The sun was completely down by the time we reached the far side of the bay, and Bertie slowed the skiff to an idling speed. Fireflies blinked among the mangroves as we glided by, and the sounds of frogs and crickets intoned a steady chorus among the wild darkness. He dimmed the lantern hanging off the bow and then cut the motor.

“It can get tricky in here,” he said. “Gets real skinny and I don’t want to run aground.” He tilted the outboard up out of the water and picked up a long pole that was lying in the bottom of the boat. He dropped one end below the surface and began to push us steadily ahead. He began to hum softly, his slow, steady movement guiding us expertly alongside the banks.

Clara gasped and pointed. The water was glowing where Bertie’s pole disturbed it, creating a swirl of blue and green light. “What is that?!”

“Jellies,” Bertie chuckled. “Little comb jellies light up when you move the water around ‘em. You should see them on the beach sometime. Whole shoreline lights up like fireworks in the water. Real pretty.”

Clara reached for the water, then paused, looking up at our guide. “Will they hurt?”

He laughed again. “Naw. They’re harmless.”

Clara smiled and dipped her hand into the water, watching with wide eyes as the bioluminescent lights flowed between her fingers. “They're beautiful,” she breathed.

“I wouldn’t leave your hand in too long, though,” Bertie said, still looking ahead. “There are other things in there…” his voice trailed off, and I could almost see his grin. Clara quickly pulled her hand back and threw him a rueful look. She dried her hand off on my pant leg and leaned back again.

Bertie pulled a stub of a cigar out of his shirt pocket and stuck it between his teeth, then flicked open a lighter and puffed away. I followed his cue and pulled my cigarette case out and offered one to Clara, then lit them both with a single match. We sat in silence, watching the silhouettes of the trees pass by, occasionally hearing the sound of a bird or the splash of a fish. A duet of great horned owls from either side of us cut through the night, echoing off the water. This far from the city, the darkness was deeper, but the moon and stars shone brighter. I watched the fireflies dance and wondered what we were going to find at the end of this journey.

As if reading my mind, Clara asked softly, “So what’s the plan, Eddie?”

I took a drag from my cigarette and released the smoke slowly. “I guess it’s going to depend on what we find when we get there. Assuming Raul is there, and assuming he is still alive, I’d prefer to get him out with as little fuss as possible.”

She gave me a level look. “That’s not a plan, Eddie.”

I shrugged. “It's as close to one as I got right now. The last thing I want to do is get into a shootout. Especially if we are outgunned.”

“There’s probably only two or three guys at the shack,” said Bertie without looking at us. “At least, that’s my guess.”

“Bertie, I’m not asking you to do anything,” I started.

He waved his hand at me. “I’m already here, aren't I? I don’t think they are going to ask if I am just your driver.” He shot me a grin, his teeth yellowed and cracked in the lantern light. “Besides, these pendejos are in my river and messing up my fishing areas with their nonsense.”

“We appreciate your help,” said Clara.

Bertie shrugged. “You buy me drinks for a while. Call it even.” He laughed to himself and continued poling.

“If we can sneak up on them,” I said. “Maybe get in behind them? I’d prefer to knock them out and get out of there without killing anyone.”

“Or getting killed ourselves,” quipped Clara. “Yes, that would be preferred.”

It was another half hour or more before we saw a soft glow from the lights of the shack. It was a dilapidated old thing, raised up about six or seven feet above the waterline on stilts. A floating dock was attached to the wooden pylons, with a small boat tied up there. Bertie brought us to a slow stop, floating quietly in the dark. He doused the lantern and nudged our skiff alongside a large cypress knee.

The shack had a wrap-around porch, with a man in a suit standing in front, holding a rifle and periodically swatting at the mosquitoes around his head. The idiot was standing directly in front of an oil lamp, in the middle of the swarming bloodsuckers. There was a light on inside the shack, lighting up the windows on all sides. A ladder was fixed to the porch and hung a couple of feet above the dock.

“Is that the only way in?” I asked.

Bertie shook his head. “There’s a back door, too. There was a rope ladder on the back side, last time I was here.”

“Can you get us around to that side without being seen?”

“Should be able to.” He deftly pushed us in between trees and navigated the skiff around floating mats of grass. I kept my eye on the guard on the porch, who seemed much more focused on swatting bugs than he was on looking for intruders. I suspected he had been given the assignment as punishment. No one was supposed to even know this place existed, and Andrade certainly didn’t expect anyone to come here.

Bertie pulled up a dozen or more yards from the back of the shack, and I could see the old rope ladder hanging there. It had not been used in a long time; it was covered in strangler vines and bromeliads, the ropes green with moss and algae. The wooden rungs looked soft and rotted.

“This is as close as I can get you,” Bertie whispered. “It's too shallow. You should be able to walk it, though. There’s some land between here and there, and the tree roots, too.”

I looked at Clara, and we both shrugged. Bertie helped her step out of the boat and onto a dry patch, and I managed to not fall in the water as I exited as well. Bertie poled his way back into the woods, disappearing from view as he maneuvered back towards the river. Clara and I made our way carefully towards the stilted structure, pausing any time we heard a noise or something caught our eye. The going was slow, wet, and squishy. I was used to mud in my boots from my days in the army, but there is something different about swampy, warm muck working its way into your socks and up into your pant legs. More of the water was ankle deep, interspersed with mangrove roots - dead man's fingers, as we called them when we were kids - and cypress knees. The smell of decaying leaf matter rose up to assault our senses as we disturbed the water, the aroma pungent with heavy notes of sulphur. It was an unpleasant addition to the already stagnant air.

As we got closer to the shack, the ground rose up a few inches from the water and was firm enough to stand on to reach the ladder. Clara eyed the rungs with distrust.

“Are you really going to try to climb that?” she whispered. “I don’t think those rungs will hold you.”

“You want to try?” I asked, grabbing the overgrown ropes and pushing them towards her. She shook her head.

“Just be careful.”

I glared at her and then tugged on the ancient remnant. It creaked slightly, but held. I pulled myself up and put my left foot on the bottom rung, off to the side so I was not stepping right in the middle. It held. I lifted my right foot to the next rung, mirroring the left. One by one, I climbed the slippery, rotted ladder. The ropes creaked, but thankfully never gave more than an inch or two.

I dropped debris as I climbed, navigating around broken twigs and foliage that had collected there over who knows how long. I had a brief stare-down with an unnervingly large spider who had built her web between two of the slats. She was less interested in me, however, and went about her business, wrapping up an unfortunate fly that had just landed in her lair. Out of respect, I avoided tearing her home apart with my feet as I slowly climbed by.

I reached the top, peering over the edge of the porch carefully, and was able to pull myself up without too much of a racket. I paused for a moment, making sure the guard at the front had not heard. Nothing. I looked down over the side to Clara and gave her a thumbs up, then turned back to assess the situation. The back door was closed, and I very carefully tried the handle. Locked. There were windows on all sides, curtains blocking most of the view in. It was light enough inside that I could see the shadow of someone walking slowly back and forth. I moved along the wall slowly, looking for a space that might allow me to see in, and finally found a small separation.

One man standing. Another in a chair, tied to it with his back to me. Raul. There was a shotgun on the table within reach of the guard. Even if the door had been open, he would have had it in hand before I got to him. I peeked around the corner along the side and saw the shoulder of the other guard. His back was to me, and he still stood under the lantern, swiping at bugs. I pulled my pistol from my jacket and flipped it around.

Careful not to step on any of the twigs or leaves on the porch, I snuck up behind the guard and whipped him hard across the back of the head. He crumpled, and I just managed to catch him before he crashed to the floor. I wasn’t able to catch the rifle, however, and it went clattering across the old pine.

I heard a muffled curse from inside and heavy footsteps coming towards the door. I ducked behind the corner just as the door burst open.

“Shit! Desi! You okay?” I heard the pump of the shotgun. “Who’s out there?!”

I backed up and leveled my gun towards the corner, waiting for him to appear. This was not how I had wanted things to go. There was a grunt, and then a thud. I saw the shotgun come tumbling onto the porch, and Clara stepped around the corner, her snub-nosed pistol, Whisper, in hand.

“You didn’t wait for me,” she said, chiding.

Inside the shack, we found Raul Arroyo, bound and gagged in a wooden chair, barely conscious. He’d taken a hell of a beating. His left eye was swollen shut, his cheek a yellow-purple mess, and his lips were cracked and bloody. His shirt was ripped open, and his torso was black and blue with bruises. Clara worked to untie him, and I moved him to the small cot they had set up in the corner. While Clara tended to him, I found some rope and bound the guards, dragging them inside and putting them back to back in the corner, hogtied together and blindfolded with ripped pieces of pillowcase.

“What now?” asked Clara.

“How do we get your friend down to the boat?” Bertie appeared in the doorway. Neither of us had heard him arrive or come up the ladder. He stood there, seemingly unbothered. “I don’t think I can carry him down myself.” He laughed at his own joke.

“Is there any rope left? Maybe we can loop it around him and lower him down,” I suggested. Clara found a pile of fishing and boating gear, and enough to do the job. After some false starts - and nearly dropping poor Raul into the water from the edge of the porch - we managed to land him safely on the dock and then heft him into the boat. I made sure the knots were still tight on the guards, collected their weapons, and joined everyone in the boat.

Without a word, Bertie took us once again into the darkness, our unlikely mission a success. And no one had to die.

Buy Me A Rope Ladder