The decision quickly became moot as Pamela’s phone vibrated in his hands. She looked over and grabbed it.
“It’s Tru!” she said.
The screen had a 305 area code. “How do you know?”
“It’s him, I just know it.”
Right before she pressed the accept button, he pulled her hand away. She threw a scorned look and pulled back. “Careful. It might be the people that have him,” Mac warned. “Let’s put it on speaker and both listen.”
She nodded, pressed the green button, and they stared at the phone. Nothing but static came from the line.
“Tru,” she pleaded.
They listened carefully, vaguely hearing something in the background that sounded like a man’s voice.
“Can you make it out?” Mac asked.
She held the phone to her head. Mac was unsure whether she could hear better or if she thought the contact with the device would bring Trufante back, but it didn’t matter. The Cajun’s voice emerged through the static, but it was hard to understand.
“Something about a rocket,” she said.
Mac looked at her and spoke into the speaker. “Come on, man, we need more than that.”
Pamela listened intently, turning the volume all the way up. They both heard the word “jet” and shrugged at each other.
“Listen, Tru,” Mac started. “If that’s all you got, we can try and find you. I’m going to disconnect the call so you can save the battery.”
Pamela shook her head, took the phone and turned away from him, saying something he couldn’t understand. With tears in her eyes, she handed the phone back to Mac. “Now what?”
He started panning the screen, looking for anything that might have to do with a rocket or a jet. Suddenly he saw Aerojet Road and zoomed in. “That’s it!”
“What?” Pamela asked.
“Aerojet. It’s gotta be where he is.” Mac looked at the phone, trying to figure out a route. There was no direct path, but he did find a series of wider canals that he assumed would be deep enough for the boat. Taking the wheel, he pushed down on the throttle and got the boat up on plane. It was a strange feeling, moving so fast in the enclosed waterway, the high dirt berms on both sides making it impossible to see over the top from the water. The turn to the right was narrower than he expected and he passed it on the first try. They backtracked and entered the skinny canal. If it stayed this wide, they would be able to reach the Aerojet Canal, but cattails were already slamming the sides of the boat. The growth thickened, and soon they were plowing through the tall grass. Passing an intersection, he saw from the map that they were halfway through. The depth finder was consistently showing three feet of water under them—just enough to run through—and all he could do was hope it lasted.
Finally he saw a clearing ahead and cut the wheel hard to port to make the left back into the Aerojet Canal. This canal was wider and showed eighteen feet of depth, just as it had when they entered it at Barnes Sound. He slowed slightly to survey what lay ahead. Unless it was a ruse, Trufante had escaped, but he had no idea if his captors were close. Several buildings came into view, and he looked for any sign of life. As he approached he could see they were in bad repair and abandoned. Slowly they approached the facility, scanning the banks for an entry point, when the first bullet hit the cabin.
Philip Dusharde looked at the bottle in his hand and put it back on the shelf. Things were becoming complicated, and he needed all his wits to see this through. The rocket had been the answer to all of it. After decades and millions of dollars fighting against environmental groups and do-good politicians, he had a plan to take care of it all. If they wanted the Everglades to flow freely again, he would accommodate them, but there would be no environmental impact studies showing some endangered strain of spotted-tail alligators. No more water samples and Army Corp of Engineers projects. They didn’t like the dredged canals, then fine. He would let it all go back to nature and drain a million acres for agriculture in the process.
When ignited, the thrust from the two-hundred-and-sixty-inch diameter rocket would change the landscape of the entire Everglades, or at least that’s what his geologists had told him. The shock waves from the rocket would open several shallow faults in the aquifer, creating a channel from Lake Okeechobee to Florida Bay.
He picked up his phone and pressed the button to connect to Jane. “Status?” he asked when she picked up.
The connection was full of static and he thought he heard gunfire in the background. “What the hell is going on there?”
“We’ve got some trouble, but we’re mounting the charges now.”
“Get it done and get out of there,” he said, hanging up. If the explosives were in place he could blow the rocket now, but his plan involved another twist and would have to wait one more day. And it would have to be a sober day if the gunshots he heard were any indication of how close the plan was to unravelling. Whether bribing or blackmailing politicians or some of the dirtier work he needed done, he had always been able to count on Jane, and he hoped this assignment was not too much for her.
Planting the charges was fairly simple, requiring someone to drop into the silo and place the explosives on the outside casing in several strategic areas. The original rocket was meant to be ignited from within by a thirty-inch diameter charge launched directly into the nozzle. The solid fuel would then combust and send over five million pounds of thrust through the nozzle. His engineers had assured him that solid fuel would still be stable after fifty years and that placing explosives on the outside would turn the engine into a bomb. With the depth of the silo over two hundred feet into the ground, the blast would fracture the aquifer and change the entire drainage of the Everglades.
In many ways, the end result of the plan matched the environmentalists’ Plan Six Flowway, but that would take almost a billion dollars and a decade to put in place. His plan was less than a thousand dollars in explosives and when triggered would take effect immediately. Once they got over the shock of it, they would thank him.
Mel was able to drive faster after the traffic thinned past the casino turnoff. She passed cars parked to the side of the road where people lined the banks, cane-pole fishing the canal to the north of the highway. There were several pull-offs, with airboat trailers along the way. Traffic was light and she saw more gators lining the highway than cars and trucks. This made her situation more tenuous as she drove the two-lane road. There was no place to go. She checked Mac’s position on her phone again. He was moving, and she was thankful that their positions were converging. But there was only green between them. The last road that connected them was miles behind her.
Checking her rearview mirror, she saw the car closing and knew she had to make a decision. The gas gauge on the rental car was already down to half, and after trying to accelerate, she knew it was doubtful she could outrun whoever was following her. A billboard on her left made her decision for her. She had a mile to figure out how to buy some time. Without the speed to lose the car behind her, she did the opposite and slowed, allowing her pursuer to close the gap. She was down to forty mph now, and the car was within a hundred yards.
She willed it closer, not wanting to drop any more speed or he might figure out her plan. The parking lot appeared in the distance, less than a quarter mile away. Maintaining speed, she approached the turn and braked hard when she reached it. The car fishtailed into the gravel parking lot, barely missing several parked cars before she was able to pull it out of the skid.
Jumping out of the running car, she saw a sign for airboat rides and ran to the ticket hut, pushing past a waiting family. A quick glance behind told her the other driver had missed the turn, buying her a few desperate minutes. Pushing her credit card forward, she asked for a private tour, insisting it needed to leave immediately. The girl behind the counter didn’t get her urgency, and she waited impatiently for the charge to go through, quickly signing the receipt and shoving it back to her. Just as she pushed through the turnstile, the blue sedan
pulled into the lot.
She found herself on a roped boardwalk with alligators on both sides. A sign said these were nuisance alligators taken from Miami area residents’ swimming pools and that they would find their way back if released. Passing several empty tour boats capable of holding twenty or more people, she took off at a run toward one of the smaller boats at the end of the line. Looking around for the driver, she saw several men drinking sodas under a palm frond structure and ran toward it.
With her receipt held in front of her, she must have looked like nothing they had ever seen before, but one of the men rose and greeted her.
“What’s the rush, ma’am? Them gators ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
“It’s not like that.” She held out her phone for the man. “I need to get there.”
“Heck, ma’am. That’s quite the ride,” he said, looking at her receipt. “Guess you paid for half a day. Ought to cover it.”
She followed him to one of the smaller boats. Looking back, she saw a man push through the ticket booth and look around. “We’ve got to hurry. It’s a matter of life and death,” she said.
The driver had only one speed and she hoped it was fast enough. Another look back confirmed the man had seen her and was running toward them. Finally the driver hopped onto one of the boats and offered her a hand. She took it, quickly sitting in front of the raised driver’s seat, and prayed the man following her didn’t have a gun. The engine cranked and started. Gripping the handrests firmly, she held on as the driver moved the boat forward into the narrow channel, gradually increasing speed as it opened up. They passed a clump of trees and she forgot for a second the danger she was in as she looked out at the miles of sawgrass spread out in front of them.
Handing her phone back to the driver, she looked back and, just before he accelerated, thought she saw another boat leave the channel.
21
Mac did a double take when he saw the splatter of paint he had mistaken for a bullet and looked around for the source. Another shot hit, forcing him to duck back into the small cabin for cover.
“Call that number back,” he told Pamela. “Tru’s got his hands in this.”
While she waited for an answer, he scanned the abandoned industrial facility. Whatever this had been, it was long gone. From the look of the buildings, they had been scavenged of anything valuable. Ductwork and conduits hung from ceilings and walls and graffiti marked the exteriors. It reminded him of something the Soviets might have built in the sixties.
She had the phone to her ear. “Hey. Tru there?” Pamela asked.
Mac took the phone. “We are in the boat. Hold your fire.” He paused for a minute to see if he could see any signal relayed. “Who am I speaking with?”
“Max. First Bayou Brigade.”
Mac muttered the name to himself and almost smiled. Trufante was here and apparently had recruited a paintball army. He had no idea the numbers involved, so he decided to play it safe. “Send your leader out.” He thought he heard the unmistakable accent in the background.
“State your name,” the youngish voice said.
“Tell that lame-brained Cajun it’s Mac. Mac Travis.”
Three figures became visible, moving from behind the cover of one of the buildings.
“It’s Tru,” Pamela said, and tried to jump from the boat.
Mac pulled her down. “It is, and he looks okay, but you gotta be patient. We don’t know who else is here.”
She moved behind him. Trufante motioned to the two fatigue-clad men, one either side of him, to wait and ran toward the canal. Pamela grabbed Mac’s arm as a stream of bullets erupted around Trufante’s feet. Within seconds he was back behind the building.
“They didn’t hit him, did they?” Pamela asked.
“He looks all right. Boy’s got more lives than a three-legged gator,” Mac said, looking for where the gunfire had come from.
“Can you get him back on the phone?”
Pamela dialed and spoke to Max. Mac knew the second that Trufante was on and took the phone. She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at Mac, oblivious to the danger around them.
“What the hell’s going on here?” Mac yelled into the phone.
“It’s a little complicated.” Trufante’s voice came through the static.
Even though they were less than a hundred yards apart, they were at the limits of cell reception. There were no towers this far into no-man’s-land. Mac took the phone and noticed only one bar on the screen. The battery icon was also in the red. It was always complicated with Trufante, and the story would be better told over a beer. “Who’s shooting?” He cut the conversation short.
“She-devil and two of her boy toys.”
Mac stared at the building in frustration. “Care to clarify?”
“Her name’s Jane. Don’t know much else besides she likes guns and fast cars.”
The identity of the shooters could wait, and he was already getting frustrated with Trufante. “What are they doing?”
“I got a squad out doing some recon. Should know something soon.”
Mac was trying to figure out what was going on when the phone died. He set it on a small table and looked around the cabin for a weapon.
“What happened?” Pamela asked, getting right in his face.
“Battery died,” Mac said. He was done with her too. He needed to take the offensive and looked around the small cabin.
TJ used the boat for six-person charters, and commercial boats were required to carry additional safety gear not required on pleasure boats. He searched for the orange safety kit and removed the flare gun, whose twelve-gauge shells would also work in the shotgun. With only four shots left, he inserted one of the flares in the chamber of each weapon. He stuffed the rest in his pockets. He would save the shotgun shells.
“Can you use any of this?” he asked.
“I know how to shoot. My daddy taught me,” she said.
He handed her the shotgun and immediately noticed that she knew firearms safety. Her trigger finger was outside the guard, and the barrel was pointed at the ground. That gave him a little comfort. If they were all playing with paintball guns he would have been well armed, but knowing there were automatic weapons as well did not leave a good feeling in his gut. They were sitting ducks if they stayed with the boat. He jammed the flare gun into his pants. It was time to move.
Just as he thought it, another flurry of shots fired. “We need to get off the boat,” he told Pamela, leaning out of the cabin to see if he could figure out where the shots came from. There was a muzzle flash from a large steel building to the left, and he scanned the abandoned facility for a safe escape route. It didn’t matter which way they went; they would be exposed for a least twenty yards. They needed to create a diversion.
“Look here,” he said, making room for Pamela to peer around the corner of the cabin. “That building over there. Take your best shot.”
He lowered himself and crawled out on the deck, making sure to stay below the gunwales. With a hand motion, he called her to his side and looked her in the eye. Underwater construction and salvage was a dangerous game, and in his career working with Wood he had been in some bad spots with a variety of men. Without the ability to read people and see panic before it could manifest itself, he would probably be dead. When he looked someone in the eye, he knew how they would react; wide eyes and dilated pupils were sure signs of impending doom. There was something odd about her look, but that was her normal; absent were the warning signs he was looking for. He nodded. “Ready.”
She confirmed the signal and rose to one knee. Using the gunwale for support, she adjusted her position to a solid firing stance and braced herself. He watched her as she closed her left eye and sighted the weapon. With a bang and a whoosh, the flare left the barrel. The orange phosphorus trail showed the path of the projectile as it headed directly at the gunmen. They must have seen it too, because they left cover and ran back toward the building. Mac didn’t wait. He grabbed her hand
and together they jumped into the water.
After swimming the five feet to the earthen berm, he climbed on hands and knees to the pavement. Looking back to confirm Pamela was behind him, he sprang to a crouch. Bullets struck the dirt by his head. It had taken too long. They would have to use another round. Pulling the flare gun from his waist, he aimed and fired. Although not as accurate as the shotgun, the shot was good enough. He grabbed Pamela and ran toward the building where he had seen Trufante.
State Representative Vernon Wade sat in his office staring at his service weapon. The Colt 1911 usually resided in a display with his military citations prominently displayed behind him, but today he had it out on his desk. Several sheets of newspaper protected the oak surface from the rags, brushes, and oil he was using to clean the pistol. The question now was who he would use it on—himself or Philip Dusharde. The sugar magnate had him over a barrel, and the only way out was violence. He knew he was not the only legislator Dusharde had bought, but after the call he had taken a half hour ago, he was regretting his association with both the man and the industry.
It was common knowledge that Big Sugar bought political influence. It was rumored they had reached as far as the president, forcing Bill Clinton to push Florida’s environmental disaster management back into the state’s control in the late nineties, where it would be much cheaper and easier to buy what they needed. The cleanup costs and land deals proposed then paled in comparison to what was happening now. Times had changed and he was faced with an angry electorate, one that had been turned upside down demographically over the thirty years of his service; from farmers and fishermen to retirees and tree huggers. As a result, he was backtracking as fast as he could away from the sugar industry. His opponent in the upcoming primary wasn’t squeaky clean, but following the current trend of non-politician politicians, she spoke freely, not worried about polls, and no one seemed to care.
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