Bartley finished strapping on his body armor standing inside the open door of the impounded black Expedition. He pulled his lucky Saint Christopher out of his shirt, kissed it, then carefully tucked the saint down inside the Kevlar vest.
He walked back to the black Escalade parked on the bridge, and shook each man’s hand in turn. The six officers—tanned, crew-cut young men in camo pants, khaki T-shirts, and modular bulletproof vests—knew the mission was exceptional. When he’d called them up, Bartley had explained that neither the captain nor the lieutenant had signed off on this: they were on their own here.
They stood by the bridge railing, looking over the low mangrove forest to the farm beyond, barely visible in the distance. The target was the farmhouse and two bunkhouses at the top of a low hill built on mud dug from the swamp to create the river. The approach would be over open ground, slightly uphill, with small outbuildings to provide cover during the attack; the approach from the north, across freshly plowed fields, was too dangerous, because it was longer and offered absolutely no cover.
Bartley gathered them into a circle around him. He looked at them gravely, then began.
“This is the real deal, people. You’ve trained for this, and now it’s here. Forget serving warrants, forget bank robberies—that’s penny ante stuff. We’re moving on a well-armed force, approaching a fortified, possibly booby-trapped stronghold uphill over open ground. Resistance may be strong; we’re likely to encounter automatic weapons fire. Cover will be minimal. This will be a stealth operation.
“The target is a meth lab located on a farm belonging to one of this city’s richest citizens. This man has deep ties in the community, so our chances of getting a no-knock warrant through the usual channels are pretty much zip.
“This is unacceptable. I can now tell you that this target must be penetrated emergently for two reasons: first, we have established that the individuals responsible for the murder yesterday of Detective David Rudge are presently on site. Second…” He paused and looked grimly around the circle.
“This afternoon, these same individuals took fellow DCSO deputy Tom Nash. I was able to communicate with Deputy Nash by cell phone; he is being held by these men, and is unable to move. He has informed me that his situation is becoming increasingly untenable, and asked that I gather the team and respond ASAP.”
He looked around. “I knew when I put out the alert that you’d show, and show quick. I’m proud to see just how right I was. I need you to understand that this is a commando action and, as such, it is not officially sanctioned. Anyone who wants to drop out should just do so; there will be no penalty, no retribution.”
He looked around. No one moved, no one spoke.
“However, if you’re coming with us, well…it’s time to get the fucking show on the fucking road…”
He held up a fist. “And let me make one last thing very clear: every worker on that farm is involved in the manufacture of pharmaceutical-grade speed. Every one of them will kill you if he sees you coming. Gentlemen, this mission is shoot-to-kill. Understand me when I tell you this: your goal is to kill these drug dealers before they kill you…”