by Mark Romang
Tubbs looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. “The courthouse is closed at this hour, Mr. Laskey. Heck, the judge may have even skipped town with the rest of the evacuees. Who’s going to issue the warrants?”
Laskey shrugged. The sheriff made a valid point. But they still needed the warrants. Any evidence gathered without a warrant would be inadmissible in a court of law. Agents Crawford and Cooper had carried both kinds of warrants when they began their hunt for the kidnappers. But other than a search warrant for Henri Boudreaux’s residence, Laskey only carried arrest warrants for Sebastian and Jean-Paul. And that wasn’t going to cut it.
They could always use the “knock and talk” method, but if the person inside doesn’t want to talk; they would need a search warrant. “Well, sheriff, I suggest you find somebody at the courthouse who has the authority to issue the warrants. I don’t care if it’s the frigging janitor. Just get me the warrants!”
A wide-eyed Tubbs nodded his head. “I’ll do my best, Mr. Laskey. Which residence do you want to search next?”
Laskey reached under his slicker and removed a list of names. He handed the list to Tubbs. “Luc Boudreaux is the next name on my list.”
“Tell you what, Mr. Laskey, if you have room in the boat for one more man, take Deputy Starks with you. He can be your guide. I’ll take one of your men back with me to see if we can rouse the judge. Then I’ll have my other deputy bring your man back to Luc’s place with the warrants.”
Exhausted and soaking wet from the unrelenting downpour, Laskey forced his overstressed brain to mull over the sheriff’s proposal. It seemed like a practical plan, a simple one that could be easily executed without too much sweat involved.
Laskey hated giving up one of his men, but couldn’t think of any alternatives as good as the sheriff’s. “Okay, I guess we’ll do that,” he told Tubbs. Laskey looked around for Palmer Hawkins. He spotted the agent canvassing for evidence about forty yards away. Laskey placed two fingers in his mouth and whistled shrilly.
Hawkins looked up and saw his boss waving him over. He stopped searching for evidence and slogged across spongy ground toward Laskey. Mud oozed up over the agent’s shoes as he walked. “What’s up, Newt?” Hawkins asked from behind a cloak of raindrops dripping off the brim of his FBI-emblazoned ball cap.
“I want you to go back to town with Sheriff Tubbs to get search warrants. When you have them, a deputy will bring you back,” Laskey explained.
“Dang, Newt. I was just starting to have fun, and now you have to crash my party,” Hawkins complained.
“There will be plenty of fun waiting for you when you get back. Now get going.”
“Okay, I’ll do what I have to. Just save me a seat for the show,” Hawkins said as he walked off towards Lester Tubbs’ moored boat, the sheriff’s own Ranger Bass Boat.
Laskey watched Tubbs and Hawkins climb into the boat. He suddenly shivered as a premonition chilled his bone marrow. A vision of Annie Crawford blinked sporadically in his mind like lightning flashes.
The phantasm took place deep in the swamp. In it a sniper lined up the crosshairs of his riflescope on Annie’s head, his finger poised and ready to break the trigger slack. Annie remained oblivious to the danger reeling her in. Too late, the trigger broke, and Laskey saw an orange plume erupt from the sniper rifle. A heavy-grain bullet spiraled cleanly through the muzzle flash and traveled on a flat trajectory toward Annie. Seeing the assassination unfold in graphic clarity nauseated him. He opened his mouth to scream a warning, but the insistent tugging on his right arm interrupted him. Snapping out of his trance, Laskey turned toward Otis Grant. The agent wore a concerned look.
“Are you okay, Newt? You checked out on me there for a minute,” Grant said.
Laskey nodded his head. “Go get Brubaker and meet the deputy and me back at the boat,” he said shakily. “It’s time we moved on.”
Chapter 16
Burning through the liquid blackness, the tiny light could be seen for several hundred yards. The luminescence came from a flickering propane lantern mounted on the bow transom of Jon Rafter’s johnboat.
“Turn off the lantern, Annie. We don’t want to telegraph our arrival,” Rafter grumbled. Never in his life had he been so dog-tired. The wearisome boat ride had taken a toll on his body. His tailbone ached from sitting on an unforgiving wood plank, and the constant rolling motion from the swift-moving floodwater stiffened his back like a starched shirt collar.
Rafter glanced up at the depressing sky. The deluge showed no signs of letting up anytime soon. The rain fell with gusto at ever-changing geometric angles. Midnight had long since passed, and a bleak pall of wetness eclipsed the approaching dawn, painting the sky a polluted shade of grayish-black.
The trip into the Basin took them to hell and back several times. They were beyond lucky to have made it this far without suffering a mishap. The trouble they experienced earlier with the outboard motor had indeed been due to an empty fuel tank. Fortunately, he always kept a spare fuel jug on board. And the funnel cloud descending in their direction had touched down for only a few harmless seconds before lifting back into the clouds. Even so, they were again running low on gas. To conserve gas, he used a trolling motor to propel them toward their showdown with the Boudreauxs.
Now as the fishing shack neared, reality set in. He knew Annie would soon have to decide how they were going to rescue Gabby, if in fact she was inside the structure.
From past experience, he knew two options existed. First, they could try and negotiate with the Boudreauxs. Negotiating is always the safest tack to pursue. Violence rarely erupts when both sides are communicating. The second option is a rescue attempt, which is only used as a last resort when all communication has broken down, and the hostage-taker is considered a threat to himself and the hostage.
The legality factor overrode this second option. When he searched Annie’s clothes he didn’t come across any warrants. She may very well have had them on her person before being accosted, but not now. Not having this judicial authorization could prove problematic. Federal courts are capricious places and often adhere much too stringently to the Fourth Amendment, which protects the public from unreasonable searches and seizures. Fortunately, Annie had probable cause to make an arrest, which might just cancel out the need for a warrant.
All the same, using deadly force would most assuredly put Annie’s career in jeopardy. A botched hostage rescue amounted to career suicide, and might even bring about criminal charges, not to mention a civil lawsuit with punitive damages. But if Annie worried about gambling away her job or spending time in prison, she camouflaged it well.
Rafter admired the woman’s flinty determination. And as he had promised her earlier, allowed Annie to lead the operation.
Agent Crawford wasn’t the only one gambling on the outcome. Whether they succeeded or failed at rescuing Gabby, Rafter knew his true identity couldn’t help but surface. The news media, with their vast resources, would dig deeply to learn everything they could about him. Millions of television sets would parade his picture; law experts on cable news channels would weigh-in with their esteemed opinions, and news anchors from the three national networks would smugly tell their viewing audiences distorted claims and half-truths to make their stories more titillating.
Rafter didn’t care. He might never again have another opportunity to redeem himself. His past failure still haunted him. Even today, Samantha Delani burned hot in his mind, and he channeled all his current effort in dedication to her memory. He didn’t want to let her down for a second time. More than anything, Samantha would want Gabby to be rescued.
Rafter gently nudged the trolling motor’s tiller a few degrees to the left. A two-hundred-year-old cypress tree loomed just ahead and needed to be avoided. He’d so far managed to avoid the monstrous trees, a not so small miracle. Perhaps God navigated the dangerous waters for him. Rafter sure hoped so. They needed God to stand in their corner. They would fail miserably without his protection.
/> Rafter bowed his head. Don’t let me fail, God. I don’t want it to happen again. Please, don’t let me fail, Rafter cried under his breath over and over again.
Chapter 17
Blaine Boudreaux felt pulled in two different directions. Beneath his pale skin an epic tug-of-war ensued. He felt like both a hero and a traitor--Captain America and Benedict Arnold--all rolled up into one.
He had done everything the DEA requested, cooperated to the fullest extent possible; even put his life on the line in the process. Yet presently he felt as dirty as a Bourbon Street whore. He felt good about helping the Justice Department gather evidence against Carlos Zaplata’s heroin enterprise. But at the same time he contributed to his father’s conviction. Everyone in Copeland despised his father. But didn’t he at least deserve loyalty from his only offspring?
Blaine lifted the Remington 700 to his shoulder. He swallowed thickly and peered through the riflescope. His cheek caressed the wet stock as he lined up a center chest shot on the female FBI agent. He guessed the range at 75 yards, an easy shot a sharp-shooting kid with a BB gun could make. But these weren’t ordinary shooting conditions. 100 mile-per-hour wind gusts would undoubtedly wreak havoc with the bullet’s trajectory, as would the rain drops filling the humid air. It would be a miracle if his shots didn’t waffle harmlessly off target.
Blaine didn’t want to kill again. His stomach ached from killing Agent Cooper. And that had been self-defense, not cold-blooded murder like this would be. Cold sweat trickled down his ribs underneath his slicker. Blaine could feel his heart jack-hammering. The Johnboat closed to within sixty yards.
I can’t shoot a woman. Not like this, he determined at last. Instead, he shifted the Leupold’s crosshairs onto Jon Rafter’s chest and prepared to fire.
****
Rafter gently nudged Annie with his paddle. “This is far as we go, Annie. We’ll have to start swimming now. I don’t want anyone looking out the shack and seeing our boat.”
Annie appraised the distance to the Boudreaux hideout, as well as the swift-moving floodwater. “That’s a long swim in these conditions,” she shouted, the wind all but muting her voice. “I’m an FBI agent, not a Navy SEAL.”
Rafter reached a hand down into the rainwater collecting in the johnboat and pulled up a dripping lifejacket, the only one he carried on the boat. He handed it to her. “Maybe this will help.”
Annie took the lifejacket and buckled it on, cinching it tightly around her chest and stomach.
“Have you come up with a plan yet,” Rafter hollered as he guided the boat toward a scraggly thicket. The young trees growing amongst the brush would hide the boat and provide a temporary mooring.
“I’m kicking one around. But I need a good visual before I commit to anything,” Annie said. “But don’t worry, Jon. If we can survive a hurricane in this boat, we can do anything,” she added with a forced grin.
Annie’s white teeth glowed in the pre-dawn light and sent a small shiver down Rafter’s spine. He’d never met a woman quite like Annie. She had more grit than a can of scouring powder, yet she also had an understated grace about her that tempered the hard edges of her personality into just the right mix. In another world, and under more favorable circumstances, he would enjoy conversing with her over a gourmet meal at a classy restaurant.
But for him that world could never exist beyond his imagination. Because no matter how reinforced the cage that hemmed in his past, his former life remained but a misstep away from discovery. Eight years ago he lost his courage and chose to live a hermitic lifestyle. He turned his back on everything and everyone. Now contrition followed him everywhere. This is my penance. I brought this on myself. He was thinking these very thoughts when a 180 grain hollow-point bullet tunneled into his chest cavity. The jolting impact knocked him off-balance. He toppled backwards into the swift-moving current, his body limp as a rag doll. Surprisingly, he felt little if any pain.
Rafter felt like bees were stinging him. Disbelief and shock overrode his survival instinct as he settled deeper and deeper into the marshy water. Overhead, he thought he heard the sound of his Mercury outboard-powered boat speeding off. But the sound quickly dissipated as he descended into a state of nothingness.
He sank deeper and deeper into a soundproof, watery chamber. He could only hear his stammering heart and air bubbles whoosh overhead. Blood oozed from his chest wound. He could only move in one unalterable direction.
Down.
A liquid necropolis entombed him.
Rafter finally bumped to a stop on the sandy bottom. He stopped struggling. He’d spent all his energy and no longer felt like fighting. He accepted his sad fate without resistance, and waited for the Death Angel to appear in fins and a dive mask.
Chapter 18
The dog noticed Rafter’s disappearance first. The Newfoundland sprang from his sentinel position in the bow, leaping past Annie into the stern. Thunderous barks erupted from his broad snout as he scanned the flooded swamp for his missing owner.
Puzzled by the dog’s behavior, Annie looked back and saw the empty stern. Alarmed, she stopped bailing water and joined the dog in searching for Rafter. They had just talked a moment ago. Where could he have gone so suddenly? And then she figured it out. The cracking sound she heard only a few seconds ago came from a rifle report and not a snapping tree limb. Rafter had been shot!
Annie yanked several times on the starter cord. The antique motor hiccupped and coughed, but failed to catch. Come on. Don’t do this to me. Not now.
She wondered why the sniper took Rafter out first. Why not go straight for her?
Deep in her heart she knew the answer. With Rafter out of the way she didn’t stand a chance of making it out of the Basin alive.
Willing the motor to start, she gave the cord another mighty tug. This time the motor gurgled to life. Annie manhandled the tiller and the old boat changed direction by 90 degrees. The sharp course change sent Samson tumbling into the water. She didn’t think twice about helping the overboard pooch. Newfoundland dogs possess webbed feet and are terrific swimmers. She knew Samson would have no problem staying afloat in the floodwater.
Keeping her head low, she gunned the johnboat forward in its new direction. She didn’t know where to go. The Atchafalaya Basin looked like a foreign planet to her. She retreated instinctively, hoping blind luck would keep her from wrecking the boat. Somewhere there had to be a hiding spot where she could regroup. She fled south, directly into the wind. Billowing rain speared her face, hindering her vision. The gushing tapestry hid sky and trees.
Annie pawed at her eyes with her free hand. Paranoia scuttled up her spine as she blindly captained the boat toward an unknown refuge. At any moment she expected to feel bullets stitch her back.
But instead of hearing a rifle bark, she heard the raspy bray of personal watercrafts. She chanced a peek behind her and spotted two speeding Wave Runners emerge from behind floating deadwood. Her glum spirits sank to fathomless depths.
The mercury motor strained at its mechanical limits. It wasn’t enough. She figured the Wave Runners could easily double the johnboat’s top speed.
Annie unsnapped a buckle on her life vest and reached inside her slicker for Rafter’s Beretta. A showdown loomed as certain as the approaching sunrise. She looked back over her shoulder again. Her pursuers had already closed the gap to twenty-five yards. But she hesitated to fire. Too much distance remained between them to chance a shot. She couldn’t risk wasting ammunition. She only had the full magazine in the Beretta and one extra clip.
Annie couldn’t help but wonder if the deaths of Frank Cooper and Jon Rafter were omens. With each passing moment her karma plunged deeper into an abyss. In the past few hours good people had died around her. Eventually it would be her turn.
Shrugging off the negative thoughts, she turned her attention to the task at hand. At all costs she had to somehow lose the PWCs.
She steered the johnboat down a narrow canal formed by bulrushes. The bulrushe
s swayed in the stiff wind like cracking whips. Cocking her head, Annie listened carefully for the bombastic roar of the Wave Runners. In between thunderclaps she could just make them out. They hadn’t fallen for her simple chicanery. They still charged after her.
Her dread surged when she heard the johnboat’s motor briefly cut out. Oh, great. Its running low on fuel again, she thought. The unwelcome development didn’t alter her strategy one iota. She really didn’t have a choice but to drive the boat until it died, then abandon ship.
A bulky rectangular shape came into her view. The manmade object floated directly in her path, leaving her scant room to avoid crashing into it. At the sake of losing valuable distance on her pursuers, she cut power to the Mercury. But she didn’t do it quickly enough. The johnboat collided forcefully with the object--a refrigerator.
The johnboat’s bow splintered, and the inertia from the collision lifted the entire vessel skyward. Her stomach rose to her throat as the boat hung in the air for what seemed like gravity-defying minutes. Water from inside the boat’s compartment sloshed into her face. The boat’s stern reentered the water first, and then the hull belly-flopped into the floodwater. The jostling impact pitched Annie forward, and the Beretta squirted out of her hand like a bar of soap, disappearing into the flooded compartment.
Forgoing the gun, she fought to regain her balance as the johnboat skipped across the water’s surface. She righted herself at about the same time the vessel regained composure. Immediately, she applied full power to the Mercury.
The bulrushes petered out and the johnboat burst into open water. The early morning sky had lightened just enough that she spotted a splash of green. She surmised it was a sandbar and navigated toward it. She dearly wanted to feel dry land beneath her feet. She had at least a puncher’s chance if she could regroup on solid ground.
