***

The shallow-draft boat silently trolled up the narrow slough nearly three meandering miles from its mouth at the river.  The slough had widened somewhat, but was still very constrictive.  The mouth of the slough was almost invisible along the river, unless one knew exactly where to look.  Clayton reasoned that of all the camps on the river that he knew of, and he knew of them all, this was one of the most secluded.  He had always admired the camp’s strategic location.  It was accessible by land in all but the worst of floods, the river never dropped low enough to restrict access of a boat like his and almost no one knew it existed.

He could tell they were getting close as he began to notice various landmarks. Clayton always made a point to remember unique features of the swamp around him such as peculiar looking trees or sharp bends.  He was not nearly as familiar with this area as his own enclave, but he was more familiar with it than most.

He smiled as he looked at his boys sitting in front of him on the dry well.  Their presence made him feel complete.  Not knowing if they were safe during the past few months had left him with an emptiness that he had not been able to fill.  They each were wearing night-vision goggles and had their rifles resting beside them.  One would occasionally nudge the other as they pointed to some distant item of interest around them.  Despite their many differences, Clayton was amazed by how much their mannerisms were the same.  Their posture, gestures and facial expressions were nearly identical.

   After they rounded the final bend of their journey, Clayton silently eased the boat to the water’s edge and dropped anchor.  There was one final meander between them and the camp, but the water on each side of the sharp turn was merely separated by a narrow finger of land less than fifteen feet wide.  From their location, they could see through the tiny, wooded peninsula and to the camp nearly three hundred yards beyond.

As Clayton dropped anchor, the brothers unfastened the dark-green kayak that had taken up nearly all of the room on the boat.  They had almost lost it earlier on the open waters of the main river as a gust of wind had gotten underneath it and threatened to blow it skyward like a plastic missile.  Jake had dove on top of the kayak to save it as Geram laughed and exclaimed that he was lucky Kate had been fattening him up, otherwise both he and the small boat might have blown away.  Jake simply grinned and slapped his flat stomach.  He knew that one of the few standards by which he could be called fat was by a Navy SEAL’s standards.

The brothers eased the squat, twelve foot kayak into the dark water beside the boat and Geram gingerly transitioned into it.  The sit-on-top kayak would not track in a straight line for long or turn as easily as a traditional kayak, but it would be very stable and Geram would be able to transition in and out of the boat with ease.

Geram silently paddled up the narrow slough to the rear of the camp. Jake’s AR pistol was balanced across his lap.  The milk crate that was strapped to the back of the kayak behind him was filled with extra magazines and a first aid kit.  With a steady rhythm, the double-sided paddle cut through the water without a sound.  As he urged the boat forward, he surveyed the camp and its surroundings.  The unexpected size of the structure impressed him.

The camp was built nearly thirty years ago for a hunting club that encompassed several thousand acres.  The club mostly consisted of doctors, lawyers and old money.  No expense had been spared in its construction.  It was on large timber piles that rose higher than normal from the muddy ground below.  Geram estimated the structure itself to be close to three-thousand square feet, not including the large wrap-around deck.

The camp’s interior walls were beautiful, cedar planks.  Every couple of years the club would have them sanded so the rich smell, unique to the tree, would fill the rooms once again.  The floors and exterior railings were crafted from local cypress.  The rusty tin roof was still free of leaks and complemented the atmosphere of the camp.  Two wide staircases, one in the front and one in the rear, led from the high deck to the ground below.

Geram could see several four-wheel drive trucks parked underneath the structure, and a pair of boats, too large to easily navigate the narrow slough, anchored close by.  As he got closer, he could hear loud voices coming from inside the candle-lit camp.  He paddled around to the boats, flicked open his folding knife and cut the fuel line leading to each of the outboard motors.

Suddenly the camp’s back door flung open and two men burst into the night.  Geram crouched low behind the nearest boat and peered up at the men.  They roared with laughter as one slapped the other on his back.  The men turned up their bottles, before lighting their cigarettes and leaning against the railing.  Geram cursed under his breath; the drunk and raucous group would never give up without a fight, even if they were hopelessly surrounded.  On the other hand, at least their reactions and aim would be compromised.

***

Greene continued up the overgrown trail to the camp.  Slowly, they were closing in on their destination.  The aging sheriff followed the path for another several hundred yards before pulling off to one side.  He racked the slide of his shotgun, chambering a load of buckshot.

While the other men carried varying, military-styled rifles and the newest semiautomatic pistols, the old man preferred the feel of his well-worn shotgun and 1911 pistol.  They were undoubtedly not the best choices for the situation at hand, but he could find his way around them like none other.  He carried what he was comfortable with, regardless of what anyone else thought.  The canvas hunting vest he wore contained some additional loads of buckshot as well as a few slugs, just in case.

The group of officers, some newly deputized and others seasoned from years on the job, quietly covered the remaining several hundred yards to the camp on foot.  As it came into sight, the men took up positions that surrounded the front and sides of the camp.   As the last man got into position, the sheriff radioed Clayton.

“We’re in position Clay, how about you?”

“Ready and waiting.”

The sheriff raised his megaphone and addressed the men inside.

“Attention, this is the sheriff’s department.  You are surrounded.  You’re wanted for questioning.  Please exit the camp through the front door with your hands in the air.”

Greene waited several minutes, but received no response.  As he lifted the megaphone to repeat his demand, several shots rang out from inside the camp.  One of the volunteer deputies was struck by the volley and rolled onto his side as he writhed in pain.  A second deputy was hit in the shoulder and growled as he spun back behind a tree.  The sheriff was amazed at the accurate fire that was being returned at them in the heavy darkness.  He shouted to his men to take cover and then radioed Clayton.

“Clayton, we’re in trouble.”

“Got it, we’re on it.  Hold tight, sheriff.”

***

The men inside were drunk, but still very capable.  Three of them were positioned behind sandbags that were stacked underneath the front windows.  They had already located most of the sheriff’s men out front with the group’s night -vision equipment and were just waiting for the deputies to show themselves again.  The three remaining men inside had taken defensive positions facing the doors, ready for anyone foolish enough to make it up the stairs.  The two men on the outside had squatted shoulder to shoulder and hopelessly scanned the darkness below for any signs of movement.

Geram had heard the broadcast between the sheriff and Clayton through his own earpiece and had already retrieved the silenced pistol from his shoulder holster.  The larger, AR pistol hung from the single-point sling at his side.  As he carefully made his way to the rear of the camp, he heard his father’s voice coming from the earpiece.