by Evan Graver
The two manhunters had made a beeline for Marathon and set up shop in a small hotel. Martinez found a boat captain willing to charter his long-neglected trawler and would ask no questions. For the right price, the man had offered to commit petty crimes for them. Martinez knew he’d found the right man. Until his quarry arrived, Martinez had plied their new captain, Eddie Mackenzie, with booze and cigarettes. Mackenzie was as unkempt as his trawler. If paradise had a shady side, Eddie Mackenzie fit right into it. Martinez doubted anyone would miss the man if he disappeared.
This evening, Sweet T had shown up on the tracker and Martinez had followed it to Boot Key Harbor. He hung around the city docks, waiting for the couple to come to the marina office to pay for their stay. He and Hernandez watched as Ryan and Emily went about their business and took a table close to them in the restaurant.
Now, the two watchers were waiting for their opportunity to kill.
Chapter Thirty
Looe Key was lit up like a Technicolor dream world. The vibrant colors of the coral were outshone only by the fish swimming in and out of the reef’s holes and ledges. Emily’s hand squeezed Ryan’s as they floated on the azure surface of the ocean. The water was flat calm, and the visibility was better than one hundred feet in all directions. Some of their fellow snorkelers marred the waters by kicking up sand as they dived to the bottom.
Never had Emily seen such an abundance of sea life as on this reef. Lobsters poked their spiny carapaces from hidey holes, angelfish flashed and fluttered, moray eels lurked in tunnels and crevices, reef and nurse sharks darted after small prey. Schools of grunts hovered just off the rocks, and barracudas cruised the fringes.
She smiled behind her snorkel, which let water trickle into the mouthpiece. She exhaled forcefully, blasting the water from the breathing tube. Ryan let go of her hand, bent at the waist, and dove straight to the bottom, twenty feet below. She admired the long, lean lines of his muscular body.
He came up holding a conch shell as big around as a dinner plate. Turning it over, she could see the conch retract its foot. Emily held the shell in her hands, feeling the rough horns and the smooth flare of the shell’s inside. She handed it back to him and Ryan replaced it where it had been. He motioned for her to join him and she dived to look at the sand-covered body of a stingray with only its straight, barbed tail visible. Waving his hand over the ray to dispel the sand caused the ray to rise from the sea floor, flapping long majestic wings as it glided away. Emily returned to the surface and took deep breaths of fresh air. Ryan emerged beside her and grinned.
She pulled him close and kissed him. This was the best vacation she had been on with a guy. James, her former boyfriend, would take her to beaches and boardwalks. They always had fun, but James didn’t have the same adventurous streak as Ryan. The other man in her life was Kyle Ward, and she wondered what he would say when she returned to work. She knew all she had to do was give him the right look and he would grovel on his knees with a marriage proposal.
In the afternoon, they moved to the wreck of the two-hundred-and-ten-foot freighter, MV Adolphus Busch, which was purposely sunk to create an artificial reef. Big holes, cut into the sides of the ship, made easy swim through passages, allowing divers access to the hold.
Emily and her beau made two dives. The first one to the deeper hold and the second to explore the bridge and upper structure in shallower water.
Back on Sweet T, Emily beamed from ear to ear. “Did you see all of those barracudas?”
“What about those goliath groupers?” Ryan asked.
“They were bigger than a Volkswagen Beetle!” She threw her arms around him. “Oh, Ryan, it was wonderful, thank you so much.”
“You’re welcome. I’m glad we got to do this.”
“Me, too.” She kissed him and then went back to cleaning her scuba gear.
Ryan cleaned his own gear and filled the tanks before storing them in their racks.
Emily stood on the foredeck and used a bucket of fresh water to rinse off her body and do a quick wash of her hair. Ryan joined her and did the same. Finished with their bath, they stretched out in the afternoon sun to dry.
One by one, the other dive boats motored away until Sweet T bobbed alone on her anchor ball.
She watched him bait a hook, unspool a hand line over the side, and jig it up and down. In short order, he hooked a fish and worked it to the surface. A few minutes later, he had a ten-pound yellowfin grouper in the boat.
“Good thing we already ate our leftovers from last night. We need room in the fridge for this guy.” Ryan held the fish up by the tail.
“I hope you know how to clean that thing. My grandmother once told me, ‘Never clean a fish.’”
“Do you at least know how to do it?”
“I never learned.”
“Come, I’ll show you.” He picked up a filet knife. She watched as he cut the fish behind its gills then ran the knife along the backbone to the tail. He flipped the fish over and repeated the cuts. He sliced the meat off the skin and dumped the carcass over the side of the boat. Using the fresh water hose, he rinsed the blood off the filets and held up two hefty cuts of fish flesh.
“Now I know,” she stated.
“Next one’s yours.”
“I don’t want you to get out of practice. I’ll help you cook though, just so we have an even trade.”
Emily carried the filets to the kitchen and poured olive oil into a pan. She felt self-conscious as Ryan watched her. Her grandmother may not have cleaned a fish, but she’d taught Emily everything she knew about cooking them. Emily rifled through the pantry and pulled a handful of ingredients together to make a sauce. While the fish cooked, she sprinkled on herbs and chili powder. The variety of stores Ryan kept aboard amazed her.
When she commented on it, he said, “When you eat fish for almost every meal, you learn to cook it in a myriad of ways.”
They ate in the cockpit, plates on outstretched legs and cold beers by their sides. They stacked the dishes in the sink and settled in to watch the infamous Florida Keys’ sunset.
In the dying rays of sunlight, Ryan stood and trained a pair of binoculars on a boat at the far end of the Adolphus Busch.
“What are you looking at?”
“I swear I’ve seen that boat before.”
“There are lots of boats around here. There must be two boats that look alike. Besides, we’re in a popular area.”
Ryan brought the binoculars down but still watched the boat. “I’ve seen it somewhere.”
Emily used the binoculars to study the white trawler with a blue canvas top and matching blue stripes down the sides of the hull just below the rub rail. The boat needed a good cleaning, fresh paint, and new canvas. Two men stood on the aft deck using fishing rods to jig baits up and down and a third lounged in the captain’s chair on the bridge, smoking a cigarette with his feet propped up on the railing.
Emily looked around at the glassy sea and marveled at the silence. There was a stillness in the air she had never felt before, and when she spoke, her words seemed to boom across the water. Ryan grinned and held a finger to his lips. She nestled her head on his shoulder and they watched, hand in hand, as the sun set fire to the western sky before sliding below the horizon.
“That was beautiful,” she whispered.
“Not compared to you.” Ryan grinned and leaned in for a kiss.
“What a cheesy line.” She giggled, pushing him away. But a moment later, she reached for his hand. “Come on, sailor, take me to bed.”
Chapter Thirty-One
The sailboat shifted and Ryan’s eyes snapped open. His head was groggy from being awoken from a sound sleep. His ears widened to listen for what had caused the boat to move. He looked over at Emily, tangled in the sheet, golden hair fanned out on the pillow. Ryan closed his eyes and relaxed, willing sleep to return.
He heard the scuff of a shoe on fiberglass. His eyes snapped back open. There was someone on his boat. He held his breath and listened intently over the lo
w ringing of his tinnitus. The boat swayed again. Very slowly, he slipped from the bed and stood. He kept his weight centered in the hull, so he wouldn’t give away his movements by causing the boat to rock as the person above had just done.
Eventually, whoever was in the cockpit would come through the cabin door. Ryan moved to the navigation table and gently lifted its top. He grabbed the Walther pistol and eased the top back down. He took three quick steps to the kitchen and tucked himself behind the cabin wall, out of the line of sight for the invader entering the cabin.
A man dropped down the ladder holding a pump-action shotgun. He moved along the narrow passageway, placing himself between Ryan and Emily. Ryan feared his bullet would go through the man and hit her. A shot in the wrong place could also sink his boat.
He looked down at the filet knife he’d left by the sink after washing dishes last night. He slipped his gun into the waistband of his shorts and picked up the knife. Metal scraped on metal as he lifted the blade from the stainless steel sink basin. The sound drew the man’s attention. He spun, leveling the muzzle of the scattergun.
Ryan stepped forward, pushing the barrel of the shotgun away with his left hand. His right hand drove the knife forward. The man used Ryan’s force on the muzzle to help him swing the butt of the gun up. Ryan lunged with the razor-sharp blade. It sliced through the man’s left shirt sleeve and fileted the bicep open to the bone. Arterial blood sprayed out like a fire hose, coating Ryan. The gunman’s finger closed on the trigger of his weapon as he screamed in pain. In the confined cabin, the gunshot was deafening. Ryan’s ears rang, and pinwheels of light, caused by the muzzle blast, danced in front of his eyes. His hand burned where he still gripped the barrel. Buckshot shattered a window while Ryan shoved the man backward.
The intruder continued to struggle, and Ryan pulled the knife back to plunge into his chest. Just as he began to swing his arm forward, a spearpoint thrust through the man’s torso.
Outside, a searchlight snapped on, the light filtering through the sailboat’s cabin windows. Ryan could see his attacker’s mouth opening and closing like a fish trying to breathe. Blood trickled from his lips as he sagged to his knees.
Ryan’s gaze rose past the spearpoint, and the dead man, to find Emily kneeling on the bed with a spear gun still in her hands. She dropped the tube-shaped weapon and slumped backward. Ryan looked down at his chest and shorts. They were covered with blood. It ran down his legs and pooled at his feet. It looked like all eight pints of the dead man’s gore had leaked out his arm to cover the teak floor, pool in the bilges, and spray across the furniture. The cabin stank of copper and excrement. Ryan could taste it, and it surprised him how well he still tolerated the smell.
Emily pushed herself from the bed and stepped into the salon. Ryan could read the anguish, the anger, and the fear on Emily’s face as she stepped over the dead man and pressed herself against him. He held her close, feeling the blood squish between their bodies. He kissed her forehead.
The spotlight swept across the sailboat’s cabin. Shafts of light sifted through the portholes, casting an eerie glow on the gruesome scene. It illuminated the shattered porthole and blast pattern peppered into the fiberglass. Ryan tossed the filet knife into the sink, strapped his dive knife to his calf, and pulled his pistol from his waistband. He shoved the gun into Emily’s hand.
“Keep it out of sight and distract them. Act like you’re hurt since you’re covered with blood.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to find out what they want. Go.”
Emily went to the stairs and turned, she rose on tiptoes and kissed him. She staggered up the ladder into the cockpit, throwing her arms across her face to ward off the light now focused on her.
Ryan, hunched in the cabin door, heard the chunk-thunk of a pump-action shotgun slide open and closed. He leaped into the cockpit and tackled Emily. Their momentum carried them overboard. Buckshot raked the air behind them.
Ryan turned under the water and looked up. The light probed the dark water where they’d gone in. He grabbed Emily’s hand and pulled her underwater to the far side of the boat.
Back on the surface, he whispered, “Stay here.”
“But the blood will attract sharks.”
“We’ll have to chance it.”
Ryan moved forward to the bow of the Sabre and pulled himself down the mooring ball rope. Fifteen feet down, he cleared his ears and pushed off toward the trawler. He covered half the distance before he came up. He took a breath and dove to the sounds of gunfire. When he came up again, he was in front of the trawler. Grasping the anchor, he pulled himself up to the rail and reached to pull his body all the way onto the boat. Gunfire shattered the wood and fiberglass around his head and hands. As he fell into the water, he heard one man curse a second about the damage to his boat.
He dove under the boat and held onto the propeller shaft to keep his body in place. The boat rocked as men ran back and forth to look over the gunwales. He felt the burn of excess carbon dioxide in his lungs and let himself drift up to the boat’s swim platform. He came up underneath the faded teak decking and peered through the gaps between the boards. Turning to look at the sailboat, he saw Emily had moved to the stern.
Ryan felt a bump against his leg.
Shivers racked his body. Sandpaper-rough skin rubbed against his legs. He dared not move. He had to get out of the water. Another bump hit his torso, this one harder than the last. There were two sharks swimming around him, drawn by the scent of the blood coating his clothes and his body. If they smelled it on him, they would smell it on Emily. He kept his gaze on Emily and saw a fin slice through the water.
A ragged burst of light bloomed at the stern of the Sabre. The thunderclap of a gunshot accompanied it, followed by a second and a third. Emily aimed the fourth and fifth shots into the water to scare away the sharks.
Emily screamed, “Get out of the water!”
Ryan felt the water swirl around him. Armed with only a dive knife, he was no match for the prehistoric predators. His only hope was a distraction. He pulled the knife free of its scabbard and ducked below the surface. He grasped the propeller shaft again. The spotlight gave the water just enough illumination for him to see a twelve-foot-long tiger shark flash by. A smaller blacktip shark nosed in closer to him. Ryan set his body and gripped the knife tighter. Just as the blacktip came into reach, he stabbed his knife into the fish’s belly and jerked the steel blade toward the shark’s tail. Blood stained the water and the shark thrashed in its death throes. Ryan shoved off the hull and reached for the swim platform. He looked back to see the tiger shark flash by, mouth open, teeth almost gleaming as it homed in on the dying blacktip.
Grasping the teak platform, Ryan jerked himself from the water and rolled to his knees. He’d escaped one deadly threat to fall into the clutches of a second. He rotated the knife blade, so it ran along the length of his forearm, and he sprang over the gunwale. The muzzle of a shotgun swung toward him. He dropped to the ground as it exploded.
Ryan lashed out with his knife. The blade sliced into the gunman’s leg. The man dropped the shotgun and fell to his knees, screaming in pain. His hands clutched the leg wound. His foot dangled at an odd angle from the severed muscle. Ryan got to his knees and wiped his mouth with the back of the hand that held the knife. He noticed the second shooter lying on his back with a bullet hole in his chest. Ryan leaned forward, putting his hands on his knees. He was out of breath and tired.
“Ryan,” Emily called.
The big man levered himself to his feet and steadied himself against the rail. Emily was standing in the Sabre’s cockpit with her hand to her face, the searchlight blinding her eyes. Ryan climbed the ladder to the bridge and pushed the light down.
“You okay, Em?”
“Yes, are you?”
“Yeah.” He looked at the water. It still boiled from the feeding frenzy beneath the surface. Sharks, too numerous to count, swarmed in a giant ball. Teeth lash
ed out at the mere hint of blood. He snapped off the light, thankful to have escaped the turbulent waters.
Ryan returned to the man on the deck of the cockpit. He was curled up in a ball with his hands clutched around the leg wound. Dark liquid oozed between his fingers. Ryan searched the cabin and found a first aid kit. He carried it out to the cockpit and placed it on the deck beside the wounded man. He pulled the man’s hand from the cut and washed away the blood. Next, he poured antibacterial ointment into the cut and pulled the flesh together with the help of butterfly bandages then covered the bandages with gauze. Finally, he fashioned a splint from two wooden spoons to keep the foot immobile and wrapped the whole thing with an ACE bandage.
“Who do you work for?” Ryan asked his patient.
“I was …” He panted. “Hired to bring …” More heavy, ragged breaths. “Those guys out here.”
“Why’d you shoot at us?”
“Ah, man… I was paid … to do a job.”
“What’s the going rate for killing a man?” When the injured man remained silent, Ryan tried another tack. “You live in the Keys?”
“Yeah.” The man grimaced as he rolled onto his back.
The man wasn’t going to be much of a threat. He was in pain and his foot flopped around like a piece of rope. Ryan pulled the man up to his good foot and helped him into the trawler’s salon. He eased him onto the cushions of the settee and went to the fridge. From it, he retrieved a bottle of water and handed it to the man along with a bottle of Tylenol. The man shook half a dozen pills into his hand and swallowed them with a chug of water.
“You all right? What’s your name?”
The man laid his head back on the cushion. He closed his eyes, fighting through the pain. “Eddie Mackenzie and no, I ain’t all right, you sliced my damn foot off.”
“I’m going over to my boat. I’ll be back in a bit. We’ll run you into a hospital then, okay, Eddie?”
Eddie nodded. “Get me the bottle of rum from the fridge.”