Deadline (Sandra Brown)

night never got any higher than his knees, but it soaked the legs of his jeans and filled his boots. He fought his way through areas of thick cordgrass and clumps of palmetto palms, with their leaves that were shaped like knife blades and which were just as sharp. The insects were aggressive and merciless. He didn’t want to think about the species of reptiles he might encounter.
    He had estimated he could walk twenty acres in half an hour or less. But slogging through water and thrashing through the uncharitable plant life increased the effort and time required.
    Fortunately, as the elevation rose, the soil became firmer and less brackish, and the marsh grasses gradually gave over to forest. Soon he was walking under tree branches that formed a tangled, dense canopy overhead, which kept the forest floor shady. Undergrowth flourished. Vines twisted up tree trunks. Lacy ferns formed patches of vibrant green. From every vantage point, the landscape looked like a diorama of shifting shadows, a wilderness of undisturbed camouflage.
    Which is why he almost missed it.
    Had it not been for a pair of redbirds that caught his attention as they streaked through the woods calling to each other and then lighting on the tilting television antenna attached to the edge of the roof, he might have gone right past without seeing it.
    He stopped dead in his tracks and then quickly crouched behind a thicket of palmetto. He figured that if Carl or Jeremy had spied him or heard him, he would already be dead.
    The structure was larger than what he would term a shack. More like a cabin. It squatted in a small clearing surrounded by trees. Tall grass and wild shrubbery grew right up to the exterior walls, which were constructed of raw lumber that had weathered to blend in with the dun tint of tree bark.
    The low roof was completely covered with lichen and fallen tree branches, where vegetation had taken root in the naturally made compost. From the air, it would have blended in with the landscape. Not even from a helicopter, flying low, could it have been spotted.
    He had come onto it from the front. There was a porch of sorts about a yard square, a door flanked by small windows, placed high. The window glass had been smeared with something to prevent it from reflecting light. No telephone or electrical lines were in evidence, but a generator, painted in camouflage, was tucked against one exterior wall and covered in vines.
    Dawson thought wryly: this is the reward for a lifetime of crime? But then, one of Carl Wingert’s grievances had been the obsessive materialism of the American people. In this, at least, he practiced what he preached.
    Dawson waited ten minutes by his watch before daring to move, then began a slow and silent approach. When he could go no farther without stepping out from the cover of the trees, he stopped to take several deep breaths.
    Two people came to mind: Corporal Hawkins, the young soldier from North Dakota who was featured in his nightmare. And Amelia, the last woman he would kiss. The first woman he would love. If he didn’t live through this, he hoped that by some cosmic miracle they would both know that in his final moments he had acknowledged his unpaid debts to them.
    He stepped from the relative safety of the trees and walked toward the cabin. No one called out a warning. No telltale shadows appeared at the foggy windows. He heard no rustling sounds, nothing to indicate that the dwelling was inhabited.
    But as he was about to step onto the porch, he recalled something Headly had told him: We should have known it was booby-trapped. A snitch had told the FBI that Carl and Flora were hiding inside a house in southern Florida. A covert raid was planned and perfectly executed until a Special Ops agent stepped onto the wooden porch. He and the structure had been blown to smithereens. Three fellow agents had been critically wounded despite their protective gear.
    Dawson equated booby traps to IEDs. He’d seen their handiwork up close. Thoughts of the ravages they were capable of went through his mind as he eased himself up onto the small platform.
    Nothing detonated. He expected gunshots at the very least, but all he heard was the domestic spat between the redbirds. He reached for the doorknob and turned it. Surprisingly it wasn’t locked. The door swung inward. The first thing that greeted him was the smell. Old garbage, sour sweat, blood.
    “I could shoot you through the door, so you’d just as well come