A Hard Death

by Jonathan Hayes

  “Yes, sir. I, uh, thought you’d want to know.”

  “Why did he shoot a ranger?” He was standing at the window, staring out. Through the thin mist, the pale shape of the Taurus was a ghost next to the shed.

  Brodie said, “Mr. Craine, you’ll have to ask him yourself. I’m sorry, but I’m dealing with a number of issues right now. I don’t know what the hell’s going on there, but it needs your urgent attention.”

  “Yes, of course. You’re right. I’ll go down right away.”

  Brodie nodded; he was thinking he should just kill Craine, just do it right now. Follow him down the hill, pop him once in the head. Come back up, send the girl somewhere safe, grab Craine’s cash, and just fucking go.

  He’d give anything to see the look on Craine’s face when he got down to the shed to find that Tony had butchered Nash, the doc, and the cop.

  “Sir, I just need to get down to the basement for a second—I need to pick up the remote detonator box.”

  Craine’s eyes bulged, and he stammered, “Mr. Brodie, now’s not the best time. I tell you what, I’ll go down there for you, bring it right back up.” He was so flustered he didn’t even ask why the foreman wanted ordnance at this time of day.

  “That’s mighty nice of you, Mr. Craine! It’s a yellow plastic box, about yay big, in the wall cupboard in the boiler room.”

  Craine disappeared downstairs, leaving Brodie peering through the crack in the doorway at the girl. She was reading a book—the same Harry Potter book Tony was reading. It must be new.

  He remembered his own daughter in her Brownies uniform, making some damn thing out of popsicle sticks and glue at the table in their condo in Santa Cruz. That summer, word leaked out that a boyfriend of one of the den mothers had done time for making child pornography; one Sunday in early August, the boyfriend set out for a stroll on the boardwalk and was never seen again. Not that the police looked for him very hard.

  But if Brodie felt he’d done some things right, he’d screwed up in the end—you can’t count yourself a good dad if your daughter’s doing a fifteen-year bit for distribution of a Schedule 1 narcotic. Particularly if she was busted while she was working for you.

  Well, it might be a little too little, too late, but at least tonight he’d be curing her of her Tarver problem, which counted for something. Even if she might not see it that way.

  Craine’s steps sounded on the stairs. Lucy straightened, then flipped the page. Brodie realized she wasn’t really reading the book: she was just looking at the same page over and over again. She’d read it, turn the page, then a couple of seconds later jump back to start over again.

  The girl wasn’t as calm as she looked. Brodie shook his head.

  When Craine handed him the yellow box, Brodie said, “A word of advice: you should probably think of getting the little girl out of here soon. Word is, we may be raided. And the feds have started poking around.”

  Craine blanched. “When?”

  “Within the hour. If I were you, I’d get out of here as soon as you’ve taken care of your little problem.”

  Brodie nodded, said, “Evening,” then set off toward the bunkhouses at an amble, leaving Craine gaping in the doorway.

  CHAPTER 124

  Deb draped her arm over Jenner’s shoulder, and together they moved quickly down the bank to the dock. It was dark now, and the mist that had settled over the swamp was thick enough that he didn’t think they could be spotted from the farmhouse. It took them less than a minute to get down to the water.

  The canoe was gone.

  As he got closer, Jenner saw the canoe was there, just half-submerged. The back of the boat had sunk underneath, and now only the rim of the bow stuck above the surface, like a cup in a sink full of water. Either the canoe had already been leaky, or he’d damaged it when he dragged it down to the river.

  It didn’t matter which—the thing was fucked.

  Deb looked at the Go-Devil swamp boat and at the airboat, then back up at the farmhouse. She looked pale and felt heavier on his shoulder.

  She saw a shadow in the mist, and whispered, “Jenner—there’s someone coming.”

  Whoever it was would go to the shed first, and there was nowhere to hide there. He whispered urgently, “Into the water…”

  He guided Deb down the bank, and on into the black river, pressing her close to the foundered canoe so she had something to hold on to. He led her deeper and deeper into the channel, trying to support her.

  She was tough. Every step must have hurt like a bitch, but Deb never made a sound. Jenner took her deep, right to the end of the dock; he felt the kick of her feet, churning slow currents to keep her head above water, but he was still just able to stand.

  He whispered, “Save your energy—hang on to me, tilt your face up. I’ll help keep you up.”

  Jenner held on to the wood at the end of the dock, and helped her arms around him; underwater, she wrapped her legs around his, and clung on to him tight.

  It was just one man coming down the slope, Jenner saw. He was in shirtsleeves, and carried a flashlight, the light bouncing through the drizzle.

  Then Jenner recognized him. He held Deb close and, putting a finger to his lips, pointed ashore and mouthed, “Craine.” She ducked her head into the hollow of his neck.

  Craine stopped first at the car, shining the light into the compartment, then trying the doors. Finding them locked, he tried the trunk, swore softly when he couldn’t open it, and came on down the slope to the shed.

  He turned the corner and stopped in front of the open door.

  Then Jenner saw his pistol, something small and dark, a Glock, maybe, or a Kahr.

  Craine opened the door wider, pointing his gun into the dark interior. He pressed his back to the door, and moved slowly inside, calling out “Nash?” into the darkness.

  He reached a hand in, then fished around to find the switch. The light revealed an empty shed, the floor smeared in blood.

  Craine’s voice was panicky now. “Nash!” There was no reply.

  Craine came out of the shed and faced the swamp, gun raised, eyes scanning the river. He walked halfway out onto the dock and stopped. Jenner held Deb’s head against his neck, pointed down; they took a breath, then slowly sank together under the water.

  Jenner kept his fingers pressed to the side of the dock. He felt the vibration of Craine’s footsteps as the man walked out farther, closer to them. Five seconds turned to ten, then to fifteen, and then Jenner felt Craine’s footsteps again, faster now, moving away. He slowly brought Deb to the surface, held her against the rotting wood of the dock; she was crying with pain. They silently gasped at the air, breathing in as deeply and as slowly as they could.

  Jenner floated out slightly to look up at the dock; Craine was in the middle now, deciding what to do. He stared at the swamp boat and the airboat, turned to look back at the empty shed, then up at the farmhouse.

  He began to run, loping up the dock to disappear into the shed. He emerged a few seconds later with a concrete block. He smashed the window of Nash’s Taurus and opened the driver’s-side door.

  Craine rummaged around the car but didn’t seem to find what he was looking for. Then he leaned under the dash, and the trunk door opened.

  He walked around the back and rifled through the contents, immediately finding the garbage bags of money. With obvious dismay, he pulled out the leather bag that Jenner had eviscerated; he brushed it off for a second, then massaged it back into something approaching its original shape. Then he began to fill it with cash; he moved quickly and haphazardly, jamming the last wad of money into the bag. He’d almost finished when Jenner saw him pull up the white plastic laundry bag, open it to find the hundred thousand, and stuff that into the overnight bag, too. He reached into his pocket, pulled out two passports, and dropped them into the bag, then tried to zip it shut. It was too full to close; he’d have to repack it but now was not the time.

  Craine hefted the bag and was about to cross the road to th
e field in front of the farmhouse when he saw two big black SUVs moving silently along the drive, their lights off.

  CHAPTER 125

  Bartley was in the Explorer with two of the team members, one holding the heavy tactical shield ready for deployment, the ram at his feet. There were four men in the Escalade behind, between them they had two Baker Batshields: one in the driver compartment, the other in the passenger compartment.

  Under a misting rain, the two cars rolled slowly under the white arch, all lights off, clinging to the hope that they’d be attacking by surprise. They’d begin with the protection of the cars, before switching to tactical shield equipment and field cover.

  They moved in several hundred yards before Bartley called the stop. He radioed back deployment instructions to the car behind, then slipped out onto the road.

  The men gathered behind the front car. They could hear Norteño music from the bunkhouses; the buildings were lit but no one was outside, maybe because of the damp.

  Bobby Bartley thought to himself: This just might work…

  This would be a direct approach uphill, with little cover if a true firefight broke out, so stealth was key. A sniper would stay down by the cars to lay down cover fire as necessary. Behind the Escalade, he’d be almost invisible to shooters up at the bunkhouses; from his protected position, the sniper would be strong support against an enemy who held higher ground.

  The other six men would move up as two three-man elements. They’d fan out across the field, and converge on the first bunkhouse; Bartley’s element would stack up by the bunkhouse door, then he’d lead a standard breach-bang-and-clear operation. Bartley would go in right after the flashbangs, and he’d be shooting from the get-go—the rest of the team was so wired they’d read the shots as an attack and complete the sweep.

  With the first bunkhouse secured, they’d move on to the second. Bartley stressed that the bunkhouse closest to the farmhouse should be approached with extreme caution, since it contained the meth lab, and would house large tanks of highly explosive chemicals.

  If a firefight broke out, the shooters would likely evacuate Bunkhouse B and move first to Bunkhouse A, then progress to the farmhouse. SWAT would secure the bunkhouses sequentially, then hit the farmhouse, which was where, Bartley announced, Nash said they were holding him; it was likely this was where they’d meet greatest resistance.

  The seven men gathered into a circle, dropped to one knee, and bowed their heads. Bartley led them in prayer. Then they shook hands, nodded solemnly at each other, divided up, and began to move.

  The men moved silently, crawling up the slope, spreading out and moving toward their assigned targets. The steady rain helped hide them, but the grass beneath them was slippery and muddy.

  One by one, they took position, almost unable to believe their luck had held. They settled, lay still, all looking to Bartley for the signal.

  Then Bentas, who’d been waiting patiently, hidden behind the lower field slop trough, stepped up behind the sniper and shot him in the back of the head.

  Bentas moved quickly into the sniper’s position, tucked the rifle stock into his shoulder, and peered through the scope.

  The SWAT teams were on the edge of panic; in a fraction of a second, they’d learned their arrival was expected, lost the security of sniper cover-fire, and had their flank completely exposed.

  Bentas now began to fire on the SWAT team members arrayed on the hill, as shooters in the bunkhouses opened fire, pinning them down so that Bentas could pick them off.

  Bartley gave the order to scatter and ran quickly across the slope, trying to reach cover before the new sniper destroyed the entire mission. He scrambled across the grass toward one of the pens.

  As he reached the enclosure, the corrugated metal surround by his head banged as the bullets smashed into it. From inside the structure, Bartley could hear the frantic grunting of pigs, hear them running wildly inside. Someone was firing at him in short bursts; he couldn’t tell whether it was the shooter down on the road or someone in the bunkhouse. He kept his head down and crawled to the enclosure entrance.

  Inside the pen, the pigs were panicking, shrieking in terror, slamming into each other, and smashing against the metal surround until it shook. Bartley lifted the gate and pushed back as the pigs stampeded out, shoving and squealing.

  He raised his weapon and fired once up at the roof; the stream of hogs veered briefly away from him, but within seconds they were battering him again as they poured out past him.

  Within seconds of his discharging his weapon, the shooters focused their attention on Bartley, and the metal structure was raked by a blizzard of bullets, the rickety panels shredding apart, clanging like a bell.

  There was a pop and then a hiss as an incendiary flare streaked up into the sky over the field; the whole area was flooded with silver light, and in an instant Bartley saw all his men scattered across the field. They huddled under the shields, lying flat to minimize their exposure, returning fire toward the bunkhouse shooters. But the shields didn’t cover them completely, and under the white-metal light, Bartley saw quick puffs of red, saw limbs jerk, and heard screams as bullets hit arms and legs.

  The charging pigs now spread out in panic, careening across the field, running in all directions. A shooter targeted the pigs trying to flee the enclosure; in the bright light, the pigskin washed pale gray, each hit triggering a spray of blue-black blood. The wounded pigs fell at the entry, kicking and struggling, blocking the path of those still inside, rushing now in a chaotic, churning mass through the small space, terrified by the roar and rattle of bullets smashing into the enclosure. The frenzied animals were still battering Bartley as he tried to edge along the wall.

  As the flare drifted lower, and the lower slope lit up down to the road, Bartley saw the man behind the cruiser, sighting calmly through the sniper rifle. Bartley quickly knelt against the concrete base of the enclosure, extended the stock of his MP5, cradled the gun against his shoulder, and aimed. He held the man’s head and torso neatly in the circle of the sight, breathed out fully, paused, then squeezed the trigger, spraying a full burst of fifteen bullets in his direction.

  Bartley lowered the gun as the flare died out; he couldn’t see the man anymore, but there was blood spattered across the hood and roof of the cruiser; he’d blown out the windshield, too.

  He yelled out, “Sniper from the road is down!”

  A fresh hurricane of semiautomatic and submachine gunfire clattered through the enclosure as Bartley dropped into the muck. He rolled onto his back, pulled out his phone, and dialed 911.

  CHAPTER 126

  Craine stood on the dock, staring up over the fields, watching the unfolding slaughter. His granddaughter was up in the house, but what could he do?

  He made up his mind quickly: he could leave.

  He hefted the leather bag into the swamp boat, untied the boat, and jumped in. He grabbed the wheel, hit the ignition button. The engine sputtered, then came to life in a small cloud of blue smoke. He lowered the long axle of the propeller into the water, pushed the throttle gently, and moved the boat slowly out onto the channel. The sound of the engine was muffled by the noise of gunfire. He made his way out into the dark water, steered toward the open channel and beyond it the sea, and freedom.

  As he was nearing the highway bridge, the sky lit up. Craine turned to look back at his farm, and saw the cops scattered on the slope up to the bunkhouses, men shooting down at them. He saw Bentas drop, shredded by machine-gun fire from a man in a dark suit and body armor, shooting from the enclosure. He recognized the man as Bartley, one of the cops supposedly bought by the cartel.

  His pigs were getting shot as they ran through the battle, falling in the withering hail of bullets. He watched one of the larger hogs sprinting across the grass suddenly skew and tumble, rolling into a slide down the hill, hitting two men hiding behind a shield. The men slid downhill with the pig, and Craine saw one of them shot in the head before the three came to rest just by th
e road. One of the men crawled out of the pile and onto the road to lie on the berm. He lay still; his partner was clearly dead.

  The daylight flare died out, but Craine had seen enough of the channel to make his way under the bridge safely. The sound of the engine reverberated against the metal struts and the rock foundation, and he pushed the throttle, jammed it forward. The bow rose a little as the propeller dug deep, and soon Craine was skimming out over the Gulf of Mexico.

  CHAPTER 127

  Jenner lay by the road toward the north end of the property. To his right, the battle was raging over the slope; he’d positioned himself well to the side of the fighting.

  He looked back toward the dock; he couldn’t see Deb anymore. As they’d watched Craine head toward the ocean, Jenner had helped her into the kayak and quietly pushed her out into the water, telling her to avoid the main river, to paddle away from the ocean into the swamp on one of the feeder channels instead—heading toward the highway would be too obvious.

  She wanted him to leave with her, but he wouldn’t. He couldn’t, not until he’d found Lucy.

  After the flare went out, the shooting became intermittent, then stopped. There was moaning, audible moaning coming from the field, and the low grunting of wounded animals.

  How many of the cops were still active? The police sniper was dead, and Jenner had seen another cop killed as he slid down the slope with a shot pig. He’d counted four other cops pinned down on the hill; he couldn’t see Bartley but he’d spotted him in the pigpen when he’d killed the sniper with his machine pistol. He assumed he was still there.

  It grew quiet on the slope.

  Jenner decided to make his way uphill, find Bartley, warn him Craine’s granddaughter was in the farmhouse. No one had been shooting from the farmhouse; it might be safe.

  He crossed the road at a crouch, knowing that if another flare went up, he was a dead man.