“Get up,” Blake insisted as he nudged her with his foot.
“Go to hell!” she snarled.
Blake’s eyes blazed. He aimed the barrel of the Glock at her and pulled the trigger. She blinked, but the flare from the barrel burned in her mind. The resounding blast echoed through the groves.
“No!” Porter shouted from the porch before being hit by a fist belonging to the old farmer.
Lily blinked at the sky, trying to shake the bright flash from her eyes. Her cheeks burned from the sand blown into her skin. The bullet left a tiny crater in the dirt four inches from her face.
“Get up,” Blake ordered again.
Lily rolled to her side and sat up. Her father was on the porch, and she watched him release a gasp of relief. Or maybe it was regret. It still wasn’t over for her yet. They weren’t done inflicting whatever they could on the Porters.
She raised onto her knees before she stood up. Turning around, she felt like finding the source of the ringing, knowing that it was the result of the gunshot. Blake was grinning like some kid on the playground that just took her snack. Like a damned bully.
It was the same look she saw on the man that came aboard Madge. Right before Chase killed him. She bit her lip as she kicked up, aiming for his groin. Her foot was off or just not strong enough. Instead of grunting in pain, Blake swiped the Glock across her face, driving her down onto the ground.
Without a second to catch her breath, Blake began kicking her relentlessly.
“Blake!” a voice shouted from the house.
The kicking stopped. Lily balled up in pain. Fighting the tears, she groaned.
“You want to kick someone in the balls, bitch,” Blake growled, “you better know how to do it.”
Curling up tighter in the fetal position, Lily whimpered.
Blake reached down and grabbed her arm and hoisted her to her feet. Half pushing her, he guided her back to the porch.
Her tongue tasted copper as it slipped across her busted lips. The cut on her bottom lip was swelling, and the side of her head throbbed from a direct kick to the head.
“You have a lot of courage,” Joe Loggins noted as Lily stepped back onto the porch.
Her father was resting on his knees. The old farmer stood behind the other man, who had a pistol in his hand hanging limply to his side. His left hand rested on her father’s shoulder.
“Please let us go,” Lily begged.
“Miss Porter,” Loggins began, sounding like one of her English teachers who was about to correct her, “it seems the time for that has come and gone. I was going to revel in watching Travis, here, squirm while we take our time making you suffer.”
Lily gathered a mixture of saliva and blood before spitting it at Loggins’ face. She didn’t care anymore.
“Just kill me already, asshole!” she snapped.
Blake drove his hand down on her, sending her to the deck of the porch. Loggins removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the spittle off his cheek.
“I think we can arrange that now,” Loggins offered. He looked over at Caleb. “Turn on the breaker. We’re going for a little walk.”
Travis Porter’s head lifted toward Lily. Tears streamed down his apologetic face.
32
The sound of the glass breaking carried across the grove. It took me a second to find the source.
“Run!” I heard someone shout, and a figure dashed across the grassy field toward the swamp.
Lily.
A big man bounded after. The man in the picture with Loggins. Blake. He was fast but still lumbered. She was moving faster than him.
But she was running for a section of trees on the other side of the main driveway–at least 600 yards from my location. I started to rise from the overgrowth that I had nestled into. Before I could move, Lily vanished into the trees. Her pursuer was only a few seconds behind her. I needed to get to them unseen, and soon if I was going to help her.
The gunshot echoed against the house. I stopped to assess the situation. Who was shooting? Four men came out onto the front porch of the large house. One was almost leaning; no, he was being held up by another man. Travis Porter. From here, he looked weak.
Lily emerged from the trees with Blake, behind her, shoving her to the ground. My feet started moving, and I clung onto the edge of the trees so that I could see them and stay out of sight.
The man whipped a gun toward Lily, lying on the ground, and fired. My .45 snapped up. My face boiled as rage came over me. I got this close, just to watch her get killed on the ground. The bead of the sight was lined up with the man holding the gun over Lily’s prone body.
I was still too far away. With a rifle, I could drop him, but the handgun wasn’t even close to accurate from here. And I wanted to get close. To shove the barrel of this gun into his mouth and make the bastard cry before I pulled the trigger.
I released my breath, not even aware I had been holding it, as Blake yanked her up to her feet. My muscles relaxed like one of those old toys where you pull the string, and the figure’s arms and legs tighten. Someone released the string, and I went limp. It was expected after a battle. Everything in your body prepares to go full throttle, and when the need is over, the body needs that energy to leave.
But the battle wasn’t over yet. Lily was walking back to the house. I counted four men, but Loggins could have more. There was the woman, too. She shouldn’t be discounted either.
The night was coming on fast, and I wanted to get closer. The windows in the house were shining with light, and I could make out everyone still standing on the porch. If I’d brought Jay with me, or even just the M40 rifle I had in a locker at the marina, I’d solve this problem with four quick shots. I wasn’t as good a sniper as Jay, but I was deadly enough.
There was no M40; just my Colt and eight rounds. As long as there were only four, I could spare a couple extra.
One of the men walked off the porch. A path through the grove lighted up as the farmer from the barn walked around the house. On the opposite side of the house, the swamp began to glow. The light escaped the trees in patches, giving off an eerie sci-fi glow.
The men were urging the Porters toward the swamp. Travis Porter was stumbling along with Lily supporting him.
The pit of my stomach tightened. Time had run out for the Porters. They were heading away from me, toward what had to be one of the creepiest sights I’d seen. The time to worry about cameras was over.
I sprinted out of the trees, making a dash for the grove. The shadows of the trees could hide me. The lamps that brightened the path would work to my advantage.
The human eye is a remarkable organ; it has the ability to adjust and focus without thought. My night vision had high acuity. Between hours of sailing at night, trying to distinguish objects on the horizon, and a fair share of night raids during my time overseas, I had gotten used to trusting my vision at night.
Unfortunately, bright light can send human optics in a tailspin. Put a person in a dark room for a few minutes, and they can soon feel comfortable moving around. Hit that same person with 10,000 lumens, and they would be able to see less than when the lights first went out. The eye needs time to adjust, and the constant dark to light will skew it.
The men with the Porters were using the light. Anything not in the light was going to be invisible. That was going to be me.
Two more men came out of the house. Pressing myself into the shadows, I watched them: young, muscular, and obviously former military. More Rangers, I assumed. They didn’t start after the group. Instead, they seemed to survey the grove. Almost as if they were looking for me specifically.
A camera could have caught me as I came across the grass toward the rows of trees. It didn’t seem likely, but nonetheless, I waited. After about half a minute, one of them turned and went back inside.
The night air was coming alive with the songs of crickets and other night bugs. There was no moon yet, leaving plenty of black stretches between the beams of light. I s
naked a path between the trees, keeping an eye on the porch. The lookout was staring off toward the clearing to the south, where the driveway curved between the cypress trees.
No matter what happened in the swamp, the two men in the house would have to be dealt with. The debate in my head was whether to neutralize them first or later. With the fate of Lily and Travis hanging in the balance, the strategic move was to avoid them at all costs. Handle them if the need arose.
Besides, I still only had eight bullets. If the woman got involved, then I was looking at seven combatants. I wouldn’t have many to spare. That would have to be a bridge I burned when I got there.
The man on the porch disappeared. Not wasting a moment, I picked up my pace to double time. The Colt M45 was extended in my hand as I reached the tree line. Whoever developed this farm took the only viable land in the middle of a swamp.
The swamp on the north side was somehow bigger. It was all perception. The water was deeper because it was closer to the lake. The only way forward was through the water. In the dark. No way to even try to distinguish the eyes from the sticks.
The lights illuminating the swamp were attached to trees and some poles alongside a wooden boardwalk that meandered through the cypress. It would have been a lovely attraction through the primitive wetland if it weren’t dark. The murders that were about to take place also seemed to hinder the ambiance.
Wading through the thigh-deep water, I stayed on the edge of the light, hoping that the lights scared anything with teeth bigger than mine away. The mud swallowed my feet with each step. The sucking sound gasped every time I lifted my foot, and I was worried it would give me away.
The group was stopped about 200 feet away. They were standing next to a railing. Any closer and the sucking sound of the mud would certainly be noticeable. Lifting my head over the boardwalk, I studied the group. Loggins was obviously the oldest of the group. He stuck out in chinos and a blue button-down shirt. Not exactly murder-people-in-the-swamp attire. He was fit but gym fit. The man never spent a minute getting his hands dirty.
On the other hand, the farmer was thin and in his 50s. He had the musculature of decades of labor. He was tossing 40-to-50 pound bags in the barn earlier with ease. It was what Jay once referred to as “old man strength.” Strong from life and experience. An underestimated ability. He seemed at ease in the swamp. If anything, the lights made him less comfortable. An apex hunter quality. I imagined that he might have spent some time hunting the gators that I was worried about. Maybe to him, it was like seeing a big buck back home.
The other two were the hired muscle. Blake was in charge; he had a sense of seniority; the other was keeping the Porters corralled. He was the only one with a firearm in his hand. I wouldn’t discount the farmer, either. At the least, he had a little .22 to pop at snakes around the grove. Loggins, I was willing to bet, didn’t have a gun. He wasn’t going to be a fighter.
The boardwalk had been just a bridge built across the water. Cut lumber laid side by side over timbers anchored into the muck. But the railing where the group stood was different. There was wire between the deck of the boardwalk and the top of the handrail. Sturdy cow fencing. The kind designed to keep cattle inside. There weren’t any cows here.
Pulling myself onto the boardwalk, I stayed low. Three large cypress trees rose from the water between the group and me. I had about six feet before the boardwalk twisted, and there was no cover.
Inhaling slowly, I raised the .45 into a firing position. One of the things that the Marines beat into my head was accuracy. If pressed, I could fire four shots with a pretty tight degree of accuracy. Even with Lily and Travis in the mix, I was confident of my aim at this distance.
The farmer’s head snapped in my direction. He seemed to be looking right at me despite the shadows of the three big trees swallowing me. Remaining motionless, I waited for his attention to turn. He held his gaze just short of 20 seconds. When his eyes turned back toward Joe Loggins, I made my move.
Lifting the gun, I stepped out of the shadows. The sight of the M45 was pinned on the Ranger standing guard over Lily.
“Don’t move!” I barked.
The single gun in the group wasn’t aimed at either of the hostages. If he flinched in that direction, I could drop him.
Blake extended his fingers with the universal signal telling him to wait.
“You must be Gordon,” Loggins announced.
The barrel of my Colt was level and steady. “Let’s get to introductions after this asshole tosses his gun into the water.”
Loggins maintained eye contact with me as he gave a short nod to Blake, who in turn signaled the gunman to disarm. When I heard the pistol hit the water, I widened my focus.
Shifting my gaze toward Loggins, I spoke aloud, “Lily, bring your father this way.”
She had a sense of relief on her face. Her arm wrapped around her father, and she started moving him toward me. A loud splash came from the other side of the railing. Shooting a glance over the edge, I saw a pile of alligators. My eyes cut back to the group as I swallowed. It was very clear what the cow fencing was keeping in and what Loggins planned to do with the Porters.
Lily and Travis Porter were shuffling past Blake when I realized that the farmer was no longer on the boardwalk.
“Oh, shit,” I cursed under my breath as my eyes scanned the darkness. He must have used the distraction of the alligators to vanish into the night.
The click of the hammer cocking back resounded from the dark.
“Get down!” I shouted as I spun toward the black swamp.
A half a second later, all hell broke loose.
33
Time is a fickle thing. When I was a kid, everything took forever. As an adult, January to December feels like about three months. In the midst of battle, time comes to a screeching halt. Firefights that last three to four minutes feel like an eternity. Adrenaline seems to stick its finger against the second hand.
The sound was all-too-familiar, a click in the darkness outside of the light. Warning alarms rang in my head. Time stopped. Lily and Travis were between Blake and me, moving at a snail’s pace. The hammer was back.
“Move!” a voice in my head shouted.
My knees buckled, and I rolled back, twisting my wrist toward the sound. Two quick shots went into the shadows. Wasted shots, but maybe they sent the farmer scrambling away.
Blake grabbed Lily and wrenched her back as he pulled out a 9 mm. He didn’t have any more time to aim than I did. The muzzle flare was muted by the bright lights. The bullet shook the walkway as it embedded itself into the boardwalk. My barrel roll carried me into the dark water. It wasn’t deep, maybe three feet. My shoulder hit the silty muck. Blake fired again, but I was already scrambling under the boardwalk.
“Kill him!” Loggins howled as if Blake was just toying with me.
Belly crawling forward through a slime made up of algae-covered mud and decay, I wanted to get under the group. The flash from the old farmer’s gun lit up the dark, and without the glare of the artificial lights blinding me, I could make out his shadow. With more precision, I hit him just above his right pectoral muscle. The shadow twisted and splashed out of sight.
Blake fired into the walkway. The pressure-treated two by eights were shielding me so far. The 9 mm would put a round through a person, but the two inches of wood filled with chemicals had withstood the onslaught of the Florida wetlands. No doubt, he had a soft load. Probably a hollow point. He would want the most damage to flesh. But a hollow point tends to flatten when it strikes its target.
None of that made me feel a lot better as wood splinters peppered the surface of the water on either side of me.
The barrage stopped for a split second. The time it would take him to drop an empty magazine and replace it with a new one. Most people take at least two to three seconds to release and drop the spent magazine and snap a fresh one in its place. A trained Army Ranger could do that in half the time. In an ideal situation, I could reload a ma
gazine in a second and a half.
Rolling right, I used that second to come up and fire. My aim was off by a few inches. In my defense, I was shooting upwards while still twisting through the muck. The round caught Blake in the chin.
My load wasn’t hollow points. They were .45 mm of hard lead that came to a point. The round didn’t flatten when it hit his chin. Had that happened, Blake might have suffered the rest of his life with the lower half of his face gone. Every meal he would have for the rest of his life would have been through a straw.
Instead, the bullet didn’t slow. It shattered his jaw and severed his tongue. The metal projectile proceeded through the soft tissue at the back of his mouth, drilling a hole through the Ranger’s cerebellum before punching through the top part of his occipital bone.
The second Ranger lifted Lily over the railing. My feet kicked to push me out from under the boardwalk, but by the time I got the shot, I couldn’t pull the trigger. I could drop the man with a single shot. I still had three bullets in the magazine and one in the chamber. If I hit him, he would drop Lily, who he was balancing on the top rail, into the pit where a hoard of alligators was ready to devour her.
“Don’t do it, Gordon!” Loggins shouted.
I stared at the man holding Lily. “You drop her, and your corpse will be feeding them next.”
The man glanced at Loggins, who held a hand out to try and calm everyone down. Gripping onto the illusion that he was in complete control, he urged his men to remain calm.
“Mr. Gordon, I think we can call this a draw,” he spoke with diligence, letting each consonant’s sound strike hard where it needed to. Something he learned somewhere–a technique to maintain a level of discipline and mark himself as the dominating force.
“Joe,” I snipped. “I need you to understand the situation we are in at this moment.”
Loggins cocked his head; his hands were still extended with the palms toward me.
“If your man does anything,” I continued, “I’ll put a bullet in the back of his skull. The next one will go right between your eyes. That’ll leave me two more for the men you left at the house. At that point, I’ll probably just beat the woman to death. Just for the hell of it.”
Dark Cay Page 19
