Deadline(137)
“This could be a little delicate,” Jenkins said. “It’s darker than a black cat’s ass in a coal mine, when you get back there.”
“There’s some light around the house,” Shrake said. “We know he’s got to be close to the house—probably around in front, so he’d have a clear shot at the porch when Virgil crosses it.”
—
VIRGIL CROWDED HIS TRUCK up next to Vike’s until the bumpers touched; the nose of Vike’s truck was nestled in the riverside brush in front of it, and there was no way out. Virgil killed the truck lights, and they got out with their weapons, patting the armor back in place.
Shrake said quietly, “Sound carries along the track, we could hear you talking on your phone in the cabin when we were a hundred yards out. Then maybe a hundred yards in, give or take twenty or so, there’s a low spot that’s full of water—you can go in up to your shins in mud. Stay close behind me, off on the right side of the track, and I’ll get you past that. You can’t see much left or right, but you can see the stars overhead when you’re on the track, so watch the stars.”
Jenkins: “I’ll lead the way in. He’s gotta be out front, I think, or maybe where we set up, off to the side, although that’d be taking a chance. There’ll be some light when we get close, so don’t go waving your arms around, swatting mosquitoes. Just let them bite.”
“And don’t shoot me in the back,” Shrake said.
They started down the track, single file, moving slowly, not so much out of caution as blindness: the black cat/coal mine problem; the strongest sensory input came through their noses, which told them that there were lots of dead carp somewhere close. A hundred yards down the track, Virgil could sense Shrake but not really see him, and then Shrake reached back and pushed him to the right and whispered, “Puddle.”
Mosquitoes were bumping off Virgil’s face and the exposed part of his neck, and he flipped his shirt collar up and followed, keeping the muzzle of his shotgun pointed up and to the left.
They moved on, almost silently, then saw the light from the cabin, yellow against the gray/blue of the night. Virgil walked into Shrake, who’d bumped into Jenkins. Jenkins whispered, “There’s another truck in the driveway. My car, and it looks like a black pickup.”
“That’s Johnson,” Virgil whispered back. “Jesus, I hope he hasn’t hurt Johnson.”
“Could be a hostage deal,” Shrake suggested.
Virgil said, “No. He can’t afford a hostage deal. He can’t afford anyone be left alive to know he was involved in this . . . so he’s either in there with Johnson, or he’s outside.”
“Okay. Keep an interval . . . ten yards,” Jenkins said.
Virgil: “I’m going first. I can see now, and I know the layout better than you guys. No argument. Ten yards, I’m going first.”
He led the way in, Jenkins staying almost in the brush on the left side of the track. As he got closer, he had to make a decision: Would Laughton be behind the cabin, or in front? He stopped, and crouched, and let Jenkins and Shrake come up. As he waited, Virgil noticed that he was sweating.
“What do you think?” Virgil asked.
“It occurred to me that you should send a cell phone message to Johnson, is what occurred to me,” Jenkins said. “Tell him we’re here, that Laughton is here, and to lay low.”
Virgil said, “Why didn’t I think of that? Wait here for a minute. I’m gonna crawl back behind that bush and send one.”
They squatted in the dirt, a few yards apart, and Virgil eased backward, pulled his shirt up over his head, stuck his hands in under the front, with his cell phone, and tapped out a quick message. “Think Vike Laughton’s outside the cabin with gun. I’m coming for him. If you okay, not hostage, send me my girlfriend’s first name.”