Matt Hilton - Cut and run

Rickard believed that I'd been eviscerated by a fragmentation grenade; he wouldn't expect me to be waiting for him to arrive. However, the proliferation of feebies and cops at the scene would put him on high alert. Wouldn't stop him coming, but he'd be prepared for war. That was all supposing that he'd survived the events in Colombia and was now headed here. If not, we could have a few uncomfortable days squatting in a swamp to look forward to. But Rink and I were up to it: we'd spent many days and nights waiting in even less appealing locations throughout our careers.

Coming to the end of the trail, Rink parked the car under a stand of live oak. We made sure that the windows were all shut tight before climbing out. We didn't want to return to a vehicle infested with swamp life. Rink popped the trunk and I joined him to haul out our equipment. We'd travelled here in the clothing that Walter had supplied to us the night before, but now we stripped down to our boxers and then slipped into the lightweight DPMs we'd brought. The disruptive pattern material was good camouflage against the swamp. There was netting that we pulled around our faces and peaked caps to cover our hair, but Rink still pulled out a canister of insecticide that we sprayed ourselves with. I was conscious of the chemical smell, but five minutes into the swamp and even a bloodhound would struggle to sniff us out.

Rink dished out the weapons. Courtesy of Walter, we each had a Colt M4 carbine – basically the shorter version of the US Army M16A2 assault rifle – with its capacity for firing one or three bullets with each pull of the trigger. The guns were favoured by special forces teams engaged in urban warfare as they provided more control over where bullets were placed when fired in shorter bursts. If we ended up entering the hospital buildings that feature would become very important.

Next Rink handed me a Ka-Bar knife in black epoxy and I clipped it to my belt. I had the switchblade as a back-up knife in its obligatory place in my hip pocket. Then there was the SIG Sauer P226, my weapon of choice.

If all these weapons failed, I still had my fists to fall back on – part of me even relished the opportunity to take up with Rickard where we'd left off before the interruption of the L2A2 hand grenade.

'Ready, bud?'

I nodded. 'More than.'

Throwing our discarded clothing inside the trunk, we lifted out backpacks nowhere near as large as the bergens we once carried on military operations but roomy enough to carry field rations, water, a small medical kit and extra ammunition. Rink also brought extras in the way of a nylon DPM sheet and more netting. Then we slipped down an animal trail and under the trees.

'You'd think we were a thousand miles from nowhere,' Rink drawled.

He was right but that of course wasn't the case. Nearby were the hospital buildings and not too distantly the historical Anhinga Trail. There could be any number of civilians wandering around out there, so we'd have to be extra careful. The last thing either of us wanted was to come across a group of trigger-happy hunters who might mistake us for a couple of deer. It would be a grossly unjust way to end our days.

For such a big man Rink moved with the casual grace normally associated with dancers. He had the build and size of his Scottish-Canadian father, but the fluidity of movement was reminiscent of his mother, Yukiko, as were his hooded eyes. He loped along the barely discernible trail without stirring any of the branches that tried their damndest to snag on his clothing. I followed three paces behind, conscious of my footfall and the thud of my heart.

The stench of rotting vegetation clogged my senses. Nearby something large splashed though water. Alligator, I thought, or maybe just a bird diving for fish. Worst-case scenario was that it was Luke Rickard already on his way to assault the hospital. I came to a halt, listening intently, but the sound didn't repeat itself. Alligator, I thought a second time. Then I moved on, trying to cut down on the lead that Rink had set in those few seconds.

Coming to a sluggish inlet of water, we paused.

'We're gonna have to cross it,' Rink said. 'Else we'll be too close to Hubbard's crew.'

The water looked murky and deep, almost black with silt and decomposing plant life. On the far side the bank was choked with mangrove roots. I studied the still water. Anything could lurk beneath the surface and the first we'd know about it was when jaws clamped on to our limbs. Maybe I studied it for just a little too long, because Rink turned to me with a smile. 'Don't worry about the 'gators; it's the turtles you have to watch out for.'

He was making light of things, but I'd seen a TV programme where a snapping turtle bit through the boot of a naturalist. It had done so as easily as had the shrapnel that shredded mine back in Cesar Calle's house. 'More concerned about getting our weapons wet.'

Rink chuckled at me and I nudged him in the gut with my elbow. To show him I wasn't afraid of critters I went down the slick bank and into the water. My boots sank deep in the muddy bottom and the water crept up towards my waist. I transferred my SIG to my left hand, the rifle to my right and waded out, holding the guns above my head. When I pushed among the mangroves at the far side Rink followed. If we'd just been on a hiking trip he'd most likely have pretended that some huge reptile had grabbed him, but he was totally serious this time, coming through the water with his face set and his weapons held high. The time for fooling was over: now it was all business. The calm came on us.

The mangrove roots were like the gnarled bars of a huge cage, some poked from the surface like the teasing fingers of a water nymph inviting us down to her deathly realms. The going wasn't easy and judging by how far the tangled branches stretched out before us it wasn't going to get any better.

We slogged through the swamp, using our uncanny knack for directions to steer us. The mangroves were tortuous to push through, but we made it, using some of the more exposed roots as stepping stones. Then we came out on to a wide sandbank where saw-tooth grass proliferated. The grass hid us well as we moved towards the hospital. The only problem was it concealed other things too. At one point a bird broke from cover, its wings clattering through the branches of an overhead tree as it sought to flee us. We halted, waited, but apparently no one was alerted by the bird's frantic escape, so we moved on again.

There was another channel of water and a stand of trees to contend with before we reached the outer perimeter of the hospital grounds. A fence of interwoven branches made a windbreak to keep some of the smells of the swamp at bay, but as a security measure it was hopeless. The wood was so dry and brittle that anyone could push it over or dive directly through it. We weren't intending to go to such extremes; we just followed the fence to a point where a gate had been erected. Here a track led from the hospital grounds and into the woods. There was a small cluster of sheds, one of which was a parking garage for the sit-on lawn mowers that the groundskeepers used. A small compound formed from tin sheets held a variety of unused office furniture, and also the remains of a bonfire from where combustible waste was burned. It was mad to bypass the workspace without checking it out first. Could be a gardener lurking around who might spot us.

The area was clear of people, so we moved to the gate and scanned the lawns and the huddle of buildings that formed the hospital. Clinic might have been a better description, or maybe holiday retreat. From the map Harvey supplied I'd been expecting a modern structure of preformed concrete and glass, but the hospital looked more like it had once been at the centre of a wealthy estate or plantation. It brought to my mind the glossy magazine adverts for Southern Comfort. It was obvious from the plushness of the building and its surroundings that the AKMC was a strictly fee-paying and very private facility. What surprised me most was that this beautiful old building had been selected: it made me wonder who the actual owners of the hospital were. CIA, I decided, seeing as Walter had given his blessing for us to stage our war with Luke Rickard here.