Inside Out

  “Please,” Sean pleaded in a whisper.

  “Doc said this will fix a migraine headache,” Sam said.

  The man slipped the covering from the needle and held her arm stiffly in place. Sean resisted until she felt the sting of the needle.

  Sam placed his hands on either side of her head and rubbed gently. “How's your headache now?”

  “Don't hurt me, Sam. I didn't know. . . .”

  She was fully expecting Sam to increase the pressure until it hurt worse than the headache. “You sleep a little now, and when you wake up you're going to tell me what I need to know. Then you won't have nothing to worry about.”

  One thought rang out in her clouded mind. Winter will come.

  As the van headed away from New Orleans, she closed her eyes and slept.

  When Sean awakened, the headache was a dull shadow of its former self. She was in a dimly lit room, lying on a wide bed. She sat up and looked around. When she realized exactly where she was, fear seized her. This was a room she had been in before. It was Sam Manelli's bedroom.

  96

  Winter concentrated. The photographs in Sam's den depicted the gangster with various other men in hunting outfits over the years. One man with prematurely silver hair appeared in several of the pictures—Winter figured it was Manelli's underboss, Johnny Russo. In one picture there was a green Ford van behind the men. An elderly black worker standing by the van wore a coat with INTERNATIONAL LIQUID STORAGE emblazoned on the back.

  “Might be smart to get the hell out of here, Winter.”

  “And go where, Hank?”

  “Get with Chet. Run down Manelli's possible hideouts listed in the files. Warehouses, offices, those kind of—”

  “No time. He'll find out about this soon or he'll finish his business with her and have an airtight alibi. We have to get to him fast.”

  Winter was studying the items in the room like a tourist in a museum. He noted a lodge in the background of several pictures and a boathouse in others. “I'd bet when Sam got his hands on Sean he took her where he feels secure.”

  Winter was thinking and trying to decompress, to ditch the frustration and anger he felt. He had to distance himself emotionally, to depersonalize Sean, but he kept seeing her in his mind—at the mercy of butchers and knowing that nobody was in any better position to help her than he was. If he was going to help her, he had to forget that this was anything but a riddle to solve.

  “Manelli is a sadist. He went to a great deal of expense and effort to kill her and Dylan. He believes that Dylan and Sean were responsible for putting him in jail, and almost taking down his empire. Manelli will take his time with her. He'll need to find out what she told and to who. He'll want to show off his power over her, his reach, his cunning, his winning out in the end like he always has. I suspect he'll want to do everything to her he wasn't able to do to Dylan. Fact is, our only chance to save her is if he keeps her alive as long as he can to torture her. We need time and a lucky break.”

  Hank crossed the room and joined Winter to stare at a large satellite picture in a heavy cypress frame. It was a remarkably crisp aerial photograph of rural, industrial acreage. The photo was centered around a storage tank farm.

  “You used to be able to call NASA and order one of these on a whole city, or just your neighborhood. I saw a picture just like this in the offices of an oil exploration company of an operation in Alaska. You could see elk grazing in it, not a quarter mile from the derricks.” Hank touched the glass. “That's a towboat pushing a double line of barges. Mississippi River.”

  Winter studied a tanker moored at a dock from which three large white pipes ran up and through the levee, then over the road before they dropped down on the other side of a fence and entered a building. Smaller pipes exited the control house and channeled liquids out to each of the thirty storage tanks, each capable of holding maybe millions of gallons. A black lid on a tank had the company's initials painted on it in white letters. When he spotted something at the edge of the marsh, outside and south of the farm's fences, he took the picture down from the wall. “I know where she is, Hank.” He twisted it—the glass breaking as the frame snapped apart. He pulled the picture out, folded it and slipped it into his jacket.

  A SWAT team member standing in the hall ignored them as they passed. As soon as they reached asphalt, they ran back up the driveway and across the grass, toward the Jeep. As they crossed the road they saw the red lights of approaching ambulances.

  Injured SWAT team members and dazed technicians were huddled near Archer's corpse. Through the drizzle, they looked like wet birds on a line, waiting for the sun.

  97

  The plane was parked on the tarmac east of the sixty-foot-tall Quonset-shaped hangar. The four cutouts in dark all-weather coats disembarked carrying equipment cases, which they loaded into the rear of an ebony Chevrolet Suburban 4x4 before driving off. The rain obscured their view of Lake Pontchartrain and the twin bridges that stretched twenty-five miles to the north shore, but they weren't on a sight-seeing mission.

  Thirty minutes after leaving Lakefront Airport, Lewis turned off River Road onto the road marked only by a NO TRESPASSING sign. He was only a quarter-mile short of the tank farm but couldn't see the tanks through the wall of gray. The road he turned off on had been built to give access to the property when the owners had wanted to turn it into a business park. The oil bust in the late '80s had ended the developer's dream.

  During the half-mile drive down the narrow road, the quartet passed two more signs warning illegal dumpers to void their truck beds elsewhere and one promising prosecution to the fullest extent for depositing waste.

  Lewis glanced in the rearview at Apache, his eyes drinking in her features. She was beautiful and no more than five-five. She had sharply defined muscles, long flowing black hair, narrow lips, and high cheekbones. Her professional name was Apache because she was half Apache and half African-American, raised by a whiskey-blind grandfather. She had been discovered by talent scouts who spotted her in an FBI arrest report. She had been arrested for taking on four large white men who were imposing their will on her when she took a folding knife from one of them. She had sent three of them to the hospital and one to the morgue. Later, she had taken on three reservation cops—two of whom she disarmed and handcuffed together before the third clubbed her unconscious with a weighted nightstick.

  The paved road ended at a cul-de-sac surrounded by what appeared to be a good start on a mountain range constructed entirely of rubbish.

  Tomeo sat in the backseat next to Apache. He was Chinese-American and wore his thick black hair combed straight back. He was almost six feet tall and had been a Navy SEAL. His easy smile and sense of humor gave people the impression that he was the opposite of what he actually was.

  Mickey, the team's fourth member was in the front passenger seat. “We've got company,” he said.

  “I see him,” Lewis said evenly.

  A battered Ford pickup truck of indeterminable color was backed into a tall horseshoe of garbage. A short, bandy-legged man wearing a yellow plastic rain poncho stood beside the open tailgate trying to look innocent of violating warning signs against dumping refuse. Lewis parked the big Suburban broadside to the truck, blocking it in, and lowered his window. Trapped, the man took tentative steps toward the invading vehicle, peering out from under the poncho's plastic hood.

  Lewis lowered the window and studied the man. He could have been in his fifties or seventies—the lack of teeth made guessing his age difficult. Beneath a crop of wild white hair, his face was crisscrossed with crevasses and he peered at Lewis through eyes whose muddy irises appeared to have been laid in ancient ivory.

  “How y'all do nah?” he inquired, grinning uncertainly.

  “You taking that trash out for me,” Lewis said, “or dumping?”

  “I was taking,” the dumper replied, nodding suddenly as though the motion was necessary to power his next breath. “Lots a good stuff in here people trow away, you
know.” He opened his arms like a welcoming store owner.

  “No signs threatening anyone for taking the shit away,” Tomeo said.

  “This heah you place?” the man asked, his voice cracking. “I don't mean no trespass atall.”

  “You out here alone in this nasty weather?” Lewis asked him.

  “Yeah, was jus' bout to leave out wit' my little load here.”

  A broad-faced pit bull with chewed-up pyramid-shaped ears leaped down from the truck's open window and approached the strangers in the Chevrolet. He stopped beside his master and measured the Suburban's occupants by sniffing the air with his upraised nose. Not liking what he discerned, he growled and the hair on his neck rose.

  “He don't bite, though,” the man said. “Get on back in the truck, Badger,” he said. “We be going now, if you let us pass on by.”

  “I never cared for dogs,” Lewis told the man.

  “He all right, though, this one,” the man said defensively.

  “They're plain stupid. Don't know when to growl and when not to.”

  “Don't we have work to do?” Apache sounded annoyed.

  Lewis looked in the rearview at Apache in the seat directly behind him. His hand rose to the window's ledge. He squeezed the trigger before the man standing in the rain saw the pistol. The SOCOM's silenced bark was not much louder than the sound of the dog falling over on its side. Its stiff legs quivered. The dumper was speechless, his now-open mouth a hole ringed in pink gums.

  “What you wan' do dat for?” the old man asked.

  “I like your clothes,” Lewis said. “Take 'em off.”

  The dumper slowly removed his coat and handed it to Lewis through the window. He pulled off the flannel shirt, his boots, and his overalls, and Lewis took each with his free hand while maintaining his aim.

  The old man stood bent and shivering in the rain beside his dog. He looked down at the animal and crossed himself. Before he looked back up, Lewis squeezed the trigger twice again, making holes in the old man's throat and in the silver triangle of hair between his breasts. The dumper took two steps back and collapsed.

  “Aw, Lewis, that was fucking cold, man,” Tomeo said. “You should have done the old guy first.”

  “Why?” Lewis asked.

  Apache shifted in her seat. “Because, Lewis, that old man just watched you clip his best friend. He died knowing that his dog was dead,” Apache said. “For Christ's sake, it's like shooting a child in front of its mother.”

  “I did it to spare the dog's feelings,” Lewis said. “That noble beast died thinking he was protecting his master.”

  “What's wrong with shooting a kid in front of its mother?” Mickey said jokingly. “I mean, if shooting a kid was necessary.”

  Lewis said, “Guys, go give our dearly departed the burial they so richly deserve.”

  The men opened their doors, jumped out and carried the man's body off into the garbage, where they covered him over with a wet piece of carpet and piled that over with a tire and black trash bags. Tomeo grabbed the dog by its back legs and, like an Olympic hammer thrower, swung him in a circle before releasing the thick carcass to sail off into the refuse.

  Mickey and Tomeo returned to the Suburban, which drove across the field to the tree line some one hundred yards north of the dump site. They parked deep enough inside the woods so there was little chance of the vehicle being spotted.

  Lewis killed his headlights and, with the rear doors open, the four changed into their assault suits, impervious to the cold rain and the thick smell of rotting vegetation drifting in from the open marsh.

  “Time to sell some death,” Lewis said.

  98

  Hank drove the Jeep as fast as it could go and still remain on the wet asphalt. Winter trusted Hank's skills, which allowed him to concentrate on the purloined satellite photo. Chet had stayed on the telephone so he and they could plan the best way to accomplish the rescue of Sean Devlin with a minimum of casualties.

  What Winter had seen in the satellite picture was five flat rectangles of uniform size out in the flooded marshland behind the tank farm. He instantly recognized them as duck-hunting blinds. He then spotted the roofs of two buildings set in a one-hundred-yard-wide strip of trees running alongside a drainage canal. The canal was open to the marsh through a series of channels. The smaller roof looked like a boathouse with a dock extended out from it near the mouth of a channel, which would allow the hunters to take boats directly from there out to the blinds. The larger roof had a chimney on the end facing the marsh and was farther back from the water. Winter's only hope was that the lodge and boat shed he had seen in the pictures of hunters posing with dead ducks on Sam's den wall were the same buildings represented by the flat roofs in the satellite photo.

  Winter had been talking to Chet about needing to find the tank farm where the letters ILS were painted on the top of one of the larger storage tanks. Chet said, “Sure I know exactly where ILS is. It's out River Road about fifteen miles.” That was when Winter realized that the driver had already told him where Manelli was heading. When Winter had asked Manelli's driver what the make of the green van carrying Sam was, the man had said, “Ford,” and he had then said what Winter thought was “eyeless.” Eyeless was how the locals pronounced the initials ILS. The lodge was just behind the tank farm.

  Chet procured a helicopter. The assault force was waiting for it to come in from Callender Field naval air station to pick them up and deliver them to Manelli's duck lodge. The sky was overcast and it was raining, but Chet had been assured that the ceiling was ample for the helicopter to stay below the cloud cover and above obstructions. After the assault was under way, more of Chet's deputies would come in by way of the tank farm's front gate.

  The tank farm was a several-hundred-acre rectangle of land that had been cleared so nothing obstructed the views of the giant white containers from the company's offices. A line of oak trees stretching along the highway was probably there to make the facility look less threatening—less like a collection of circular bombs waiting for a spark. The fence, an unbroken silver line in the picture, backed up to a wooded area where the lodge and boathouse were located.

  “Chet,” Winter said into the cell phone. “According to this picture, the fences on both sides of the tank farm run all the way back across the drainage canal and stop in the marsh. The farm's back fence connects the sides and puts Manelli's place smack in a shallow U of fence. The main way in is through the tank farm, down the paved access road to the back where it turns into dirt and goes through a gate onto Sam's place. We can't go in that way, but when you guys come in you can land just outside that gate. We'll try and get behind them and help you from inside after we make sure they're in there.”

  Winter hung up. “Okay, Hank. The parcel just before you get to the terminal was cleared almost back to the canal. There's a paved road on that property that dead-ends in a cul-de-sac. Looks like they were dumping trash there when this was taken. We can drive back to the trees and go in that way.” Winter looked up. “We should be coming up on it any second. That's the turnoff up there.”

  “Forget it,” Hank said.

  “Son of a bitch.” Winter felt like hitting something.

  Through the gray rain, a black Suburban 4x4 with tinted windows was turning onto the access road. “Keep going. Could be some of Manelli's people patrolling. We'll have to go in from the other side.”

  As Hank drove past the INTERNATIONAL LIQUID STORAGE sign, Winter surveyed the main buildings. “There are uniformed guards in the gatehouse window, and those gates could stop a bulldozer.”

  “This is it,” Hank said as they passed the corner of the ILS fence where dense woods ran up to within ten feet of the road. Hank pulled onto the shoulder. “Good news is there's an access road of sorts. The bad news is, I can see the road because somebody recently smashed the grass down.”

  “Stay in their ruts.”

  Hank cut the Jeep's lights before he turned off River Road and, holding the Je
ep in previously formed tracks in the tall grass, entered the woods.

  “Take it slow, Hank. Let's don't run up on anybody.”

  “I been sneaking up on shitheads for forty years, two of those long-range recon in 'Nam. Except for Millie, I ain't been caught yet.”

  “Wives don't count.” Winter managed to laugh, but his stomach was lurching.

  “It's going to be dark as eight inches up a bull's ass in a few minutes.” Hank wound the Jeep through the trees. Where foliage was thin, the massive white storage tanks offered Winter the opportunity to figure their position using the picture for reference. He could only see by using a map light.

  “More than one vehicle went in,” Hank said. “Grass is pressed down in this direction so they didn't come back out this way. At least three cars, maybe four.”

  “Was one a green van?” Winter joked.

  “Be nice to have some backup about now. This place is flat spooky. You know, it's been a long time since I was in a scrape and this has the potential to get very ugly. I just hope I can still give a decent account of myself.”

  “You're fifth-generation Texas border-ranching scrappers. What the hell else could you possibly do but give a decent account of yourself?”

  “I meant comparatively speaking. We've never faced anything like this together.”

  “Then it's about time.”

  “Just try not to make me look bad in front of anybody.”

  Winter laughed. Hank turned left off the logging road, threaded the Jeep fifty feet through the trees, and cut the engine. Walking was a lot safer because the wet grass muted the sound of their footsteps on the dead leaves.

  “If Sam was listening in on Archer's tactical channel like we were, I hope Finch hasn't been talking about us on it. I heard them mention your name when they saw you jumping that fence.”