Deep Shadow

by Nick Sullivan

  “You said you never trafficked drugs. What exactly do you smuggle?”

  Darcy gestured vaguely back over his shoulder, toward the ABC islands behind them. “Up here, things people want, but can’t get. Down there…” he gestured to starboard, to the south. “…things people need, but can’t get. Food, medicine…” he trailed off.

  “Guns?” Rick offered.

  Darcy took another slug of pineapple soda. “Guns aren’t necessarily bad. Depends on what you do with them. Isn’t that right, Boone?”

  Boone looked at him quizzically. “What?”

  Darcy raised his eyebrows and smiled at him a moment, before continuing. “My father was born in Venezuela—I have many cousins there. Things are bad… very bad. If people my family know and trust ask for something, I give it to them.”

  “You ever bring anything back?”

  Darcy shrugged. “Sometimes, people have had enough and would like to leave. I help them.”

  Rick grimaced and began to pace. Boone cleared his throat. “So, all those refugees showing up in Curaçao…?”

  “They are going to make the journey whether I help, or not. I’d rather they do so safely.”

  “But you may be bringing cartel people over,” Rick argued. “Or sex slaves.”

  For the first time, Darcy lost his easygoing manner. “I am not a human trafficker. My extended family vets everyone I bring over.”

  “Is there a lot of money in that?” Ron asked.

  “Probably. But not for me. I make plenty from transporting goods, and since I’m coming and going anyway, sometimes I bring someone back. These are my people. Call it pro bono patriotism.”

  “I see the lighthouse!” Emily called.

  “Let me take over,” Darcy said, putting his soda in a cupholder and taking over the wheel. The rain was lessening and, in the distance, the lighthouse was visible above the horizon. Beneath it, a tiny, low-lying island was just coming into view. Darcy throttled the engine down. “We’ll come in nice and slow.” He handed a pair of binoculars to Rick. “Here, Señor Navy man, see if you can see your submarine anywhere. And take a look onshore, around the lighthouse.”

  “I’ve got a pair, too,” Boone said, grabbing his backpack. Unzipping it, he encountered the pair of pistols he’d placed inside. He’d ditched the pastry bag they’d been in, figuring that if he did need them, he might need them quickly. Holding the bag up to his chest, he dug his own binoculars out. He looked up to find Darcy watching him closely. The man winked at him.

  “What?” Boone asked, uncomfortable under the smuggler’s scrutiny.

  “You know how to use those Glocks?”

  “How did you know what was in my bag?”

  “Because of how you behaved with it. Before the dive, when you took a bottle of water out, you placed your bag on your lap and held the opening towards yourself. Like you might open a wallet on a date, careful not to show a condom inside. You did it again, just now.”

  Boone shook his head, confused. “But it could’ve been anything! How did you…?”

  “Because I looked, of course.” Darcy laughed as Boone stared at him. “Hey, I’m curious by nature. I took a peek while you were diving and Ron was watching your bubbles.”

  “Martin said he thought I should bring them,” Boone said.

  “Martin is a wise man.”

  “He also said you’d probably have something of your own onboard.”

  Darcy nodded. “Let’s hope we don’t need it.”

  Ten minutes later, the rain and wind subsided and the beaches and mangroves of the island were visible. Darcy directed Rick and Boone to do their searching from inside the cockpit, looking through the windows.

  “Good idea,” Rick said.

  “Why is that a good idea?” Emily asked. “It’s going to make it harder to spot anything.”

  “Yes, harder for us… and for anyone looking at the boat,” Rick said. “A couple guys staring at you from binoculars can be fairly suspicious. At this distance, the glare off our windows will make it difficult for anyone to see us in here.”

  “Your Navy training at work!” Darcy said.

  Near the lighthouse on the western tip, a number of small buildings stood. Nothing peculiar was in sight. While Rick swept his binoculars across the beach, Boone looked at the lighthouse more closely. During their approach, when it was the only thing visible, he had spent some time looking at it before returning to the sea, searching fruitlessly for periscopes or conning towers. The lighthouse wasn’t the picturesque archetype seen on postcards. Its steely skeleton, painted in wide bands of red and white, had more in common with a radio mast or cell tower, with a small gallery up top around the housing for the light. It had seemed deserted but something kept nagging at Boone and he tended to trust his instincts. His intuition had led him astray from time to time, but more often than not… there! A glint. A shape.

  “Rick! The lighthouse! Under the catwalk, left side.” He looked closely. Yes. A man, nestled in the lattice-work of girders, deep in the shadow of the canopy of steel above his head. The man shifted, and Boone could see the unmistakable shape of a rifle.

  Rick must have seen it too, calling out, “Sniper! Evasive maneuvers!”

  “Easy,” Darcy said, gently turning the wheel to the right, taking them into a more parallel course to the island. “We’re just a boat, doing what boats do. We start doing crazy turns, he might shoot. Now, are you sure you see what you think you see?”

  “It’s a guy with a rifle, Darcy,” Boone said. “He’s looking right at us and I see a glint from a scope.”

  “The Coast Guard never has anyone up in that lighthouse. It’s automated,” Darcy said, mostly to himself.

  “What if he can see us in here?” Boone said. “What if he… Emily? What are you doing?”

  A flash of tan skin had drawn Boone’s eye. Emily had stripped to her green bikini and was stepping on the rail along the gunwale.

  “We’re just an innocent little pleasure cruise, yeah? So, let’s give him something pleasing to look at. You got any beer?”

  Darcy was grinning ear to ear. “Yes, I do. In the fridge. Only Polar, of course.”

  “Of course! Boone, be a dear—strip down and bring me a beer.” She scrambled along the side and plopped down on the deck of the bow, legs stretched out, sunglasses tilted to the sky.

  Rick looked like he was going to blow a gasket, but then he blew out a gust of air. “Shit, she’s right. That’s a good play. Darcy, keep adding distance. Ron, let’s you and me head below in case he gets a looksee through the glass. Boone, grab a beer for your lady friend.”

  “Hop to it, Boone,” Ron said. “If you don’t, I will.”

  Moments later, Boone joined Emily on the foredeck and handed her a bottle of beer.

  “You… are… nuts,” he said through a forced grin as he sat down beside her.

  “Not really,” she said. “Darcy was right. Doing anything ‘escapey’ might get us shot.” She took a long pull of the beer. “Shit, that’s good. Kinda need this, knowing my head might be filling someone’s scope.”

  “If it’s the cartel,” Boone said, thinking out loud, “they’re not likely to shoot at us. They’d want to avoid doing anything to call attention to themselves.”

  “Maybe it’s the crew of the submarine,” Emily mused. After a moment, she turned her face to him. “Boone?”

  He looked at her, their faces inches away. God, she’s beautiful, he thought. Jesus, there’s a guy aiming a gun at us, why are you thinking that now? “Uh… yeah?”

  She tilted her head closer, stage whispering, “I’m about forty percent scared, forty percent excited, and twenty percent horny. Is that normal? Should I seek counseling?”

  Boone had another flash of instinct and he followed it, bridging the few inches of distance between them, gently bringing his l
ips to hers. She leaned in, pressing her mouth to his as if she’d had the same impulse building inside. After an electric span of seconds, they separated. Emily breathed heavily, looking at him with shining eyes.

  “What the fuck, Boone?” she gasped.

  “Twenty percent seemed kind of low,” he said. “Did I even out the numbers a bit?”

  She grinned at him. “Probably—I think I just forgot math.” She started giggling. “Wow, you sure know how to pick your moment. You might want to work on your timing.”

  “Hey, you’re the one who wanted to give Mister Sniper a show. So, in a way, that kiss was your idea.”

  “No… but this one is.” She grabbed the back of Boone’s head, planting a passionate kiss against his mouth. Their first had been tentative, exploring—but this one… this one was… interrupted.

  A loud pair of noises caused them both to jump apart—instinctively they looked toward the lighthouse. It was no longer in view, obscured by the mangroves. Another pair of sounds, rapping, from behind. They turned to see Rick and Ron looking at them through the cockpit windows, expressions equal parts bemused and bewildered. Darcy was laughing his ass off. He said something to the Claassen brothers and they burst into laughter as well. The smuggler wiped a tear from his eyes, motioning them to come back to the cockpit.

  Sheepishly, Boone and Emily walked their bare feet along the gunwale before dropping to the deck behind the cockpit, coming face to face with a panorama of grins.

  “You two were really into that ‘diversion’, that’s for sure,” Ron said.

  “Yeah,” Rick said. “Of course, we were obscured from the lighthouse a few minutes ago. Still, I applaud your commitment.”

  “What I hear, it was only a matter of time,” Darcy said. He raised his eyebrows at Boone. “Like I said, Martin is a wise man.”

  Still out of sight of the lighthouse, Darcy brought them to a stop in the shallows south of the halfway point of the three and a quarter mile long island.

  “Is it possible that was a Venezuelan Coast Guardsman?” Rick asked.

  “Hiding in the girders with a sniper rifle? Not likely,” Darcy said. “No, more likely it’s a Cartel de los Soles operation. They have people in the Coast Guard so they may have rotated in their own men. The lighthouse garrison is very small—even nonexistent, some of the time.”

  “Well, should we call someone?” Ron asked.

  “Who are we going to call?” Darcy replied. “The Navy and Coast Guard have been infiltrated by the Cartel—add to that the fact that we’re trespassing in Venezuelan waters. We’re as likely to be arrested as they are. More so.”

  “Hey guys?” Emily called out. She was scanning the shoreline ahead with Darcy’s binoculars. “I see someone waving at us.”

  Boone grabbed his own binos and aimed them where Emily was looking. A woman with jet black hair stood on a beach ahead; clad only in a bra and shorts, she held a white shirt in both hands, frantically waving it over her head. “It’s a woman,” he said.

  “Why is she waving that cloth like that?” Emily said. “In both hands? Looks weird.”

  It did look odd. Normally, one would wave a distress flag with one arm while waving the other hand the opposite way. As they drew closer, Boone could see the distress on her face and soon saw the reason for the unorthodox arm waving. “She’s handcuffed! We need to help her. Darcy, what’s your draught?”

  “Just over a meter.”

  “Don’t ground her but get me in closer.” Boone scrambled toward the bow, waving toward shore to let the woman know she’d been seen. She stopped her own waving, swayed, then dropped to her knees behind a large piece of driftwood. After a moment, she collapsed sideways, vanishing from view. By now they were close to shore and Boone hurled himself into a dive, knifing through the water and emerging from the surf at a run. As he neared the driftwood, he could see her moving behind it.

  “Miss? Señorita? Are you alright?”

  “I will be,” the young woman said in Spanish-accented English as she rose from behind the driftwood. “Once you give me your boat.”

  Boone was staring down the barrel of an assault rifle. Though she held it somewhat clumsily across her chest, the gun propped against the crook of her elbow, at this range she could stitch his body with bullets, handcuffs or no. A white tank top dangled from the chain between her wrists. He held his hands out. “Easy, Miss. We’re here to help.”

  “And you shall. Tell your captain and passengers to disembark and wade to shore.”

  Boone turned toward the boat and was greeted by another gun barrel. Darcy DaSilva was standing on the gunwale, a futuristic looking assault rifle braced against the side of the cockpit.

  “Señorita Muñoz! Please lower your weapon. We’ve already had enough of your cartel’s guns pointed at us today.”

  The woman squinted toward the boat, weapon still aimed at Boone’s chest. “DaSilva? But this is not your usual boat.”

  “I’ve had an upgrade since we last saw each other.”

  She lowered her rifle. “As I remember it, you owe me a debt, do you not?”

  “I do. But allowing you to steal my boat would be a bit excessive, don’t you think?”

  “Then I ask you to help me. Please.”

  DaSilva immediately swung his weapon away from her and smiled broadly. “Of course. Come aboard.”

  The woman looked at Boone and then held the AK out to him, obviously expecting him to take it. When he did so, she managed to wrestle the tank top she’d waved at them back onto her lean and tanned torso. She had a hard-edged beauty and Boone placed her at about his age, but she carried herself as someone older.

  “It’s shallow enough to wade,” he said. “I could carry you if you prefer.”

  “I do not prefer. I’m covered in sweat and grime and the dip will do me good.”

  “After you then, Miss… Muñoz, was it?”

  “Ana Muñoz. I’d offer you my hand but the other would come with it. And you are?”

  “Boone Fischer.”

  “Boone,” she said, looking him up and down. “Unusual name. Thank you for coming to my aid, Boone.”

  “Thank you for not shooting me.”

  “Yes… sorry about that.” She headed into the surf and he followed.

  When they passed the bow, Rick reached down and took the AK-103 from Boone. The water was chest deep by the time they reached the transom. Boone boosted Ana up onto the swim platform and Ron helped her the rest of the way up. Climbing up after her, Boone was greeted with a towel.

  “You’ve never offered to carry me through the surf,” Emily said.

  “You heard that?”

  “Wind was coming off the beach,” she said. While Darcy introduced Ana to the Claassen brothers, Emily leaned close to Boone and whispered, “Darcy says she’s the daughter of the head of the Cartel of the Suns.”

  Boone looked at the raven-haired woman as she toweled herself off. Darcy approached her and held up a tiny key. Ana offered her wrists and Darcy removed the cuffs.

  “You had the keys to her cuffs?” Boone asked.

  “Most cuffs open with the same basic key,” DaSilva said. “I took one as a souvenir on a visit to the police in Curaçao.” He held up the cuffs. “And now I have another souvenir.”

  “Ma’am,” Rick began, “Darcy here says you’re cartel, and pretty high up at that. But judging by your bare feet and the handcuffs, I’m guessing the sniper we saw in the lighthouse is not one of yours.”

  “Has there been a coup within the organization, Señorita Muñoz?” Darcy asked.

  “In a manner of speaking—but the men at the lighthouse are not cartel. They are terrorists.”

  The sky was tinged with an orange glow by the time Ana Muñoz finished her tale.

  Rick cleared his throat. “I’m sorry for asking this, Miss Muñoz, but… ar
e you sure your father is still alive?”

  A wave of emotion passed over her face, quickly covered by a mask of determination. “Yes. They are relying on him to communicate with his man on the frigate, making sure no other naval ships approach the submarine.”

  “You said they were filling the submarine with explosives—any idea what kind?”

  “Semtex. I overheard the word several times.”

  “Nasty stuff,” Rick said. “How much of it do you think they have?”

  “I’m not sure, but they were loading it for a long time. The submarine was designed to carry ten tons of cargo in the bow.”

  “Cargo,” Rick scoffed. “You mean coke.”

  Darcy laid a hand on Rick’s arm. “Not important. Señorita Muñoz, were these terrorists Arabs?”

  “Some, perhaps, but they all speak Spanish—though some of them have very strange accents. There was at least one Venezuelan, and a big Trinidadian man. But the ones at the lighthouse, I think one is Filipino and the rest are from North Africa.”

  “Any idea where the submarine is going?” Boone asked.

  “Somewhere north, I think, but beyond that I have no idea.”

  “They could be headed anywhere,” Rick said, thinking. “We need to make some calls.”

  “I have contacts in the Venezuelan Coast Guard,” Darcy said. “I could radio a man I trust—”

  “No!” Ana barked. “The Coast Guard is full of my father’s men. If word gets to the frigate captain, he will say something when my father calls and the terrorists will kill him. The terrorists themselves may overhear our attempts to radio for help.” She glared at them all, steel in her eyes. “No, we must rescue him now. If you had not shown up, I would have done it myself once it was dark enough.”

  “Ma’am, I’m a bit more concerned about a submarine full of terrorists and explosives, no offense to your father,” Rick said.

  “I thought you might say that. But think for a moment—if we rescue my father, he can order the frigate to destroy the submarine.”

  “And if we capture a terrorist, even better,” Ron added.