The Death Box(87)

“Pure fiction, I’ll bet. Scaggs was likely one of Kazankis’s hardcores shoveling more dirt on Carosso. Packages, my ass, Kazankis invented the solution while we were in his office: lay the action off on Carosso, make him a lone wolf. When Carosso got his throat cut, Redi-flow became a dead end.”

“Brilliant. And cold.”

“Five minutes to destination,” the pilot said. We were riding the edge of the ’glades southward. The subdivisions were replaced by lone roads and solitary buildings. I saw Homestead to the east, the cistern site nearby. A minute later I saw the branch between the main highway and the road to the Red-flow complex.

“Glasses?” I asked the pilot, hands cupped around my eyes.

“Binocs under the seat. Gyro-stabilized. You can see up someone’s ass from a thousand yards.”

I pressed them to my eyes, finding the high water tank of Redi-flow, the cross sailing over the compound. “Stay back,” I cautioned. “Don’t want to spook anyone.”

He pointed to another chopper a couple miles away. “We’re in the flight lanes of helicopter tours of the ’glades, sir. They’re used to choppers.”

We flew closer. I ID’d the Redi-flow building and the closed Olympia Equipment structure nearby. I saw an old Quonset hut a thousand meters south. The treeline kept it hidden from ground view.

“Swing south.” I frowned. “Let’s check that q-hut.”

The semi-truck rumbled down the sandy lane in the South Florida coastal backcountry, a battered red tractor pulling the kind of intermodal container loaded on ships.

“You looked worried a few miles back, Joleo,” Landis said. “Any reason?”

“Ain’t nothing. I thought we was being followed but looks like we’re clean. I get wired up. Nerves.”

“This how it’s supposed to be?” Landis asked, nodding to the spare, scrubby land. “Just us and nothing else.”

“Quiet and peaceful. I climb atop the cab and keep watch while you open the trailer. It’s gonna stink. The guy I told you about – Mr Orzibel – he’ll come and inspect the load, and grab some for local use. The others head to that hut to get fed and watered. From there they move wherever they’re supposed to go. I don’t ask.”

“I expect I know, now that I know the hut’s here. Redi-flow, where I work, is on the far side of those trees.”

Joleo looked at Landis.

“We got a couple guys at the plant,” Landis continued. “Drivers who haul the portable concrete plants. I’ve seen them drive a dirt path behind Olympia, come out a bit later and hit the road. Sometimes they return after just a couple days, still hauling the stuff, like all they were doing was taking the equipment for a ride.”

“I know,” Joleo said, pulling the rig into the dirt. “I worked at Redi for a year. Best keep all that to yourself and let’s git busy.”

Landis grabbed the bolt cutters and jumped from the cab as Joleo climbed atop the rig. “Looks clear,” he called. “Set ’em loose.”

“What about that chopper over there?” Landis pointed to the west.

“Glades tours. They’re too far to see anything, so we’re fine.”

“Glades tours?” Landis said. “What? They lookin’ for ’gators up there?”

Joleo laughed.

I fixed the glasses on the Quonset hut as we approached. On the far side I was surprised to see a semi rig, even more surprised by what was atop the cab.

“That semi rig parked beside the Quonset hut – can you see it? There’s a guy standing on the cab.”

“Weird,” the pilot said.

“Another guy’s moving to the trailer, the rear. He’s … at the door.”

Even with the gyro I was getting a lot of bounce from the glasses. Add in heat distortion and it was like watching a jittering film. “Uh … the doors are swinging open and … and … uh, one, four … uh, eight, ten, fourteen, fifteen, nineteen and twenty-one, two … twenty-three.” I dropped the glasses for a moment’s relief.

“Twenty-three what?” Gershwin asked.

“Twenty-three people leaving that trailer. They’re heading for the hut.” I lifted the binocs again. “Well, looky here.”

“What?” said the pilot, now as transfixed as Gershwin.

“A loaded semi moving from Redi-flow. Not north onto the highway, but south toward the Quonset hut.”

“Are you seeing what it seems like you’re seeing?” Gershwin said.

“Watching hell from the heavens,” I said. “Wonder how that fits into Kazankis’s theology?”