“It was, “ Buster said, “only we were hunting little guys in black pajamas. His gun jammed, and a bad cartridge blew. Those M-16s were dog shit until they figured out how to keep ‘em from jamming in the field.”
“Gotta love weapons made by the lowest bidder,” Taters said.
Buster nodded.
“We’ll be there in about twenty more minutes,” Pilate said.
“Okay,” Buster said. “Everybody just chill out and let me do the talking, okay?”
“Okay,” Pilate said.
“You got it,” Taters said. “Oh, by the way, what do you suppose they’re going to do to my boat to disable her?”
“No idea,” Buster said, “but let’s just take the man at his word and hope for the best.”
Taters shot Buster a disapproving look, obviously unimpressed with the remark.
“Buster, have you ever seen Shane?”
“Alan Ladd? Yeah,” he said. “Why?”
“In the end, did Shane live?”
“Hell yes,” he said. “Why are you asking me about that now?”
“Nothin’,” Taters said, looking at Pilate, who shook his head slowly.
Buster made a quizzical face, then turned back to Felix and Hector.
The prisoners smiled at one another.
Trevathan climbed down the jet way from the small plane he’d flown on into Key West International Airport. The early spring winds were positively balmy compared to the weather back in Cross Township, where there were still traces of snow scattered across the ground.
He picked up his bag and signaled for a taxi.
“Okay, there she is,” Taters said, pointing. “Dead ahead.”
Pilate looked at him, then at the lights of the large speedboat. It had a large cabin and was fifteen feet longer and forty years younger than the TenFortyEZ.
“Yep. Just the kinda boat I’d expect a guy like that to have,” Taters said.
“Bring us around within thirty feet or so,” Buster said, keeping his gun on the prisoners.
“Aye,” Taters said. He maneuvered his boat parallel to the Bahamian’s craft, leaving approximately thirty feet between them, and brought the engines down to an idle.
Pilate shined a deck light on the Bahamian’s boat.
Standing on the rear deck was a tall, bald, black man dressed in a shiny black shirt and light trousers. He held a large, nickel-plated automatic pistol that gleamed in the beam from Pilate’s light. “That’s enough wid the light!” the Bahamian called. “Off with dem motors!”
“Not until we see Kay!” Pilate called. “Your men are right here,” he said, illuminating the prisoners with the light to prove it.
“You okay, Felix? Hector?”
The men nodded assent.
“Okay, okay. Here she is,” he said.
Another man brought Kay on deck. Her mouth was gagged, and her wrists were tied in front of her. The light on her face revealed a black eye.
“You son-of-a-bitch!” Pilate seethed.
“What? Dis?” he pointed at her eye. “She a feisty one. Bitch brought it on herself ‘cause she don’t listen.” He laughed.
“That fucker is a dead man,” Taters muttered under his breath.
“Shut up,” Buster said. “All right. I assume you have the sub tied to your boat, so you’re ready to go. Just give her to us so we can go our separate ways.”
The buzz of a light aircraft several thousand feet up caught Pilate’s attention. It was too high to see what was happening on the water between two boats in the moonlight, but the Bahamian looked unconcerned.
“Okay. Untie my men and let them do their work on your engines,” he said.
“What about Kay?”
“As soon as Felix says your engines are busted, I’ll send her over da same time you send dem over,” he said. “Best I can do,” he said, his arms outstretched like a used car salesman making his pitch.
“Fine,” Pilate said. He went to the men and cut their bindings. “Do what you need to do.”
“Don’t worry, mon,” Felix said to Taters. “I’ll just cut your fuel lines—easy to fix, no problem.”
Taters gritted his teeth and gestured for Felix to go below.
“Open the engine compartment for me,” Felix said.
Taters obliged, handing a toolbox to Felix.
A few moments later, they reappeared on deck, the pungent smell of fuel emanating from below decks.
“There goes your deposit, John,” Taters said.
“All good, boss!” Felix called over to the other boat. “No worries.”
“Good man,” the Bahamian said.
“Can we come over now?” Hector asked.
“Not so hasty, friend,” the Bahamian warned. “Turn dat key and make sure dem engines don’t work.”
Taters frowned. “You cut the fucking fuel lines, damn it! It will turn over for a second and then die.”
“Then do it!” the Bahamian called over.
Taters turned the key. The engines started for a moment, then gurgled into silence. “Satisfied?”
“Absolutely,” the Bahamian called. “Boys, come to the side. You’re gonna swim over, then send the pretty lady across in the raft.”
“That sucks, mon,” Felix said under his breath.
“Shut up, Felix,” Hector said out the side of his mouth as they climbed on the deck rail. “We coulda been dead.”
“All right, gents, it looks like your lucky day,” Felix said to Pilate and the other men. “We’ll swim over and send her back.”
“Not so fast,” Buster said. “Send her over at the same time.”
The Bahamian laughed. “Absolutely, smart guy.”
In a single second, Pilate saw the Bahamian step aside behind his boat’s superstructure and push Kay to her knees on the deck, her hair hanging over her damaged face. The other man stepped out, brandishing a rifle or machinegun. He opened fire, splattering Felix and Hector all over the teak decks of the TenFortyEZ.
Buster opened fire on the man with the machinegun, sending him ducking for cover. The Bahamian’s arm and head popped back out for a moment, firing three wild shots from his pistol at the deck of the TenFortyEZ.
Pilate fired back with the .45, scoring a shot in the boat’s superstructure near the Bahamian’s arm. “Kay, you gotta jump!” Pilate screamed.
Buster and Pilate fired at the superstructure, pinning the Bahamian and his gunman down.
“Buster, if she doesn’t get off that boat, she’s gonna get shot—either by them or accidentally by us!” Pilate yelled. “Kay! Get off the boat!”
“I know,” Buster said. “Kay, there’s too much crossf—“
Before he could finish his sentence, he saw Kay limp over to the side of the boat and jump in the water. The Bahamian made a move to fire at her as she dived below the waves. A burst of light smacked into the deck of the Bahamian’s boat.
“Bull’s-eye!” Taters called, flare gun in hand. The flare had burrowed into the side of the Bahamian’s boat, but it wasn’t going to do much more than cause a brief distraction.
“Nice idea, but I hope you didn’t give them any ideas. With all that gas floating around down there, we’ll be a damn fireball if they shoot a flare at us!” Buster said.
“On it,” Taters said, closing the doors leading below.
“How much ammo do we have left?” Pilate called.
“I got about six shots,” Buster said, crouched low beside the boat wheel. “You?”
“Three or four, I think,” Pilate said. “I’m not any good with these things, and I have to go get Kay. Her hands were tied, and she can’t swim like that.”
“John, you have no idea where she is,” Buster reasoned.
“I know she’s in the goddamn ocean. I saw her leap off astern. She probably went as deep as she could, and hopefully she’s popped up several yards away. It’s dark enough that if she can stay afloat, she’ll be safe from gunfire for now, but we have to find her.” Pilate stripped off his shi
rt.
“John, you have no idea where to go, and they’ll shoot your ass. Just wait, for God’s sake.”
“Wait for what? For them to kill us all? You do know that’s what their trying to do, right?”
A few more shots from the Bahamian’s machinegun sprayed the TenFortyEZ, proving Pilate correct.
Buster looked at Pilate. “Do you hear that?”
“Guns? Hell yeah, I do,” Pilate said. “Like I said, in case you hadn’t noticed, they’re trying to kill us.”
“No…that.” Buster pointed to the moon.
The unmistakable sound of a helicopter rose above the sound of the gunfire.
“Who is that?” Pilate shouted.
“The most unfairly maligned branch of the service, my friend,” Buster said. “Stealth mode’s a bitch, Blackbeard.”
A bright spotlight shined on the pair of watercraft, and from a loudspeaker came a clear message: “THIS IS THE UNITED STATES COAST GUARD. DROP YOUR WEAPONS!”
“No fucking way!” Taters said, squinting through the light at the Coast Guard chopper overhead.
“DROP YOUR WEAPONS, OR WE WILL BE FORCED TO EMPLOY DEADLY FORCE. THIS IS YOUR FINAL WARNING.”
“Oh my God! I can’t believe this,” Pilate said. “What are the odds a Coastie would be flying over at this very moment?”
“I think the odds were pretty good when you consider that call I made right after we tied up those two bozos at Trev’s place,” Buster said. “I told my pal at the station to have the Coast Guard spotter plane out this direction looking for trouble. They saw us and dispatched a Dolphin chopper.”
The Bahamian’s thug with the machinegun foolishly opened fire on the orange Coast Guard Dolphin, which dipped away, circled around, and returned fire, spraying the deck of the Bahamian vessel. After that, Pilate saw no movement on the boat deck; all was quiet except for the rotors of the chopper.
“Guess they’re sorry they did that,” Taters said.
Pilate dropped his pistol. “Kay? Kay, where are you?” he shouted over the Dolphin rotors. He shined the light around the boat periphery, looking for any sign of her.
Taters got on the radio and broadcasted that there was a person overboard, and the Dolphin responded by shining lights around the boats.
“Kay?” Pilate called, more desperation dripping from his voice.
“I can’t hear over the chopper,” Taters said. “Be advised, Coast Guard, that we have a man overboard and cannot locate.”
The chopper gained altitude and continued searching with its powerful floodlights.
“There!” Pilate pointed to what appeared to be Kay’s blonde head struggling to stay above the waves about fifty yards away.
Without a second of hesitation, Pilate dived in and began swimming like mad.
“John, you really aren’t a very good swimmer,” Simon remarked.
“You’re right,” he concurred, for his muscles ached after only a few strokes in the choppy waters, but he kept swimming in what he presumed was Kay’s general direction.
An inflatable raft splashed down twenty feet in front of him.
Pleasantly surprised at the assistance, Pilate climbed aboard and paddled to meet Kay, finally dragging her soggy and drooping body in the raft. “Oh my God, Kay. Are you okay?” he said, his breath coming in gasps.
She looked at him, her eye and cheek black and swollen. “I’m sorry, John, but this…this does it. I’m…I’m just not interested in older men anymore.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
“I’ve never been in jail before,” Pilate said.
“Shit,” Taters said. “This isn’t jail. It’s just a holding cell, like the kind where they put winos to dry out for the night. It’s nothing compared to county.”
“How the hell do you know?”
“Never you mind, my friend. Never you mind,” Taters said, picking a piece of dry skin off his elbow.
“I really need to use the bathroom,” Pilate said.
“So go.” Taters gestured to the stainless steel commode.
“I can’t…not right here in front of everybody.”
Taters just looked at Pilate. “Uh, okay.”
“Taters?” Pilate said, his arms folded across his chest, leaning back on his bunk.
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry about dragging you into all this shit,” he apologized. “And I’m really sorry about your boat getting shot up.”
Taters shrugged. “Meh, it’s the slow season anyway. But if I’m still in lockup or my boat ain’t seaworthy by May, I’m kicking your ass.”
A few hours later, a guard appeared and took the men to a room that the TV police procedurals would call an “interrogation room.” Standing beside the table in the room was a tall, tan plainclothes cop with a crew-cut, wearing khaki pants and a short-sleeved white shirt. He was neat in appearance and workmanlike in his manner. A uniformed guard stood unobtrusively in the corner of the room by the door.
“I’m Detective Sergeant Ripley,” he said. “Have a seat, gentlemen.”
“Thank you,” Pilate said, sitting, and Taters followed suit.
“I see you’ve been read your rights,” Ripley said, scanning the notes before him on the table. “I just have a few questions.” His tone was businesslike and non-threatening.
“Could I ask where Kay is?”
“Officer Righetti is fine—at the hospital, under observation. And before you ask, Buster is getting his head sewn up. He’s going to be okay.”
Pilate sighed and smiled with relief.
“Well, fellas, there’s some good news and some bad news here,” Ripley said.
“Is this the part where we ask for lawyers?” Taters said.
Ripley shrugged. “Up to you, but you might want to hear me out before you lawyer-up.”
“Okay,” Pilate said, nudging Taters with his foot under the table.
“Just so we’re clear, you are not asking for a public defender or your own retained legal counsel at this time, correct?”
“Correct,” Pilate said, a bit hesitantly.
“For now,” Taters added.
“Fine. Okay, here’s the deal. You guys are in trouble for several things.” He touched the tip of the index finger on his right hand to the fingertips of his left. “One, you had evidence of a crime—specifically a murder at the Hog’s Snout Saloon—that you failed to submit or report. Two, you lied to police officers on more than one occasion. Three, you endangered the life of a police officer, as well as members of the general public. Four, you engaged in a gun battle with unregistered firearms and—“
“But we didn’t kill anybody,” Taters said.
“I don’t actually think you even shot anybody, but may I continue?” Ripley seemed unperturbed, but Pilate felt Taters was close to pushing the man’s buttons.
The men nodded.
“Okay, where was I? Five, you had evidence of stolen or contraband materials, which you failed to report to authorities.”
Pilate held up his hand like a kid in class, wanting the teacher to acknowledge his question.
“Speak.”
“As for the sub, we didn’t know what was in it. Matter of fact, we still don’t. Doesn’t it count as salvage?”
“You can try that one out in court if you’d like,” Ripley said, “but what you found is a self-propelled semi-submersible, and according to the U.S. Drug Trafficking Vessel Interdiction Act, it’s a felony to even use one of those. Your failure to report your discovery of the vessel could indicate that you knew what was in it and planned to distribute.”
“So it was drugs,” Taters said, shaking his head. “Damn it!”
“Sergeant, we’re not crooks,” Pilate said. “I’m just a writer, and—“
“Mr. Pilate, I know who you are,” he said. “I know what you do, and I know who you’ve been with lately.” He fired a piercing look at Pilate. “I know you are regarded by some as a hero, and as a member of the law enforcement brotherhood, I cannot help but have respe
ct for you.”
“Thanks,” Pilate said.
“However, you broke the law here, and no prior heroism can excuse that,” Ripley said. “Not in my jurisdiction.”
“Look, I know I screwed up. I made some bad calls. Going it alone was one of them. It was a bad call, Ripley. A bad call,” Pilate said.
“Okayyyyy, but here’s the good news. You guys helped the Coast Guard recover something more important than drugs or gold and jewels—something of incredible value.”
“What was it?” Taters said, leaning forward on the table.
“I’m not at liberty to say,” Ripley said.
“What?”
“It’s classified,” Ripley said, clearly relishing the moment; he had always wanted to say those words in the line of duty.
“Oh come on, man,” Pilate said. “Are you jacking with us or what?”
“Nope,” Ripley said. “What you guys found was something the Coast Guard—which, by the way, is the only branch of the military under the authority of the Department of Homeland Security—considers a major win. However, it’s not a win they want publicized.”
“Was it the secrets to winning the war on terrorism or drugs or something? A loose nuke? A Roswell alien? Holy crap!” Pilate ran his hands through his hair, the salty smell of the sea blossoming from his scalp.
“Keep asking and you’re going to run out of time.” Ripley looked at a large dive watch on his wrist. “Here’s the deal. In about five minutes, a Fed from Homeland Security will be here. If he shows up and we have an accord, I can help you. The Coast Guard wants this quiet, and I want to save the butt of my old boss—Buster, who shoulda known better than to pull this crap—and because I would hate to see Kay Righetti’s career tarnished, I can make all the charges go away. All you have to do is sign this agreement.” He opened a file folder and slid a document across the table to each man.
“Agreement? Agreement for what?”
“It’s ironclad. All charges against you for these crimes will be dropped as long as you agree not to discuss, write about, or otherwise publicize the events that transpired around the issue of the memory chip, the sub, and the shootout at sea.”
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