They were all listening intently, despite their hurry.
Carson asked him, “What about tonight? Where are they all tonight, the rest of them?”
“Tonight they’re going up to Richmond to kill somebody.”
“Who?” asked Carson. “Didn’t the dead guy say something like ‘what happened with Swarsky’?”
“Yeah, somebody named Swarsky, something like that,” answered Brad.
“Swarovski.” said Ranya, “There’s a writer named Swarovski; he writes for Gun World, and he writes books.”
“It’s probably Leo Swarovski,” said Mosby. Sure, it’s got to be him, he’s a Virginian. I think he lives around Richmond.”
Ranya said, “I’ve met him at gun shows; he autographed books for my father. We always had some of his books for sale at our store.”
“And they’ve gone up to Richmond to just kill him? Damn! Who the hell are these guys?” asked Carson.
Brad said, “They call themselves the ‘stew team’, but that piece of shit on the floor, he’s in the BATF. I know him.”
Carson crouched down over the blonde crew-cut man on the floor, who was lying quietly with his forehead against the cement. He jammed the end of his Thompson’s suppressor against the man’s ear, shoved his head to one side, and said “Hello, George, it’s great to see you again. We’re going to go for a little ride now.” He jingled Hammet’s keys with his left hand. “That’s your red Cherokee outside, right?”
41
Under Phil Carson’s guidance they adapted their exfiltration plan on the fly. The dead man with the knee brace was carried out and dumped into the open trunk of the silver Mercedes. Burgess Edmonds was placed into the back seat of his own car, seated between the two off-duty Suffolk cops. The Bedford brothers climbed into the front of the Mercedes, with Harry driving. Phil Carson drove the red Cherokee; the rest of the assault squad and George Hammet went with him. Tom Bedford got out of the Mercedes when they reached his parked Buick station wagon, in order to drive it away. The three vehicles then pushed through the dripping branches using their parking lights to see the way.
When they were all back at the staging point in the clearing near South River Road, they shed their borrowed kevlar raid vests and other police equipment, and dropped them into the back of Carson’s truck. Archie and Edith peeled the duct tape off of their truck’s running lights, and went home via a circuitous route.
Mosby and Santander drove Carson’s truck back to the Wagon Wheel, and transferred all of the police department gear back to Mosby’s white Expedition. They left Carson’s truck there, and returned to Suffolk.
The Bedford Brothers said they knew a semi-retired doctor over in Windsor, in Isle of Wight County, who could look after Burgess Edmonds, and temporarily hide him out. They also agreed to dispose of his Mercedes; it was far too hot to risk selling in one piece, but chopped down for parts in their junkyard’s garage it was worth even more anyway. The disposal of Clay Garfield’s body was a trivial matter for the old bootleggers, and Phil Carson didn’t even inquire about the details.
It had stopped raining but the roads were still wet, reflecting the occasional rural intersection’s flashing yellow lights. Phil Carson was driving the red Jeep Cherokee, staying right at the speed limits while chain smoking Marlboro’s with his window cracked open. He didn’t ask for permission to smoke, and nobody complained.
Victor Sorrento sat across from him, going through the files and notebooks he had taken out of George Hammet’s briefcase, which they had found on the front passenger seat. Brad and Ranya snuggled together in the back seat, delirious with joy to be free and reunited. George Hammet, “George the Fed,” was all the way in the back in the cargo space on the floor. He was handcuffed, hog-tied, and gagged, with his head inside of the canvas sack which Ranya had pulled off of Brad on the torture table.
“Bingo! I got it…here it is,” Sorrento told Carson. The Jeep’s ceiling reading lamp cast a pool of light onto the open file on his lap. “Leo Swarovski. Here’s his address and his phone numbers. It’s got his home number, his unlisted second line, his cell phone, his wife’s cell phone, his email, his pager number, everything.”
“Good, we’ll give him a call in a few minutes,” said Carson. “It’s still early. The BATF likes to raid later in the morning. Hopefully, he’ll have a chance to get away.”
“Or at least to get ready for them, like that Green Beret up in Northern Virginia,” replied Sorrento.
“But he didn’t get away,” said Carson.
“That’s true, but he sure made the feds pay a heavy price. And that bridge he blew up in DC is still wrecked.”
Ranya said, “At least he got to take some of them with him. That’s more than my father got to do.”
“Who are these guys anyway?” asked Sorrento. He was studying Hammet’s ATF credentials and other identification from his wallet. “This says George Hammet’s the assistant special agent in charge for the Norfolk ATF, but that operation at the airfield, that sure didn’t look like any official ATF operation.”
“Stew team,” said Brad. “Now what the hell the ‘stew team’ is, I have no idea.”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Carson, who then exhaled a stream of smoke out of his window. “We’ll get a chance to ask George real soon. He’ll tell us all about it.”
Sorrento said, “Well, whoever they work for, they’re the real live American Gestapo.”
“Sure looks that way,” replied Carson.
“What are you planning to do about it?” asked Sorrento. “I mean, I’d really, seriously like to kill those pricks… The one you wasted, he was just a nice start.”
“We’ll talk about it later,” said Carson.
“God only knows what my wife must think…I’ve never just not shown up before.”
“Don’t worry, Victor, you’ll work it out; you haven’t even been gone twenty-four hours.”
“You saved my life, you saved all of our lives, all three of us. I mean, if Edmonds makes it. So I mean, I’m really thankful…”
“Forget it. I didn’t even know you were there. No thanks are necessary.”
“But…”
“Forget it. It was my pleasure.”
“Listen,” continued Sorrento, “I don’t even know you, but if you have any plans, if you’re going to pull anything else like this job tonight, count me in. I’m a former Marine. I can shoot anything better than just about anybody else, I always could, and I’d really like to get some payback, if that’s in the cards.”
“I’ll think about it,” answered Carson.
Ranya interjected, “What about my bike, back at the Wagon Wheel? And I left my van up in Virginia Beach.”
“I’ll take care of it. Where’s your van? What’s it look like?”
Ranya told him the details.
“Give me the keys; I’ll take care of them both.”
“Where are we going?” asked Brad. They’d killed one man, presumably some kind of federal agent, and had kidnapped another. That was major league capital punishment territory… The feds wouldn’t even be out to make an arrest after what they had pulled back on that airfield. They’d be out for fast “curbside justice” at the end of a gun barrel.
“Where are we going? We’re splitting up. You and Ranya are going to a hiding place for a while,” replied Carson. “A safe house.”
“Where?”
“You’ll see. I’ve got a place lined up. Just trust me; I got you out, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, you sure did. But I just want to know what’s going on.”
“Look, here’s how it works,” said Carson. “I’ve got a few friends and acquaintances, that’s all there is to it. Somebody might help out with a machine gun like Archie and Edith did tonight, somebody might help out with a place to stay, or a ride. Nobody knows what they don’t need to know. There’s no membership, just friends helping friends.”
Brad thought about this. “But they all know you.”
“Th
at’s true, but I’ve got an insurance policy.” Carson reached into the right front pocket of his black leather jacket, his cigarette bouncing on his lip while he talked. He pulled out a small round object, green in color, the size of a plum, and held it up under the rear view mirror. It was an offensive fragmentation grenade—antipersonnel. “Let’s just say I don’t plan to wind up tied to a door, with a wet rag over my face. There’s too many people depending on me to keep my mouth shut, so this is my part of the deal. And if I gotta go, I’m not going alone.”
“I didn’t give you up Phil, the whole time. I didn’t give you up. Or you, Ranya.” Brad’s voice cracked, the pain was too fresh.
“I didn’t say you did Brad…and thanks. But we got you out in one day. Eventually everybody talks, and I won’t let it happen to me. And I sure as hell won’t go alone.”
They drove on in silence for a few minutes. The occasional houses they passed were far apart; most of the countryside was marshland, rivers and woods. Finally Carson pulled another small hand-held radio out of the inside of his jacket. “VHF radio,” he announced to his passengers. “I just picked it up today. Almost time for you guys to hop out. You two lovebirds I mean.” He handed the radio across to Sorrento. “Victor, figure this thing out. Turn it on and put it on channel 78, all right?”
“No problem. You want me to talk on it?”
“No, give it back when it’s all set up.” After Sorrento handed him back the cell phone sized VHF radio, Carson pushed the transmit button and said, “Moondog, Moondog, you there, over?” He waited a half minute and repeated his call.
In a moment, the VHF crackled with static. “Moondog here. You got something for me, over?”
“Roger Moondog, I’ve got two for you; wait a minute.”
They had traveled in the red Cherokee for a half hour since the assault team had split up on South River Road. Without warning, Carson pulled over to the side of the two lane road, fifty yards before they reached an old steel trestle bridge over the black shadow of a creek.
“Your ride’s down underneath. Listen to the man, do what he says, and I’ll be in touch soon, okay?”
Ranya leaned forward and hugged Carson around his neck from behind and kissed his rough cheek. “Thanks, Phil, I owe you; I really owe you.”
“Yeah, you do. Now hop out; we can’t sit here all night.”
Brad reached over and shook Carson’s hand, and said, “Thanks for saving my life.”
“No problem. Now get out, and I’ll be in touch.”
Brad opened the passenger side door and they both slid out and disappeared down the slope.
****
A few minutes later the red Cherokee pulled off the pavement down a dirt road and into a stand of brush with its lights off. The back cargo doors were opened; Carson removed George Hammet’s hood and untied his gag. He was lying doubled up on his side in the cargo area, still cuffed behind and hog-tied with rope taken from the water torture door. Sorrento held a flashlight close to Hammet’s face; it wasn’t as bright as the borrowed police-issue Sure-Flash lights they had used earlier, but it was painfully bright to a man who had been hooded in the back of an SUV on a pitch black night.
“How are we doing, George?” asked Carson. Hammet didn’t say anything; he was paralyzed with fear. “George, this isn’t going to work out so well if you can’t talk. Tell me that you can talk, and I’ll untie some of the ropes on you, and give you a drink of water. Is that a deal?”
George Hammet kept his eyes closed against the light. In a few seconds he said, “I can talk,” but only weakly.
“Good job, I knew you could do it. Now, let’s practice saying something. I want you to say just what I say; just repeat it word for word. Can you do that, George?”
“…Okay…”
“Here it is. Say, ‘Leo, the ATF is coming, get out while you can.’ Now your turn.”
“I can’t…”
“Yes you can, George, you can and you will. ‘Leo, the ATF is coming, get out while you can.’ Now give it a try.” Carson held a snub-nosed .44 Special revolver; he jammed its short blued steel barrel into Hammet’s ear and thumbed back the hammer, making three loud, unmistakable metallic clicks. “Leo, the ATF is coming, get out while you can. Each time I push this gun into your ear, you just go ahead and say it. I really don’t want to make a big mess in your car.” Carson shoved the barrel into Hammet’s ear, hard. “Now!”
“Leo, the ATF is coming…get out while you can.”
“That’s good George; I knew you could do it.” He shoved the barrel against his ear once more. “Say it again!”
“Leo, the ATF is coming, get out!”
“While you can!” ordered Carson, again pushing the short barrel of the revolver into his ear.
“Leo, the ATF is coming, get out while you can!”
“Again! And say it normal, like you’re talking to a friend.” Carson prodded him more gently with his revolver’s barrel.
“Leo, the ATF is coming, get out while you can.”
“Very good. Again!” This time he held George’s cell phone, and again, George repeated his sentence. When Carson was satisfied with his compliance, he punched in the number of Leo Swarovski’s unlisted home phone number in Petersburg Virginia. After three rings he heard a man answer gruffly, “Hello! Do you know what time it is?” Carson shoved his revolver’s barrel into George’s ear again.
“Leo, the ATF is coming, get out while you can!”
“What did you say? Who is this?” asked Leo Swarovski.
Carson again jammed the gun into his ear.
“Leo, the ATF is coming, get out while you can!”
“Is this some kind of joke?”
“Leo, the ATF is coming…”
Carson pushed ‘end’ on George’s cell phone, and lowered the hammer of his .44 Special snub-nosed revolver with his thumb.
****
Brad and Ranya held each others’ hands for support as they picked their way along the edge of the creek toward the bridge. Ranya used her tiny keychain squeeze light to illuminate their path across the relatively firm tussocks of saw grass, and to keep them from tripping over roots or sinking into soft mud.
From the void under the trestle bridge, a man’s voice called out “Over here.” A flashlight beam was directed at their feet, permitting them to move more quickly through the slippery rushes. The beam of light moved back and forth along their path, its side-shine showed them a long open skiff which was pressed tightly along the creek’s bank directly beneath the bridge.
When they were close, the light was shined along the inside of the boat to give them an idea of how to step aboard and where to sit. The vessel was an aluminum hunting boat, camouflage painted in brown and green splotches both inside and out. It was about eighteen feet long, but very narrow with a sharply pointed bow. When Brad and Ranya stepped aboard, the metal hull rang hollowly and rolled under their feet.
“Welcome aboard! We’re going for a real nice boat ride tonight. I was going to have you sit on the seats there in front of the console, but from the look of you you’d freeze to death. You’re both already shivering, so forget the seats.”
While Brad and Ranya stood holding the front of the centerline steering console, their driver moved around them and gathered lifejackets, boat cushions, towels and a folded canvas awning, then kneeled down and made a nest for them in the bow.
“All right, get comfy. At least you’ll stay out of the wind. This tarp’s the best I can do for a blanket.”
They laid down together in the bow of the boat on the cushions and lifejackets, their heads up forward. Ranya shed her two packs, Brad pulled the heavy green canvas up over them, and they spooned together with her back pressed tightly against his chest, with his left arm wrapped around her.
A long wooden pole was stuck vertically through the water along the boat’s port side, pinning it to the bank. The boat driver pulled it out of the mud and swung it dripping across the boat, and used it to push away from th
e bank and out from under the bridge into mid channel. Then he stowed the pole inside the boat and stood behind his boxy homemade plywood console. The single outboard motor lowered itself into the water with an electric whine, and then it rumbled to life with acrid smoke blowing across them.
“Now, here comes the fun part! Hang on, children!” With his left hand holding the wheel, the driver shoved the throttle sharply forward with his right hand, and the engine roared and the boat surged ahead. In a moment it was on a plane, flying across the still water, carving turns through the twisting meanders of the black water creek.
Out from under the bridge, there was just enough starlight that Ranya could make out the silhouette of their captain standing behind the console. He had a narrow chin, large white teeth, and he was wearing some kind of helmet. On the right side of the helmet was attached a cylinder the size of a toilet paper tube.
Damn, she thought, when did everybody get night vision devices? It must have been their military service that did it. Freedom Arms had, at times, sold a small number of mostly Russian surplus starlight scopes, and almost always, it seemed, to military veterans. She supposed that anyone who had ever used night vision devices to gain an edge in night combat would consider them to be worth their weight in gold. Obviously, they were no longer a novelty or a luxury item; they were now virtually a necessity for anyone who wanted to be an effective night fighter. Certainly, their boat driver could never run through the creeks at full throttle in the darkness without using night vision.
Ranya lost track of time, growing warm against Brad’s chest and hips, with one of his arms around her and his other arm under her head for her pillow. At times they crossed open water; she could tell by the thin aluminum hull slapping and chattering over the chop. At other times, they were running up winding streams so tight that the trees formed a roof above them, and their driver had to duck to miss low-hanging branches. After a while she fell asleep. Brad was already gently snoring, his breath warm against the back of her neck.
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