Wood's Tempest

by Steven Becker

  Sending a crew south, against the grain of how the rest of the population was moving, would be easy. Bugarra picked up his phone, went to his favorites screen, and pressed one of the names.

  “Got a job for you,” he said when the call was picked up. He seldom was sent to voicemail.

  “Hurricane’s coming,” the man said.

  “Good for business. It needs to be done now.” Bugarra went on to describe the location and layout of Mac’s island. “Whatever it takes.” The man agreed to put together a crew and leave immediately. Looking at his watch, Bugarra estimated it would take them about four hours to drive to Marathon, then another two to find a boat and reach the island.

  Another glance at the spaghetti models and cone of probability, now permanent fixtures on every network feed, showed several storm tracks. Squinting to combine them into one, he divined that Ruth would hit the Middle Keys in about thirty-six hours—plenty of time to take care of business. With a footprint larger than the state, where it went next was a no-brainer, and he looked at the dot on the map at the end of the island chain that, for the time being, lay toward the southern section of the cone of death. It looked like, once again, Key West would be spared and might be the safest place in the state. Being close to the action was also a consideration as he called his pilot and arranged for the plane to be fueled and ready.

  “Find a way,” Mac yelled into the phone, and hung up. Once again, Trufante had hit his last nerve. And once again, Mel pressed him to fire the Cajun.

  “If it was that simple, I would have done it a long time ago.”

  “I know you have a soft spot for him, but—”

  Mac wasn’t going to let her start the same rant he had heard over and over. If he could replace Trufante, he would have done it long ago. Yeah, Trufante did stupid stuff and had a nose for trouble, but he generally could be trusted. “You grew up with my options. Can you honestly tell me any of them are any better?”

  “I know, but still,” she said.

  “Natives are no good and the transients are worse.” Wood used to say that the further down the island chain they came, the crazier they were. Either running away from something, someone, or, in many cases, themselves, the Keys and Key West in particular were a haven for the lost and lonely.

  “After I skin him for coming out here last night, we’re gonna pull the rest of the traps. That storm’s getting too close for comfort.” They had just checked the weather reports online, and it didn’t look good.

  “When are we evacuating?” Mel asked.

  There was no fight about staying on the island. If the storm surge was anything over ten feet, there would be little left. Even Wood grudgingly had left when Wilma had come through in 2005. The house was built on the highest part of the island and could take a twelve-foot surge. It might make it, but the rest of the island would be wiped clean. The question was when and where to go.

  “I’m not going to sit in traffic all the way to Georgia,” Mac said.

  “What’s your plan, then?”

  “Figured I’d take the trawler and tow the center console to the Tortugas.”

  “Gee, and if you’re wrong?”

  She had a point. “We’ll see it coming. With the new engine, the boat can make thirty knots, Ruth’s moving at fifteen. Just have to stay ahead of it.” The math sounded simple, but he knew it wasn’t all numbers. This hurricane was so big that the outer bands would chase him down like a marlin after a mullet. With high winds, torrential rains, and big seas, outrunning a hurricane wasn’t as easy as it sounded. The boats were a concern, though, and he was willing to be uncomfortable and fight the building seas to save them.

  “You go your way. I’m flying up to Atlanta to see my old roommate.”

  Mac breathed a sigh of relief. Mel leaving the state was going to make things a whole lot easier. He stepped behind her and saw the computer screen was open to the Silver Airways website. The small carrier had the most flights from Key West. “You want to schedule one, I’ll run you down there.”

  “Today, Mac.”

  “We can leave as soon as I’m back. Be in Key West around five.” He calculated the time it would take to pull and stack the traps. He could sell the catch in Key West, probably at enough of a premium to pay for the gas. The only problem was going to be Trufante.

  “Last chance?” she asked and when he shook his head, Mel clicked a few keys. “Okay, booked. Six thirty out of Key West.”

  “Better get ready. The boy wonder should be here anytime now,” Mac said, and kissed the top of her head. He left the house and headed for the beach, hoping Trufante had his transportation issues figured out. A half-hour later, Mac was getting antsy and thinking about heading out himself when he heard the whine of twin outboards. He shaded his eyes from the morning sun and looked out over the water. A minute later, he saw the boat and cursed Trufante under his breath. He had gotten a ride instead of borrowing a boat. Now Mac would have to figure out how to get rid of him later.

  The thirty-foot boat fishtailed as the driver spun around the rock and coasted to a stop about a foot from the beach. Both men aboard had huge smiles.

  “How’s it going, Commander?” Mac said to the driver. He didn’t know him by any other name.

  “Got your man here for you. Said you were gonna pull the rest of your gear today.”

  “Got most of it the other day. Not worth leaving it out. What’s the bait telling you?” Mac asked. How the ballyhoo were behaving was a good indicator of what was to come. They seemed to sense approaching weather faster than the meteorologists—and more accurately. Commander ran a network of bait fishermen. Though Mac didn’t like him personally, he knew he had answers.

  The flat bill of Commander’s hat remained slightly askew as he spun it around to shade the sun. “Moving out. Stopped fishing yesterday. Ain’t no market right now, and if we lose power, all the frozen stock I have is gonna go bad. They were starting to hold off the reef in the deeper water.”

  Mac knew that meant they were hunkering down somewhere the storm wouldn’t affect them. “Appreciate you bringing him out.”

  “I could give you a hand, then run him back in.”

  Under most circumstances, Mac would have refused, knowing Commander would poach and sell his numbers, but with Mel watching the clock and an easy way of getting rid of Trufante standing in front of him, he accepted.

  “Right on.” Commander adjusted his hat again. “Tru, toss the man a line. Daylight’s burning.”

  Mac tied the thirty-footer off to his center console and climbed aboard the trawler. Trufante ambled over, followed by Commander. The trio were soon underway, heading northwest toward Mac’s traps.

  Though he could have hauled the traps himself if it weren’t so inefficient, Mac was pleasantly surprised how well the three men worked together. Trufante was obviously working harder with Commander aboard, hoping to impress him and get some work on the days that Mac didn’t go out. Three hours later, the lobster were iced down and the traps stacked on the deck. The engine growled, clearly protesting the extra weight, and Mac goosed the throttle, trying to get the most out of the rebuilt eight-hundred-horsepower Cat C-18 as they headed back to the island.

  “See that, Mac Travis? Look at that haul. We should partner up sometimes.”

  Mac knew that was Commander’s MO. Collecting partners was profitable when they owned their own boats and gear, and had the knowledge to use them. Mac didn’t bother answering and continued to steer toward home, then saw a flash coming from the island.

  Instinctively, Mac knew it wasn’t from the boats moored there. With the wind out of the southeast, they would be facing away from him. Whatever had caused the reflection was coming toward them. “Hey, look ahead and tell me if you see anything.”

  In order to eliminate the distortion from the windshield, Trufante and Commander both peered around either side of the wheelhouse. With a reputation that was apparently deserved for spotting birds from a mile away, Trufante saw it first.
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  “Another boat.”

  “What’s it look like?” Mac asked. Reaching into the compartment below the wheel, he found the binoculars and handed them to Commander.

  “Go-fast boat,” Commander said. “I think mine could take it.”

  Mac didn’t care about that. “Can you see who’s aboard?”

  “One guy, just hanging.”

  Mac sensed trouble and pushed down on the throttle, throwing both men from their feet.

  “You expecting company? Maybe if you slow down, I can see what we’re heading for,” Commander said.

  Mac knew the other man was right. At best, they would arrive only a minute or two earlier. Once the boat had settled, Commander raised the binoculars to his eyes. Mac waited patiently, stuck squinting through the scarred windshield to see.

  “Dude’s got a rifle,” Commander said, handing the binoculars to Mac, but Trufante grabbed them. “What kind of friends you hangin’ with, homie?”

  Eight

  Mac took the binoculars back from Trufante and studied the man sitting on the boat. The bulging muscles on his shaved chest told Mac two things: The man was a hired thug, and he wasn’t a local. There weren’t many gyms on US 1 and even the diehards had accepted that skin cancer was an unacceptable risk and had started wearing long-sleeved shirts. That was all Mac needed to know. The question was how to proceed.

  “Take her around the back of the island,” Mac told Commander, handing the boat off. He went forward into the cabin, thankful that Commander was along. Trufante was close to worthless in these situations—but he could shoot. Mac retrieved a shotgun from the rod rack mounted to the ceiling and brought it, along with an open box of ammunition, back to the wheelhouse.

  “What’s your preference?” he asked Trufante, who had a hurt look on his face, probably because Mac had asked Commander to run the boat. Trufante’s teeth showed again, but it wasn’t a smile, and he reached for the shotgun.

  Growing up in the bayous of Louisiana, Trufante had learned a skill set foreign to most. Besides being able to shoot a snake’s eye at a hundred yards, he could track, and had an uncanny sense of direction.

  “Got your phone?” Mac asked as Trufante placed the shells in the chamber of the shotgun.

  “Yup,” Trufante answered.

  Mac almost asked if the bill was paid, but knew the deck mates and fishermen would pay their cell phone bills before they bought food—though he wasn’t sure about beer. The devices were their lifeline. He saw Commander’s phone hanging from a clip on his belt.

  “I need your number.”

  “Turning out to be a good day,” Commander said. “Fishing with the legendary Mac Travis; now he wants my number like he’s going to ask me on a date or something. Homies ain’t gonna believe this.”

  Mac turned to him and waited. Commander spat out the digits as Mac entered them in his phone. He knew enough to see past the talk. A lot of the wannabes used tough talk when they were nervous. Commander was intent on the water ahead and was an experienced boater—he would be fine.

  “Drop us by that point there,” Mac said, pointing. “There’s enough draft right to the beach, but you’ll have to back out the same way you came in.”

  Commander nodded and steered a serpentine course toward the point—a straight course would have grounded them—and Mac watched as he read the water, staying in the white and blue areas where possible. There was no need to worry about Commander’s skill.

  “Y’all got another gun for the captain?” he asked.

  “Spear gun with a power head is all I got left. Wasn’t exactly looking for action when I left the dock.”

  “You hang with old Tru enough, you ought to be loaded for bear.”

  Trufante smiled at the mention of his name. “How you want to do this?”

  “Take the old path in, then we’ll split and circle the house,” Mac said. “Unless it’s an emergency, let’s just see what’s going on and meet up back here.”

  The plan changed when he heard a pistol shot.

  We’ve got her cornered in the house, the message read.

  “Stand down, you moron,” Bugarra yelled as he texted the same message to his man on the ground. The pilot, about to begin takeoff, looked back to see if he was all right, and Bugarra waved him off. Bugarra had a mental picture of the island in his head and didn’t like what he saw. ACLU lawyer or not, her father was Wood, and she was likely armed. He remembered from his visit last night how the boundaries of the clearing where the house stood were meticulously maintained against the tropical growth that fought to infringe on it. The way the windows were placed, she would have a clear shot at anyone approaching. Almost like it had been designed for defense.

  He cursed the hired help he had to use for this operation. All he wanted was Gross’s research—and to recover it anonymously. These idiots were not the Marines. If one of their own was shot or injured, they would leave him behind in a heartbeat. It wouldn’t be hard from there to get a confession out of the scum that would surely implicate him.

  “Wheels up,” Bugarra called. He thought about changing the flight plan to land at the Marathon airport, but decided against it. An unforeseen liability had developed over the years as he nurtured his larger-than-life persona: He could no longer be invisible. The plane bore the large company logo on its fuselage. Someone would have noted that he’d landed, then took off the day before yesterday, which gave him an alibi, but also prevented his return. Key West would have to be close enough.

  “Roger, Mr. Bugarra. We’ve been cleared to taxi,” the pilot said, reaching behind him and pulling the curtain across the aisle. Once Bugarra found whatever Gross had been after, he promised himself he was going to upgrade to a plane with a cockpit door. He felt helpless as the plane taxied to the runway.

  “Update,” he commanded to his message app once they were airborne. Though Siri wouldn’t understand the anger in his voice, it felt better than typing the words. A few seconds later, the phone pinged.

  The bitch is shooting at us.

  Bugarra sat back and thought about the situation. He knew he had enough manpower on the ground to subdue the woman and find the drive, but Travis and his mate were wild cards. Keeping one man aboard the go-fast boat had been a reasonable precaution, but he knew from his visit that the entire island was exposed. He hadn’t seen the backside, but a satellite image had shown a few streaks of blue and white were intermixed with a whole lot of brown. If Travis suspected anything and reached the island in time, he would come in from that angle.

  “Just get the hell out!” he screamed in the phone.

  Roger, came the reply.

  Frustrated, he looked out the window at the water below. Flying from Sebastian, they had crossed the Everglades and were now over Florida Bay. Hitting an icon on his phone, Bugarra looked at the plane’s position overlaid on a map. They were on a collision course with the island.

  He went forward to the cockpit, brushed aside the curtain, and sat in the right-hand seat. Usually, he would have a copilot and, if he had guests, a flight attendant too, but the approaching storm had made it hard to find even a single pilot willing to fly. Once situated, he consulted the map again and gave the pilot a course change.

  Florida Bay was known as the backcountry for good reason. The myriad of small islands, channels, and shoals made it a smuggler’s paradise. At one point in the eighties, Everglades City had been the smuggling capital of the world. Bales, known as square grouper, had been as common as pelicans, and Bugarra could only imagine the many wrecks lying in only a few feet of water below him. Soon after reaching Islamorada, the back country faded behind them and there was a large expanse of open gulf. Marathon passed to port, and he could see the long stretch of the Seven Mile Bridge. Big Pine was on the horizon. The island was different from the rest of the Keys, with its mass running north and south, rather than east and west. He directed the pilot toward the northern tip, where several islands could be seen beyond.

  Even after being the
re, it was hard to find, and he had the pilot fly several circles over the islands. One had a well-designed compound on it, complete with bunkhouses, a boathouse, and a residence. Several people were on the ground, looking up at the plane as it made a low pass over the island.

  After one more circle, he found it. “There.” He pointed, and the pilot banked and descended. Bugarra could see the clearing, house, and shed now. There were three boats by the single piling that Travis used for a dock, one with one of his men aboard. When he saw the trawler beached on the backside of the island, he started to worry.

  “You’ve got company,” he yelled over the engine noise, then slammed his fist into the dashboard when the transcription on his phone came out garbled. Grabbing the phone in two hands, he tried to relax and type the message.

  Looking down again, he could see what might have been paths, but the mangroves formed a canopy above them. There was no way to see what was happening on the ground without the risk of getting shot. He ordered the pilot to pull up and circle.

  Mac heard the plane overhead and slowed. There were only a few people he knew with these kinds of resources, and after Gross’s death, Vince Bugarra was on the top of the short list. After hearing the shot, he and Trufante had hooked up and were making their way toward the main clearing. He grabbed the lanky Cajun by the shoulder and stopped him.

  “They’ve got a lot of assets. We have to be careful.” They worked their way to the edge of the clearing. Another shot was fired.

  “Twenty-two—that’s Mel’s gun,” Trufante said.

  Mac heard the respect in his voice. The two of them might be constantly at odds, but they did respect each other’s abilities. Mac turned away, sensing movement in the brush near the trail to the beach. Suddenly, two men were visible, running down the path.