Acts Of Nature Part 11

Electricity was still a memory two days after Simone rolled through. Even the concrete poles were leaning like a team of tug-of-war combatants, pulling lines that had yet to snap. Many of their wooden brothers had lost it at the waist, sheared off and splintered at their middle, broken marionettes tangled in their own string. City and county road crews had shoved most of the large branches and debris off to the side of the major highways, but any side street was a maze like those games the kids used to draw while they waited for food at Denny's: get the farmer to market without being stopped!

Harmon had already steered around a hundred broken roof tiles lying in the streets of his own neighborhood, had driven up into some guy's yard to get around a forty-foot ficus tree that completely spanned two-lane Royal Palm Drive, and slipped between the crossing arms at the FEC railroad tracks at Dixie Highway, which were halfway down, their ends sheared off but still waving in the wind.

He stopped again at the intersection of Commercial and Powerline Roads and watched the headlamps of six vehicles slide through, cutting him out of his turn until he was forced to inch out and physically stop cross traffic before they'd defer to him.

"Go back to Brooklyn," he whispered under his breath.

When he finally got to the airfield, the early sunrise was backlighting a dozen lumps of dark plane wreckage, twisted angles and barely discernible fin shapes. He shook his head at the number of tumbled aircraft that had been strapped down out on the tarmac for lack of an indoor hangar to park them. Some appeared to have simply folded in on themselves, fuselages crushed in the middle like broken spines. Others sat upright but their wings were missing, picked off and discarded like a mean kid might do to a giant dragonfly. There was little activity on the south side of the airfield so Harmon broke all normal driving rules and made a beeline across the tarmac to the Fleet Company hangar. He could see Squires's Jeep sitting next to the open bay doors, and before he got to park, his partner and another big man appeared, moving slowly out of the huge building and putting their backs into the task of wheeling a helicopter onto the airfield. Harmon pulled up next to the black Wrangler and sorted through his ops bag; let them do the heavy work, he wasn't in the mood for heavy work today.

Again he checked off the list in his head as he touched each item in his bag. He stopped at the frequency transmitter. He'd used them before to electronically restart the power systems on ocean oil rigs. You needed lights to land and the frequency could switch them on and unlock doors before you even touched down. And then his fingers settled on the slick skin of a brick of incendiary C-4 explosive.

This was not standard equipment in the states and the order to take it along was unnerving to Harmon. In domestic work he and Squires were a security team, not a demolition unit. Yeah, they might have had to muscle some rig workers in the past. And yeah, they did have to entice the manager of one gas operation to confess to his paper swindling with the help of a gun muzzle pressed to his forehead. But the idea of blowing up and melting infrastructure on home soil was a new twist for Harmon. He knew ATF guys. He knew how good their bomb investigators were. If they were put on the site after a suspicious explosion they were bound to find something.

But Crandall's instructions had been pretty clear. He was the boss. "If the place looks compromised, like anyone has been on the site and might expose its purpose or existence, fire it off the planet."

The orders had set Harmon's senses buzzing. There was something here unknown to him and that always got him going. What was going on inside the United States that the company would be willing to take a chance and incinerate a site? Won't know until I get there, he had finally determined. But you bet I'm not blowing anything until I know what I'm blowing. Harmon zipped up the bag and got out, locked the doors of his Crown Victoria, and crossed over to where the men were loading the aircraft.

"Morning, chief," Squires said to him. They shook hands as usual, and as usual Harmon visually checked his partner's eyes for broken blood vessels and dilated pupils or any other sign that might indicate he was not completely sober or was too hungover to perform his duty, which basically was to protect Harmon's a.s.s. And as usual, Squires showed absolutely no sign of impairment. The man was a physical wonder work. He was dressed in his black cargo pants and a black T-s.h.i.+rt, a plain baseball cap on his head that only seemed odd because of the absence of a logo. He looked like a SWAT team member and you wouldn't be far off to describe him as such. Harmon on the other hand had refused to revert back to a time of what he sometimes called his ill- spent youth. He had dressed that morning in a pair of blue jeans and a knit polo s.h.i.+rt, same as always. The night before he had fueled the generator system of his home and started the emergency power system. His was the only house on his block that had shown light through its windows after dusk. He had kissed his wife this morning on the cheek when he left. He'd told her that he would be home before nightfall. She always knew that his promise was contingent on many factors, factors she never bothered to ask about. She had been with him for many years. She was his wife when he was still in the military and still bore his children. When he got out and started working clandestine missions she knew too what his nature was and that it would never change. There was a need inside him, maybe a pride in doing what he did and what he considered to be his only talent and calling. She knew. But they did not speak of it. It seemed as though both of them were more comfortable in the guise that he was a simple businessman off to work on unusual but routine projects. Her response that morning was the same as it had always been: come back safe.

"This here is Fred Rae. He'll be your captain today," Squires started with that singsong delivery every flight attendant has memorized. "Please stow all your carry-on luggage in the bins above or in the s.p.a.ce provided under your seat. As we will have a full flight today..."

The chopper pilot took Harmon's hand but was looking past his shoulder at Squires with a quizzical look.

"Don't mind him," Harmon said. "He loves the smell of napalm in the morning."

An accepting smile crossed the guy's face. He shook his head slightly and turned to continue his preflight check. Harmon and Squires huddled.

"OK, sarge," Squires started, always pulling out the military speak when he was moving on an operation. "We got any objective here or you going to continue to keep that to yourself until we get dropped in on this mystery zone?"

Harmon, looked at this partner. Always a hard guy to keep anything from.

"Dropped in?" he said.

"I saw the fast rope bags already loaded in the air frame."

"Yeah? Well, all we have is a quick turnaround. Crandall's orders are to fly out to these coordinates in the near Everglades, some kind of a research facility, zip down to the station because there's no place to land the chopper. Then we check out any damage the storm might have done, make sure it can be powered up by the remote, take some pictures, and then call back the chopper to lift us out. Few hours, tops."

Squires let the info roll around in his head, maybe comparing it with earlier a.s.signments, maybe with the memories in his head of ops in his vast military background. He pursed his lips. Nodded his head.

"I f.u.c.king smell something, chief," he finally said. "And it ain't kosher."

Harmon looked away. His partner was already suspicious and he hadn't even mentioned the C-4.

"You don't even know what kosher means, Squires," Harmon finally replied, picking up his bag and hefting it into the helicopter.

"Means illegal."

"Like we haven't done that before?"

Squires fixed a nonjudgmental gaze on him.

"Not this close to home."

On the pilot's signal both men climbed up into the c.o.c.kpit, Squires riding shotgun in the rear seat, and they clamped radio headsets over their ears as the whine of the single engine slowly increased and the blades began spinning to action. There were no other active aircraft on the field that Squires could see. When they started to rise in the gray sky they swung immediately to the west, the rising sun at their backs and below the most obvious destruction of the now finished storm was in the dumped airplanes and scattered trash of trees and the patchy scabs of rooftops where orange barrel tiles had been stripped away. A hangar near the end of the runway was caved in, as if it had been chopped at the middle of its roof peak by the edge of a giant hand.

"Mr. Rae," Harmon said into the mouthpiece, his voice sounding with an electronic crackle, "can we travel at a higher alt.i.tude, please. I really don't need to see this all again."

TWENTY-FIVE.

I had willed myself to stay awake, aided by the buzz of mosquitoes and the self-appointed task of keeping them from landing for a blood feast on Sherry's skin. On the other side of the room it was Marcus whose turn it was to sit watch. He was in the wooden, straight-back chair, the iPod wires flowing out of his ears and the shotgun lying across his thighs. On occasion he would start bobbing his head to a tune I couldn't hear and close his eyes but I had to hand it to both boys: whether it was fear of what Buck might do if he found them asleep or if they were simply used to a late-night existence, neither of them nodded out. Whenever the sound of animal movement, or of a sc.r.a.ping across the floor by me or their napping crewmates, both sentries' reactions were swift and fully alert. So much for sneaking out the blade strapped on my ankle and easing over to cut someone's throat and gain control of that gun. It only happens in the movies that way. In real life I would have to wait for a mistake, a surprise that might come from an outside source, a prayer answered from someplace else.

Long ago I had dribbled the last of the canned peach juice into Sherry's mouth and with the back of my hand felt the heat coming off her forehead and neck. I conceded that my ability to gauge might be diminished, but I convinced myself that the fever had gone down with the liquids and the food. She had opened her eyes several times, though it was hard to read how reactive they were in the dim light of the Coleman lantern.

I was also trying to gauge what time it was, waiting for the sunrise. With the knife strapped to my calf I'd got more than I could have hoped for. I could cut the bindings on my ankles quickly enough. Then I'd hold the blade with my insteps and slice through the tape on my wrists with a single stroke. Then it would be hand-to-hand combat against three-at least two of them armed and who knows what the other kid brought back with him from the airboat. I'd spent most of the silent night flexing my fingers, keeping up the blood flow and working the scenes in my head, how I would move, the advantage of my height and length, the possibilities of when, but not where. I couldn't wait any longer. I'd have to take my chances here, in this small room where their movement would be confined. I'd need the shotgun first. It was a vicious thing at close range, but in this tight s.p.a.ce the shot pattern wouldn't have time to spread out. Whatever it hit would be a shredded mess. The exact timing, though, was impossible to plan. I'd need to wait for sunrise because even if we were lucky, even if I neutralized all three, there was no way I could find the airboat in the dark. That was my reasoning, but I was still asking myself why they had waited this long. They could have blown a hole in a window of the other room with mat shotgun alone and men torn their way through me internal skin. Even if Buck had convinced himself that the room was filled with narcotics, wouldn't he have taken a chance of unloading it at night with flashlights rather than wait until morning when they'd be operating in the open? Maybe they'd grown c.o.c.ky, working out here where they knew the territory, where they knew the water routes and the range of boats and sounds of intruders. Maybe they thought they were invincible.

My own head work was draining my energy. It had to be close to sunup. I closed my eyes and might have even dozed off because when I woke, all my planning of the night before went down the tubes. Circ.u.mstances out of my control forced my hand, and like every good special op gone funky, you sometimes do best by saying "f.u.c.k it" and adapting on me fly.

From the reaction, all of us heard me sound of the chopper blades at the same time.

My eyes snapped open; my fingers, numb from the loss of blood and movement, had that tingling sensation in them that makes you want to yelp, then they almost involuntarily went down to my pant leg where the knife was hidden.

Across the room the kid, Marcus, stood up with the shotgun, the wooden legs of the chair sc.r.a.ping across the plank floor. When I focused, Buck had changed positions from when I last checked him. He had been sleeping, stretched out next to the lamp, but was now sitting with his back against the wall, eyes fixed on the light. Wayne just rolled over on one elbow and said: "Huh?"

"It's a helicopter," Buck said. His voice not anxious or even surprised. "Small one by the sound."

Marcus moved toward the door and his buddy quickly got to one knee and, uneasily, still unsteady from sleep, followed him. I was thinking, "Now! While they're distracted," but when I glanced back to Buck he was pointing the .45 directly at me.

"That's all right, officer," he said. "Don't bother getting up; we'll check it out."

The boys stopped at the door, Marcus now with his hand on the k.n.o.b.

"Cops, you think?" he said back at Buck, who was now on his feet. He did not have to shake the stiffness out of his joints. He was moving sleekly, like a cat that had already stretched.

"Maybe a rescue chopper," Wayne tossed in. "You know, hurricane relief stuff."

"And maybe the f.u.c.king dope dealers just swinging by to see if their stash is still here or blown over h.e.l.l's half acre by the storm," Buck said, approaching the door and causing Marcus to pull his hand back away from the k.n.o.b. He then turned to me, showing the nose of the pistol. "Or maybe the boy is right, Officer Freeman. Maybe you got some friends out there after all."

No one moved for a handful of seconds, listening to the woofing sound of the blades, the volume increasing and then slightly beginning to fade.

"Well, boys. That's his first pa.s.s," Buck said. "Let's wait while he goes out to bank a turn back around and then go eyeball 'em."

They waited ten more seconds and then Buck nudged Marcus, and the boy opened the door, letting the other two out first. His mistake.

"You watch Freeman," I heard Buck say. "And stay the h.e.l.l under the overhang." I then heard the thumping of footsteps on the deck, maybe a splash of someone jumping into the water. Marcus stood just outside, his hand wrapped around the door keeping it half open as he peered out. I was thinking I'd lost my chance at the shotgun, but would I even need it? If it was a police chopper, Buck and his crew might run. If it was rescue, maybe they'd wave it off. I listened to the aircraft sounds start to build again, coming back. Marcus looked inside to check on me and his face was anxious but void of any new recognition. The chopper now sounded like it was hovering and the kid stepped out again, pulling the door nearly closed with him. I couldn't afford to hesitate again.

I pulled my pants leg up and secured the knife taped to my calf, and in a quick and silent slice I freed my ankles. Without hesitation I then squeezed the handle between my boot soles, looped my wrists over the blade, and pulled through once. The edge was so sharp it flowed through the tape like paper. I rolled to my knees, eyes on the door, and stood, but that tingle, that electric shock of muscles gone to sleep and suddenly called upon, zinged through my right leg and it buckled. I went down to one knee but the fall was not nearly as startling as the sound of blaring music that jumped alive from the next room and then the electronic beep and metal clack of the computerized door lock snapping open.

I was stunned for a second by the opening beat and chords of Bob Seger's "Feel Like a Number" but before the first stanza I was up out of the blocks like a sprinter toward the outside door.

Marcus too must have been frozen by the sounds and whatever the h.e.l.l he was seeing outside because his hand did not start to move from the door. I was a step away and when the light between the jamb and the door started to widen I threw my body weight into it, trapping the four fingers I had watched in disgust as they trailed down Sherry's b.r.e.a.s.t.s. I heard the kid scream in pain and felt him push back at me, and instinctively I took one hard-lunging swipe downward with my knife.

The door closed flush with the jamb, my shoulder against it, and with my right foot I dragged over the crowbar that Buck had used to lock me in and kicked its edge under the door and pinned it. Only then did I rest my back against the panel and look down to see four fingers, sliced off at the second joint, lying like droppings on the floor next to me.

Now I wasn't flying on a plan but on adrenaline. I went first to Sherry and saw her twisting onto her side, struggling against her trapped hands. But just above her head on the wall I also saw the lights on the electronic door lock glowing green. Something had tripped the power, like a driver hitting the garage door opener with the remote halfway up the driveway. I figured someone from the chopper had the switch so I twisted the handle and shoved open the door with my hip and was met with a rush of the high volume music: Dat! da dat! da dat!, da da daaaa. Dat! da dat! da dat!, da da daaaa. Dat! da dat! da dat!, da da daaaa. Dat! da dat! da dat!, da da daaaa.

I take my card and I stand in line To make a buck I work overtime

I put my bloodstained knife into my back pocket and grabbed the ends of Sherry's bed frame. I sc.r.a.ped the legs over and then with my back into it like a rower I pulled her through the door opening and into the computer room. Then I jumped back to the door and slammed it shut and punched a series of numbers I will never remember into the locking device, and like a miracle the lights on the lock went red.

In the closed room the music was twice as loud. Something about another drone, something about feeling like a number. I remembered the CD player on the southern wall and strode over to it but it took me one more stanza to find the off b.u.t.ton, and the room went quiet.

I pulled my knife again and sat down on the edge of Sherry's bed and cut loose her wrists and ankles. Then without hesitation I laid my head down on her chest. I was listening to her heart, yes, but it was not my only purpose and she responded by wrapping her freed arms around my shoulders and holding me with the little power she had left.

TWENTY-SIX.

Harmon looked at the GPS in his hand and then down at what seemed like a thousand acres of trampled backyard wallowing in standing water and said: "Take her down. I think we're here."

The helicopter pilot looked to his right to see if the look on Harmon's face meant he was serious and Harmon simply looked back and shrugged his shoulders. The pilot was told by whomever hired him to follow Harmon's instructions and don't ask questions. They were less than an hour northwest of the city and had left all civilization behind when they flew over U.S. 27, the demarcation line where South Florida changes from rows and rows of orange-tiled roofs to the gray-green world of the Everglades.

As the chopper descended, the landscape only became slightly more defined. Now they could see that those darker green blobs below were actually stands of trees. The slate- colored patches were open water, reflecting the color of the sky. And the brownish smears were acres of sawgra.s.s beaten down at the moment by the path of the storm. Harmon pointed to a kidney-shaped island that looked more and more like a pile of pickup sticks as they got closer. Soon they could make out tall trees snapped off at their tops and vegetation and debris at their base so thick it was difficult to discern anything more. They came in lower and then from the backseat Squires called out: "Structure at eight o'clock." The pilot swung his head down and to the left. Harmon was on the blind side.

"Bank a turn and get as low as you can," Harmon said, climbing out of his seat and squeezing into the back with his partner. While they swung around, Harmon and Squires readied the fast ropes, tying them to U-bolts secured into the floor of the chopper. Harmon slid open a side door and looked out.

"Eleven o'clock," he said into the microphone. "See it?"

"Yeah, I got it," the pilot said. "I'll get you over that decking at the rear."

"Nice armpit they got for us to visit this time," Squires said. "I'm not picking up any movement but that don't mean a thing considering that ground cover. s.h.i.+t, somebody coulda parked a f.u.c.king yacht in there and you wouldn't spot it." The big man took the Mk23 handgun out of his operations bag and strapped it to his thigh.

When they were thirty feet over the dark wooded deck both men slung their packs over their shoulders and put their feet out on the landing runners.

"I'll call on the satellite phone for a pickup," Harmon said to the pilot and by turn, Squires first, they rappelled like circus artists down the ropes.

"f.u.c.k! They are cops," Buck said when he saw the first man slide down the rope and touch down on the deck. The guy unsnapped his line and had a nasty-looking handgun out faster than Buck had seen most men flick a switchblade. He was dressed all in black, like some G.o.dd.a.m.n SWAT dude who meant business. Then the second guy came down.

"What the h.e.l.l?" he whispered to himself. This one was dressed like he was going to baseball game: a pair of jeans and a golf s.h.i.+rt and some kinda loose jacket flapping in the wind. He landed just as softly as the other one but as far as Buck could tell he wasn't armed.

Buck was now waist-deep in the water and obscured by a clump of fern and downed tree branches. When they first slipped out of the cabin he eyeballed the helicopter, expecting to see a rescue decal on its belly or at least a Sheriff's Office logo. Instead it was unmarked. From his angle he couldn't even see the identification numbers and he had to a.s.sume it was a private chopper. Dope dealers? Owners?

Then he and the boy both slipped down into the water, using the deck as cover. When the chopper door opened and a couple of ropes came tumbling out, he'd ordered Wayne to take the shotgun around to the other side of the cabin so they could flank whoever came down, just as they'd done to Freeman. When the first man slid down he saw the SWAT getup and thought cops. Now he didn't know what the h.e.l.l was going on, but the gun in the SWAT guy's hand jacked up the situation and he kept the stolen .45 up and ready. He just hoped Wayne could see that the dude in black was armed.

Buck stayed down, out of sight, and when the helicopter pulled up and the sound faded the place went silent again. Buck was quietly working the possibilities. If they go through the door and confront Marcus and find Freeman and his partner, what the h.e.l.l happens? Maybe he should make a break for the airboat now, let the boys fend for themselves. Maybe he should wait, take a chance on these guys opening the other side of the place. He knew drugs were inside. A huge score. A once-in-a-lifetime score. A score just like his daddy couldn't resist. If he made this work he would ride off in the sunset to Hendry County where he belonged, workin' the open range, no more penny-ante burglaries and dodging the cops. How can you walk away? Buck watched the two men bending their heads together, talking softly, and then the one in black started moving east toward the door. No, thought Buck, this has been thought out. No turning back now.

Suddenly a scream ripped through the humid air that raised the hair on the back of Buck's neck and dropped his jaw at the same instant. The sound was filled with more surprise and pain than Buck had ever heard even in the concrete halls of Avon Park prison and his reaction was the same as when he was inside: his legs started moving, as if you could run away from such terror even in an eight-by-ten cell.

He moved to his left, out away from his cover, his eyes focused on the men who both seemed to have been frozen by the shattering cry. Then he saw Wayne; he'd come up out of the swamp at the sound of his friend's scream and was up on the deck, running with the shotgun held foolishly at port arms. Water was dripping off his s.h.i.+rt and pants legs and there was a look of anguish on the kid's face as his mouth formed the word "Marcus!" and he slid around the corner into full view of the helicopter men.

The barrel of Wayne's shotgun never even made it to point when the SWAT man spun with his handgun at the ready and fired twice. A spray of blood instantly mixed with the droplets of water flying off the kid's chest and two blossoms of red bloomed on his upper chest as he went down. The shotgun clattered forward across the wooden planks and came to a sudden stop under the foot of the man with the jacket. The other one was still in a military firing position, both hands steadying his handgun and then, as if he'd seen him all along, the big man s.h.i.+fted the sights of the weapon onto Buck, who was thirty feet away in the swamp, his feet still, his eyes trying to decipher what had just happened.

"Don't move, a.s.shole!" the SWAT guy said, and then started moving down the deck, stepping then sliding, shuffling his feet, keeping a stance and a balance as if he'd been trained and did this kind of thing every day: drop out of the sky, shoot a kid in the chest.

Buck had his hands up in response to the man's pointed gun. He still held the .45, now high and over his head, pointing at the still-lightening sky. The man was nearly even with him when, back behind all of them, Buck saw Marcus come out from around the east corner. The kid was bent half over, his right arm extended out in front of him, the end looking like a b.l.o.o.d.y stump. The boy's face, though, was up, and in his eyes were an odd look of shock and a plea for help.

"Jesus," the jacket man said and the tone of his voice and maybe the look on Buck's face caused the SWAT guy to turn his head. And that's when Buck shot the big man in the back, the .45 roaring.

The second shot hit SWAT man as he spun, entering his face just below the cheekbone and at an upward angle exiting at his sideburn, the big caliber round removing his ear at the same time. The third shot dropped him to his knees, where he melted in a heap.

Buck did not like guns, never had. But that did not mean he was inept at their use.

After the third recoil he swung the sights back down the deck to where jacket man was. This one had been unarmed when he arrived but now he had the over-and-under twelve- gauge shotgun in one hand and b.l.o.o.d.y Marcus in the other. He had the kid's neck in a hold and had positioned him as a s.h.i.+eld. He seemed fixed that way, his knee down on one of the bags they'd dropped, holding the kid, figuring he was protection of some kind. Buck held the .45 on them both as he climbed out of the swamp and onto the deck. He seemed incredibly calm as he stepped over Wayne's crumpled body. The kid was whimpering and seemed to be shrinking by the minute, gone fetal, folding up on himself, like a balloon leaking air. Buck stopped short of the SWAT man's body and did not look down at it. Somewhere in the background he thought he heard music. But his eyes were on jacket man's eyes.

"Well, sir," Buck said, reverting back to what he thought of as southern charm even if it was now heavily bloodstained. Still, sometimes just the feel of the words in his own mouth made him calm, calculating. "I ain't sure who you are, mister. But it appears we are in what they call a Mexican standoff."

Jacket man said nothing, his finger poised on the trigger of the shotgun. Buck slid his eyes away from the gun and looked at the boy. The kid was still alive but from this distance Buck could now see that most of Marcus's fingers on his right hand were gone, sheared off at the joints, the stubs all bleeding heavily and dripping onto his s.h.i.+rt. He did not feel any sympathy. Yes, they had an almost familial connection, most of the real Gladesmen from the Ten Thousand Islands did. But it wasn't enough in these modern times. The world had gone small. People b.u.mpin' up into people now that they would never have known even existed before. People grabbin' for what they considered their share. Buck had seen men turn on their own before over greed. He'd seen white supremacists s.h.i.+v one another in prison. He'd seen black gang members rape other blacks. If he had to put a .45 round through the kid to take out the man behind him, he would.

"But what you don't realize, sir," Buck continued, "is that there is a still a cop and his partner inside that there storage bin of yours. Now I'm sure you don't want him or her surviving to let on about your stash of cocaine or pot or meth or whatever the h.e.l.l it is you got in there. And considering we're two armed against them unarmed, maybe we could come to some kind of a share and share alike understanding?"