Wood's Revenge

by Steven Becker

  This was not the time for questions, and she slid behind him. He signaled the two groups to continue fire as they backed away. Seconds later, she was around the corner of the building, staring up at the tall Cajun.

  “What the hell?”

  “You’re welcome. First Bayou Battalion reporting,” he said, flashing his thousand-dollar grin.

  “I’m not even going to ask. But thanks.” She looked around, surrounded by a group of camo-clad, paint-covered figures, surprised that Pamela was one of them. They lowered their goggles and looked to Trufante for direction. “Where’s Mac?”

  “Went to scout out the rocket. Heard some trouble over there, though. We was gonna check it out when I saw you climb out of the water.”

  “Let’s go,” she said.

  “There’s more bogies out there,” he said, motioning to three of the group. Putting two fingers to his eyes, he sent them in the direction of a large steel building.

  “Would you knock off the army shit? We need to find Mac.” Her gratitude for the rescue was already forgotten. Trufante, even in the best of times, pushed every button she had. Avoiding his grasp, she left the cover of the concrete building and started toward the steel structure. The group he sent was moving there as well, using an Army-type maneuver that she didn’t see the need for until several shots hit the dirt around her. She turned and ran back to Trufante.

  She saw the “I told you so” look written on his face. Before he could say anything, three more figures emerged from the back of the building. They ran up to them, standing with their hands on their knees, catching their breath.

  Mel moved closer, sensing something was wrong, and noticed Pamela standing beside her.

  “First Bayou Recon Squad reporting,” the boy said.

  Mel was about to smack him, but he quickly continued.

  “Mac is in the hole. Not sure of his condition. The two bogies were firing on us, so we took the long way back,” he said, still breathing hard.

  “What hole? What’s he talking about?” Mel got in Trufante’s face.

  Even though she only reached his chin, he backed away and rubbed his forehead. “We gotta get him.”

  “We’re low on ammunition,” the leader said. “I’m not sure how much we can help.”

  Mel saw several shadows grow larger as the two gunmen emerged from cover. With their weapons held at waist level, ready to shoot, one yelled over the rain. “Let’s all drop our toys.”

  The paintball rifles dropped to the ground.

  “Let the kids go,” a woman’s voice said.

  Mel looked to the shadows and saw her standing behind the two men. Covered in blue, she had tried to wipe her face, but blue lines ran down from her cheeks, streaking her face like bad mascara. “Who is she?” Mel whispered to Trufante.

  “Goddamn woman’s the she-devil. Almost cut my other finger off.” He must have seen her look and added, “Jane’s her name. Don’t know much more.”

  She ignored the comment. The paintball team was walking away backward. Once they reached a safe distance, Mel saw the leader give Trufante a thumbs-up.

  “First Bayou Brigade dismissed,” Trufante said proudly, watching as the group took off at a run.

  Mel looked at the two automatic weapons pointing at them. The woman stepped forward. Trufante flinched as she walked toward him and backhanded him across the face. Under other circumstances, Mel might have applauded her. She turned to Mel. “You look like the only one with any brains here. Where is the other man?”

  It took her a minute to realize she was talking about Mac. Her answer might determine his fate. “I think I saw him down behind that building.”

  “Did you hit him?” she asked one of the men.

  “Might have. With all that paint flying around, it was hard to see.”

  “Check it out,” she ordered him.

  The man took off at a lope toward the building. With her gun drawn, she pointed toward a dark SUV in the distance. “Let’s go. And no trouble from you or she gets it.” She pointed the gun toward Mel.

  The other man joined them at the car. “There’s no sign of him,” he said. “I did see some blood by the silo.”

  She looked toward the building. “Never mind him.”

  Opening the back door, she pushed the women into the back seat. Mel could see the look on her face and a chill, not related to the rainwater dripping down her spine, took hold as the woman spun and smacked Trufante with the butt of the pistol. He crumpled to the ground. With a smirk, she raised the gun and shot him.

  Pamela tried to crawl over Mel, but the woman was already in the car, pointing the gun at her.

  Vernon Wade pulled up to the stately entrance of Philip Dusharde’s house. He was uninvited and expected to see guns pointed at him any second. After a minute, he relaxed and ran his hands over the Colt. Setting it under the seat, he decided that he would try and solve this civilly first. The eight-hour drive had taken some of the fire outta him. He got out, smoothed his clothes, and ran his hands through his thinning hair. Clearing his throat, he rehearsed what he planned to say and headed toward the large, arched double-entry doors.

  Still surprised he hadn’t been greeted, he pressed the doorbell and waited. Several minutes later, he was still wondering where Dusharde’s woman was. It was seldom in the last few years that he had been seen without her. He was about to press the bell again when the door opened.

  “Well, Vernon, if this isn’t a surprise,” Dusharde said, reaching out to shake his hand.

  The grip was firm, and Vernon tried to squeeze back with equal force, but feared his sweaty palms would give him away. He clenched his gut to steel himself for the confrontation. The sugar magnate already had the upper hand.

  “Come on in. Always a pleasure to have a member of the legislature drop by, even if it is unexpected.”

  Vernon swallowed the barb, wishing he had brought the gun with him. The man was insolent, and he envisioned the red spot on Dusharde’s chest after he put a bullet in him. “Thank you.”

  Dusharde led him through the living room and down a hallway to his study. He swept his hand, indicating an expensive leather chair, and moved to the bar. “Drink? Cigar?”

  Vernon sat in the offered chair. Even before he spoke, he knew he had lost his resolve. Maybe a drink would help. “Sure. Scotch neat would be great.”

  He watched the man remove the top from a crystal decanter and pour a good three fingers into two glasses. Moving toward him, Vernon almost flinched as Dusharde handed him a glass and sat in a matching chair directly across from him. Even the setting of the room, with no table or barrier between the men, was making him uncomfortable. Knowing it was the wrong thing to do, he raised the glass and drained half of it.

  “That’s a thirty-year-old. I have it custom blended.”

  Vernon knew it was a reprimand for gulping the drink. He nodded, even though he hadn’t tasted it.

  “Well, Congressman, what can I do for you?” Dusharde asked, taking a sip of his drink.

  Vernon froze. This was not how he had planned the confrontation. “It’s about the Flowway project.”

  “Not going to work out for you the way you planned, is it?” Dusharde said, ending the question as a statement.

  He felt the man’s eyes bore through him. “Yes. But . . .”

  “Oh, I know it’s a conflict of interest. I told you to put it in an offshore corporation.” He paused. “But you didn’t take my advice, did you?”

  In a few simple sentences, Dusharde had turned the conversation to his advantage, and he felt like a schoolboy in front of the principal. “I’m a member of the Florida Legislature,” he said, trying to sound like his position carried authority.

  “And a corrupt one who wasn’t very smart.”

  Wade had already resigned himself to taking a loss on the investment. He wanted out of here, but he couldn’t leave under these terms. “You can buy it.”

  Dusharde Sugar held over fifty thousand acres that abutted his pro
perty. The land was arable, where his own was not, and he regretted the decision to buy the cheaper acreage. “I have stockholders counting on me to make a profit,” he said.

  Wade was about to counter that they had made enough already. He couldn’t even comprehend the numbers. Desperation set in. “I’ll give you my vote if you buy me out.” If he had the gun, he would have shot him. Instead he drained the glass.

  “And why would I do that?” He sipped his drink and gave Wade a cold stare over the glass. “Face it. You’re damaged goods. Back in the day, your constituency empathized with you. Y’all were one and the same. They had your back. Now, with all those big-city types moved in, things have changed. The old-timers might have overlooked some of your obvious flaws. They made their fortunes selling cow pastures to the yuppies, now they’re done with you too. Maybe it’s time to step down.”

  Wade knew his life would be over if he lost his seat. No one needed another washed-up career politician with no marketable skills. His only hope was as a lobbyist, and he needed Dusharde to help him. He stared at his empty glass and took his last stab. “Would you give me a job if I did?”

  Dusharde’s silence was a prelude to the answer he knew was coming and, for the second time, he wished he had brought the gun in with him. Before Dusharde could answer, he heard activity outside the door. Both men turned to look, and he thought he saw a ghost covered in blue paint enter.

  “Ms. Woodson?”

  24

  Mac knew the only way out was to first descend to the bottom of the silo. Squinting up into the dripping water, he couldn’t see any way to climb out. His grip was already failing, and he could feel his muscles start to cramp. After being exposed to the weather for fifty years and weakened by the inevitable rust, the frayed cable tore his hands. Releasing one hand, he pulled his T-shirt over his head, then switched hands and pulled the shirt off. Wrapping each hand in a section of the material, he placed the cable around his waist and started to belay himself down the rocket.

  With his feet against the rocket casing, he lowered himself one hand at a time, being careful to arrest any slide before it happened. The farther he descended, the cooler the air became, but the humidity increased in the damp, enclosed space, and sweat soon coated the wire, making it harder to grip. His forearms were tense and his hands were failing fast. Suddenly he stopped, seized by another cramp. There was no way he could continue, and he looked down into the dark hole, seeing nothing to indicate the descent was over.

  A sharp staccato thunderclap echoed in the chamber and the rocket vibrated. Lightning illuminated the chamber, and water started cascading around him as the storm increased. The added moisture only made his situation worse and he felt his right hand slip. But just as it did, another flash of lightning illuminated the bottom of the silo, revealing water below, and it was closer than he thought. He would have to trust his instincts. The rain blinded him when he looked up, and the dark hole refused to yield its secrets when he looked down. Closing his eyes, he released his grip on the wire enough to allow himself to slide freely. There was no way to stop the descent now, and he bent his knees and braced himself for the impact he knew was coming.

  His feet hit the water first, followed by the rest of his body. He dropped below the surface, knowing that the storm had saved his life. A second later, his feet found purchase on the hard bottom, and he used his legs to spring back to the stale air. It took several seconds before his head reached the surface, and from his diving experience he was able to estimate the water was about twenty feet deep.

  Treading water, he gasped for air and closed his eyes, trying to acclimate them to the darkness. The bottom of the silo was pitch-dark. His only recollection of his surroundings was the outline of the concrete walls and rocket, briefly illuminated during the lightning strikes. Water still poured in around him, but the thunder was rolling now, and the lightning strikes were becoming less frequent.

  Just as he thought the storm was fading, a loud crack of thunder boomed and lightning illuminated the chamber, though not as brightly as before. Taking the opportunity to survey his predicament, he studied his surroundings, finding nothing but the rocket and about five feet of water surrounding it. He swam around the circumference, feeling for anything that might aid him, but the metal casing was smooth. Another boom, briefer and quieter than before, shook the rocket and the sky flashed. The light briefly reached the bottom of the silo, giving him another chance to look around.

  Something floated on the surface, undulating like a snake, and he reversed his path. Another flash of light showed it for what it was—near the concrete wall was a section of yellow nylon rope. The silo fell into darkness again, and he swam toward where he thought he had seen it. His hand touched the cold, wet concrete, but there was nothing there. He shivered and knew his situation was worsening. Not only was he tired, but he was getting cold. The sky brightened again and he saw the line just out of his reach. This time, his hand found it and he pulled.

  The flow of water decreased to a tolerable drip now that the storm had moved on, allowing him to look up again. Using his feet to tread water, he coiled the line around his forearm, counting three feet for every full turn. For what he intended, he had to do some quick math. Knowing the rocket was about twenty feet in diameter, he multiplied it by three, not able to do the full pi calculation in his head. The circumference should be around seventy feet, to which he added in a generous allowance for error. He estimated he would need almost a hundred feet to reach around it. He was up to thirty turns, just short, when the line pulled taut. Yanking, hoping for a few more valuable feet, he felt a hard tug and knew he had reached the end.

  Before trying to retrieve it, he swam the line around the rocket, tying a quick overhand dropper knot when he reached the beginning. Relieved there was enough line to circle the rocket, he still needed to free the end. Breathing in for a count of eight, he held the breath for two counts and released it under pressure, purging his lungs of carbon dioxide and enriching them with oxygen in the process. Half a dozen times, he followed the breath pattern he used for free diving and, after inhaling the last breath, he used the line to pull himself below the surface of the water.

  Hand over hand, he descended, clearing the pressure from his ears several times, until he reached the end of the line. Feeling around, unable to see in the ink-black water, he worked the knot. His lungs started to burn and, unable to free the line, he surfaced. Rather than one extended dive that would tax his already drained resources, he decided to do several shorter ones. As soon as his head broke through, he repeated the breathing pattern. It took four efforts to untangle the knot, and when he finally did, he brought the end to the surface.

  Able to use the line tied around the rocket to support himself, he rested. It would be a long way up. The rain had stopped, but the rocket was wet and slippery. He slid his hands under the loop and placed his feet against the metal casing. Using his hips, like a lineman climbing a telephone pole, he thrust the line upward, gaining a few inches, and started walking up the rocket. It was hard working with that much line, but the combination of the nylon material and the smooth casing offered little resistance, and he was able to slide the rig up several feet at a time. He was out of the water now, and he started to gain traction. With every few baby steps upward, he had to stop and shimmy the line higher on the cylinder, but it was working. The position was not uncomfortable, and he was able to rest along the way.

  It became brighter as he rose and he became more optimistic. He continued and soon reached the climbing rope used to set the explosives. Tying it onto the nylon line, he started walking sideways around the rocket. The first charge was only a few feet away, and he looked at it, wondering what to do. It was one thing to reach it, another to disable it. As he got closer, he saw it was not the simple C4 explosive and remote detonator he expected. From his years of underwater salvage and construction, he had a thorough knowledge of demolitions, and what he was looking at was not something you saw every day. The tamp
er-proof charge was mounted to the steel casing with a powerful magnet. Simple enough, but he knew he would be unable to remove it without tools.

  With the rope secured to the nylon line wrapped around the rocket, he had the additional security of being connected to the surface, allowing him to take his time and study the casing, detonation, and trigger mechanism. He tried to dislodge it, but soon realized that there was simply no way to remove or disable the charge without blowing the rocket.

  Defeated, he continued his climb and focused on what he needed to do next. He knew the trail led to Clewiston, which he guessed was several hours away by car. With the boat it would take him twice that, if he could even find a route through the tangle of canals and channels of the Everglades. The northern area was more agricultural and much drier than the protected Southern Glades, and he suspected he would have to abandon the boat.

  He was close to the surface now. Squinting in the sunlight streaming in through the open ceiling, he could see steam rising from the pavement above him and he started to miss the coolness of the silo. With one hand on the surface, he paused and pulled himself over the edge. He rose and took in his surroundings. The sun was low on the horizon, and he realized the climb, which he guessed had taken only an hour, had cost the entire afternoon.

  Releasing the line, he ran through the puddles toward the canal, hoping the boat was still there. For the first time today, his luck was with him and he saw it about a hundred yards away, jammed into a small side channel. Taking one last look around the abandoned facility, he saw no other means of transportation. It would have to be the boat for now, and he jumped into the water and swam toward the dive ladder mounted on the transom. Climbing aboard, he saw the keys still in the ignition where he had left them. The engine started and he waited for the electronics to find his position. The screen showed him in a light green area, but, without his phone, he didn’t trust the random blue lines on the GPS. The navigation chip was for the ocean and only vaguely showed the inland waterways.