John Miller - Inside Out

“Chet,” Winter said into the cell phone. “According to this picture, the fences on both sides of the tank farm run all the way back across the drainage canal and stop in the marsh. The farm's back fence connects the sides and puts Manelli's place smack in a shallow U of fence. The main way in is through the tank farm, down the paved access road to the back where it turns into dirt and goes through a gate onto Sam's place. We can't go in that way, but when you guys come in you can land just outside that gate. We'll try and get behind them and help you from inside after we make sure they're in there.”

Winter hung up. “Okay, Hank. The parcel just before you get to the terminal was cleared almost back to the canal. There's a paved road on that property that dead-ends in a cul-de-sac. Looks like they were dumping trash there when this was taken. We can drive back to the trees and go in that way.” Winter looked up. “We should be coming up on it any second. That's the turnoff up there.”

“Forget it,” Hank said.

“Son of a bitch.” Winter felt like hitting something.

Through the gray rain, a black Suburban 4x4 with tinted windows was turning onto the access road. “Keep going. Could be some of Manelli's people patrolling. We'll have to go in from the other side.”

As Hank drove past the INTERNATIONAL LIQUID STORAGE sign, Winter surveyed the main buildings. “There are uniformed guards in the gatehouse window, and those gates could stop a bulldozer.”

“This is it,” Hank said as they passed the corner of the ILS fence where dense woods ran up to within ten feet of the road. Hank pulled onto the shoulder. “Good news is there's an access road of sorts. The bad news is, I can see the road because somebody recently smashed the grass down.”

“Stay in their ruts.”

Hank cut the Jeep's lights before he turned off River Road and, holding the Jeep in previously formed tracks in the tall grass, entered the woods.

“Take it slow, Hank. Let's don't run up on anybody.”

“I been sneaking up on shitheads for forty years, two of those long-range recon in 'Nam. Except for Millie, I ain't been caught yet.”

“Wives don't count.” Winter managed to laugh, but his stomach was lurching.

“It's going to be dark as eight inches up a bull's ass in a few minutes.” Hank wound the Jeep through the trees. Where foliage was thin, the massive white storage tanks offered Winter the opportunity to figure their position using the picture for reference. He could only see by using a map light.

“More than one vehicle went in,” Hank said. “Grass is pressed down in this direction so they didn't come back out this way. At least three cars, maybe four.”

“Was one a green van?” Winter joked.

“Be nice to have some backup about now. This place is flat spooky. You know, it's been a long time since I was in a scrape and this has the potential to get very ugly. I just hope I can still give a decent account of myself.”

“You're fifth-generation Texas border-ranching scrappers. What the hell else could you possibly do but give a decent account of yourself?”

“I meant comparatively speaking. We've never faced anything like this together.”

“Then it's about time.”

“Just try not to make me look bad in front of anybody.”

Winter laughed. Hank turned left off the logging road, threaded the Jeep fifty feet through the trees, and cut the engine. Walking was a lot safer because the wet grass muted the sound of their footsteps on the dead leaves.

“If Sam was listening in on Archer's tactical channel like we were, I hope Finch hasn't been talking about us on it. I heard them mention your name when they saw you jumping that fence.”

“Finch doesn't know about the lodge-unless he's a psychic.”

Hank dialed Chet while Winter folded the satellite picture and pushed it between the console and seat.

After Hank listened to Chet, he ended the call. “Chet's highway patrol captain has set up ‘license check' roadblocks east and west of us to seal River Road. He has EMS standing by and he's less than an hour away depending on how long it takes the chopper to gas up and get there.”

“They don't keep them fueled?”

“The first chopper had a problem. The alternative is for them to drive in, and they'd be at least that long coming by road.”

“Chopper's crucial for surprise,” Winter said. “Let's go.”

Winter and Hank got out. They opened the rear end for the shotgun and Winter's quilt-lined, water-resistant jacket. Both men wore dark baseball caps for the limited rain protection they offered. They closed the rear and vacated the Jeep, carrying their long guns like hunters.

They walked on the tire depressions to avoid the undergrowth, moving at a brisk clip. The intensity of light grew as they approached the edge of the woods where the marshland was open beyond the drainage canal. They paused where the woods stopped some fifty feet from the water. Out beyond the algae-covered canal lay the marsh-a tortured, nightmarish wasteland where solitary trees stood on islands, blackened and decaying.

“Bingo,” Hank whispered.

Fresh tire impressions led up to, and beyond, a double gate in the ten-foot-tall hurricane fence. There was a small sign wired to links that read, NO TRESPASSING.

The gate was closed, but the heavy chain and padlock meant that they would have to climb the fence or get into the canal to get to Manelli's place.

Winter saw no evidence of guards. “I'll lead over the gate while you cover me,” Winter whispered. “Hand signals only from now on.”

Hank nodded his agreement.

As Winter approached the gate, he heard a snap and turned to find himself looking down the barrel of a shotgun held by a young bald man wearing a camouflage suit that had allowed him to blend with the foliage. The fellow couldn't have been more than nineteen or twenty years old. At the sound of a whistle behind him, Winter turned his head slowly to see another man aiming his shotgun at Hank's head. The men's pump guns were painted in olive-and-gray camouflage to match the hunting outfits.

The bald man jerked up his gun's barrel, obviously telling them to put their hands up.

“You boys out duck hunting?” Hank asked. “You know, son, you could be Rudolph Valentino's greatest grandson. Your buddy over there looks kind of like a young Yul Brynner. Actor from The King and I?” He mumbled, “Before your time, I suppose.”

Yul was oblivious to the raindrops splashing against his head. His eyes were like cherry pits. His mud-slathered loafers looked ridiculous with his hunting outfit.

The young man Hank had called Valentino looked older than his partner. His coat's hood was up but pushed back so his peripheral vision wasn't hampered. He barked a phrase in Italian and, using his gun, also motioned for them to raise their hands.

“Want my hands up?” Hank raised his hands slowly. “Up?”

“Si, make all hand op. You op hand, bastardo!”

Valentino pressed his shotgun's barrel under Hank's chin while he took the AR-15 carbine from Hank and slung it over his shoulder. As deftly as a pickpocket, he unzipped and reached into Hank's coat, and one by one, extracted the. 45 Colt auto, handcuffs, the cell phone, and Hank's badge case, putting each object into his own coat's pocket. After Valentino patted Hank down to his cowboy boots, Yul relieved Winter of his shotgun, his SIG, his cuffs and the Walther PP. While Yul was kneeling to check Winter's pant legs for weapons, Winter looked down through the open V of the bulky camouflage coat and spotted the grip of a semiautomatic handgun tucked inside Yul's belt.

As the guards marched them toward the gate, Valentino put two fingers against his teeth and emitted an earsplitting whistle. A third man, holding a high-powered semiautomatic deer rifle, strode through the tall grass from the direction of Sam's lodge. He was well over six feet tall and his black hair, glistening with raindrops, hung to his wide shoulders. Winter thought maybe it was his long narrow nose that made the big man's eyes seem too close together.