The bench shook. Littell folded his hands over one knee.
“Should I call him?”
“He’ll call you, and I would advise you to accept his offer. The man has a silly, if exploitable, plan to purchase Las Vegas hotel-casinos a few years from now, and I think the notion has intelligence-gathering potential. I told Howard the names of your other clients, and he was quite impressed. I think the job is yours for the asking.”
Littell said, “I want it.”
Hoover said, “Of course you do. You’ve been hungry all your life, and you’ve finally reconciled your desires with your conscience.”
79
(Orange Beach, 5/4/62)
They had 3:00 a.m. moonlight to work by. It was half a curse– total dark meant SURPRISE.
Pete pulled off the blacktop. He saw sand dunes up ahead–big high ones.
Néstor draped his legs across Wilfredo Delsol. Wilfredo the Mummy was duct-taped head to toe and stuffed between the front and back seats.
Boyd rode shotgun. Delsol wheezed through his nose. They kidnapped him at his pad on their way out of Miami.
Pete shifted to four-wheel drive. The Mummy lurched and banged Néstor’s legs.
The jeep bounced between dunes. Boyd examined their track obfuscator–rake prongs attached to metal tubing.
Néstor coughed. “The beach is half a mile. I walked it twice.”
Pete braked and cut the engine. Wave noise came on strong. Boyd said, “Listen to that. If we’re lucky, they won’t hear us.”
They got out. Néstor dug a hole and buried Delsol in sand up to his nose.
Pete tossed a tarp over the jeep. It was light tan and sand-dune compatible.
Néstor rigged the rake gizmo. Boyd inventoried hardware.
They had silencer-fitted .45s and machine guns. They had a chainsaw, a clock bomb and two pounds of plastic explosive.
They slapped on lampblack. They loaded up their packs.
They walked. Néstor dragged the rake. Tire tracks and footprints disappeared.
They crossed the blacktop and hiked up to a parallel access road–about a third of a mile. The road-to-waveline sand sthp was roughly two hundred yards wide.
Néstor said, “The State Police never patrol here.”
Pete held up his infrareds. He spotted clumps 300 yards down the strip.
Boyd said, “Let’s get close.”
Pete stretched–his bulletproof vest fit tight. “There’s nine or ten men just above the west sand. We should come up along the shoreline and hope the goddamn surf noise covers us.”
Néstor crossed himself. Boyd filled his hands and his mouth– with two .45s and a Buck knife.
Pete felt earthquake tremors–9.999-fucking-9.
They walked down to the wet sand. They hunkered low and crab-crawled. Pete got this wild-ass notion: I’M THE ONLY ONE WHO KNOWS WHAT THIS MEANS.
Boyd walked point. The shapes took form. Smashing waves supplied audial cover.
The shapes were sleeping men. One insomniac was sitting up– check that glowing cigarette tip.
They got close.
They got closer.
They got very very close.
Pete heard snores. A man moaned in Spanish.
They charged.
Boyd shot the cigarette man. Muzzle flash lit a line of sleeping bags.
Pete fired. Néstor fired. Silencer thuds overlapped.
They had good light now–powder glare off four weapons.
Goose down exploded. Screams kicked in loud and faded into tight little gurgles.
Néstor brought a flashlight in close. Pete saw nine U.S. Army bags, shredded and blood soaked.
Boyd popped in fresh clips and shot the men point-blank in the face. Blood hit Néstor’s flashlight and shaded the beam light red.
Pete heaved for breath. Bloody feathers blew into his mouth.
Néstor kept the light steady. Boyd knelt down and slit throats. He went in deep and low–windpipes and spinal cords snapped.
Néstor dragged the bodies out.
Pete turned the sleeping bags over and stuffed them with sand.
Boyd patted them into shape. It was good simulation–the boat men would see dozing men.
Néstor dragged the bodies down to a tide pool. Boyd brought the chainsaw.
Pete yank-started it. Boyd spread the stiffs out for cutting.
The moon passed by low. Néstor supplied extra light.
Pete sawed from a crouch. The teeth caught on a leg bone straight off.
Néstor pulled the man’s foot taut. The teeth whirred through easy.
Pete sawed through a string of arms. The saw kept bucking into the sand. Skin and gristle pop-pop-popped in his face.