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 Jeep 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.”
“Finch doesn't know about the lodge-unless he's a psychic.”
Hank dialed Chet while Winter folded the satellite picture and pushed it between the console and seat.
After Hank listened to Chet, he ended the call. “Chet's highway patrol captain has set up ‘license check' roadblocks east and west of us to seal River Road. He has EMS standing by and he's less than an hour away depending on how long it takes the chopper to gas up and get there.”
“They don't keep them fueled?”
“The first chopper had a problem. The alternative is for them to drive in, and they'd be at least that long coming by road.”
“Chopper's crucial for surprise,” Winter said. “Let's go.”
Winter and Hank got out. They opened the rear end for the shotgun and Winter's quilt-lined, water-resistant jacket. Both men wore dark baseball caps for the limited rain protection they offered. They closed the rear and
