TWENTY-EIGHT

A hundred yards up the service road, Morgan stopped, shut the engine off. In the distance, he could see the refinery, moonlight on broken glass, gaps in the roof.

He slipped out of the car, the Beretta in his hand. Separating this road from the refinery was a half mile of choked undergrowth, stunted trees. He heard night noises, animal sounds he couldn’t identify. A splashing from the canal behind him, a low bellow in the dark.

As he started up the road, the breeze shifted, brought with it the smell of swamp. Then something else. Cigarette smoke.

He stopped where he was, waited for his eyes to adapt to the dark. There was a shape ahead, a car, someone at the wheel. The glow of a cigarette being drawn on, and then sparks as it sailed from the window, landed in the dirt.

He held his breath. A mosquito landed on his neck. He didn’t touch it.

He counted to ten, then moved closer. It was a dark four-door sedan, a Lexus maybe. He came up silently on the driver’s side. The man at the wheel had dreadlocks, a blue bandana around his neck. The woman had talked. The Haitians had beaten him here.

He swung the Beretta through the open window, hit the driver across the bridge of the nose. It snapped his head back, and Morgan hit him again before he could cry out, yanked at the door latch and pulled it open. The man spilled out onto the ground. Morgan pushed his face down in the dirt, hit him twice more with the gun.

He shouldered the door closed, the interior light winking out, rolled the man onto his back. A teenager, eyes half closed, nose flat and broken. Morgan could see the glint of tiny diamonds woven into his dreads.

There was an automatic in the boy’s waistband. Morgan took it out, tossed it into the brush, used the bandana to wipe blood from the Beretta. Then he pushed the gun into his belt, caught the boy’s wrists. He dragged him off the road and into the trees, left him facedown.

He waited, listened, then went back to the Lexus, opened the door again. When the light blinked on, he saw the AK-47 propped against the passenger seat; dark wood stock, banana clip. He took it out, looked it over, pulled back the bolt to chamber a round. The selector switch was set to semiautomatic fire.

He touched the car hood. Even through the glove he could feel the engine warmth. It hadn’t been here long.

He started back up the road.

Billy peered out the front window. Without a word, he leaned down, picked up the rifle, blew out the candle.

“What is it?” Sara said.

“Heard something, maybe. Keep quiet now.”

A cloud crossed the moon, and the room dropped into darkness.

Morgan waited for a cloud to pass, then pushed through the trees again, the moon lighting his way. Branches slapped at him. The AK seemed to grow heavier, and twice he considered leaving it behind, but he didn’t know how many of them there would be, didn’t want to lose the advantage it might give him.

He was sweating freely now. Mosquitoes whined around his head. His foot caught a root and he fell hard to his knees, held on to the AK. He stayed like that, knees in the dirt, listening. He counted a long sixty, got to his feet again.

The refinery loomed closer. He kept it as his landmark, stopping every few feet to listen. When he came out onto the service road, there were shacks to his left and, parked in front of them, the dark shape of a vehicle, no one in it.

He crossed the road, followed a chain-link fence to the rear of the refinery. Through the trees, he could see the glow of light inside the building.

He found a spot where the fence sagged low, put a foot on it to push it down farther. He waited, listening. Then he stepped on the chain-link with both feet, rode it to the ground on the other side, stepped off. The sprung fence rose up wearily behind him.

Sara looked at the open door, the catwalk beyond. She could see the flickering glow of the Coleman lamp below.

Her head ached where it had hit the floor, but her vision had cleared. Billy was ignoring her, looking out into the night, the Bushmaster’s forend stock resting on the sill.

She looked at the pipe again. It was maybe three inches in diameter, with a bolted elbow sleeve holding the horizontal and vertical ends together. It would have to be old, worn. If she could work at the sleeve, she might be able to pull one of the pipes loose. Less than an inch and she could slip the cuff through.

Then what?

She looked at his back. If she could get free, through that door and down those stairs fast enough, she could find a way out. Would he shoot her in the back?

If you’re quick enough, he won’t get the chance.

At the window, Billy braced the butt of the rifle against his shoulder. He pointed the muzzle out into the darkness, slipped his finger over the trigger.

When he reached the edge of the trees, Morgan saw them, moving shadows against a deeper blackness. Four men. They came together in the moonlight, gathering around one of them who gave instructions with hand gestures. They all wore ski masks. The leader and another man carried rifles, the familiar silhouette of the AK. Above them, Morgan could see light in the rear windows. That’s where the money is, he thought. My money.

They split up. The leader and another went around to the front of the building, one on each side. Morgan could see a rear door now. The two that were left approached it, one with an AK at port arms, the other with an automatic in a two-handed grip. They stopped a few feet from the door, as if awaiting a signal.

Morgan watched them. Years since he’d fired an AK. He lifted it to his shoulder, left hand bracing the stock, right hand closing around the pistol grip, finger sliding over the trigger. The two were about a hundred feet away, their backs to him.

He stepped out of the trees.

TWENTY-NINE

Sara jumped when she heard the shooting. It came from behind the refinery, the flat crack, crack, crack of an automatic rifle.

Billy looked at her. Then they heard movement out front, and he was back at the window, firing, the AR-15 bucking, brass clattering on the concrete floor. She could hear yelling, the noise of the rifle drowning it out, echoing through the room.

He wheeled away from the window, and shots came through the empty frame, punched into the ceiling. A stray bullet sparked the wall near her, whined away inches from her ear, hit something farther back in the room. Then more shots, shouting from outside.

He took aim again, fired until the bolt locked back, swung away.

“Got the bastard that time.”

He ejected the magazine, reversed it, slapped the full one in, turned back to the window.

She pulled hard on the cuff, heard the pipes rattle, pulled again, felt a little give. Then the shots and shouting were closer, and she knew they were inside.

Morgan watched the two men go down. The butt of the AK kicked against him, the barrel rising. He heard shells hit wood, break glass.

The one with the handgun rolled, got to his feet, sprinted for the left side of the building and cover. Morgan shifted his aim, squeezed the trigger, muzzle flashes making spots dance in front of his eyes. He saw splinters fly from the side of the building, heard ricochets whine off, and then the man was gone, out of sight and range.

Morgan turned, fired again at the man on the ground, bullets kicking up dirt. Then the gun was empty and smoking, the noise still echoing in his ears. He dropped it in the dirt and drew the Beretta.