The Last Operation (The Remnants of War Series, Book 1)

by Patrick Astre

  * * *

  Later that night, about twenty miles from Everglades City, into the Big Cypress swamp, a single light burned inside an island of thick Red Mangroves. The light came from the solitary window of a nearly invisible cabin built among the big trunks rising out of the water. No utility lines reached the little cabin and Bobby-Ray's airboat was a murky shadow, tied outside, in the circle of dim light. A small muffled Honda generator hummed and powered the electric light above the table as he worked.

  The amulet was held fast in a small vice while Bobby-Ray guided a modeling saw about as big as a large fountain pen with a dime-size blade rotating at ultra high speed. The whining noise from the tiny saw abruptly ended as he finished cutting a quarter inch edge from the amulet.

  The X-ray had shown the hardened plastic amulet was hollow with a barely visible shadow holding precise circular edges too regular to be plastic explosives. He removed it from the vice and noted the slight opening revealed by the cut away edge. He wedged a thin screwdriver inside and twisted. The upper part of the amulet came off with a little popping noise, exposing the object inside. He removed it and turned it over, slow and careful.

  It was a Compact Disc, the new kind, about the size of a quarter and not much thicker than a hair, so thin it was almost translucent.

  Bobby-Ray had never been much for school. He'd had enough to get him by and didn't want any more, thank you. But he did grow up in the age of Radio Shack, electronic gadgets and computers. That was one thing he'd taken to very well and provided the only incongruous part of his cluttered remote bachelor pad: The latest, state of the art, most powerful computer and peripherals that Dell manufactured, all hooked up to wireless internet.

  He went to the computer, inserted the small CD in the drive and turned on the machine.

  * * *

  Daniels was up early the next morning and spent the day catching up on business via the internet and his satellite up links. There were overseas accounts and investments and contacts to check for whatever assignments he would choose to accept next. He ran a series of continuous demanding projects that gobbled up money like a hungry giant.

  Carlos caught up on the numerous maintenance chores that continuously popped up in the corrosive atmosphere of the Everglades. As the evening drew near, both men stopped working while Carlos prepared dinner. Afterward, they went out on the makeshift patio to await nightfall.

  Chapter 20

  His name was Spirit Wolf and he came into Daniel's base moments before the deep shadows of twilight changed to blackness. He must have glided in between the big mangroves, and didn't set off the motion detectors. He appeared like a leaf riding a breeze. Daniels could never figure out how he did that. Lots of things you couldn't figure out when it came to Spirit Wolf. It was said he was part Calusa, the original tribe inhabiting the Everglades, long ago killed off by the Spaniards and English, and part Seminole. Tall with ropy muscles like strands of twisted steel, people feared him like they feared shadows in the night. He sat on Daniels' porch, the lines in his brown face dancing in the flickering light of the Coleman lantern.

  Daniels sat next to him amid the croaking chirping noises of the swamp. Something splashed nearby and a screech sounded just a little further. The nightly dance of predator and prey had begun. Carlos appeared with a bottle of Jim Beam. He sat on a carved log across from Daniels and Spirit Wolf, tucking his short legs under him. He took a swig from the Jim Beam, exhaled with a whistling sound and passed the bottle to Daniels. When it was passed to Spirit Wolf, he seemed to contemplate it like a priest about to use it for a benediction. He took a swallow and let a long moment pass before he spoke.

  "There is a rhythm, a heartbeat to the woods and the water," he paused, then continued, his voice rough as gravel in a cement mixer. "Something is out there that doesn't belong."

  Spirit Wolf had once told Daniels the power of Elohino, Mother Earth, was channeled in places like the Everglades. If you opened yourself, you could feel its wild pulse and begin to understand the raw energy of its soul.

  It is said that a man can only hope to know one thing well. But to know it completely and intimately like a lover without secrets. Spirit Wolf knew the Everglades. Daniels felt the hair on the nape of his neck tremble. It was as if an absolutely trustworthy source had told him his house was haunted.

  "Es verdad," its true, said Carlos, "the last few days, like I feel something, something different out there."

  Amidst the chattering crickets and tree frogs, something burst into flight from the darkness of the mangrove branches. Spirit Wolf turned his face to Daniels, the eyes impassive and glittering.

  "Deeno did not come back," said Spirit Wolf. "They arrested him in Everglades City."

  Daniels was stunned. As he held Spirit Wolf's gaze, untold questions passed between them. How could Deeno be arrested? Afflicted with Down Syndrome, nature had compensated the young man. Deeno was the gentlest soul Daniels had ever met. His spirit touched everyone like a clean white light. Daniels knew why Spirit Wolf had come, the Indian would handle whatever he thought was prowling the great swamp. But he, Daniels, would have to help Deeno.

  As Carlos listened in silence, the usual smile had gone from his broad face. He seemed to look at a distant point in the night as he spoke.

  "Whoever the Maricone was who arrested Deeno, he must be one truly evil bastard."

  "Lots of evil bastards out there Carlos," replied Daniels. "We'll get him back first thing tomorrow morning."

  Chapter 21

  Carlos and Richard Daniels left the next morning before sunrise in Daniels' seaplane. It was just past eight when Albatross landed on the canal behind Billy's Marina in Everglades City. Daniels tied the plane to a pontoon, lashing it tight against the rising breeze, the muscles of his arms wiry and taunt against the tanned skin.

  He rented a shed at the Marina where he kept his specially equipped Camry and a Jeep. He'd previously sent Carlos to ask around, get as much information as possible on Deeno's arrest.

  Everglades City boasts its own small police force: One Chief Constable and six deputies. It was just nine and already the heat rose in curling waves from the pavement when Richard Daniels parked the Camry and walked into the small police station.

  An old air conditioning unit emitted blasts of cold air along with wheezing and clunking noises ignored by the sole deputy sitting at the low front desk. The place smelled of motor oil and dust. The deputy looked up from the Hustler magazine held in his beefy hands. He was big with muscles that would soon turn to fat and small eyes topped by a severe crew cut.

  "Well, well, if it ain't the hero, just what the hell would you want around here?" said the deputy.

  "I want to know who the asshole is who arrested Deeno, and why?"

  "You mean your little retard friend?"

  Daniels placed both hands flat on the desk, leaning forward until his head was level with the deputy. A bead of sweat appeared on the officer's lip in the cool air of the room. Something passed from Daniels' eyes, something cold, hard and primeval.

  "Hey don't get your skirts in an uproar," said the deputy. "We didn't do nothing with the retard, he was...."

  Deputy Schmus' voice trailed off under the granite-steady gaze. Daniels placed both hands flat on the desk and leaned forward until his eyes were a few inches away. The deputy could read death in those eyes and he stuttered slightly as Daniels looked at him like he was a steaming turd covered with flies on a summer day.

  "Godamn it Richard, what the hell are you doing to my deputy," said Chief Constable Donald "Hent" Hentley, his voice loud as he entered the stillness of the room.

  "Oh not much, Hent," said Daniels, "we were just going to have a discussion on sensitivity and how a police officer should address the handicapped. Isn't that right Deputy Schmus?"

  Schmus shook his head as if he was coming out of a trance. He pushed the chair back from the desk and it caught the edge of the carpet and almost tipped over as the deputy stood to keep from falling.
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  "Uh, he was, uhm, asking about Deeno. He don't have a right, I don't think he's got a right..."

  "Of course he's got a right. He's the kid's legal guardian."

  Shaking his head, Hentley motioned Daniels into his tiny office.

  "You're going to have to do something about that man Hent. Someday he's going to cause you a serious problem," said Daniels.

  The constable grunted, still shaking his head.

  "So what's with Deeno, Hent. What do you know about that?"

  The constable frowned, scratched his forehead and seemed to focus on a spot on his desk before looking up at Daniels.

  "Strangest goddamned thing I ever seen Richard. I don't know what's going on or what to make of it. Everybody knows the kid's not capable of committing any crimes."

  "Who arrested him and what's he accused of?"

  "Three federal agents came in Tuesday with Deeno. They had arrested him on charges of carrying firearms across state lines. The kid doesn't understand what's going on. He can't figure out why he ain't going back home in his boat. Oh they treat him nice enough, no handcuffs or anything, but he's under federal arrest nonetheless. They asked me to hold him overnight which is very goddamn strange all by itself since there's a federal detention facility about two hours away outside of Naples. Why would you bring him overnight in a backwater little holding cell like this? It's almost as if they wanted to parade him around here, you know, like let every body know they got him."

  "You mean let me know in particular."

  "Probably. You and that Indian, that Spirit Wolf guy, are the closest things he's got to a guardian or parent. First thing you ought to do is get a goddamned good lawyer to cut through this bullshit and get the kid off the hook."

  "I've already got one Hent. The best there is."

  Trouble is thought Daniels, she hasn't been exactly right since she killed her husband. Or at least since she thought she killed her husband, which amounted to the same thing as far as she was concerned.

  Chapter 22

  It took the rest of the day for Daniels to drive to Naples and locate his lawyer. On the way over he couldn't help thinking about the circumstances that had brought her to her current state of mind.

  A few years ago Kate's law firm had hired Daniels to guard one of their clients under indictment and fly him to Miami. It was believed he might turn witness against the drug crew he had worked for. Information was put out that he would stay the night with Kate and her husband at their house on Marcos Island. In the morning Kate was supposed to drive him to Everglades City where Daniels would fly him to Miami. Instead, shortly after dark, Daniels rowed an inflatable Avon to the canal behind the house, picked up their guest, rowed back to the seaplane anchored outside the canal and delivered him to Miami before daybreak.

  At eight thirty that morning, Kate's husband decided to use her car. The explosion destroyed the garage and half the house. Kate was unhurt, physically, but she never got over the guilt. Her life consisted of bursts of intense legal work punctuated by morose bouts of drinking.

  He found her in a rundown waterfront gin mill, sitting at a cracked plastic table facing the beach. She had dark circles under her eyes and strands of blonde hair fell across her forehead. Crushed potato chips, empty wrappers and seagull droppings littered the surface of the table. Two empty martini glasses stood on either end like sentries.

  He sat next to her.

  "Hey," he said.

  She looked straight out at the Gulf and didn't respond. He waited. Finally she turned her head and looked at him. Her eyes glistened with a reddish tinge that didn't come from the alcohol alone.

  "Kate, I need your help."

  "You got a death wish, or something?" she said, swigging down the last few drops of a Bud Light.

  "C'mon, Kate. There's no better lawyer around than you, everybody knows that."

  She shrugged and didn't reply. He paid the tab and led her out. Neither said a word until they got into Daniels' car heading toward downtown Naples.

  "You look like ten pounds of shit, Kate."

  "Up yours, Richard, you really know how to flatter a girl, you know that?"

  Even as she was now, Daniels found her one of the most attractive women he knew. In her early thirties, Daniels thought she resembled a tough Jamie Lee Curtis, attitude and all.

  Daniels stopped for Chinese take out and drove to her condo overlooking the beach in Naples's exclusive oceanfront. She showered and changed into a blue Nikes warm-up suit. Daniels thought she looked good with light make up and her hair still wet like corn silk and morning dew.

  They ate in silence, out of the containers, watching the sunset over the Gulf of Mexico. When they were done, she brought out two Coronas with slivers of lime in the necks and iced mugs.

  "I'm sorry Richard. I was a bitch. I should have thanked you."

  "Never too late you know."

  She gave Daniels one of her sudden and rare smile, her face bright before the shadows returned.

  Daniels told her everything he knew about Deeno's arrest. Frowning, she filled a yellow legal pad with notes. She spent the next hour and a half calling people she knew, DA's, Federal Prosecutors, clerks at Federal and County lock ups, she knew them all. Only Kate could get away with calling these people in the late evening Daniels thought.

  "There's something thoroughly screwed up here," Kate said. "First, I know this kid, I'd just as soon believe the Pope sodomized a camel then that boy did any of the things they accused him of. Funny thing is none of the people I talked to believe it either. Second none of the procedures were followed. It's like something very high is pulling strings to get this boy under a Federal indictment. Third, and this is the strangest, they don't have a chance of winning. It's like they don't give a shit. They just want to put him away for a few days. It doesn't add up, but I'll guarantee you one thing: I'll have Deeno out in forty eight hours."

  Daniels had been trying for hours to get Carlos but his cell phone went unanswered. It was just before midnight when he gave up and sat next to Kate on her balcony. A soft breeze was blowing in from the Gulf, rich with the tang of the sea and the flowering Bougainvillea.

  Daniels put his hand on her shoulder, feeling her warmth through the nylon jacket.

  "Kate, you've got to let it go. It's time. It was never your fault."

  She stood so still Daniels could barely see her lips move. Her eyes glittered in the shadows of her face.

  "It's sweet of you to say that Richard, but you know it's not true. Bob had been begging me for years to give up the practice, the defense of these dangerous people. God knows we had enough money. In the end, he paid and I'm still here."

  * * *

  Daniels slept on the couch and left before sunrise after trying to call Carlos once more. He took Highway Four, heading toward Route 29. It was just a few moments after sunrise when a Ford sedan passed him. Dark blue with small hubcaps and twin antennas, it had the smell of government about it. It cut in front of him and slowed so Daniels was forced to downshift. Behind him, a duplicate of the first sedan rapidly closed in until it was no more than three yards from Daniel's rear bumper. In his rear view mirror Daniels saw the driver and recognized the fat man from the Blue Heron parking lot and his bandaged right hand.

  The sedan in front had now slowed to thirty-five. The passenger waved to the side of the road. No red flashers, no ID. Screw you thought Daniels.

  Like any good businessman, Richard Daniels plowed back a lot of the money made in his various enterprises toward new and improved equipment. The Camry was no ordinary off-the-rack car. The engine had been reworked by a top NASCAR mechanic, the suspension customized so it could be dropped from a bridge and drive away straight as an arrow. The coachwork had bullet proof and blast resistant panels and glass, and tires specially designed by an anti-kidnapping security firm. They would keep rolling after numerous hits.

  Daniels pulled into the right lane, slowing as if he was going to stop. He was parallel to an entrance ram
p, separated by a few feet of grass strip until it merged into Daniels' lane. He flipped the steering wheel to the right in a sudden violent movement while jamming the gas pedal to the floor. The ferocious acceleration combined with the special tires and suspension barely kept the car from flipping as it rocketed the wrong way into the on ramp. Half off the lane on the left side, he barely squeezed by a Peterbilt eighteen-wheeler, its horn blowing a continuous angry blast. The leading Ford had been unable to react quickly enough and missed the ramp. The second Ford barely followed Daniels but could not get out of the way of the eighteen-wheeler. The big truck hit the Ford in the rear quarter sending it spinning into the grass divider, half on the median half on the divider, Daniels shot by a couple of startled retirees in a Buick, finally getting off the on ramp.

  He took a series of local side roads all the way up to Route 29. Morning had given way to the pounding heat of midday when Daniels reached Everglades City. He turned into the road paralleling the canal to Billy's Marina. Billy was waiting in his old pick up on the side of the road, just out of sight of the Marina.

  Billy was a long retired Boston cop with white hair and a face like a brown prune reflecting many years under the South Florida sun. Daniels had floated him a couple of loans, enabling Billy to keep the Marina in spite of his drinking habits.

  "You got some problems Richard. I don't know what to make of it," said Billy, leaning into the open window of the Camry with a wispy hint of bourbon.

  "What's going on Billy?"

  "Some Government types impounded your plane, man. Ain't nothing I could do. If they was local I could have gotten a handle on what's going on. They got a Federal court order from some judge up in Baltimore, but I don't think its Albatross they want, I think it's you."