David Lindsey - An Absence of Light

“Second, Kalatis has decided to give up his gimmick about living somewhere in Mexico. Now this is a game he’s gone to a lot of trouble to keep up for months, maybe a year or more. And now, at the last minute before bringing in the last of the big money, he’s going to let all these people know where he really lives?” Murray shook his head. “No way. I don’t buy that. Even if he is skipping out, I don’t buy that.

“Third, he’s changing- at the last minute — a schedule that has worked like clockwork for all this time. Why, right before his biggest haul, would he risk running an all-new schedule which is so complex that it is almost guaranteed to break down somewhere?

“Fourth, if I were in Kalatis’s shoes, I’d be simplifying my last deal, just to make sure I didn’t screw it up, instead of making it more complex. Or, I’d just leave it alone.

“Fifth, judging from Redden’s account, Las Copas is as remote as hell.” Murray was leaning forward toward Graver, and he turned and looked at Remberto. “What I think,” he said, “is that the first stop at Las Copas is the last stop… for everybody.”

Graver looked at Remberto who gave a very small nod of agreement, and then at Neuman who was stunned, and then at Last who was looking like he wanted to break out in a sweat.

“That’s what I think too,” Graver said.

“They’re going to kill all of them at Las Copas?” Neuman was incredulous. “The clients… and the pilots… and the copilots?”

Graver nodded. “Yeah. I think the reason Kalatis wasn’t concerned about how the tight schedule was going to work was because it didn’t matter. The clients, the pilots, and the moneys-all stop for the last time at Las Co-pas.”

“Goddamn…” Neuman was shaken.

“Yeah, and I think that was dawning on Redden too,” Murray said. “That guy’s no dimwit.”

“What about the planes? They’d have four planes there,” Neuman said.

“Probably only three,” Graver said. “The pontoon plane might not even be needed. And they’ll just have other pilots to take them away. But Redden, Maricio, Wade and their copilots know too much about this particular operation. The new pilots, they’ll just be hired to pick up some planes at an old dirt strip. That’s all they’ll know. And they’re not going to ask a lot of questions. The money’s too good, like Redden said.”

“And when it is all over,” Remberto added, looking at Neuman, “there will be only three witnesses: the security guards who will do all the shooting. You can bet they will be paying those boys a percentage of the money brought in on the three planes. You have to pay people like that very well. You never let your tigers get too hungry.”

“The question is, what’s the best way to break this up,” Graver said. “There’re only five of us.” He hesitated. “I see two chances. One: We leave now, immediately, for Las Copas. Ambush the guards when they come in early to string the lights, and then intercept each of the planes as it comes in. We’ll have to get the ‘all clear’ signaling arrangements from one of the guards.

“But there are some immediate risks and problems with this idea. There can be only four of us at Las Copas. One of us would have to stay with Redden who would have to fly the other four in, drop them off, and get back to Bayfield. Also, we’d have to leave immediately to get to Las Copas as early as possible if we hope to beat Kalatis’s guards there. Actually, it may be too late for that already. I’d guess Kalatis’s three men would want to be at Las Copas plenty early to set up.” He looked at his watch. “It’ll be getting dark in less than an hour.

“Or two: to intercept them at each of the airports, right after the client’s guards have left after unloading the client and the money. There would be only one guard to deal with in this scenario.” He looked down at his notes. “The problem with this second course of action is that we’d get to intercept only one load of money and one client, because when that first plane-Wade’s-doesn’t reach Las Copas on schedule, Kalatis will be notified, and he’ll send someone to see what went wrong. We’d have to forget about being able to intercept the other two loads of cash.

“And,” he added, “it doesn’t achieve my objective. I’m betting Kalatis will be attracted to that cash like a shark to blood. He’s going to show up where there’s the most of it.”

Everyone thought about this for a while, running through the course of action, imagining each phase.

“What if we rode into Las Copas on the first plane?” Murray suggested. “We’d have only the one guard to deal with at Andrau, and when we got to Las Copas and overpowered the guards there we could radio to Kalatis that everything was on schedule. We could intercept Maricio. Redden wouldn’t even have to take off. We’d have all three loads in one place.”

“That’s good only if we are right about what is supposed to happen at Las Copas,” Remberto interjected. “If we are wrong, Kalatis will know something is wrong by eleven thirty-five when the first plane fails to arrive at his pier.”

Graver drummed a finger on his notebook. “And I’m afraid we’ll find more than three guards at Las Copas,” he said. “If we do, we’ll be trapped in that plane, maybe in a cross fire. And if we’re right about them taking out everybody after landing, we don’t know just how they’re going a to do that. They could have everyone get off and kill them right there on the dirt strip without even coming out of the brush. Then what?”

The haze of the dying evening extended in both time and space until it seemed to have swallowed the horizon in its progress toward the smoky sheen of dusk. It was as if the world ended just there, a little ways out in the bay, and the thick hoar of the Gulf summer evening spilled over an imperceptible edge into the cosmos. Seagulls screaked, invisible in the limitless, timeless gray.

“I don’t see how we can do it,” Graver said, finally. He dropped his notebook on the floor at his feet and rubbed his face with his hands. “I just don’t think we can risk it Too many unknowns, too little time. It could end in a disaster.”

For a moment the only sounds that could be heard on the veranda were the shrills of the seagulls and the uncertain gasping of the surf.

“Well,” Remberto said, his voice low, just above the surf, but clear and steady, “if you want all the cash at one place because you think it will bring in Kalatis, then I think there’s another way we can do this.”

10:40 P.M.

Rick Ledet banked the Cessna 185, and Neuman looked across the cockpit past him, out the window, and down at the black space that Ledet assured him was Chocolate Bay.

“I see the strip,” Ledet said, pulling the Cessna back up to parallel with the horizon. They were headed back toward Houston and Neuman could tell by the glow from the city lights that they were upright again. “I’m going to bank again and head back toward the Gulf. Then I’ll throttle down and do some turns, and every time I say so, you fire one off. We’ll light ’em up like a damn firefight.”

“Okay,” Neuman said. It was all he could say. It was amazing how quickly up and down disappeared at night He was gripping the box of military parachute flares between his knees in the cockpit seat, and the gun was cocked open. He jammed a flare into the breach.

“I thought if I made a couple of passes they might give us a flash,” Ledet said. “Assholes. I should’ve known better. Disciplined bastards. It doesn’t matter. I’ve made that strip enough times… hell, I can even see the bayou. Okay, hang on.”

The Cessna banked and dropped at the same time, but it didn’t drop far before Ledet leveled it out, and Neuman could see ahead of them the half moon on the Gulf. Jesus, it was a beautiful sight. The beauty of it surprised him.