The Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Series Boxset

by David F. Berens

  “Mm hmm.” She was already engrossed in disconnecting and reconnecting internal wires and cards in the two units.

  Ten minutes later, Steve was unsuccessfully wiping buffalo wing sauce from his face at the world-famous Hog’s Breath Saloon.

  “You know what I just don’t get?” he said in between chewing and twisting and chewing a wing, “is why kill two boys, steal a G.P.S. unit, and then dump it into the ocean? I just don’t see the logic there.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Joe said, and scratched his chin. “What’s on a G.P.S. unit that warrants a double homicide?”

  “Treasure. Didn’t the report say that the boys had been bragging about finding something out there?”

  “Still, no need to kill them, just steal the G.P.S. from their boat and go get it while they partied,” Joe said.

  “Yeah.” Steve began chewing again.

  They both sat in silence for a few minutes, trying to piece together the fragments of this strange case.

  “Someone wanted that location evidence gone and no witnesses alive who could find it again,” Joe muttered. “It reeks of a cover-up.”

  “Not a very good one though,” Steve said matter-of-factly.

  “Oh, really?”

  “Yeah, if you’re gonna sink the G.P.S.,” —he took a loud slurp of his diet soda— “why not sink the whole boat?”

  “Good question… maybe the killer got caught in the act and had to cut and run?”

  “I think the guy got what he wanted and didn’t really care about the rest. It’s like you said, he just got rid of anything that pointed to that particular location.”

  “So, what the hell is out there?” Joe signaled the waitress for their check.

  The attractive yet road-worn looking young girl came to their table. Joe thought she looked like Daisy Duke on crack.

  “How you boys doin’?”

  Steve put his arm around her waist. “Hey, Leela,” —he winked at Joe— “you gonna be in the homemade bikini contest tonight?”

  “Nah, they cancelled it,” she said with an added shrug. “Guess with that damn storm comin’, ain’t nobody here to see it.”

  “Awww, that’s too bad, huh Joe?”

  “Yeah,” he said and rolled his eyes, gave her a twenty and stood up. “Let’s go.”

  “Maybe next time, sweetie,” Steve said, and squeezed her as he got up.

  “Alright, cut it out, you’re on duty.” Joe grabbed him and ushered him toward the door.

  “Just playin’ around.” Steve waved back to the girl.

  As they walked out to the curb of Duval Street, Joe’s phone beeped.

  “Oops, it’s a voicemail from Lisa,” —he pushed one to access the message— “I didn’t even hear it ring.”

  “Joe, it’s Lisa,” she said in a very excited tone. “I have your machine working, and I’ve downloaded all the data of the past ten trips and made a map for you. I also got a hit on the print from the C.I.A. database.” She paused for a second. “And get this… they have a record of the print…”

  “She got a hit on the print,” he mouthed to Steve.

  “… but the profile’s status is classified. Anyway, just thought you should know. See you back at the lab.”

  “Classified?”

  Joe deleted the message and closed his phone. “Wwhat the hell is going on here?”

  16

  A Living Thing

  Hector carefully idled his boat forward until he felt it gently slow into the emerging beach. With no lights, the hard part was knowing when to slow down. As he approached, he thought he could hear the faint sound of another boat passing in the distance, but saw nothing. He wrote it off as paranoia. The night was overcast, making it darker than usual, not to mention that Hurricane Daniel was beginning to make a rough chop of the normally stagnant water.

  He stepped out onto the soft sand and pulled his boat far enough on shore to keep it from drifting away. To his right, he could see the dim figure of his contact making his way along the narrow peninsula of sand that existed only at low tide. He could see dark circles under the man’s eyes; he was seriously stressed. His white t-shirt was rumpled and stained under his armpits and his gut heaved against the stretched cotton. A thin veil of sweat beaded on his cheeks. Hector had no idea who this man was or who he was working for, but he looked like he’d had a rough couple of nights.

  “I hope this trip was worth it,” Hector said.

  “It’s only ninety miles to that hellhole you call home. Here.”

  His contact abruptly shoved a brown paper bag into his hands. Hector could feel the distinctive shape of bundled money inside. He opened it and flipped through the stacks to ensure the amount was somewhat correct. Not once had the money been short, but old habits die hard.

  “Numbers, please,” demanded the man.

  Hector returned to the boat, opened a small compartment under the dash, and retrieved a small note pad from inside. On the note pad were ten sets of coordinates. He didn't care what they meant or where in the gulf they were. All he knew was that this American wanted them, badly enough to share money, share information, and tell him to use any means necessary to get them. He ripped the sheet of paper out of the pad and handed it over.

  “Are you sure these are correct? Are you absolutely sure?” the man demanded again.

  “Yes, yes. I checked them twice,” Hector assured him.

  “Where’s the unit now?”

  “Somewhere down there with the fishes, I think,” the Cuban said with a toothy grin.

  He neglected to tell his contact that he had forgotten to pull the data cards out until the moment he watched the G.P.S. unit sink into the blue. No worries, it wouldn’t matter at the bottom of the gulf. He didn’t like the tone this gringo was beginning to use, though, and he could feel his face reddening.

  “Does anyone else know anything about this?”

  “No, no, señor,” Hector said and shook his head, “nobody saw nothing and nobody knows nothing.”

  Hector had been surprised to have recently stumbled onto three money making schemes in the gulf; one obtaining these numbers for his mysterious friend, one ferreting classified information out of Cuba for Stingray, and the third running his shipments of coke through the oil rig that Stingray had chosen for their meetings—with the help of her government friends on patrol in the gulf looking the other way. He had no idea they were related in any way. He was glad his business was over with this guy. He didn’t really like him, but tonight’s trade would be their last meeting. Adios Hibrido, he thought.

  “You could have been more discreet in getting these numbers, you know. We didn’t discuss your methods because I didn’t think we needed to. You went too far.”

  The man was now speaking down to him like he was a child.

  “I did what I was hired to do. Don't worry about the details,” Hector said, his tone cold and unapologetic.

  In his line of work, he often found customers to be lacking the backbone or stomach for the less palatable parts of the jobs. These American types were some of the worst. They always thought their money would insulate them from feeling any guilt, but it never did.

  “You Americans are such hypocrites. You hate us for selling drugs, but you buy all we have. You want information, but you don't want to do what’s necessary to get it. You want to have it all effortlessly. Now, your hands are dirty too. You are one of us.”

  “I think not.”

  “Me emputa sa vaina! You think just because you pay someone to do your dirty work leaves you clean? The jefe is as guilty as the worker. You told me to do what was necessary, now you want to whine about it after you get what you wanted.”

  “Murder of innocents was never part of the deal. You left a trail, a trail that cannot lead to us.”

  “You came to me because of my reputation, not despite it. Whatever you think of me, look in the mirror.”

  “You have no idea who you are talking to. Never mention those boys again, either. Ever. This
ends here, you idiot. Do you understand? We’re done. Over. Fin. Get on your little boat and get your ass back to Cuba. If I ever see you again, I’ll make what you did to the Johnson boys look like a ride at Disneyworld.”

  "You don’t give me orders, puto!” Hector placed his hand flat on the front of his shirt.

  He didn’t feel threatened, but he did have a reputation and he had to uphold it. He knew this gesture was an obvious show that he had a gun tucked in his belt, and while he had never tried it with this guy, he seemed like he’d be easy to push around. Much to his surprise, his contact stepped three paces toward him. He didn’t even put his arms up. This guy was clenching his teeth, and he looked pissed.

  “Now you look here, muchacho, I’ve had AK-47s put to my head by teenage freedom fighters in countries you’ve never heard of, on missions that never existed. Do you think I’m afraid of getting greased by a monkey like you?”

  Oh, this one has an attitude, Hector thought. Some people do, until they see the gun. Hector reached under his shirt and retrieved his stainless steel 9mm semiautomatic and pointed it straight at the man, only three feet away, his arm fully extended.

  “You should be afraid, gringo. I’m a bad man.”

  Hector saw his contact twitch and heard a metallic thwwwp sound. In the blink of an eye, a blow to the top of Hector’s hand just behind the thumb dislodged the weapon. He pulled his clenched fist to his chest in agonizing pain. A second later the cold and unmistakably hard steel of a retractable ASP baton struck Hector in the right side of the head and put him to the ground, as he tried to comfort his bruised skull with his bruised hand. Another blow to his head and a firm push on his shoulder left him flat on his back, stunned, and still looking up at the dark sky. He felt the baton, now slick with his own blood, lay across this throat, with his contact’s foot slowly increasing the pressure on his larynx.

  The man leaned over him, his silhouette eclipsing the moon. “Just who the hell do you think you are?” he snarled. “You think you can come here and threaten me? How many sleaze-balls do you think I’ve sunk to the bottom of the gulf? I lost count years ago. I was killing for my people when you were still sucking your thumb.”

  Hector felt his windpipe contract under the baton. He wouldn't last much longer. He couldn’t take a breath and could feel his face swelling.

  “I don't even need permission to take you out. You’re a freebie. You’re a target of opportunity. I can kill you right now and justify it later, if I even bother to mention it to anyone.”

  He released his weight from Hector's throat.

  Hector sat up, gasped for air, and rested his weight on his one good hand. Then he heard a familiar sound: the unmistakable click of a hammer being pulled back on a gun—his gun—just as he felt the barrel against the bottom of his chin.

  “Threaten me again. I dare you. I know people who can make you wish you had never been born, and I’ll be happy to deliver you to that hell.”

  Hector could smell alcohol on the man’s breath and his eyes had a crazy glint to them. Este hombre esta loco, Hector thought. There was a fully automatic AR-15 in the boat, but this guy would blow his chin off if he even twitched; he wasn't afraid to pull a trigger, Hector guessed. He put his hands up in surrender.

  “Okay, okay, man,” he rasped as the pressure released on his throat. “I’m just gonna go. You will never see me again.”

  He staggered to his feet. The contact remained still, gun and baton in hand. Hector massaged his throat and backed up a step. He reached down to pick up his package of money from the sand.

  “Well, I suppose this won’t be such a problem for you when the Hurricane comes, eh señor?”

  The man remained silent as he watched the Cuban turn and limp to his boat.

  “You know, whatever you're looking for out there, you won't find it,” Hector said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean you won’t. You are treating the gulf like it’s only water. It is so much more than that.”

  Hector stood next to the boat, ankle deep in the Gulf. He pointed out into the darkness.

  “It is a living thing. It moves, it breathes, it pushes underwater mountains around with no more effort than you would sweep your floor. If it doesn’t want you to find something, you won't. And it is apparent that it doesn’t want this thing found.”

  Hector’s contact broke into a full laugh. “Found? Found? What makes you think we want it found?”

  17

  A Man About A Crane

  R.B. flew Gidget like he was an old pro at the stick though he’d only owned her for a little over five years. The seaplane hadn’t been named Gidget when he bought her from crazy old Mel. No, that had been Troy’s doing. Something about a girl he used to know back at the Peppermint Hippo in Vegas.

  After the war, R.B. had come back to an empty home, parents both passed, Troy allegedly killed by an I.E.D., and no work to speak of… so, he did what every estranged vet does; he rambled on. He rambled so far that he ended up at the southernmost point of the continental United States of America, Key West. He poked around from odd job to odd job until one night at Pepe’s. He was at the bar talking to one of the local loonies, Mel, about his huge ship captain’s license. He and Mel spent the evening trying to one-up each other with stories from their military pasts, ranging from Mel’s exploits on the Zambezi river with local rebels trying to board his oil barge, to R.B.’s daring rescue of a group of ex-pat hikers who’d gotten overturned and stranded trying to get their dugout canoe up to the base of the churning Angel Falls.

  Eventually, Mel told him about his seaplane and a failed attempt at a tourist sight-seeing venture. He never understood why it hadn’t taken off, but R.B. thought it might’ve been the proprietor’s… craziness, that kept the customers away.

  He knew of a perfect place to put the plane back to work. Fort Jefferson. The trip to the island fort would be so much more exciting with an aerial view and a water landing. Without letting Mel see his excitement, he talked the old man into letting it go for a pittance. Money R.B. had borrowed from his grandmother covered most of it while a small business loan covered the rest. All of that had been paid for many times over. And now, after his second pilot had run off with a Red Garter girl from Duval Street, he’d discovered that his brother—who flew Apaches in the war in Afghanistan—was alive and well. A little internet digging and a phone call and he and his brother were united again.

  He didn’t have as much flying experience as Troy, but he had learned to land her in the narrowest of shallow channels, where a drift ten feet in any direction could mean hooking the coral with a float and flipping the plane over on its top, ruining every electronic system on board, plus the engine, and dumping four hundred pounds of fuel into the water; and that’s the best-case crash scenario, with no tourists on board to perish in the attempt.

  Compared to that, landing in the deep water of the gulf a hundred yards away from the Wyatt 1 was a task he could have done in his sleep. He took the landing a little hot in order to impress Megan Simons, the cute marine biologist Troy had roped into his treasure hunting scheme.

  The oil rig wasn't wide enough to accommodate the wings of the Cessna Caravan between its lower pylons, so R.B. slowly taxied the plane up to the outside corner of the waterline catwalk while Troy jumped over with a guide line and a small boardwalk they kept handy for just such occasions. By the time they were secured, George Wyatt was standing on the catwalk.

  “Well, well, look what the tide’s brought in,” he said and extended his hand to Troy. “Long time no see, buddy. Bill said you'd be here today. How was your flight?”

  “It’s getting a little rough out there, with the weather and all, but it’s still okay,” Troy said as he shook the brawny man’s hand.

  “Yeah, probably not long before you’ll have to pull her out for good. Did you bring enough fuel to get you home this time?” He joked, referring to Troy’s ill-fated trip out here when he lost an old bar bet and had to fly Wyat
t and the crew back to the rig, subsequently running out of fuel and having to wait several days for a refill. Troy had always thought it ironic to be stranded on an oil rig waiting for gas.

  “Hey, nobody lays down a full house!”

  Wyatt laughed. “Nope, I guess not.”

  “What the heck are you doing here anyway?” Troy asked. “I figured you’d head inland with Bill and the guys. Weren’t they headed to the Big Easy for some serious recreation?”

  “Well, they were, but that blasted storm has every coastal town along the gulf battening the hatches and preparing for the worst. Seems Katrina’s made ‘em all gun shy.”

  “Can’t say as I blame them. So I guess Gene’s around too, eh?”

  “He is, of course. He’s up in the control room as always; loves all those gadgets, you know.”

  Megan walked up and Troy couldn’t help but notice Wyatt giving her an up and down glance; appreciative, but with that look a sailor gets in his eyes after a six-month submarine tour in the deep.

  “George Wyatt, meet Megan Simons,” he said, “and of course, R.B.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, miss,” he said and shook her hand before turning to Troy’s brother. “You, I’m not so sure about.” The oil rigger laughed and clapped his hand on R.B.’s shoulder. “How’s the tourist biz?”

  “Can’t keep the plane in the water long enough to pick up all the people we’re carrying back and forth,” said R.B. and returned the man’s smile. “Remind me to tell you about the bachelorette party we just did over a beer sometime.”

  Megan shot a glance at Troy. He opened his mouth, presumably to offer an explanation.

  “I—”

  “Will do,” Wyatt interrupted and pointed to the stairs. “We all ready?”

  “Yup,” Troy said and jumped onto the stairs.

  They made the long climb up to the conference room, which was really just a second kitchen, but with a commanding view of the gulf to the west. George poured thick black coffee into Styrofoam cups and handed them out.