, I was just thinkin’…”
“What?” Jake eyed him sharply.
“I know my way around the Biggs place pretty good. Maybe I could go in ahead of you and sorta check it out.”
Jake gave him a quick smile. “Thanks, Todd, but it’s just too risky.”
“I know where you’re comin’ from, Sheriff, but if they should see me, they probably wouldn’t make a big deal over it. They know me. I don’t think they’d freak over a surprise visit from me like they would if they spotted you.” He shrugged as though apologizing for his relatives. “’Scuse me, sir, but they don’t exactly cotton to strangers, especially the law. If they spot you, you’re gonna be in big trouble.”
“Jake—” Rachel gave him a distressed look.
“It’ll be all right, Rachel. I hope it hasn’t come to the point where I have to resort to using a teenage boy to do my job.” His words were almost lost in a loud crack of thunder. He swept up a rain poncho and urged them both ahead of him through his office door.
Spotting him, Frank Cordoba left the front desk with a cup of coffee in his hand. “Weather looks rotten, Jake.”
Jake grunted, shrugging into the poncho. The storm might be an advantage. Heavy rain made visibility a problem, but it worked two ways. Biggs couldn’t see well, either. “Where’s Rick?”
“I was just about to come into your office and—”
“They didn’t leave, did they?”
“Uh-uh.” Frank finished his coffee and, ignoring the glare of the sergeant on duty, set the mug on the counter. “They’re out back with their vehicles set on ready. You know these Fed types. After twenty months of planning, they’re smelling blood. I just hope Rick doesn’t let the thought of that promotion prod him into doing something big and bad before we can get to your boys.”
“We?” Jake raised an eyebrow.
Frank shrugged. “You don’t think you’re going into that garbage dump without me, do you, boss?”
Jake opened his mouth, but Rachel spoke before he could. “Thanks, Frank.”
Frank sent Rachel a quick grin. “But just in case,” he said to Jake, “I’ve assigned a cruiser to keep Streeter and his crew under surveillance until we go in. Once we give the all clear, they can do whatever their eager little government-issue hearts desire.”
Shaking his head, Jake ushered them all toward the doors ahead of him. Frank’s distrust of the Miami task force was as strong as ever. Still, to be on the safe side, Jake had no desire to pull the cruiser assigned to keep tabs on Rick’s group. If they jumped the gun before he had his hands on his sons, it could spell disaster. Stepping out into the rain, he waited for Rachel to put up her umbrella. Then, hunching his shoulders, he hurried his wife and Todd toward Rachel’s car. There was no room in his life for any more disaster.
FOLLOWING BEHIND JAKE, Rachel slowed and signaled for a left turn at the first intersection. As she watched, the red taillights on his car drew rapidly away, finally disappearing down the boulevard in the rainy twilight.
“I can’t thank you enough for coming forward like this, Todd. Jake and I will never forget it.”
Beside her, Todd ducked his head. “It’s okay. I just wish I’da put it all together before now.”
She gave him a smile. “Let’s just be thankful you did at all. Your help just might save them both.”
Realizing she’d embarrassed him, she kept the rest of her thoughts to herself. After Scotty and Michael were found—and they would be, she told herself fiercely—there would be time enough to explore the events that had led to this night. If Michael hadn’t come, if he hadn’t been who he was, if he hadn’t befriended Todd and if he hadn’t felt compelled to leave… So many ifs. So many fateful happenings. It was enough to humble her, to make her swear never to lose sight of what was really important—people, family, children, love, simple human kindness.
For a few minutes, the swish of the wiper blades was the only sound in the car. Rachel was vaguely aware of Todd’s restlessness. He jiggled one knee nervously. His hands rubbed the tops of his thighs. Shifting position, he looked out the side window of the car as though weighing something he wanted to say.
“Is something on your mind, Todd?”
“Ah, you know that road that leads out to my cousin’s place, Miss Rachel?”
She took her eyes off the road and shot him a quick look. “It’s the only access, isn’t it?”
“Not exactly. There’s another way. It’s pretty bad, potholes and stuff. It’s a shell road, and no one uses it much since they resurfaced the spur off Highway 6. I was just thinkin’…”
“We’d better not take any chances like that, Todd. As Jake pointed out, these are dangerous people. If they’ve kidnapped Scotty and are holding Michael, who knows what they might do if they feel they don’t have much more to lose.”
“I guess you’re rig
ht. It was a dumb idea.”
“No, not a dumb idea, Todd. It’s just that we should leave this up to people who are trained to deal with these situations. Law-enforcement types.”
“I guess.”
There was more silence. The rain slackened and Rachel turned the wipers to intermittent. “Where exactly is this road, Todd?”
He gave her a quick grin. “Take a left at the next stop sign.”
JAKE GUESSED that Rick Streeter was probably cursing the weather. Four inches of rain had fallen in as many hours. It was just past dark and the rain had finally stopped. Water level in the swamp was rising. As Jake and Frank lifted the small pirogue off the top of the car, Jake could see the dark shallows lapping right up to the edge of the road. He waited while Frank Cordoba climbed into the small boat, a design originally used by Louisiana Creoles to navigate shallow swamp waters. The pirogue had it all over the motorized swamp buggies and flat-bottomed rigs Streeter’s men would be using. The task force numbered a couple of dozen, and bigger craft were necessary. Luckily, one little pirogue would take Jake and Frank right up to Biggs’s doorstep quickly and silently.
“Okay, climb in.”
From about ten feet away, Frank’s low-pitched voice barely reached him. Stepping into water that reached his knees, Jake disregarded the mud and wet and whatever life-forms lurked beneath the swamp waters and got in the pirogue. Both he and Frank Cordoba had fished and hunted in the swamp. Both knew the folly of underestimating it. The still waters and ancient cypress sentinels knew secrets that were the stuff of legends.
Using the oar, Jake pushed hard away from the marshy edge of the road. All his thoughts were fixed on his sons and the problems he might encounter. He swallowed a primitive surge of father love mixed with grim resolution as they slipped silently through water black as the moonless sky. He was close. At last, he was close. Looking around at the dark, eerie landscape, he thought of Rachel’s dream. But instead of being fearful or uneasy, he felt confident.
Hold on, boys. I’m coming.
They sensed Ramirez’s compound before they saw it. Hoping to locate the main base, Jake had chosen to veer in a northerly direction from the access road, assuming that Ramirez was not fool enough to construct a holding area for millions of dollars’ worth of drugs where anybody might drive up. Situating it where the only access was by boat made more sense. A few more strokes propelled them through a maze of cypress knees and thick, low-growing vegetation. Then, sure enough, there it was.
There was little light. Another reasonable precaution, Jake noted. Air surveillance would have quickly revealed a well-lit, newly fenced warehouse compound in the middle of the swamp.
At another time, both he and Frank might have felt keen interest in the holdings of a world-class drug cartel, but not tonight. Signaling to Frank, Jake indicated that they should move on. According to Todd, Willard Biggs lived somewhere nearby.
Knowing how sound carried on water, Jake and Frank were silent as they steered the pirogue through the rain-soaked marsh, always careful to keep to the left of the vicinity of the compound. Five minutes later, they heard country music. Nodding to Frank, Jake propelled the pirogue in that direction. Suddenly, through a stand of cypress trees, they saw the lighted windows of a house. Stopping, both studied the run-down dwelling and outbuildings. The house itself was constructed on stilts rising a good eight feet off the ground. The music blared from a room that was obviously the kitchen. Several people moved around inside.
“Kids,” Frank growled softly. The presence of children was a complication neither lawman liked. If it came to the point where they’d have to use their guns, they didn’t want to hurt a child.
Jake’s heart was pounding. He studied everybody he could see through the windows. After a minute, he decided there were probably only two children. One was a little girl with yellow hair, no older than Scotty. The other was a dark-haired boy who looked to be about ten. There was no sign of Michael or Scotty.
“Couple of outbuildings,” Frank observed, keeping his tone almost inaudible. “We ought to check them out first. They’ll be easier than the house.”
Jake nodded. With half a dozen people in the house, they were going to have their work cut out trying to check every room without being spotted. Seeing inside the raised house was even more of a problem. He didn’t want to think about the consequences if his sons were in the house and closely watched. With any luck, the boys would be in a shed outside or confined somewhere in a bedroom.
A distant flicker of lightning illuminated two sheds at the rear of the main dwelling. Both were too close for comfort, Jake thought with a swift look at the house. Through the curtainless windows, he easily recognized Willard Biggs sitting at a table with four other men. All were studying cards held in their hands. Beer cans, ashtrays and junk food littered the tabletop.
“Poker,” Jake muttered.
Frank grunted in reply.
They propelled the pirogue into the cover of a stand of trees and silently climbed out. From where they stood, they heard the mix of conversation and an occasional burst of laughter, but it was impossible to hear anything clearly. As they watched, the men tossed their cards down and Biggs hauled in the pot. Another immediately began shuffling for a new hand.
Jake touched Frank, motioning toward the first shed to be inspected.
Frank nodded. “Let’s do it.”
They started with the shed farthest from the house. It had no windows, but the wood planks used for walls had sizable cracks. Peering through, they could see nothing but the outline of tools and machinery. Jake had a small penlight with him, but he was afraid to use it. The shed appeared to be used for storage. To make sure, he tried the door. It opened at a touch, but he froze when the rusty hinges squeaked.
“Relax,” Frank breathed. “They can’t hear thunder above that music.”
After a tense ten seconds, Jake agreed. The radio was sitting in the open window with the volume so loud that it muffled anything short of an explosion. Still, not willing to chance another squeak, Jake pushed a shovel handle against the door to hold it where it stood, after making sure the shed was empty.
The other shed was even closer to the house and appeared to be in better shape. It also had no windows, and the boards were tight. Not even driving rain could penetrate the walls.
“Smokehouse,” Frank ventured softly.
Jake agreed, recognizing the smoky, charcoal smell. Biggs probably hunted and smoked the game he killed in the shed. He stood for a moment in silent frustration. The door faced the back of the house, and the light from the window in the kitchen fell directly on it, so he couldn’t try it. How in hell was he going to get a look inside? He couldn’t call out or knock on the walls.
“We’re going to have to pry a board loose in the back,” he told Frank. “I saw a crowbar in the other shed.”
“Yeah. I’ll get it.” Moving with surprising stealth for his size, Frank melted into the darkness.
Left alone, Jake stood for a moment, his head bent and his hand against the wall of the shed. That was when he felt it. Movement of some kind. Then he heard a dull clink. With his heart pounding in his chest, he frowned, trying to place the sound.
Frank materialized by his side and extended the crowbar. In his other hand, he held an iron rod of some kind. Between the two, they should be able to pry a board loose.
“Something or someone’s inside,” he told Frank, barely moving his lips. It was all he could do not to call out to his sons. Was it Michael? Or Scotty? Or both? Maybe it was a chained dog. Biggs was the type to chain an animal in a dark shed. But if it were an animal of some kind, wouldn’t it raise an alarm?
Using his fingers, he found a space between two boards just big enough to wedge in the flat side of the crowbar. He put his weight on the lever and easily pried the board away from the two-by-four framing.
He and Frank exchanged a triumphant look. Inside, the shed was pitch black. Nothing for it but to use the penlight, if only for
a second or two. Luckily they were on the back side of the shed, completely blocked from the view of the poker players.
He pulled the small light out and flashed it. One fraction of a second was all it took to see both his sons huddled against the wall of the filthy smokehouse.
“Keep quiet, boys,” he said quickly, softly, closing his mind against the rush of emotion that threatened to knock him to his knees. Joy and relief and pain and outrage all swirled together as Jake took in the sight of his sons. Michael blinked in confusion and reached instinctively for the smaller, sleepy Scotty, who burrowed into his older brother’s shirtfront with a whimper.
Jake heard the dull clink again, but in the dark he missed its significance. He flashed the penlight again, and what he saw sent rage, white-hot and fierce, roaring through him with the force of a freight train.
His sons were chained like animals.
“Take it easy, Jake.” Frank’s voice cut through the red tide of fury inside Jake’s head. With his bare fingers, Jake fumbled blindly at a second board. Frank moved in close, working the iron bar between the planks. “Here, let me get in position and then you use the crowbar.”
“They’re alive!” Jake muttered, needing to affirm the miracle, to keep the rest of the horror at bay.
There still wasn’t enough space for Jake to wedge his hundred and eighty pounds through. He was nearly wild to touch his sons, to sweep them up and hold them so tight that nothing would ever threaten them again. Tossing the crowbar aside, he ripped away the third board with his bare hands.
At that exact moment, the music ceased. The sound of the nails pulling through the wood was like a shriek in the night. From the house, there was a second or two of charged silence, then a door opened and a dog began barking. Willard Biggs walked out onto the porch and looked into the yard. “Who’s out there?”