“Thanks for the ride,” said Brad. You did fine, just like a real commando.”
“Really?”
“Hell yes, really.”
“My big brother’s a Ranger—he’s in Iraq. I’m going to join the Army too when I turn eighteen, if I don’t go to college right away.”
“Well, I think you’ll make a great soldier. You did great tonight.”
“Thanks.” His late adolescent voice cracked.
He was just a boy, thought Brad, but he had handled his boat and his “mission” like a man. He had delivered Brad and Ranya and an unknown cargo, and kept both the starting point and the destination totally unknown to his passengers, preserving the secret location of the isolated river cabin for future clandestine purposes.
The kid waved to them again, and pushed the throttle forward. In a minute he was out of sight, leaving a straight wake disappearing into the west as the last light bled out of the sky, briefly turning the water red. The waxing quarter-sized moon was already hanging low, chasing the sun to the horizon.
“Where are we?” asked Ranya.
“Good question,” he replied. “Which state are we in would be my first question. Did you recognize the bridge?”
“Nope. How about the power line over there?”
“No idea.” He squatted down and undid the leather buckles on his Boy Scout pack, pulled out the bug spray, closed his eyes and sprayed himself. “You want some?”
She took the can, sprayed some on her hands and used that to dab her face. “Now what?” she asked him.
“Now we wait.” He sat on the big cooler and Ranya sat down beside him, facing the other way. He slid his arms around her waist and pulled her close while she slipped her hands behind his neck.
“You’re a great kisser Brad, but ‘Off!’ bug spray is not exactly the cologne that drives me wild.”
“It’s exactly the same as your perfume, Miss, and you don’t hear me complaining.”
“Well, I’m sorry, I can’t stand getting bugs in my mouth. They’re everywhere! When the sun goes down, the bugs take over out here.”
“On Guajira, the screens are very serious business. You couldn’t live up that river without screen.! If you forget to put the screens in before sunset, you’re doomed, unless there’s a really good breeze, and then sometimes you’re okay.”
“Well, there’s no breeze now,” she said.
“It’ll come back from the east when the air cools down.”
“Well I hope we’re not waiting here for that long, that could be hours! And if you’re even thinking about what I think you’re thinking about, just forget it Brad. It ain’t gonna happen. Not on a barge.”
“I know, that’s okay. Believe me, after yesterday, I’m thrilled just to be with you. And I love just kissing you, I could kiss you forever.” He was holding her close; she reclined back across his lap and pulled off her hat and let it fall to the side. She dropped her eyelids and parted her lips; he rubbed her nose with his and kissed her gently, as he slipped his hand under the bottom of her new gray sweater.
****
A blinding searchlight hit them like a white blast of electricity as an amplified metallic voice crackled across the water, catching them in their embrace.
“Sorry to disturb you two lovebirds, but we’ve got places to go and people to meet.”
They flinched and jumped apart to their feet as the spotlight blinked out and faded to an orange dot in their eyes, and then they heard male voices laughing raucously from the darkness, over the deep sound of a rumbling outboard motor.
Ranya called back, “Phil Carson, you big jerk! What are you doing, sneaking up on people like that? You want to give us a heart attack?” She shoved her .45 back under her belt, and switched her flashlight onto the approaching boat: it was a twenty-foot Boston Whaler with a tall black Mercury outboard. It bumped roughly alongside the barge without putting out fenders; the driver was obviously not concerned about a few more scrapes or gouges.
“I think you have something for us,” said Carson, “You mind dragging your love seat over here?”
Brad and Ranya each took a handle and swung the heavy cooler down and across to the Whaler’s gunnel, where other hands pulled it onto the boat’s deck.
“Hop on. We’ve got an appointment and, believe me, you won’t want to miss it. Brad, you want a beer? Get him a cold one Tony.”
Brad and Ranya tossed their packs over and then jumped down into the Whaler. There were already two men on the boat with Carson, who was standing behind the center console holding the wheel. After being blinded with the spotlight, it was too dark for them to make out more than their shapes.
“Hey Brad, is she old enough to drink? Should we let her have alky-hall, or just a soda-pop?”
“Shove it, Phil. I go to UVA, and I can drink you under the table anytime.”
A youngish man pulled a pair of cold Budweisers from another ice chest in the back of the boat.
“Oh, my word, she goes to U-Vee-A!” laughed Carson. “Well, in that case, give the lady Cavalier a beer. Then hang on to something, ’cause here we go!”
The standing passengers lunged for hand holds on the center console as the big Mercury roared and the Whaler leaped forward, accelerating so rapidly that they were almost tumbled off their feet. The boat streaked across the darkening waters, their wake gleaming behind them in the pale light of the setting quarter-moon.
****
Twenty minutes later, Phil Carson was piloting the old Whaler along at low RPMs, with the running lights switched off. They were on a ruler-straight stretch of a hundred yard wide creek, with a high bank close above them on their right side. On the opposite side it was difficult to distinguish where the water ended and the marshland began. The moon had only just set across the marshes to the south, and the stars seemed to have increased in their brilliance.
The undercut earthen bank to starboard was studded with live oaks, their roots reaching out over the water like skeletal fingers. Some of the massive oaks were tipping over in ultimate surrender to the mastery of gravity. The other trees with better footing stood at attention, outlined against the constellations as they ghosted along through the black water.
A dark structure loomed over them in an open space between oaks; it was a boxy three story house built at the river’s edge and extending well out over the water. Carson was guiding the Whaler along at little more than idle speed. As he passed close by the house he spun the wheel hard to the right, and they drove straight into the black wall.
Beneath the house at river level there were docks on either side, between rows of supporting columns. Someone was waiting for them on their left, this person shined a light down on the dock at his feet and Carson coasted the Whaler to a stop and killed the engine. Lines were tossed over, and the boat was tied up. Behind them, the opening they had just driven through closed, as a wide panel tilted down into place like a riverside garage door.
The docks beneath the house were wide and solidly built, running around the perimeter in the shape of a U which was open to the river. It was high tide and the dark water was only a foot under the boards. An aluminum canoe with an outboard motor mounted on its square transom was tied up to the dock on the other side of the house.
Brad and Ranya surveyed the place with their flashlights. Wooden steps at the back led upward into the house. A wave runner and several plastic kayaks were stored on the dock beneath the stairs. Water skis, fishing rods, life jackets and other boat gear were stored on racks and hooks along the plank walls. These horizontal boards were spaced widely enough apart to permit the filling sea breeze to flow through the dock level of the house. They were both impressed with the setup, which was a water sports enthusiast’s dream, combining privacy, security, and easy river access for a wide variety of water craft.
The two men who tied up the whaler were wearing mosquito head nets which hid their faces. They took the heavy Igloo cooler and set it on the dock as the passengers stepped ashore. One of
these men shook Carson’s hand and asked him, “How’s that old song go? ‘Send lawyers guns and money’?”
Carson replied, “Hey, two out of three ain’t bad, Rev.”
Their eyes adjusted to the subdued lighting inside the boat house, and Brad sprayed on some more bug repellent and handed the can to Ranya who did the same. The can of bug spray was passed along as everyone fortified their chemical defenses. The mosquitoes were a tangible presence in the air, and their hum was readily audible, but the bites of the no-see-ums were more immediately painful on unprotected exposed skin.
“How’s our detainee?” asked Carson.
“He’s not happy, I can tell you that,” replied one of the mosquito head-net wearing men.
“Well, let’s see if he’s in a talkative mood,” said Carson, shining his flashlight up the dock. The beam revealed a naked white man sitting on a folding aluminum lawn chair, facing the water with his feet dangling over the edge. He was tied to the chair with half-inch dock line at his wrists, elbows, biceps, thighs and ankles. A small white canvas bag was placed upside down over his head, and there was a dense cloud of mosquitoes and no-see-ums around him, competing for landing rights to unoccupied skin area.
Carson walked over to him and pulled off the bag. “How ya doin’ George? Ya comfy?” George Hammet was vainly trying to shake off the mosquitoes by flexing and twitching his limbs and his torso. “Be careful, George. You might bounce yourself right over the edge, and it’ll be real tough to tread water while you’re tied to that chair. Hey, are you hungry? You must be starving by now. We picked up a couple of buckets of chicken. You up for a little KFC? Or maybe you’d like to get sprayed down with some Cutters first, huh? You know, you never can tell which one of these skeeters is carrying that West Nile virus.”
Hammet turned his head toward his tormenter, but Carson shined the beam of his light in his eyes and he turned away again. “You assholes have no idea who you’re screwing with,” Hammet spat out, but his voice was tinged with fear. He blinked and jerked his head as squadrons of mosquitoes and no-see-ums landed on his lips and eyelids.
“Oh, is that so?” asked Carson. “Hey everybody, dig in, we’ve got plenty of chicken and beer. How’s that sound, George, some KFC and a cold brewski?”
“You’re so dead, you son of a bitch! You’re all just so dead!”
Carson chuckled. “Dead? Do we look dead? George, you’re the one that’s tied to a chair buck-naked; I really think you should try to talk nicer to us. I mean, I know you’re used to wearing a mask and a ninja suit and having a license to kill, but you see, there’s been kind of a ‘regime change’ around here, and you need to get used to the new pecking order.”
Hammet spat out some insects and said, “Do you have any idea what happens to people who kidnap federal agents?”
Carson replied, “That’s a good start George. You’re finally getting around to the federal agents part.” He withdrew a slim wallet from the front side pocket of his leather jacket, flipped it open and put his flashlight on it, revealing a gold ATF shield and ID. “But you know what? We’ve been listening to the news all day, and we haven’t heard a peep about any missing federal agents. Not a word. A few feds have been shot and blown up here and there, but none are reported missing in action. Now why do you think that is? Doesn’t the stew team care about you? Or is it maybe you’re not a real federal agent after all?”
Ranya had prepared a paper plate loaded with chicken and red rice and biscuits for Carson; he sat on another folding lawn chair facing Hammet from the side and put the plate on his lap. “Mmmm… nothing beats the Colonel’s original recipe. You want a piece, George? It’s still warm even. You must be awful hungry; I know I am, and I had lunch.”
“Go screw yourself,” said Hammet, without much conviction.
“No, I don’t think so George.” Carson stripped the meat off of a drumstick with his teeth, and tossed the bone and scraps into the water in front of the naked ATF agent, and then he shined his flashlight on the surface where the ripples were spreading out in concentric rings. After swallowing, Carson said, “That’s one of the downsides to working for a covert unit George; they’re not very public about their losses. I guess they can’t stay very covert if they go blubbering to the newspapers and TV every time one of their jackbooted thugs gets whacked or goes missing.
“Hey, that reminds me: did you know your ‘stew team’ flew the coop? Sky-ed right out of there. It’s like they were never on that airfield. They’re gone without a trace, and without even leaving a forwarding address. They bolted, they bugged out, and they left you all by your lonesome. Now what kind of team runs away and leaves a buddy behind like that?”
Carson stripped the meat off another chicken leg and threw it in. More chicken bones and scraps followed from the others who were standing and sitting behind him. There was a subtle roiling of the water’s surface, followed by a splash, and then a rapid churning. Several flashlight beams captured slick brown shapes knifing in and snatching at the chicken scraps as they hit the water. Soon there was a general feeding frenzy underway as a dozen spiny-mouthed catfish zoomed in from all directions to battle for the chicken. As each new scrap hit the surface, the water erupted, and more catfish arrived by the second. Blue crabs were visible in the flashlights’ beams swimming lower, snatching at the smaller bits missed by the catfish above.
“George, I don’t know who’s going to have more fun, those catfish and crabs, or me watching you getting eaten alive. Hey Rev, show the young lady how the lift system works. I think Robin should have the honors.” Carson addressed Ranya by the nom de guerre he had given her before the rescue operation, in order to preserve a level of anonymity among the conspirators on the docks.
Over the water in front of George Hammet, a wide nylon boat-lifting strap was suspended from the overhead ceiling beams by two wire cables about ten feet apart. Another nylon strap hung over the water twenty feet back down the dock toward the river. The four pencil-thin stainless steel wires holding the two straps were wound around a pair of steel pipes suspended on brackets under ceiling beams. When the nylon straps were lowered into the water, a large powerboat could enter the under-house dock area, position itself over the straps, and be lifted completely out of the water for dry barnacle and slime-free storage.
On one of the telephone pole-sized pilings running from the water to the ceiling at the edge of the dock, midway between the lifting straps, there was a gray electrical box with a simple on and off switch, and up and down buttons.
“I think I can handle this,” said Ranya. She pushed one of the coin-sized buttons, and the wire cables spooled out with an electric motor whine, lowering the strap nearest Hammet into the water.
Carson said chummily, “Look at the bright side, George, once you’re in the water…no more mosquitoes.” He stood up and threw the rest of the scraps from his plate into the water, and then he leaned out over the water and grabbed the strap and pulled it over to the dock. It was dripping wet where it had just gone in. Hammet had lost the last of his cockiness and was trembling, looking at the lifting strap, and at the water which continued to churn where the chicken bones had been tossed in.
“Don’t do this, please… don’t do this.” His voice was weak and raspy; his mouth was obviously parched from fear and dehydration.
“George, you don’t want to spoil this for us, do you? Don’t we deserve some closure here?”
“Please… I know things…lots of things. I can help you…”
“George, we really don’t care what you know. And we’re not going to kill you, so don’t worry. We just want to watch you get your face eaten off…and then we’ll take you home to your wife. That’s Laura May Hammet on Albacore Road, right? You think she’ll like the new faceless, dickless, crab-eaten George? Good old George, with no eyes, no lips, no ears, no fingers, and no dick. Think she’ll like that?
Hammet’s head was hanging down; tears were making wet tracks through the busy black sand fleas and mosqu
itoes on his face as they extracted their drops of his blood. Carson tied the dripping bottom of the lifting sling to the back of Hammet’s aluminum chair with a short piece of line. Hammet was trying vainly to force his legs together to protect his privates, but his knees were tied too securely to the sides of the chair.
He tried again. “Don’t! Please! I know things! Very, very important things!”
“We know things too, George. Like how you shot Joe Bardiwell. That was you, right George?”
“Yes! I did it! I had to!”
“Push him in or I will, damn it!” Ranya hissed from behind.
“Okay…” Carson replied, almost regretfully. He stood behind the chair and tipped it slowly forward off the dock, Hammet watched the water approaching, expectant catfish and crabs were still circling and darting below him in the beams of all of their flashlights. He hit the water face first, in mid-scream. The lifting straps were fully extended and he splashed in and swung outward and sank quickly below the water. In a moment the strap formed a twitching V where it disappeared beneath the surface.
After almost a minute, Carson said, “Reel him in, Robin. We don’t want him to die just yet.”
The electric motor whined again, and the lifting strap came back up. Hammet was hanging forward from the chair by his bonds. Even with the strap fully raised, Hammet’s feet were still in the water. He choked and heaved in lung-fulls of the cool night air and shuddered and retched, nearly catatonic with shock and fear. Black clouds of mosquitoes instantly swarmed onto his white skin, which was glistening wet in the beams of a half dozen flashlights. He was jerking and kicking his feet against their bonds, trying to dislodge the catfish from his still submerged toes.
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