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  McClintoc said, “You may be right, Jock. We’ll see how this plays out at the other end.”

  We sat quietly again, waiting for some word from the various parties tracking the van and the pickup. Time dragged slowly, and the Tahoe’s seat was getting uncomfortable.

  It was two in the morning, and nothing seemed to be happening. I was getting restless. “What now?” I asked.

  McClintoc turned toward me. “The P-3 can stay up for several more hours. We’ll track the van, but my guess is it’s headed for Merrit County. I don’t know about the pickup and the boat. We’ll just hope for the best on that.”

  Jock said, “If we don’t have to stay here, why don’t we see if we can round up some coffee.”

  McClintoc cranked the SUV. “Good idea,” he said. “There’s a McDonald’s on Tamiami Trail that has twenty-four hour drive-up service.”

  We crossed the New Pass Bridge again, rounded the circle and headed east on John Ringling Boulevard. McClintoc was back on the radio with the P-3, who advised us that the van was headed east on Fruitville Road toward I-75.

  We got our coffee at the drive-thru and parked, waiting to find out whether the van turned south or north on the Interstate. We sipped our brew, blowing on it to cool it enough that it wouldn’t blister our mouths. Jock went inside the McDonald’s to use the restroom. He came back. We sat some more.

  The radio came back up, loud in the silent space of the SUV. The van had turned south on I-75. We headed south on the Trail to Bee Ridge Road, turning east and driving toward the Interstate.

  I called Logan. “They’re headed south on Seventy-five, probably toward you. I’ll let you know as soon as they turn off and head toward Merrit County.”

  “I’ll tell the sheriff. Jimbo’s here in the office. Said to tell you he didn’t trust this operation to a shavetail.”

  I laughed. “Tell him to keep his head down,” I said. “His big ass, too.”

  Logan hung up. The vehicle was quiet, the hum of tires on asphalt and the occasional murmur of the radio the only sound. We drove south, staying just below the speed limit. McClintoc didn’t want to have to explain anything to a Highway Patrol Trooper.

  Time passed slowly, the rhythm of the ride making me sleepy. I sipped my coffee, cold now. The P-3 advised us that the van had exited the Interstate at Port Charlotte and was running east on the state road toward Merrit County. I called Logan again. He answered on the first ring, and I told him that the van was on its way.

  He acknowledged the information and said, “You never told me about the damn medals. You’re a hero.”

  “I lost my team that day, Logan. The only heroes out there were Jimbo and that chopper jock. Gotta go.” I hung up.

  As we were nearing the Merrit County line, BLOC came up on the radio to tell us that the pickup pulling the boat had gone out Fruitville Road and picked up Highway 70 east-bound. It had just turned south onto Highway 27. The Sarasota cops had several cars following the pickup at various times and intervals. They didn’t think they’d been detected.

  McClintoc grinned. “Sounds like they’re headed to Merrit County, too,” he said. “Let Logan know what’s going on, Matt.”

  I called Logan again and filled him in. While I was talking to him, the P-3 came back on the radio to tell us that the van had passed through town and turned north on the county road that Jock and I had taken the week before. It was headed for the labor camp.

  McClintoc picked up the microphone again. “BLOC, we’re going to stop at the sheriff’s office. Call me on my cell when the van gets to the labor camp. And keep me posted on that pickup. Tell the Sarasota cops that if it turns off onto a dirt road, not to follow. They can come on into town to the Sheriff’s office.”

  We pulled into the courthouse parking lot, parked, and walked toward the sheriff’s office. The night was quiet, reasonable people in their beds. A slightly chilled wind blew softly out of the north Somewhere a cock crowed. A dog barked back, probably trying to tell the confused chicken that it was still too early.

  The town was dark, but lights glowed from the windows of the sheriff’s office. Shadows moved against the sheer drapes, lawmen going about the dirty business of people smuggling and drug running. Our day was just beginning, and I was exhausted.

  37

  THIRTY-THREE

  The sheriff’s small office was full of men. Rufus Harris, Paul Reich, Logan, Jimbo and the sheriff sat drinking coffee.

  Kyle Merryman stood as we entered. “Gentlemen,” he said. “Coffee pot’s in the corner.”

  I introduced McClintoc, and Jock and I poured cups of coffee for ourselves. The Customs boss declined. We filled the group in on what had happened during the long night.

  I said, “We think the pickup with the boat is headed to the labor camp. I’m not sure what that’s all about.”

  The sheriff looked tired, a man with too little sleep. “I think the drugs are in the boat,” he said. “If the van with the illegals got stopped, there wouldn’t be any drugs to find. Transporting illegals is nowhere near as serious as running drugs. A pickup pulling a boat headed to Lake Okeechobee wouldn’t arouse any suspicions.”

  McClintoc looked up. “Good call, Sheriff,” he said. “Jock had the same idea. You’re probably right.”

  The Customs agent’s phone rang. He answered, and listened, then hung up. “The Sarasota cops said the pickup and boat turned off on a dirt road. The GPS coordinates are for the labor camp road. BLOC sent the cops home.”

  Jimbo stood and walked to the coffee pot in the corner. “Sun’ll be up soon,” he said. “You got a SWAT team coming in, Mr. McClintoc?”

  “Not yet. They’re on alert in Miami, with a helicopter standing by. They can be here in an hour or so. Can’t use them tonight, though. I’ll go back to Tampa tomorrow and try to get a Federal Magistrate Judge to sign a search warrant. Then I’ll call in the team. It’ll take a couple of days.”

  Kyle leaned over his desk. “By then,” he said, “the drugs will be gone.”

  I looked at my watch. Almost four. We had about two-and-a-half hours before the false dawn chased the darkness out over the Gulf.

  I said, “There’s no reason a couple of civilians can’t sneak in and look around. If we find something, it won’t be ruled inadmissible because of the lack of a warrant. The exclusionary rule only applies to the government.”

  McClintoc sat quietly for a moment, pondering. “Can you and Jock get in there, Matt?” he asked.

  “I think so. Logan can drive us almost to the labor camp, and then we can walk in. Shouldn’t be any traffic out this time of the morning.”

  Jock had been sitting quietly since we arrived at the sheriff’s office. “We can do it,” he said. “Logan?”

  “I’m game,” said Logan. “I’m tired of sitting around.”

  We hatched a plan. It wasn’t brilliant, but with a little luck it’d work. Logan would use an old pickup the sheriff owned to drive Jock and me to within a mile of the labor camp. The vehicle wouldn’t attract much attention even if somebody saw it. It looked like a hundred other farmers’ trucks in the county.

  The plan was for Logan to drop us on the dirt road, and we’d go across the open fields and slip over or under the fence. Logan would wait while Jock and I reconnoitered. With no moon, and dark clothes, we should be just about invisible. We thought.

  Jock and I took our nine millimeters, stuffed into holsters on our belts. The sheriff provided us with dark green windbreakers and hats. I was wearing the sneakers I had come in. Jock had traveled in what looked like a pair of paratrooper boots. They were a lot more utilitarian than my old Reeboks. Logan wore a pair of jeans and a green golf shirt with the logo of Lynches’ Pub and Grub on the pocket. He’d be staying with the truck, but he borrowed a handgun from the sheriff’s armory.

  We took our cell phones, McClintoc’s number fed into our speed dials. We were ready. It was 4:30, and we had about two hours to get in and get out.

  * * * * *

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nbsp; Logan dropped us off according to plan, and Jock and I started the slog across the open fields. It took us fifteen minutes to get from the courthouse to the drop area, and we figured it would take us about the same amount of time to get to the fence. We could poke around for an hour, and make it back to the truck and out of the area before dawn.

  We were moving at an easy lope. At this rate, we’d be ahead of schedule. We were running at a diagonal to the road, so that when we reached the fence, we’d be several hundred yards from the gate house. I hoped neither of us stepped in a hole.

  We made it to the fence, and had just crawled under it, when the area was lit up like daylight. Four men in fatigue uniforms rose from their cover not ten feet from us and pointed M-16s in our direction.

  The light was coming from a spotlight on an Army surplus two-and-a-half ton truck, the one soldiers called a deuce-and-a-half. I could see other men outlined in the glare from the beam.

  “On your knees, gentlemen. Hands up,” called out a voice, heavy with a cracker accent. We dropped to our knees, hands in the air. One of the men in fatigues frisked us and took our weapons and phones.

  “Restrain ‘em,” came the cracker voice.

  Two men came forward with plastic ties like the police use in place of handcuffs. Our hands were bound behind our backs.

  “Stand up,” the cracker said. “You’re two of the dumbest college men I ever did see.”

  The man came into the light, and I could see his face. It was Byron Hewett.

  “I’m Jimmy Wilkerson,” he said.

  “I’m confused,” I said.

  He laughed. “You boys had me and didn’t know it,” he said. “Jimmy Wilkerson don’t exist. I just use that name to confuse folks.”

  Jock spoke up. “How did you know we were coming, Byron?”

  “Electronics,” he said. “We’ve been tracking you all the way across the field. We got sensors all over the place. A rabbit moves, we got him.”

  Jock said, “Then you’ll know when the SWAT team gets here.”

  Byron laughed again. “Bullshit,” he said.

  Jock said, “Other people know we’re here, Byron.”

  Hewett spit tobacco juice onto the ground. “Right. You guys just don’t know when to quit. We’ve been expecting you ever since you busted up my favorite deputy. Thought you’d have been here before now.”

  “We’re part of a federal task force,” said Jock.

  “Cut the shit, man. There ain’t nobody here but you idiots. Don’t you think I’ve got what you might call sources in the feds? Get in the truck.”

  Jock and I were led to the deuce-and-a-half and helped into the back of it. As I climbed over the transom, I was pushed from the rear and sprawled onto the bed of the truck. I felt a prick in my upper arm, and blackness enveloped me, like the night sea closing over a diver.

  37

  THIRTY-FOUR

  I came slowly awake. My head felt like a Roman Legion was marching over it. Pain shot through my temples like lightning, exacerbating the dull throbbing in my brain.

  I tried to sit up. My hands were tied behind me, my legs bound at the ankles. I couldn’t see anything, and for a moment I was afraid that I was blind. Panic was setting in. I willed it down into the pit where I banish the war horrors that live in my memory. Just stay there until I can get my bearings, I told the fear. I knew from experience that panic could be deadly.

  Time to take stock of my situation. The plastic ties were tight around my wrists, and something else bound my legs at the ankles. There was no way I could break them. I turned over on my back, feeling with my hands. I was on a dirt floor. I couldn’t see the stars and I sensed that I was in a structure of some kind. I stretched out my legs and rolled to the right. I made two complete turns, and bumped into a body. It was warm, but still.

  “Who’s there?” I asked, more in a groan than a whisper.

  “Matt.” A hoarse voice came from across the room. “I’m over here.”

  “Jock?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Somebody’s over here, but he’s not moving. He’s still alive.”

  “Stay where you are. I’m going to roll myself over to you.”

  I could hear in the small grunts he made the effort it took Jock as he moved toward me. It seemed to take forever, but I’m sure it was only a minute or two before he bumped against me.

  Jock said, “Can you get to my boot? The heel is hollow and there’s a knife in there.”

  I moved around, positioning myself by feel and sound until I was lying on my side, my hands even with Jock’s feet.

  “If you can get hold of the heel, just twist it. Be careful. The knife isn’t very big.”

  I fumbled twice, but finally got my right hand on the heel of his boot. “Is this the right one?” I asked.

  “Doesn’t matter. Both of them have knives.”

  I twisted the heel slowly and felt an object fall out of the hollowed-out receptacle. I felt around in the dirt until I located what felt like a small pocket knife.

  Jock moved his legs out of the way. “Can you open it?” he said.

  “I’m trying.”

  I was able to use both hands, or at least the thumbs and forefingers of each hand, and finally got the knife open. The blade folded onto itself so that when it clicked into place, it was longer than the typical small knife.

  I said, “I can’t cut myself lose. Can’t get the leverage. I’m going to move up and cut your ties.”

  I eased myself around again, putting my back to Jock’s back. I found his hands and then the ties on his wrists. I started sawing. Jock was quiet, conserving energy.

  The ties came loose. Jock pulled his arms around in front of him. “Give me the knife,” he said, “Let me get my legs free.”

  I heard him sawing on something with the knife. “They’ve put twine on our legs. I’ll have you loose in a minute,” he said.

  Then I heard it, a noise all too familiar to me, a haunting echo from the past. The whirring of helicopter blades and the winding down of the turbine that kept the ship aloft. It was coming in for a landing very near us.

  “Chopper,” I said.

  “Yeah.”

  Jock cut my bindings, and I sat for a moment allowing the blood to begin circulating in my arms and feet. The helicopter had set down. I could hear its engine turning at idle speed.

  Jock was moving now, on his feet. “I wish I could see who this is,” he said, apparently having found the other body in the room.

  A groan escaped from the area where the person lay. “Matt? Jock?” It was Logan.

  I heard Jock say, “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Where are we?” Logan wanted to know.

  “Hell if I know,” replied Jock. “Let me cut you lose. How did you get here?”

  Logan sighed. “You and Matt hadn’t been gone long when two guys with M-16s showed up at the truck. They put me in another pickup and must have shot me with some kind of drug. All I remember is a pricking sensation in my arm and then, just now, hearing your voices. I’ve got a hell of a headache.”

  “He’s loose,” said Jock. “Let’s find out what kind of place we’re in. Matt, let’s walk slowly to a wall, and then you go to the left and I’ll move right. We’ll count paces until we meet up and see what we have.”

  When we were finished, I told Logan that the room seemed to be about twelve feet square and made out of rough concrete block. “There’s a door in the middle of one wall. Based on the feel of the facing, I think it opens inward,” I said.

  Jock had taken the other small knife out of his boot heel and given it to me. “Someone’s coming,” he said. “This can’t be good. Matt, get behind the door. Logan, get back on the floor and try to look like you’re still tied up.”

  I heard a rattling outside the entrance, like a padlock was being opened. I slipped to the side of the door, so that when it opened I’d be behind it. It opened, and the small space was flooded with the light of early morning.
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  A man loomed in the doorway, an assault rifle carried at port arms. I could see him through the crack between the jamb and the opening door. “Wake up, shitheads,” he said. “We’re going for a little helicopter ride and a swim in the Gulf.”

  Jock and Logan were on the dirt floor facing me, hands behind their backs. I hoped our intruder wouldn’t notice that their legs were no longer bound.

  He stepped through the door, and as he cleared the leading edge, I took a step, grabbed his chin with my left hand, pulled his head back, and ran the knife blade into his larynx. It was so quick he didn’t have time to make a sound, and as my weapon carved up his vocal cords, he lost the ability to utter even a croak. I brought the blade further around, severing his jugular vein and carotid artery. There truly are things you learn in the military that can be applied in civilian life.

  Blood erupted like a geyser, coating my hands and the dirt in front of the dying man. I let him go, and he slumped to the ground.

  Jock grabbed the dead man’s rifle. I pulled a pistol out of the holster at his waist. Logan was up and moving, but a little unsteady on his feet. He’d never completely recovered from the heart surgery he’d had during the summer. I could see the strain in his face as he came into the light splaying in the door.

  “You okay?” I said, reaching over to give him a hand.

  He shook me off. “I’m fine,” he said. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  Jock was standing at the door, peeking out. “The chopper pilot’s standing over by his ship, smoking a cigarette,” he said in a low voice. “There’s a big house about a hundred yards to the left of us, and men with rifles milling around about a hundred yards the other way. Looks like they’re eating breakfast. Maybe half a dozen of them.

  “Logan,” he said, turning from the door, “can you fly that thing?”

  “Bet your ass,” answered Logan.

  I wasn’t too sure about that. “When’s the last time you flew one?” I asked.