Wood's Tempest

by Steven Becker

  “You have anything with more firepower than this?” Kurt motioned to his sidearm.

  “Course. Come on in and check out the armory.”

  Ned led Kurt into the office, where he opened a closet, revealing a large gun safe. He hit several keys on the keypad and turned the handle. Kurt was surprised at what he saw when the door opened. On the right were a half-dozen rifles and shotguns, and on the left several shelves containing handguns with boxes of ammunition stacked below.

  “Don’t have much use for them anymore, but in the old days, this place was like the wild west. Have a look and take what you need.”

  Kurt went to the safe. He saw a Barrett M82 and carefully removed it from the holder. “This oughta do it.”

  “A little on the heavy side. How about the Remington?” Ned asked.

  “I’ll take the weight for the firepower. You have any fifty-cal rounds?”

  “Don’t have any armor piercing, but these steel-core ones ought to work.”

  Kurt took the box and rifle. Now he just needed to lure Bugarra to a spot where he could disable the boat. “Thanks.”

  “No problem. I’ve been relegated to desk duty. Don’t think for a minute I wouldn’t rather be out there with you guys, but somebody’s got to do it.”

  Kurt didn’t doubt that for a second, and hoped he would be as put together as Ned at that age. “Where do you think would be a good ambush spot? Mac said Bugarra was off the pier on the east side.”

  Ned crossed to the desk, where he pulled out an old map of the island. Kurt had seen bits and pieces of the map on the screen of his phone, but there was nothing like a paper map to get the feel for a place. “Right here would be good,” Ned said, pointing. “Mac’s gonna be needing some fuel, too.”

  “Robbie’s marina? That’s Stock Island.”

  “Problem is, everything on that side of Key West is shallow water. The boat will be too far offshore, and you won’t get the accuracy you need to take out both motors.”

  Kurt picked up his phone and texted Mac with the location. By the time Kurt had written down the directions and loaded the weapons in the car, Mac had confirmed an ETA of ten minutes. Kurt hoped that would be enough time. He thanked Ned and backed out of the driveway.

  People were out and about now, and traffic was picking up. He had heard of the unusual phenomenon of disaster tourism, and it certainly looked like anyone who had stayed behind was driving around checking to see what damage the island had sustained. Fortunately, the traffic was mostly cars. There were few of the scooters and bicycles that made Key West a nightmare to drive in. Even without them, it took close to ten minutes to reach the Stock Island Bridge, and Kurt started worrying that he was too late. Once he was across, though, traffic thinned out, and he reached Robbie’s a few minutes later.

  Another set of problems confronted him when he turned into the yard and saw several boats knocked off their supports and lying on the ground, blocking the driveway. With no choice, he left the car, grabbed the rifle, and ran to the end of the yard. Just as he reached it, he saw Mac’s trawler slow and pull in.

  With only seconds to spare, he found an old lobster trap to use as a support and slowed his breathing as he sighted the weapon. Through the scope, he saw Bugarra’s Yellowfin turn the corner. Loading a round into the chamber, he watched as the boat approached. It seemed to pass in slow motion, and finally the engines appeared. Inhaling, he aimed and slowly released his breath at the same time as he squeezed the trigger. The backlash surprised him, but he was able to chamber another round and fire again before the boat was past.

  Thirty-Two

  Mac flinched when he heard the shots. His first reaction was that Bugarra was shooting at them, but when he turned and saw black smoke coming from the transom of the Yellowfin, he smiled. With many of the slips empty, it was a simple matter to turn the trawler around in the narrow channel, and a few minutes later, he sped past the crippled Yellowfin, ducking as Bugarra unloaded the magazine of his pistol in their direction. the shots went wide and Mac assumed they were a warning; Bugarra needed him alive—for now. As they passed the point, Mac saw Kurt raising a rifle in a victory pose.

  Mac hoped that Bugarra would lead Kurt to his family. With only the copies of Van Doren’s journal to guide him, the last thing Mac wanted was the pressure of having to find the treasure in order to save Justine and Allie. Looking back at Pamela, he remembered her and Mel being taken by a ring of slavers, and how that had shaken him. What Kurt was facing with his two loved ones held captive was equally unimaginable.

  Fuel was his biggest concern now. The tanks were showing close to empty, and there would be no chance to recover the treasure without it. Robbie’s marina had a fuel dock, but with Bugarra behind them, that was not an option. Instead, Mac headed back to the Key West Bight, hoping the gas dock would be open. Passing the wheel to Trufante, he sat on the port bench behind the helm and took out his phone. Next to refueling, information was his next concern. He knew where to go, but not where to look.

  After checking his messages, he texted Kurt to tell him they were heading to Fort Jefferson, and wished him luck, knowing they were going to be out of range in less than an hour and working independently.

  His next call was to Mel. He brought her up to date. Mac could hear the concern in her voice when he told her that Justine and Allie were being held by Bugarra. She offered to fly back and work the legal end, but Mac had another idea. He told her the rabbi’s story and asked her to find out whatever she could about Lafitte and Campeche. New Orleans hadn’t revealed any useful information, and she had thought about following Lafitte’s path. While he told her his plan to head to Fort Jefferson, she found a flight that would arrive in Cancun later that evening.

  His next call was to Ned.

  “You going to keep interrupting me, or can I get some work done?”

  “Settle down, old man. Just wanted to see if you had anything. We’re heading around to fuel up, and then we’re off to Fort Jefferson. Probably be out of range in an hour.”

  “On my way,” Ned said, and disconnected.

  Mac was torn. Ned could be as much of an asset as a liability. Mac was past fifty himself, and the thought of how he was going to age was never far from his mind. His eyesight had been the beginning, but he had noticed other, more subtle changes, especially when physical work was involved. Putting himself in Ned’s shoes, Mac knew he couldn’t leave the old man out. Mac would rather die trying, and he knew the same was true of Ned. Looking down at his phone as he drove, he hit the recent calls button and told Ned to meet them at the marina.

  With everyone up to date, he looked at the shore as they rounded the southernmost point of Key West. He hadn’t seen what Ruth had done to this part of the coast from the water yet. Boats were strewn along the shore. Several floated freely, listing badly and drifting with the current. For centuries, the Keys had been a wrecker’s haven. The dangerous reef and frequent storms were a hazard to the ships trying to ride the Gulf Stream north, or avoid it by staying closer to shore on their southward runs. The wreckers had been there in the past to save lives, as well as enrich themselves. Now the twenty-first-century versions would be out in full force. Looking over at Trufante, he saw the grin, evidence that he’s seen the money, too. In another time, he regretted that it might actually have excited him.

  The closer they got to the marinas on the western side of the island, the worse the damage appeared. He looked over at Trufante, who was also looking around, probably counting dollars as they passed the wrecked boats. From the smile on his mate’s face, Mac expected that he would be shorthanded when this was over.

  They reached the marina, only to find the fuel dock deserted. There was no sign of life at the office, either. After directing Trufante to pull into a nearby dock, Mac took one line over the gunwale with him and tied it off to a nearby cleat.

  As he suspected, the fuel pumps were locked. That shouldn’t be a problem, as he had bolt cutters aboard, but with the power out,
they wouldn’t pump. He took a quick look around, but there was no breaker box in sight. Even if he did find it, there was no guarantee that it would be live. The clock built into his head was ticking. They had to get to Fort Jefferson soon. There was no time to waste trying to find fuel legally, so he went for the alternative. Looking around the marina, he spotted an unlimited supply of fuel. The problem was that the built-in fuel tanks were set low in the water—below the water line, making siphoning from them into the trawler’s tanks impossible without a pump. He looked around and saw a dozen boats in the marina’s small yard, blocked up and on the hard. They would be easy prey for anyone with empty fuel tanks and a garden hose.

  It wasn’t hard to rationalize his decision. Lives were clearly in jeopardy, and doing nothing wasn’t an option. Promising himself that he would reimburse the owners later, he returned to the Ghost Runner and told Trufante his plan.

  “Hot damn, a Cajun credit card,” he said, holding up the hose.

  Siphoning was slow work. It would take too long to fill the tanks from a single boat. Using the two eighty-gallon bladders he had aboard, they could pull fuel from two vessels at once. He would only be able to partially fill them; empty, the bladders were simply heavy; full, they would weigh over six hundred pounds—each.

  Mac ran to the office, where he saw a pile of wheelbarrows used by the boaters to load gear and ice. Placed that way to weather the storm, he grabbed two off the top of the stack, returned to the trawler and loaded a bladder in each. He and Trufante picked their victims, and several minutes later, they were both siphoning fuel.

  Mac checked the bladder in his wheelbarrow, which was close to half-full; it would be ungainly , but he figured he and Tru could move three hundred pounds each. Stopping the flow, he capped off the rubber tank. Since the bladder was already in the wheelbarrow, he folded the sides in, trying to balance the weight. Even then, it moved awkwardly across the dock, directed more by the weight of the sloshing fuel than by Mac’s efforts to correct it. He found that slower was better and made it to the trawler. Trufante was already waiting with his wheelbarrow, and with Pamela’s help, they were able to wrestle one bladder onto the deck. Wiping sweat from his eyes, Mac wasted no time in loading the other tank. Within a few minutes, both were lying on the cockpit deck, releasing their fuel into the Ghost Runner’s tanks. While they emptied, he made some quick calculations. To reach the Dry Tortugas and get back with any kind of margin for error, they would have to repeat the procedure several times.

  While the third round was dumping into the trawler’s tanks, Mac looked around for Ned and saw him hurrying down the dock. He came aboard, and Mac looked around to see if they were ready. “Let’s go,” Mac said, helping Trufante release the last of the fuel in the hose back to the donor vessel.

  He checked his phone on the way out of the marina, taking the wheel from Trufante just as they passed the last marker. He’d often found it was easier to think when he was doing something. He pulled up the same route he had used only yesterday, and, still with no idea what to do when he got there, started toward Fort Jefferson.

  A wave of satisfaction swept over Kurt when he saw the twin motors smoking. After a frustrating night, he had finally accomplished something. Now, he just needed Bugarra to lead him to Justine and Allie. Mac’s boat had swung around and was about to pass on its way out of the channel. He raised the gun over his head, both in victory and to wish them luck. If he failed, they would have to come through with the treasure to save Allie and Justine. There was little doubt in his mind after the past few minutes that Bugarra would up his game.

  The trawler disappeared around the corner, and Kurt turned his attention to Bugarra. The Yellowfin was disabled and drifting toward one of the docks. With the tide helping, Kurt waited until the boat touched the dock and Bugarra stepped off before running back to the car.

  Kurt saw Bugarra a minute later standing in the shade of a large metal building. He was talking on the phone, and Kurt eased closer, hoping to hear. By the time he reached a suitable spot to listen, Bugarra had disconnected. He stood there for several minutes watching the road until, finally, a pink cab appeared. Kurt recognized the driver and smiled. Mac had sent Sonar’s number over earlier, and Kurt opened the message app on his phone to find it.

  Calling was out of the question. Her wrong reaction, or Bugarra overhearing anything, would put her in jeopardy. Kurt quickly composed a text asking her to let him know where she had dropped Bugarra off.

  Once the cab was out of sight, he ran to the car and drove back to Key West. Traffic was picking up as residents returned home, and it took three lights to get through the intersection at Roosevelt. As he waited, the adrenaline rush from shooting out the motors started to drain from his body, and Kurt’s anxiety level started to rise. He had already lost them at the light, and if Sonar didn’t return his text, it would all have been for nothing.

  Finally, he was able to make his way through the intersection. With a map of Key West open on his phone, he followed Roosevelt until it turned into Truman at First, where he turned left and headed toward the interior of the island, figuring the more centrally located he was when Sonar gave him the drop-off location, the faster he could get there. He had just accelerated when the phone vibrated on his lap. With vehicles riding his bumper, he pulled over to read the text.

  Sonar had sent an address. He thanked her, then clicked the link. The directions from his location quickly appeared, and he tried to control his breathing during the short drive to the Casa Marina Hotel. Pulling up under the porte-cochere, he stashed the rifle under the back seat, grabbed his Glock, and headed to the entrance. Dodging two large potted plants that had blown over, he reached for the door handle. He entered the lobby, trying to compose himself, but still felt his heart pound as he approached the front desk, pulling out his credentials. Martinez hadn’t responded to his request for leave, which meant he was still officially working, but either way, he knew he could get fired for what he was about to do.

  Placing his badge and ID on the counter, he got the attention of the clerk, and asked for Bugarra’s room. A look of indecision crossed the young woman’s tired face, and Kurt realized he needed to back off. “It’s pertaining to a case. Just a few questions for him.”

  “I can ring him for you, sir,” she said.

  Kurt knew she was doing her best to protect a valued guest. Asking for a manager might end with the same result, or worse, they would call Kurt’s office. Looking at the counter, he noticed the large keypad on the phone; he would be able to see the number she punched in.

  “Okay, that would be great.”

  He watched as she pressed the three-digit room number, and just before it connected, he stopped her. “Maybe, on second thought, I’ll email him,” he said. The girl nodded, obviously relieved, and Kurt quickly left the lobby and returned to the car. After moving it around the building to a parking space near the back corner and out of sight, he looked for a service entrance, but found only an emergency exit that was locked from the inside. To his left was a fence; after checking for witnesses, he used the hood of a car as a foothold, pulled himself over, and landed inside the hotel grounds. The room number was 202, so Kurt headed for the second floor. He choose not to use the elevator, instead taking the stairs two at a time. He had just turned down the hall when a door opened.

  Kurt found himself standing face to face with Vince Bugarra.

  Thirty-Three

  Justine could feel the blood pounding in her ears as she waited and worked out her plan. Finally, the second man returned with a bag of food from a convenience store. Her heart dropped when she saw that he had disregarded her request for the personal items, but, after taking a ribbing from his partner, he pulled a small bag from the larger one, handing it to her. Now she just needed to make the plan work.

  She thanked the men and after giving Allie a reassuring nod, took the bag to the bathroom. Once inside, she locked the door and breathed deeply. Now that she could take action, she felt
better. Taking out the rubbing alcohol and tampons, she quickly filled one of the hotel glasses with alcohol, then pushed the tampons out of their applicators into the alcohol. They quickly soaked up the fluid, and she decided to go big, and added some more alcohol and another tampon.

  An ignition source was her problem, but she’d had hours to work out the details. Earlier, she had seen a complimentary grooming kit in the bathroom; she now opened it and took out the nail clippers. The cord to the hairdryer proved surprisingly tough to cut, and she started to worry if the men outside were getting suspicious as she hacked away at the rubber coating. Finally, she saw the copper wires and stripped them of the remaining insulation.

  She set the wires down, removed the alcohol-soaked tampons from the cup, and set them on a towel. After taking a deep breath, she was ready, and picked up the cord. With the insulation removed, she found it easy to separate the two wires. Holding them apart with one hand, she inserted the plug in the outlet and, being careful not to touch the ends together, took one wire in each hand. Leaning over the towel, she held one wire on a tampon, then touched it with the other.

  The spark blinded her temporarily. The room went dark when the circuit breaker tripped, and the next few seconds seemed like an eternity. Finally, she saw a small blue dot that started to brighten and ignite. Surprised by the intensity of the flame, she smiled.

  With no idea how long it would take for the alcohol to burn off, she reached for the door and cracked it open. Holding the tampons by the strings, she pushed through the door.

  “Allie, let’s go,” she said.

  The room was very dark. With the light from the burning tampons, Justine was able to see that only one man remained. The other must have gone to get maintenance to reset the breaker. Allie reacted quickly, and Justine handed her one of the tampons, then tossed the other at the man.