an excuse?”
Franklin? Was he a mind reader?
Frank’s voice came on the line. “Mike.”
“How are you doing, Frank?”
“Not so good.”
“What do you mean, not so good?”
“I think the FBI is onto us.”
“Calm down. What makes you think the FBI could possibly know anything about what we’re doing?”
“I think…I think they’re watching me.”
“You’re paranoid.”
“Someone followed Grace home last weekend, from Tallahassee.”
“From the church?”
“What does it matter where she was? Jesus! You need to come down here. We need to have an emergency meeting.”
“I can’t come now. I’m in the middle of—”
“Right now, Mike. I’m this close to calling my lawyer and seeing what kind of a deal I can get.”
“For Christ’s sake, man, get a grip! No one can prove anything.”
“For all I know they’re tapping us right now.”
“This is a secure line, remember?”
“It’s time to pull the plug.”
“Well, we’re going to need to talk about—”
“You need to come down here, Mike.”
“No can do, Franklin.”
“There’s a jet waiting for you.”
“I thought you sold your jet.”
“Netjets. You’d better be on that plane, or you just might be the last man standing. If you’re not here by five p.m., I’m calling my lawyer. And we’re going to throw you to the wolves.”
“Frank—”
“Be on the plane, Mike. If you aren’t, if you aren’t here at Indigo by five p.m., you can kiss your ass goodbye.”
He hung up.
Mike looked at the phone in his hand. He had never heard Franklin Haddox talk that way.
He had no illusions. Frank meant every word he said. He was probably speed-dialing his lawyer right now.
Mike thought maybe he
Unfortunately, both of Whitbread’s jets were already in Florida, one in Tallahassee, the other at a private airfield near Port St. Joe. They would stay there until early tomorrow morning. The jets were on standby. They would be used to get his teams out of harm’s way as soon as possible.
Both operations were scheduled for the small hours of the morning. Ultimately, it would be up to the teams when to go in and what resources they would use to complete the mission. He didn’t want to second-guess them. But now Mike was worried.
Clearly, Frank had some kind of sixth sense. Like a cockroach, scuttling out of the light just before you bring down your shoe.
Eight hundred miles away, Frank breathed in and out, trying not to hyperventilate. He’d taken the big step— no going back now. Mike Cardamone was ruthless. If he hadn’t been coming for them before, he was coming for them now.
Frank had enjoyed playing him like a fish on the line. But now it was over, it wasn’t so much fun anymore.
Frank looked at Salter. “You’re sure all your men are in place?”
“We’ve got them positioned on the island and on San Blas, but you’d never know they were here.”
“Because I’m telling you, this guy doesn’t fool around.”
“See that fishing boat out there?”
Frank nodded. He felt queasy.
“Our best snipers are on that boat. So, do you think it worked?”
“It worked,” Frank said.
“How do you know?”
“I just know.” He looked down at the phone tucked into his palm. His hand was shaking.
Landry said, “Tell me everything you know about Mike Cardamone.”
“W-what do you mean?”
“His attitude toward warfare. Would he send someone after you or come himself?”
Frank thought about it. Finally, he said, “He’s pretty hands-on. He was in special forces, and he’s always boasting about that. He…he has a cruel streak.”
Special Agent Salter nodded. Smiled. “Good,” he said.
46
Landry left Indigo shortly after Frank finished his call to Cardamone. He told no one he was going. He made only one quick side trip, to the boat. The dock was so wide you could drive on it.
He’d chosen the maid’s sedan, a seventies-era Pontiac, for the spacious trunk. He needed every bit of it.
Before leaving, Landry had laid it all out for Frank. Landry told him he would be nearby, concealed, watching and waiting along with his team for the first sight of Mike Cardamone. He told Frank that Cardamone would be coming in the early hours of the morning with his team. Frank believed him. Frank was not to answer the phone if Cardamone called—anything else he said might make the man suspicious. The AG was to sit tight and wait, stay with his routine. Play a round of golf, have lunch, work in his office—but stay on the island. As long as he remained at Indigo, he would be under the FBI’s protection.
Landry didn’t completely trust him, but it was the best he could do. He had more important business to attend to, and there was no choice in the matter.
Landry drove seventy miles out of his way to Llewellyn, Alabama, a town with little to recommend itself except for a bank, a smattering of small businesses, a Sonic, and a gun shop. He had lunch at the Sonic, enjoying the old-fashioned car-hop experience, then drove two doors down to the gun shop set back from the road.
A yellow plastic sign stood out on the grass, the stick-on letters proclaiming, “CHUCK’S GUNS AND BAIT – Ammo All Kinds – Smith & Wesson Special Ask Within – We Have Wigglers.” Behind the grimy store window, backed by a sun-faded panorama of a woodsy fishing scene, rifles and handguns shared space with an umbrella stand holding cane fishing poles.
Landry had to duck to get through the door. Chuck’s was small inside, too, like a sod house on the prairie. The owner sat on a stool behind the cash register. Late fifties, Harley cap, ponytail, a complexion like the deli meat mortadella.
“Good day, sir.”
Landry nodded toward the window. “You know you misspelled wigglers?”
“Wigglers?”
“On the sign. There’s an ‘r’ in it. After the ‘w.’”
He thought about it. “That don’t sound right. If it was, it’d be pronounced ‘rigglers.’”
Landry removed the packet from his hunting vest and laid it on the glass counter.
“And what is that, sir?”
Landry undid the flap and laid out three thousand dollars in cash.
