A Hard Death (35 page)

F
rom the shadows along the shed, Jenner watched Craine take Lucy into the house. Good: he didn't like the idea of the girl being out there among those scumbags. At least she'd be safe with Craine.

He crept to the canoe; it was wooden, and much heavier than he'd expected. Or maybe it was because of the exposure—the canoe was visible from the porch, and he couldn't move it without risking being seen by someone at the farmhouse. If anyone upstairs was watching, he'd be spotted instantly.

He'd just have to hope that the rain and the gathering dark hid him.

Jenner knelt up and slowly tipped the canoe sideways, supporting it with his arms, straining to keep it from rolling and banging as the bow hit the ground. There was an audible thump; Jenner lay alongside it, sprawled on his stomach, staring up at the porch, looking for motion. He saw nothing.

Indeed, he couldn't see anyone on the porch—where were they? Were they coming for Deb and him right now?

He crawled quickly toward the water, then turned to drag the canoe. It slid slowly forward, inching toward the ramp. When the bottom of the canoe hit the concrete, the noise grew louder, a dull, sawing scrape that sounded to Jenner like it would be audible in Miami. But there was still no motion up at the farmhouse.

He squatted, lifted the bow, and walked backward to the water supporting it. This method was quieter, but he was now completely in the open, and if anyone was sitting in the shadows of the porch, he was a dead man.

When the canoe was fully in the water, Jenner tied the rope to a cleat on the dock and left the bow of the canoe to float.

Then he went to get Deb.

T
he hierarchy at the farm was preserved at dinnertime as strictly as if they were aboard the
Titanic
. Field hands ate in Bunkhouse B, the dormitory bunkhouse, while Brodie's core team ate in the farmhouse. Tonight, with Craine at the farm, Brodie's crew were eating on the porch; the meth cooks rarely left Bunkhouse A during a cook cycle.

Brodie shoved his plate of chicken aside—too fucking spicy, even without his ulcer. His crew was chatty tonight—they were always that way near a pay weekend. Bentas was cracking jokes, Smith was fake-laughing in response, and Tarver was whining.

Brodie hadn't told them they were closing the operation down—they didn't need to know yet. And not all of them would be going on to the next location.

His cell buzzed in his lap. Brodie pushed away from the table and went outside. The rain had eased; in the gloom, a low shroud of pale mist hung over the fields, floating out over the road and down past the shed to the water.

“You're being raided. You've got maybe twenty, thirty minutes.”

“Thanks for the heads-up. Who is it? How many?”

“Locals, Port Fontaine law enforcement. Maybe six, seven, led by Bartley—you were right about him. They'll be SWAT; they'll be wearing body armor.”

“That's not a problem,” Brodie said.

“Good. Blow what you can, then get out.”

“Okay.”

“If you can clean up and get out without engaging them, do it; but we don't think you'll have time. We figure Bartley will go for the money, and he'll go after you—he can't let you survive. He's leading this—take him out first.”

“Of course.”

“Are you prepared for an assault? Our information is that the county doesn't have a tactical vehicle.”

“We're all set.”

“Good. Where are we with the cook-up?”

“Bad. We'd need another day at least.”

“Forget it. We've heard the feds are on their way, too. They're mobilizing in Miami, so you have some time there. Just blow it and get out. No witnesses, no one gets taken, okay?”

“Okay.”

Brodie's bags were packed, sitting in the trunk of his car. He had cash stashed in a storage locker in Port Fontaine, hidden in neatly packed cardboard boxes filled with books, the boxes marked
LIBRARY
in Magic Marker. He'd paid to have the boxes shipped to him in Costa Rica. He was clean and ready to go.

In front of the far bunkhouse, several field hands sat drinking beer. One had a guitar, and was singing a
narcocorrido
, a ballad about the life of the drug trafficker. Brodie grinned; this night would give musicians something to sing about for years.

B
artley finished strapping on his body armor standing inside the open door of the impounded black Expedition. He pulled his lucky Saint Christopher out of his shirt, kissed it, then carefully tucked the saint down inside the Kevlar vest.

He walked back to the black Escalade parked on the bridge, and shook each man's hand in turn. The six officers—tanned, crew-cut young men in camo pants, khaki T-shirts, and modular bulletproof vests—knew the mission was exceptional. When he'd called them up, Bartley had explained that neither the captain nor the lieutenant had signed off on this: they were on their own here.

They stood by the bridge railing, looking over the low mangrove forest to the farm beyond, barely visible in the distance. The target was the farmhouse and two bunkhouses at the top of a low hill built on mud dug from the swamp to create the river. The approach would be over open ground, slightly uphill, with small outbuildings to provide cover during the attack; the approach from the north, across freshly plowed fields, was too dangerous, because it was longer and offered absolutely no cover.

Bartley gathered them into a circle around him. He looked at them gravely, then began.

“This is the real deal, people. You've trained for this, and now it's here. Forget serving warrants, forget bank robberies—that's penny ante stuff. We're moving on a well-armed force, approaching a fortified, possibly booby-trapped stronghold uphill over open ground. Resistance may be strong; we're likely to encounter automatic weapons fire. Cover will be minimal. This will be a stealth operation.

“The target is a meth lab located on a farm belonging to one of this
city's richest citizens. This man has deep ties in the community, so our chances of getting a no-knock warrant through the usual channels are pretty much zip.

“This is unacceptable. I can now tell you that this target must be penetrated emergently for two reasons: first, we have established that the individuals responsible for the murder yesterday of Detective David Rudge are presently on site. Second…” He paused and looked grimly around the circle.

“This afternoon, these same individuals took fellow DCSO deputy Tom Nash. I was able to communicate with Deputy Nash by cell phone; he is being held by these men, and is unable to move. He has informed me that his situation is becoming increasingly untenable, and asked that I gather the team and respond ASAP.”

He looked around. “I knew when I put out the alert that you'd show, and show quick. I'm proud to see just how right I was. I need you to understand that this is a commando action and, as such, it is not officially sanctioned. Anyone who wants to drop out should just do so; there will be no penalty, no retribution.”

He looked around. No one moved, no one spoke.

“However, if you're coming with us, well…it's time to get the fucking show on the fucking road…”

He held up a fist. “And let me make one last thing very clear: every worker on that farm is involved in the manufacture of pharmaceutical-grade speed. Every one of them will kill you if he sees you coming. Gentlemen, this mission is shoot-to-kill. Understand me when I tell you this: your goal is to kill these drug dealers before they kill you…”

B
rodie was relaxed. He'd been planning for this moment for some time. He'd spent the last fifteen minutes making sure he was all set. He'd spoken quietly with Smith and Bentas, and told Tarver to round up the Mexicans and move them all into Bunkhouse B and stay there with them. There was to be no argument: if they resisted, even slightly, kill one to let the others know he was serious.

It went like clockwork: less than five minutes later, he heard the sharp crack of a pistol shot from somewhere in the bunkhouses—Tarver taking care of business. Where had Tony got to?

At every operation Brodie conducted, he had a five-minute exit strategy—a simple scorched-earth policy, involving explosive, a few blasting caps, a spool or two of det cord, and the remote detonator box. Which he needed to get from the farmhouse.

He rang the bell. Craine opened the door; he appeared surprised and unhappy to find Brodie standing there.

“Mr. Craine, sorry to bother you, but we have a problem.” Leaning slightly to his right, Brodie saw the ghostly little girl sitting at the dinner table.

“What's that, Brodie?”

“Your pal Nash brought in the medical examiner and a female park ranger.”

“What?”

“He's shot the ranger. He's got them locked up down in the boat shed.”

“My God! He
shot
the ranger?” Craine looked like it was him who'd been shot.

“Yes, sir. I, uh, thought you'd want to know.”

“Why did he shoot a ranger?” He was standing at the window, staring
out. Through the thin mist, the pale shape of the Taurus was a ghost next to the shed.

Brodie said, “Mr. Craine, you'll have to ask him yourself. I'm sorry, but I'm dealing with a number of issues right now. I don't know what the hell's going on there, but it needs your urgent attention.”

“Yes, of course. You're right. I'll go down right away.”

Brodie nodded; he was thinking he should just kill Craine, just do it right now. Follow him down the hill, pop him once in the head. Come back up, send the girl somewhere safe, grab Craine's cash, and just fucking go.

He'd give anything to see the look on Craine's face when he got down to the shed to find that Tony had butchered Nash, the doc, and the cop.

“Sir, I just need to get down to the basement for a second—I need to pick up the remote detonator box.”

Craine's eyes bulged, and he stammered, “Mr. Brodie, now's not the best time. I tell you what, I'll go down there for you, bring it right back up.” He was so flustered he didn't even ask why the foreman wanted ordnance at this time of day.

“That's mighty nice of you, Mr. Craine! It's a yellow plastic box, about yay big, in the wall cupboard in the boiler room.”

Craine disappeared downstairs, leaving Brodie peering through the crack in the doorway at the girl. She was reading a book—the same Harry Potter book Tony was reading. It must be new.

He remembered his own daughter in her Brownies uniform, making some damn thing out of popsicle sticks and glue at the table in their condo in Santa Cruz. That summer, word leaked out that a boyfriend of one of the den mothers had done time for making child pornography; one Sunday in early August, the boyfriend set out for a stroll on the boardwalk and was never seen again. Not that the police looked for him very hard.

But if Brodie felt he'd done some things right, he'd screwed up in the end—you can't count yourself a good dad if your daughter's doing a fifteen-year bit for distribution of a Schedule 1 narcotic. Particularly if she was busted while she was working for you.

Well, it might be a little too little, too late, but at least tonight he'd be curing her of her Tarver problem, which counted for something. Even if she might not see it that way.

Craine's steps sounded on the stairs. Lucy straightened, then flipped the page. Brodie realized she wasn't really reading the book: she was just looking at the same page over and over again. She'd read it, turn the page, then a couple of seconds later jump back to start over again.

The girl wasn't as calm as she looked. Brodie shook his head.

When Craine handed him the yellow box, Brodie said, “A word of advice: you should probably think of getting the little girl out of here soon. Word is, we may be raided. And the feds have started poking around.”

Craine blanched. “When?”

“Within the hour. If I were you, I'd get out of here as soon as you've taken care of your little problem.”

Brodie nodded, said, “Evening,” then set off toward the bunkhouses at an amble, leaving Craine gaping in the doorway.

D
eb draped her arm over Jenner's shoulder, and together they moved quickly down the bank to the dock. It was dark now, and the mist that had settled over the swamp was thick enough that he didn't think they could be spotted from the farmhouse. It took them less than a minute to get down to the water.

The canoe was gone.

As he got closer, Jenner saw the canoe was there, just half-submerged. The back of the boat had sunk underneath, and now only the rim of the bow stuck above the surface, like a cup in a sink full of water. Either the canoe had already been leaky, or he'd damaged it when he dragged it down to the river.

It didn't matter which—the thing was fucked.

Deb looked at the Go-Devil swamp boat and at the airboat, then back up at the farmhouse. She looked pale and felt heavier on his shoulder.

She saw a shadow in the mist, and whispered, “Jenner—there's someone coming.”

Whoever it was would go to the shed first, and there was nowhere to hide there. He whispered urgently, “Into the water…”

He guided Deb down the bank, and on into the black river, pressing her close to the foundered canoe so she had something to hold on to. He led her deeper and deeper into the channel, trying to support her.

She was tough. Every step must have hurt like a bitch, but Deb never made a sound. Jenner took her deep, right to the end of the dock; he felt the kick of her feet, churning slow currents to keep her head above water, but he was still just able to stand.

He whispered, “Save your energy—hang on to me, tilt your face up. I'll help keep you up.”

Jenner held on to the wood at the end of the dock, and helped her arms around him; underwater, she wrapped her legs around his, and clung on to him tight.

It was just one man coming down the slope, Jenner saw. He was in shirtsleeves, and carried a flashlight, the light bouncing through the drizzle.

Then Jenner recognized him. He held Deb close and, putting a finger to his lips, pointed ashore and mouthed, “Craine.” She ducked her head into the hollow of his neck.

Craine stopped first at the car, shining the light into the compartment, then trying the doors. Finding them locked, he tried the trunk, swore softly when he couldn't open it, and came on down the slope to the shed.

He turned the corner and stopped in front of the open door.

Then Jenner saw his pistol, something small and dark, a Glock, maybe, or a Kahr.

Craine opened the door wider, pointing his gun into the dark interior. He pressed his back to the door, and moved slowly inside, calling out “Nash?” into the darkness.

He reached a hand in, then fished around to find the switch. The light revealed an empty shed, the floor smeared in blood.

Craine's voice was panicky now.
“Nash!”
There was no reply.

Craine came out of the shed and faced the swamp, gun raised, eyes scanning the river. He walked halfway out onto the dock and stopped. Jenner held Deb's head against his neck, pointed down; they took a breath, then slowly sank together under the water.

Jenner kept his fingers pressed to the side of the dock. He felt the vibration of Craine's footsteps as the man walked out farther, closer to them. Five seconds turned to ten, then to fifteen, and then Jenner felt Craine's footsteps again, faster now, moving away. He slowly brought Deb to the surface, held her against the rotting wood of the dock; she was crying with pain. They silently gasped at the air, breathing in as deeply and as slowly as they could.

Jenner floated out slightly to look up at the dock; Craine was in the
middle now, deciding what to do. He stared at the swamp boat and the airboat, turned to look back at the empty shed, then up at the farmhouse.

He began to run, loping up the dock to disappear into the shed. He emerged a few seconds later with a concrete block. He smashed the window of Nash's Taurus and opened the driver's-side door.

Craine rummaged around the car but didn't seem to find what he was looking for. Then he leaned under the dash, and the trunk door opened.

He walked around the back and rifled through the contents, immediately finding the garbage bags of money. With obvious dismay, he pulled out the leather bag that Jenner had eviscerated; he brushed it off for a second, then massaged it back into something approaching its original shape. Then he began to fill it with cash; he moved quickly and haphazardly, jamming the last wad of money into the bag. He'd almost finished when Jenner saw him pull up the white plastic laundry bag, open it to find the hundred thousand, and stuff that into the overnight bag, too. He reached into his pocket, pulled out two passports, and dropped them into the bag, then tried to zip it shut. It was too full to close; he'd have to repack it but now was not the time.

Craine hefted the bag and was about to cross the road to the field in front of the farmhouse when he saw two big black SUVs moving silently along the drive, their lights off.