Unlawful Chase

by C J Schnier

  "Indeed, you're right on both accounts. They were quite costly and I am, in fact, Mr. Pruitt. Adrian Pruitt, to be exact. And you are Chase Hawkins. A pleasure to meet you."

  "Likewise," I said, holding my hand out, which the thin man grasped immediately. "Though with a house like this, I almost expected you to introduce yourself as Don Pruitt," I added dryly.

  "Hardly. I'm not Spanish. Now, let's cut to the chase, if you'll pardon the expression. I'm sure you are wondering why I have summoned you here."

  "Well, your errand boy wasn't exactly a fount of information. He didn't leave me too many options on the matter either. How do you even know who I am?"

  Pruitt looked offended, "Why, I know all about you, Captain Hawkins. And I am certain you are just the sort of man I need for a very delicate job."

  "I'm afraid that doesn't answer my question, Mr. Pruitt. I must ask you again, before we go any farther, how did you come across my name?"

  "From my good friend Senator Valentine, of course. He once told me how you helped him win his election bid, I must admit it intrigued me. Enough so that I did a bit of research on my own. I was most impressed by what I discovered. You have a certain talent for getting the impossible done, and from what I've been told, you stick to your own moral compass. Both qualities I look for in a contractor."

  Valentine was a name I had not wanted to hear again. I helped him frame a political rival a little over a year ago. My job had been to steal his rival's yacht from his waterside mansion on Lake Boca. Valentine had paid me handsomely for my trouble. Unfortunately, I owed it all to a drug cartel and never got to enjoy the money.

  "The job I did for Valentine was a onetime deal. Stealing super yachts isn't exactly normal for me. I'd prefer to stay out of trouble."

  "Wouldn't we all," he said with a chuckle. "No, I don't want you to steal a boat, and I won't ask you to run drugs like you did for Santiago Acosta and his cartel. Though if I'm being honest, this job isn't exactly legal. But that is why I'm willing to pay so much."

  "Like I said, Mr. Pruitt, I want to stay on the right side of the law. The last time I strayed to the shady side of life, I lost someone I loved. No, I'm afraid you're wasting your time. That moral compass you mentioned is pointing away from you right now. I'm sorry if I wasted your time."

  "Tell me, Captain Hawkins, which way was your moral compass pointing when you were running drugs for a Cuban cartel? Where was it when you stole a politician's yacht for his competitor, knowing it would ruin his reputation? Or, how about when you killed a man with your bare hands, or when you orchestrated the death of another man by the same cartel that tried to kill you for stealing their money? No, Mr. Hawkins, I do not believe your moral compass is as unwavering as you think it is."

  I clenched my fist. The bastard had done his research, but he was wrong. "I didn't ask to do any of those things. The entire chain of events was out of my control."

  "Set in motion by your friend Remy's gambling debts to a certain Cuban drug lord, correct?"

  "Exactly," I answered. "I didn't want any of this, it's given me nothing but heartache."

  "No, Mr. Hawkins, you wanted exactly this. You could have gone to the authorities as soon as Acosta's men roughed you up. Instead, you went down this path willingly. You may rationalize your actions, but in reality, it was all a means to an end. You may have started off as an innocent coerced into the drug business, but after you stole that yacht and orchestrated the death of Raul Acosta, you became little more than a mercenary. A rather skillful one, but a mercenary nonetheless."

  "No!" I spat, forcefully. "You're wrong. I stole that boat to get enough money to pay off the cartel and save Kelly's life. It wasn't for personal gain."

  "What could be more personal than saving the one you love? Fine. Say I agree with you about the boat. What about Raul Acosta? Surely orchestrating his death wasn't necessary. Are you telling me vengeance wasn't your motive?"

  "He was dangerously ambitious and greedy. I simply let his associates see how much of a threat he was to their interests. Besides, the slimy eel went back on his word and had Kelly killed, even after he knew we had the money. If there is one thing I regret about Raul Acosta's death, it's that I couldn't think of a way to kill him myself. I had to get someone else to do it. So, yes, vengeance was my motivation."

  "Yes, vengeance can be quite a powerful motivator, but so can money. You have a talent, Chase, you're exceptional at pulling yourself out of sticky situations. But look at you. In the wake of your dear Kelly's death, you've blown what little money you had and reduced yourself to whoring about in seedy bars. That is, when you can pull yourself out of an alcoholic induced stupor long enough. You look like shit, and let's be honest, you smell like it too." He pulled a handkerchief from his pants pocket and waved it in front of his face theatrically.

  "If I am such a lost cause, why did you want to see me? You call me a mercenary, but I've got you pegged as just another wealthy eccentric. A dandy who won't get his own hands dirty."

  "Spot on," he said with a smirk. "As my father always said, 'use what you've got,' and right now I've got you Mr. Hawkins."

  "Hah!" I snapped. "I may not have chosen to enter a life of crime, but I sure as hell can choose to leave it. Thank you, but I think I'll be leaving." I turned and headed for the path back to the helipad when a voice stopped me in my tracks. A voice I knew too well. My voice.

  "I stole that boat to get enough money to pay off the cartel."

  I turned back to see Pruitt holding a small recording device up in the air. He pushed a button and a moment later my voice rang out across the open air room again. "If there is one thing I regret about Raul Acosta's death, it's that I couldn't think of a way to kill him myself. I had to get someone else to do it."

  Well shit. That wasn't good. One of these days I'm going to learn how to keep my mouth shut.

  "I'm sorry Mr. Hawkins, I didn't want to resort to this, but you left me little choice. And besides," he added with sinister cheer, "Perhaps this will give you the justification you need to ignore that pesky moral compass of yours."

  I clenched my jaw until my teeth hurt. Somehow I'd let this prissy richling trap me. I knew he had me right where he wanted me, and worse, he knew it too. "And if I refuse to do whatever you want, you'll turn that in to the authorities or something, right?"

  "But of course."

  "That is ridiculous," I replied, "You don't care about me anymore than I care about you. You're just trying to live out some dream of being a supervillain."

  "Perhaps you're right. Perhaps you're wrong. Do you really want to find out?"

  I thought about it for a moment. He had a point. I had a poor track record of making moral choices. And there was that genuine need for some sort of income. In the end, I chose money instead of starvation or jail. Besides, my life could do with a little purpose and adventure.

  "What is in it for me? Besides staying out of jail?"

  "Money. What else is there?" Pruitt answered.

  "How much money?" I asked.

  "Lots."

  "Start talking then."

  "Have you ever heard of the Taino people, Chase?" he asked, a conspiratorial air of mystery radiating from him as he said this. I hadn't ever heard of the Taino, but his tone had me wanting to know more, despite my reluctance. I couldn't help but wonder what it was he wanted me to do.

  "No. Should I have?" I finally asked.

  "They were the original inhabitants of Hispaniola, or Cuba as we know it now. Of course, when the Spanish colonized the island, most of the Taino Indians were wiped out or sold into slavery. They weren't an exceptionally rich tribe, but they left behind a few treasures, the most important of which was an idol said to represent the entire Taino people. It was very much coveted by the early conquistadors, and the head cacique, or chief, held a special meeting with the other four caciques on the island and hid the idol. Despite centuries of searching, it has never been located."

  "I think I know where you're going with
this. Let me guess, you want me to find this idol so you can add it to your collection?" I asked, gesturing at the multitude of objects scattered throughout the room.

  "Yes. That is exactly what I want to hire you for."

  "How am I supposed to find it if nobody knows where it is?"

  "Lucky for you, I do know where it is. A researcher I employ from time to time has been trying to crack the secret of the Taino for years. Two days ago, he finally figured out the location and contacted me. The information was not cheap, but I could not let a priceless one-of-a-kind item such as this pass me by. However, I'm fairly certain he will sell the location to some others as well. I hardly have a monopoly on rare artifacts, which is why I need you Mr. Hawkins."

  "Me? I seem like a terrible choice for this. Cuba is technically off limits to Americans. Why not hire a Brit or a Canadian, or even a Cuban for that matter? Surely a man of your means and profession knows several treasure hunters who would have a much easier time than me."

  Pruitt curved his thin lips into a devilish smile. "There are several reasons, the foremost being cost. I will pay you three-hundred thousand dollars for bringing me the idol. I would have to pay a pro at least triple. Another reason I chose you is you're very good at keeping a low profile. With your sailboat, you can easily sneak in and out of Cuba. Cruisers are constantly exploring the island, and tourist money is always welcome. And last, I'm told you speak Spanish, which will of course be of immense help to our endeavor."

  I laughed at the last part, "I speak bad Spanish. It's about time some of your information was wrong. Regardless, this is crazy. I don't know anything about treasure hunting. Hell, I don't even know what this idol looks like."

  "I can help with that. Do you have a cell phone?"

  "No. I've found that my life is much better without one." I replied.

  "No worries, I'll have my associate, Mr. Liezer, give you a satellite phone when he drops you back off in Marathon. When you are ready to depart, call me. The number will already be in it. I will give you all the information you need. I'll also have him give you a small advance."

  I didn't like this at all. It was bad enough this slimeball was extorting me, basically blackmailing me into working for him. But keeping me in the dark about the specifics was worse, and owing someone like Adrian Pruitt money did not seem like a pleasant situation to be in either. Debts got me into this mess to begin with. But debts were what I was going to have if I didn't take this job. And I'd be lying if I said the adventure wasn't appealing, too.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I rubbed my knotted shoulder muscles after climbing onboard from the dinghy and stowing the last of the provisions for the trip. The sun had sunk over the horizon hours ago, and the pale face of the moon shone brilliantly on the dark waters. The harbor was still relatively busy with activity, and from somewhere over to the west, the raucous laughter of a party occasionally made its way over to Paramour. I entertained the thought of joining them, but instead ignored the revelers. I had work to do.

  There were jugs of diesel fuel to tie down, loose items to stow away, and the last chore on the list was to hoist my dinghy and lash it down tight to the deck. No small task for one person. The dinghy motor had to come off, and at nearly one hundred pounds I did not want to risk dropping it in the water while attempting to wrestle it onto its stand on the stern of the sailboat. Instead, I rigged up a block and tackle from the boom of the small mizzen boom where it hung past the stern, turning it into a rudimentary crane. The blocks creaked as I lifted the motor, swung it into place, and then lowered it down. Once it was secured to its stand, the real chore began. Getting the dinghy onboard.

  It was a tedious and exhausting job, but I got the rigid inflatable boat on the deck by hoisting it in the air with the spinnaker halyard. Then it was a matter of wrangling it and orienting it so I could lay it upside down on the deck, taking care to leave myself as much room as possible to get by it. The next step was letting the air out of the pontoons, giving myself more room to maneuver on deck. Lastly, I tied the boat down tightly, using several lines crossing over each other to stop it from moving in any direction. The little boat was my car, my truck, my garbage hauler, and my sole way to shore. I did not want to risk damaging, or worse, losing it while on the crossing to Cuba.

  The deck of Paramour was now clean of any clutter. Jacklines, nylon webbing I could clip my safety harness to, ran down each side. All of her other lines hung neatly from the pinrails, off the deck where they could not become a tripping hazard. I made sure the cockpit was cleared too, as was the inside of the cabin. The pantry and refrigerator were well stocked. The water and fuel tanks were full. All that remained now was to get some sleep before taking off fresh in the morning.

  I stripped down to my boxers and crawled into my bed in the v-berth. For a few moments, I reveled in the feeling of the soft memory foam mattress under me and let my muscles relax. It had been an endless day of work, and quickly I fell into an exhausted but fitful sleep, waking every hour, nervous with anticipation. Each time I awoke with a start, and each time I let the still darkness lull me back to sleep, only to have my eyes snap open again an hour later.

  Early the next morning, annoyed by my lack of sleep, I slipped Paramour's mooring lines as the sky changed from midnight blue into a dim pre-dawn glow that hovered over the sleepy island town of Marathon. The seabirds were waking from their slumber, squawking and calling to each other, rallying for their morning meal of fish. And, like their avian cousins, the human fishermen and other early risers were starting their morning rituals. Charter operators sprayed the morning dew from their vessels and scrubbed the decks of their boats to prepare for their daily fares. But, even with all of this activity, a sort of sacred hush held sway over the harbor.

  Paramour's hull slid through the flat mirror-like waters of the inner harbor, her Volvo engine purring a little above idle. I waved to one or two people perched in their cockpits enjoying their coffee, and before long, I had left the mooring field behind me. To my left were a handful of boats anchored on the outskirts of the harbor. Many of these boats were in some sort of disrepair, and the majority belonged to owners that were too cheap or too poor to rent a mooring ball. They were a solemn reminder that if this job didn't pan out, I could be joining them.

  Beyond them were the remnants of the old bridge, left to rot alone in the salt air. Its lifting section had been removed years ago, leaving two towering sections, one on each side of the channel. These strange twin monuments acted as the gateway to the inner harbor and were as much a landmark to boaters as the more famous Seven Mile Bridge stretching off to the southwest outside of the harbor.

  Once past the bridge, I quickly turned to starboard and made what I hoped would be the only stop on my trip to southern Cuba, Pancho's Fuel Dock. As I neared the dock, the attendant came over and helped catch my lines. A few moments later, as the sun was peaking over the trees of Vaca Key, I was ready to go. I handed a wad of cash to the attendant, slipped the lines, and pointed my bow south, heading for open waters.

  The thought of sailing over 700 nautical miles nonstop and alone didn't bother me. There were few places I felt happier and more at home than on the pitching deck of a boat under sail. My biggest concern was slipping past the net of Cuban patrol boats undetected. Pruitt had ordered me to call him twenty miles offshore of Punta del Diablo, my initial destination. I had to trust he would have a way for me to get me into the country unseen or that I would get lucky.

  The sunrise proved to be excellent, but soon enough Sol's morning show was over and I found myself reaching for a hat and sunglasses. As the sun rose higher in the sky, the temperatures rose with it, and with them a pleasant sea breeze filled in. I went about raising all of Paramour's sails and gained a knot and a half of speed.

  Being a ketch rigged boat, she was easy to sail single-handed, yet also quite capable of dealing with the big seas common on an ocean passage. Storms were part of sailing and I had been in more than a few. I knew Paramo
ur could handle more punishment than I could.

  But I wasn't expecting any big storms this trip. Under ideal conditions, she was a joy to sail and easy to balance. With a little attention to sail trim, I didn't need an autopilot to keep her on course, and for several years I sailed without one. Eventually, though, I joined the rest of the modern sailing world and bought one of the useful, but pricey, contraptions. Working it was simple, I just had to line up the boat and press a button. It would follow the current magnetic heading until either the boat stopped or I turned it off. The added amount of rest the autopilot provided was worth every penny I had spent on it.

  For the first few days, the weather was perfect. Paramour and I made excellent time down the chain of islands that made up the Lower Keys. We passed Key West around 1400 hours on the first day and then turned west to run with the wind towards the Dry Tortugas. I piloted Paramour a bit offshore, careful to avoid the current in the Gulf Stream that ran through the Straits of Florida. Sometime around 0200 in the morning I was due south of Ft. Jefferson and the westernmost part of The Keys.

  I then turned the boat south by southwest, into the relentless current. For several days we fought our way around the west end of Cuba. Due to the current, and a few contrary wind angles, the trip proved less comfortable than I had hoped for. Yet, I pressed on, letting the autopilot do most of the work while I trimmed sails and caught fifteen minute naps in between visual sweeps of the horizon for ships.

  Once a day I would call Pruitt on the satellite phone and provide an update on my progress. In turn, he would provide me with the latest intel on the idol, and any information he could gather about the movements of the military patrol boats. I dreaded the daily calls, but I had to admit, having someone to talk to, even if I didn't like them, was a nice change from the solitude. Still, I kept our conversations to a minimum.

  Paramour bashed heroically and tirelessly through the waves until we finally rounded the corner of Cuba and could escape from the Gulf Stream. I made sure to keep out of their territorial waters to avoid any unwanted attention, but that meant I was too far offshore to glimpse the country's fabled mountains. It was disappointing to know land was close and not be able to see it.