A Hard Death (36 page)

B
artley 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 shoul
der, 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.

C
raine 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 the 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 chan
nel 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.

J
enner 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.

When he reached the upper field, he climbed over the fence, then squatted. The enclosure was barely three hundred feet away, but there was a new problem: Bartley had vanished.

Jenner hung back, suddenly realizing that not only might Bartley have moved, but if he were still there, Bartley might try to kill Jenner as he approached. Jenner swore under his breath.

Movement.

Beyond the bullet-riddled enclosure, Bartley was crawling across the slope to his men.

Jenner moved again toward the farmhouse; he'd find Lucy, get her out. He climbed the fence, crossed the road again, and followed it up on the far side until he came to a parking area with a handful of farm vehicles, a couple of hundred yards from Craine's Volvo. He moved between the cars, edging closer to the farmhouse.

Jenner paused. It would take him a few seconds to cover the distance to the Volvo, during which he'd be in plain sight. If there was anyone in the farmhouse, he'd be cut to ribbons before he reached the station wagon.

He scanned the windows, looking for movement, looking for light, looking for anything.

But the lit windows stayed lit, and the dark windows stayed empty, and nothing moved.

Jenner would sprint. He would count to ten, then he'd book it across that space, just keep his head down and run full-tilt.

He counted, tense behind a pickup truck.

Ten.

Nine.

Eight.

To his right, the assault team across the field began to fire, shooting short bursts up at the windows. They were moving forward now, firing a burst, then running forward. Creeping up, sometimes moving behind shields, sometimes taking cover behind the carcasses of pigs.

The shooters in the bunkhouses returned fire, but in the poor light, without the sniper to harass them, and now spread out across the width of the field, the cops were harder targets.

Bartley was crawling up the slope; he'd move forward, then call an instruction to one of the other SWAT team members, who relayed the command with hand gestures.

The teams had lost two men, and several had sustained superficial
limb wounds, but their action was coordinated now, moving efficiently, really covering ground. It seemed to Jenner that they were meeting less resistance as they got closer. Someone with a machine pistol in the far bunkhouse was raking the field, but the cops kept on moving.

Jenner stared up at the farmhouse. Judging from the firefight on the slope, Brodie had been expecting the cops, and had stationed shooters in the bunkhouses; no one had fired from or at the farmhouse. Craine would be keeping Lucy somewhere safe—maybe a bathroom, someplace deep inside.

The cops reached the top of the slope, and were readying the bunkhouse assault; Jenner took advantage of the distraction. He crouched down again, then edged up on his toes and focused on the shadow behind the Volvo. He tilted forward, then thought,
Oh, fuck it! Two, one…

He dug in and sprinted full-tilt, eyes fixed on the Volvo; he'd made it about fifteen feet when Brodie punched the detonator.

T
he bunkhouses exploded into a single curtain of orange flame, fire spraying out horizontally before rushing into the sky, shredding walls, blowing off the flimsy roofs, shattering the windows in a blizzard of powdered glass. The chemical tanks in the bunkhouses exploded, vaporizing gases howling through the twisted metal carcasses of the buildings, instantly igniting into huge geysers of fire.

Seconds later, the big propane tank between the farmhouse and the bunkhouses detonated. The building disappeared in a vast ball of orange and blue, and shredded clapboard slats and roofing tiles rained down on the slope.

The buildings at the top of the slope were all ablaze, an almost continuous line of billowing flame, melting tar paper, and blackening clapboard. Despite the damp ground, the burning gases turned the grassy slope into a tilted pyre, the bodies of men and pigs charring in the intense heat, thick, acrid smoke twisting up into the sky and floating to hang in a pall out over the swamp.

The rain had stopped. The column of dense smoke rose into the night sky like a knotted black rope. Behind it, the silver moon turned the edges of the parting clouds luminous.

There was no sound but the low roar of flame, the crackle of timber.

Brodie walked out onto the slope, back toward the burning buildings, bemused and fascinated by the complete annihilation. Craine's Volvo was charred and shattered, the windows blown out, the paint scorched and blistered, the car as riddled by wood and metal shrapnel as if it had been ambushed with a Gatling gun. Beyond it, the farmhouse lawn was showered with broken furniture—a refrigerator door here, the head-board of a sleigh bed there.

He walked across the slope. The wreckage of the bunkhouses was less refined—dented pots, shredded jeans, the neck and strings of a guitar. The fire was snuffing itself out on the damp grass, but the debris field was scattered with all kinds of charred, smoldering objects, from mattresses to bodies.

Brodie began to systematically search the slope for survivors, traveling back and forth across the field like a weaving shuttle, his pistol cocked and ready at his side; there would be no survivors tonight.

He found Smith's left arm, the idiotic tattoo of Mickey fucking Minnie immediately identifiable. Halfway down the slope, near the periphery of the debris field, he found the rest of him. The man was barely alive, the burned skin of his face and torso so pasted with soot that Brodie only spotted him when Smith opened his eyes and Brodie saw the whites. Smith seemed to recognize him, so Brodie muttered, “It's okay, the ambulances are coming,” and, when Smith closed his eyes, shot him in the head.

Brodie stood. That left Tarver, who should've been in Bunkhouse B, with all the Mexies; with a bit of luck, there wouldn't be much of him left at all. He had a moment of satisfaction when he found Tarver's mangled camcorder, but he needed to
see
Tarver's corpse; as soon as he caught sight of that mop of stringy yellow hair, Brodie could pronounce the site cleaned, climb in his car, and go.

He moved back up the slope, skirting the heat of the flames still pouring from the bunkhouse foundations. He was moving faster now. He should get going—it looked like he'd set half of Florida on fire. There was no way anyone, let alone Tarver, could've survived the explosion and fire.

He was going to call it and head on home. He was crossing the ridge of the hill, thinking of his pool in Costa Rica, when he heard, “Yo, boss…”

He turned to see Tarver, one hand raised in greeting, not thirty feet away. Brodie raised his pistol.

“Wait! It's me,
Tarver
! I got out!” He put both hands up and moved closer so Brodie could see it was, in fact, him. “I know you told me to stay and guard the Mexies, but I gone out the back window, to try and flank the cops again like Bentas, and then the whole fucking thing blew!”

“Come closer.”

Tarver took a wary step toward him. “You okay, boss?”

“Closer still.”

Tarver pointed behind Brodie and said, “Someone's over there!”

Brodie glanced quickly down the slope and saw Jenner, sprinting across the road toward the dock. He'd forgotten all about them.

“Get him!”