John Miller - Inside Out

“Big boy,” Hank said.

“Silenzio!” Valentino snapped. He poked the barrel of his shotgun so hard into Winter's back that only the vest kept the jab from drawing blood.

“Spiro,” Valentino said, announcing the giant.

Spiro swung open the gate and stood glaring as the guards directed their captives through.

“This is all private property,” Spiro said. He pulled the heavy chain around to join the center poles, then closed the large padlock.

“Finally somebody speaks English,” Hank said. “Where I come from, it's rude to hold people at gunpoint.”

“Where these guys come from, it's just like a handshake.”

“Polizia,” Yul said.

“Of course they're cops,” Spiro said sarcastically. “Who the fuck else would be stupid enough to come back here?”

The guards handed Spiro the badge cases and he inspected them in turn. “Deputy United States Marshal Trammel… and Deputy Winter Jay Massey.” Spiro pocketed the badges, pulled a red cell phone from his pocket, and dialed. All he said was “Just two marshals.”

Winter figured Valentino had been posted back alongside the logging road and followed them on foot to where Yul was waiting. Winter didn't miss the irony that he and Hank, like Archer's FBI earlier, hadn't bothered to watch behind them.

Winter had decided to let Hank do the talking because it would serve to keep their attention focused more on his partner, leaving Winter to look for an opportunity to turn the tables. Worst case, Chet would have to come in blind and rescue them along with Sean Devlin. Winter was thinking that when Chet's men hit the ground, maybe he and Hank could still help them from inside. It was nice to know that if Manelli or his people tried to leave the lodge, the Highway Patrol would be there waiting.

“You let us walk back through that gate and we'll forget the scatterguns in our faces. You can still stop this short of kidnapping federal law enforcement officers.”

“Where's their bracelets?” Spiro asked. When the guards didn't respond, Spiro said, “Handcuffs.”

Valentino said, “Handcuffs! Si, handcuffs!” Valentino and then Yul handed the cuffs to the giant, reluctantly. Winter knew that with the three-foot width between Spiro's shoulders, it would have taken both pairs connected together to join Spiro's overlarge wrists behind his back.

“Hands behind your backs.” Spiro cuffed the deputies with their own equipment. He unslung his rifle and placed it in the crook of his left arm. “These boys'll shoot you in the heads if you try anything. I'm probably not as good a shot as them, but this thirty-ought-six will go straight through both sides of those puny vests you're wearing.”

Winter walked along the road toward the lodge, wondering how much worse things could get before Chet showed up-hoping he wouldn't find out.

The majority of Manelli's boathouse had been constructed on piles so it extended out over the canal. Although rain battered the boat shed's tin roof, once the door closed behind them, there was no sound from outside. A sudden chill filled Winter's hollow stomach.

“You sit down here, old man,” Spiro told Hank. Pointing his finger in Winter's face then at the floor, he told him, “You there.” Hank and Winter sat on the plywood floor six feet from each other. Winter kept his head down, but he had seen what he needed.

The boat shed's interior was one open space, thirty feet deep by twenty wide. A steel rack on the wall to Winter's right held four flat-bottom, one-man pirogues-stable marsh boats that, when loaded, needed only three or four inches of water to float. He and Hank faced an empty table and a workbench standing against the west wall. A propane torch, extra bottles of gas, a chain saw, a large wooden vise, pliers, an ice pick, a thin-bladed filet knife, a pair of limb-pruning loppers, a rubber mallet, and an old meat cleaver were neatly placed on its surface like surgical instruments in an operating room.

Behind them, a hinged four-by-eight-foot section of floor near the eastern wall had been opened. A steel cable from a motorized hoist attached to a ceiling beam disappeared into the rectangle of dark water. The guards took turns putting all of Hank and Winter's equipment on the sturdy table standing against the wall alongside the workbench. The young guards stared silently at their captives, guns ready, fingers on the triggers.

“Hey, Fabio!” Hank said.

Spiro frowned at the name. “Save it. Mr. Russo will be here in a minute.” He slipped off his camouflage coat and laid it on the workbench.

“Silenzio!” Valentino commanded.

The door opened and Johnny Russo entered, water dripping from his trench coat. He merely glanced down at the deputies as he crossed to the table. He lifted Hank's cell phone, pressed a button, read the number from the display, and turned it off. He looked at the weapons, using the flat of his index fingernail, he flipped open one of the badge cases.

Russo said, “What you fellows up to, besides trespassing?”

“We were checking out the place next door,” Hank said.

“The last number you called-who was it to?”

“I ordered pizza,” Hank said. “They should be delivering it shortly and we can all share it.”

“Next smart-ass shit to come out your face is gonna cost you some teeth, old man.”

“What's this old man crap. I'm only fifty-seven.”

Russo's eyes flashed his impatience and he snapped his fingers loudly in warning.

“Local deputy,” Hank said. “For directions.”

“How'd you know about this place?”

“An assistant attorney general just said that some judge was overheard talking about this place and how Manelli hunts ducks here. We're scouting because the attorney general is thinking about planting some listening gear in those blinds in time for duck season. He was thinking that Manelli-”

“Mr. Manelli to you,” Russo snarled, his face reddening.

“That Mr. Manelli might talk business while he was in a duck blind.”

“The FBI didn't send you?”

“Why would the FBI tell us anything? We're glorified errand boys doing whatever the judges can dream up or nobody else wants to do; like come out in shit like this and be bullied by people like you. Look, Mr. Rosco, we didn't know anybody was back here today.”

“Mr. Manelli is retired from anything any prosecutor would be interested in,” Russo replied, oblivious to the slight.

“I must have missed the announcement in the Mafia Gazette. I don't give a bird fart about Mr. Manelli, you, or your gun boys.”

Russo turned to Winter. “The old guy telling the truth, fellow?”

Winter nodded. He didn't believe Russo would do anything to them given the fact that he didn't know who else was around. The duck blind story seemed reasonable enough.

“Let us go and we'll get off Mr. Manelli's land,” Hank told Russo.

Russo laughed expansively. “I just bet you would.”

“Let me talk to him,” Hank said.

“Tell you what I will do. I'll tell you a story. Once upon a time,” Russo started, obviously enjoying himself, “there were two dumb-ass deputies who, just after they called their local deputy pal, drove right off into the canal. The older man was driving-bad eyes, no headlights, and the rain and all-and he panicked when the water rose so they both drowned in their car, screaming like women.”

Hank said, “We swim real good.”

“If you can swim out of this, you're way past good.”

“Listen, you can't be so stupid you think you can just kill federal officers,” Hank said. “You, Mr. Manelli, and these other freaks will be on death row before you can kiss a cat's ass.”

“It's been a rotten week for you marshals,” he said smiling maliciously. “I doubt two more dead feds will make much difference.”