“We’re taking fire!”
The engine whined, sounding unhealthy, and Stryker saw black smoke through the rain. Deep booms of thunder crashed around the helicopter.
About thirty feet over the channel, with the helicopter struggling to right itself, Stryker grabbed his bag, opened the door, and jumped feet first, pulling his legs up close to his body.
The impact jarred him from his tailbone to his molars. He was lucky. The water here was deeper than he thought it would be, and he felt his feet slamming into the yielding silt below. He stood in brackish water up to his chest.
He ducked under the water and breaststroked for a tangle of mangroves, surfacing like an alligator, eyes just above the waterline.
The floundering helicopter righted itself and gained altitude. Smoke billowed from the engine behind the cockpit. Stryker watched the helicopter fall with the suddenness of a bird stripped of its wings, plunging into the swamp and exploding on impact.
Good. No time for a distress call. Whoever did the shooting just did me a favor.
Stryker scanned the trees for movement. The rain made dimples on the surface of the water and a fish jumped off to his right. He kept still, waiting.
Insects buzzed and bit his forehead. He ignored them.
A skiff, painted with camouflage, nosed into the channel. It edged into view, silent and slow like an animal emerging from its lair.
A man stood with legs spread apart and an assault rifle in his hands at the stern of the boat. Stryker smiled.
Less than thirty yards away, the boat glided on the current, swinging slightly. The man with the weapon was bearded and wild-looking. He wore a floppy green fishing hat on his head. He knew how to carry a weapon, though.
Stryker observed the way the swamp man scanned from left to right and back again, bending his legs to compensate for the motion of the boat, his aim steady and practiced.
The old man waited like that for thirty minutes before he put his rifle down and picked up a long pole, pushing the skiff in the direction of the downed helicopter.
Stryker held still until the skiff disappeared around a bend in the creek, and then he swam underwater in the direction it had come from. His lungs burned and he could see nothing in water darkened by tannins and silt.
He forced himself to exhale through his nose when he surfaced, careful not to splash. Cammie netting was strung over the tops of the mangroves here, and just ahead was a floating shack. The wood was gray and weather beaten, the roof tin. The entire structure floated on rusty drums. Wooden Appalachian chairs sat on a dock, and a few fishing rods rested in rod holders, lines out in the water.
He waded around the building. The open door and windows revealed a primitive, spartan interior. He could see no radio, television, computer, or anything requiring electricity. A wooden bed, neatly made with sheets tight on a skinny mattress, sat next to the main window. Stryker saw mosquito netting rolled up over the openings.
He waited in the water, shivering, and was glad when he heard the old man singing and splashing. The skiff came back toward the hidden creek.
He ducked under the water and lurked on the side of the shack while the old man docked his boat and tied it off to a cleat. The wizened man stood, hands on his hips, looking out at the channel.
“You just can’t leave him alone, can you? But he’s not going to let the FBI in his backyard, nope. No sir. Not Coyote McCloud.” The old man giggled. “Maybe you’re going to come out here looking for your G-man bird? Well, you’re not gonna find me, you sumbitches. This is a big swamp.”
Jack Stryker shot the man in the back twice from ten feet away.
Coyote McCloud toppled facefirst from his dock, and splashed into the water.
Stryker waded around to the body, just to make sure the man was dead. He pulled the corpse behind the shack, dragging the man by the arms, and pressed him into the shallows, half submerged in a tangle of roots. Stryker got out of the water then, found some rope in the shack, and tied the old man to the trees. It wasn’t pretty, but it would keep the body from drifting out with the tide.
Inside, he found some fresh fish filets, and put them on the woodstove, humming as he cooked.
The interior was surprisingly neat, everything stowed away, from tackle, to scuba gear, to a few rifles on a rack above the stove.
The old man had rigged up a water collection drum on the roof, and Stryker saw iodine tablets he presumed McCloud used to purify water when his drum ran dry. Stryker almost admired the way this crazy coot had lived off the land, off the grid. The more Stryker thought about it, the more he liked the idea for himself. This might be his ticket. He could stay out here indefinitely. All he had to do was get rid of Suzanne Wilkins.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Gators and Sharks
Suzanne woke with the early morning sun warming her face. The sky was clear, a deep electric blue, and the air was crisp. She ignored the insect bites on her face and arms, and slipped over the stern to pee.
The water was warmer than the air, and goose bumps popped out on her skin when she got back into the boat. The others woke up when she pushed herself onto the boat. They were a sorry bunch.
Bobby’s wispy hair stuck up at odd angles, crusty and stiff with the salt water. Ginnie’s face was swollen and lopsided. Apparently, she was a bit allergic to something that fed on her during the night.
Welts covered Taylor’s arms, and she seemed subdued. They ate some cold canned food, and Beowulf licked the cans, looking put-off and disappointed.
“How much further?” Suzanne asked Bobby.
“Depends. A few hours, if we don’t get turned around and the tides cooperate.” He sniffed the air and looked out at the water. “Low tide now. That’s good. We’ll run the channel quick. Get past the marina in case there are some undesirables around, if you know what I’m saying. From there, we cross Whitewater Bay, and then we scoot into Hells Bay and we’re almost there.”
He walked to the stern and checked the tanks. “We might even have enough gas.” He cackled and coughed at the same time.
Bobby took the helm and the bow lifted. They wound through more channels, and then the Flamingo marina came into view.
Another boater passed them going the other way, and people waved.
They swept past the docks and boats in slips and canoes on the shore. Families sat around small fires in front of tents and recreational vehicles. Flamingo had fared well, it seemed, during the conflict.
“Maybe we should get some gas?” Suzanne shouted over the engine.
“Naw. We’ll make it. The less people see us the better, right?”
He had a point.
Suzanne went forward to the bow and sprawled out, letting the sun warm her chilled bones, while Taylor curled up next to her. The dog moved enough to let them in, and Suzanne scratched him behind the ears.
Taylor clapped her hands with delight when she saw the first of many gators in the water. There were some big ones, nine and ten footers. Suzanne was as fascinated by the creatures as Taylor was. They were dinosaurs, scaled and toothy and explosive when they needed to be. They seemed slow and languid, but she knew that an alligator could outrun a horse over a short distance. She’d never seen one move like that on land.
A few years ago, she and Henry joined Bart and Mary on a houseboat adventure into this backcountry. They rented a boat at Flamingo, got hopelessly lost, and had a fantastic time.
That excursion had been in September, and the mosquitoes were thick. They ran into trouble when the battery connected to the operating systems died. The boat was dead in the water, and nothing worked. The toilets wouldn’t flush, and the air conditioner wouldn’t run. They had no radio, no phone service, and their water supplies were dwindling. For Suzanne, it was just enough danger to make the trip epic.