by Tripp Ellis
"Madison—“
She hung up.
No good deed goes unpunished.
I should have listened to the little voice in the back of my head that said this was going to cause way too much drama.
Not five minutes later, JD called.
I let it ring a few times before answering the phone. I don't know exactly what I was expecting. I thought that perhaps Madison had ratted me out, and I would have some explaining to do. My voice shook with nerves, but I put on a bright smile. “Hey, what’s going on?”
"We are in business?"
"What do you mean?"
"Ashley hacked Kingston's computer. She hit the mother lode.”
"Surveillance footage?"
"Yup. And it tells us everything we need to know. I'll swing by your place in a few.”
14
I watched a video on JD's phone. He had downloaded it from Ashley. She still had Scott’s computer and was working on some other encrypted files, but she had managed to unlock all the security footage from Kingston's marina. The footage showed Kingston and an unidentified man getting onto a Go-Fast boat on the evening of his disappearance and leaving the harbor. Ashley said she scanned through the later footage and never saw any evidence of the boat returning.
"Can we get a screen grab and run a facial recognition check?”
“Done. That's Carlos Dominguez. Ashley got a match in the facial recognition database."
"Looks like he's our guy,” I speculated.
"Do you want to do a knock and talk?" JD asked. "Or should we see if we can get a warrant?"
“You mean you don’t just want to raid the place?” I asked, full of sarcasm.
"I do, but I figured you’d want to play by the rules."
"Let's take it to Daniels and let him put it before a judge."
“That's what I figured you'd say. I'll get on it." He paused a moment. "What did you do last night?"
I hesitated. "Nothing."
"I'm telling you. Belinda has some hot friends. You need to get back on the horse."
"I'm staying off the horse for a little while."
"Are you sure about that?" JD asked, as he spotted a pair of black panties panties on the deck. He walked across the compartment and scooped the frilly things off the floor.
I nearly had a heart attack.
"Staying off the horse, are you?" he said in disbelief.
I was at a loss for words. My face went pale. I stammered, "I don't know how those got there."
"I sure as hell do."
I hoped to God he didn't.
"Come on, spill the beans."
This was about the time I began to wonder if he knew more than he was letting on. I hadn't done anything wrong. But I felt guilty as hell. Maybe because it took all of my willpower to ignore the temptation.
"Those must be Aria’s. She must have left those behind,” I said.
I felt like he could totally see through my bullshit. I was a damn good liar—it was a requirement in my line of work—but I felt like the worst liar in the world at the moment.
He tossed them back on the deck.
"I'm meeting Belinda and her friends over at the Crazy Conch tonight. You should come along. She's got this little redheaded friend—emerald eyes, creamy skin, and a body that will make you want to climb right back on that horse. 22, smart, funny. She's right up your alley."
"I'll consider it."
"Because if you don't get on that. I'm gonna have to work a three-some between Belinda and this girl."
"Well, I wouldn't want to get in the way of that."
"I know you're bummed about Aria. I can see it on your face. I just don't want my buddy sulking around like a loser."
My face crinkled. "I am not a loser."
"Of course you're not a loser," he said patronizingly. "You got dumped by a hot model. It happens to the best of us.”
"I didn't get dumped."
"Yeah, you did,” JD said. "Look, all I'm saying is you can't stay on the sidelines for too long. It will screw with your head. You’ll grow cobwebs on that thing and you’ll get performance anxiety. Next thing you know, you’re popping little blue pills just to get the job done."
"Speak for yourself. I don't have to pop little blue pills."
"No need to get hostile."
"Don't you have somewhere to be?" I asked, perturbed.
"Actually, I do. I'm meeting Belinda for lunch."
“Again? You sure are starting to spend a lot of time with that girl."
"She's going back to The World in a few days. I'm trying to make every moment count."
"So this is just one of those Coconut Key things?”
"Thank God for Coconut Key things." He headed for the hatch. "I'll talk to Daniels. But since it's the weekend, we probably won't get any movement on this until Monday. But that doesn't mean we can't do a little recce on our target."
Jack left, and I breathed another sigh of relief as I sat on the lounge. I stayed there for a few minutes, then strolled down the dock to Diver Down. I figured I needed a face to face with Madison. She busied herself behind the bar and didn't want to talk to me.
"I'm telling you, you’ve got the wrong idea."
"Don't try to talk your way out of this," Madison said.
"I'm not trying to talk my way out of anything. You've made an assumption based on incomplete facts."
"Well, the facts are pretty self-explanatory,” she snapped. "But hey, it's your life. Live it how you choose. But don't be surprised when nobody shows up to your funeral."
I grimaced. That was pretty harsh. My natural response would have been to say that I wasn't planning on dying anytime soon. But in light of recent events—and having already died once—I was almost afraid to buy green bananas.
I could have told Madison the details of Scarlett's overdose, but I had promised to keep my mouth shut. Not that Madison was a gossiper, but it would probably find its way back to Jack eventually.
By the time I got back to the boat, Agent Archer was waiting for me.
15
“Uh, oh,” I said. “Am I in trouble?”
Archer laughed. Her smile was infectious. “Not yet. Actually, I came here to apologize.”
“For what?”
“Being such a lightweight. Sorry you had to witness that.”
“It was amusing.”
“For you,” she said. “Anyway, thank you for looking after me.”
“Not a problem.”
“Let me buy you lunch in an effort to make it up to you.”
I scoffed. “You think you’re going to get off the hook that easy?”
Her eyes widened. “Looks like I’m the one who’s in trouble now.”
“I’ve got a free afternoon. I was thinking about going for a dive. I could use a buddy. Do you have your advanced diver certification?"
"I do."
"Good. It's settled.”
She looked at me with suspicious eyes. "Are you just trying to get me into a bikini?"
"I've already seen you in your underwear."
Her cheeks flushed." Right. Don't remind me."
"It wasn't half bad."
She arched an eyebrow.
"I mean, from what I could see. I'd have to get a better look before I could really comment."
"A better look, eh?” Archer eyed me curiously. "Let me think about it over lunch."
"I've got the tanks charged and the gear is all prepped."
"Okay. Fine,” she conceded. "I usually don't dive with people I don't know well. But despite outward appearances, I think you're pretty squared away."
I feigned offense. "Despite outward appearances?"
"Yeah, I'm going to have to reserve judgment until I get to know you better.”
I laughed. “Are you comfortable with a deep dive?”
“How deep?”
“110 feet?”
“We don’t know each other well enough.”
“Good answer. When was the last time you were tha
t deep?”
“Maybe two months ago?”
“Like anything else, skills degrade over time.”
“I’m in prime form,” she said.
“I’ve seen.”
Her eyes narrowed at me.
“How about we do something easy like Pelican Reef? 30 feet.”
We grabbed lunch at Tsunami Jacks, then swung by her place. She put on a skimpy blue spaghetti string bikini, which was a treat for the eyes. She grabbed her tank and gear and we headed back to the marina. We boarded the Slick’n Salty and headed out to sea.
It was a beautiful day—clear skies, warm sun, and a gentle breeze. I brought the boat on plane, and the engines rumbled as we raced across the water. It was amazing how quickly the rest of the world faded away when you were on the water. Nothing else mattered. All your troubles and worries would melt away with the amber sun.
We arrived at the dive site within an hour. I attached to a mooring buoy and flew a dive flag. The red and white fabric flickered with the breeze. I checked the gear again making sure the tanks were full, gauges were working correctly, and the regulators functioned.
I helped Archer with her tank, and a few moments later we plunged into the water.
The temperature was perfect, and the teal water was crystal clear. Once we were at depth, we were treated to a visual feast. An array of colorful fish darted about the reef. We saw Queen Angelfish, edged with blue accents and yellow bodies. Spotted Butterfly fish flitted about the coral. I saw polkadotted Yellowtail Damselfish. A Banded Jawfish hovered in a crevice, looking like some type of sea monster. There were an endless assortment of these magnificent ocean dwellers. With nothing but the sound of the regulator and the burble of bubbles, the reef was like a meditation chamber.
Until something went wrong.
Bubbles rocketed from Archer’s regulator, and the hose flailed about like an angry snake. Archer's eyes filled with panic. Sometimes cold water dives can cause the regulator to freeze up from internal condensation, but we were practically diving in bathwater.
I finned to Archer and handed her my alternate regulator. She placed it into her mouth and sucked a breath of air. I motioned for her to stay calm and breathe normally. We slowly ascended and made a safety stop. I still had plenty of air left for the two of us.
We finally broke through the surface, and Archer took a breath. "I don't know what happened. I just had everything serviced, and the gear looked fine on my pre-dive check."
"It's a good thing we didn't do that deep dive,” I said.
We swam to the boat, and I helped Archer climb over the transom. We slipped our tanks off, and I inspected her regulator. In the back of my mind I couldn't help but wonder if her equipment had been tampered with? I knew Isabella wanted her out of the way.
"What's the matter?" she said. The distressed look on my face must have given me away.
"Nothing,” I said. “Sometimes these things happen."
She had kept her composure, but I could tell she was a tad unsettled. The what if scenarios can often be more traumatic than the actual event. This could have gone so many shades of wrong had we been at a deeper depth.
"That's twice you saved me," she said. "I promise, I'm not always this much of a problem child."
"Well, despite outward appearances…"
"Shut up," she said, playfully.
"I can't take you anywhere. Not to a bar. Not to a reef…”
"I was trying to redeem myself, but it seems I just keep digging a bigger hole. Maybe I should avoid you?"
"You'd miss me."
Her eyes narrowed at me. "Your modesty is your most impressive quality,” she said, her voice full of sarcasm.
"Actually, that's not my most impressive quality."
She blushed at my insinuation. "Okay, well, so," she fumbled for something else to talk about, “how about those Bucs?”
“It’s the off season.”
“Right…” she cleared her throat. Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to use the little girl’s room. She sauntered into the salon and found the head.
I noticed a Go-Fast boat approaching. It sped across the water, leaving a wake of white water in its trail. The engine roared like a race-car.
I didn’t think much of it, until it pulled alongside the Slick’n Salty. Two men, their faces obscured by race helmets, pulled out black submachine guns and opened fire.
16
Muzzle flash flickered from the barrels. The bullets snapped past me, whizzing through the air, peppering the fiberglass hull.
I dove to the deck and crawled toward the salon. My gun was inside.
Debris splintered everywhere—bits of fiberglass and fragments of the wood paneling.
I crawled across the deck on my belly. “Archer, stay down!"
I grabbed my gun from within my stateroom. Bullets tore through the salon, cracking windows, shattering my flatscreen TV. By the time I made it back to the aft hatch, the gunfire stopped.
Then the situation got worse.
The goons in the Go-Fast boat lobbed a fragmentation grenade onto the Slick’n Salty. It bounced across the deck, into the cockpit, tumbling toward me.
My eyes bulged, and I scampered toward the grenade. I scooped it up, hoping I'd have enough time to toss it overboard. There was a distinct possibility I was going to lose an appendage along with my head, and the rest of my body.
I hurled it through the air toward the Go-Fast boat just as they sped away. It plunged into the water and exploded a fraction of a second later. A plume of white water sprayed into the air like a geyser erupting.
I moved to the gunwale and angled my weapon over the ledge and opened fire at the Go-Fast boat as it sped away, spitting white water as it disappeared on the horizon.
I emptied my entire magazine for good measure.
I doubt I hit anything, but I was pissed off. It felt good to vent a little frustration. The sharp smell of gunpowder filled my nostrils, and the report of the weapon echoed across the water.
My heart pounded in my chest, and adrenaline rushed through my veins. I knew, in a few moments, the crash would come, now that the situation was diffused. I checked myself for injuries, then darted into the salon to check on Archer. "Are you okay?"
The hatch to the head pushed open and and Archer crawled out. Her face was pale and her eyes were round like saucers.
"Are you hit?" I asked.
"She shook her head. I don't think so."
Her hands trembled, and she looked frazzled.
"Your first firefight?" I asked.
She nodded.
"It gets easier."
"Does this kind of thing happen to you all the time?"
"Pretty much."
"Remind me never to go diving with you."
A grim chuckle escaped my lips. “I’m not sure I’m the one they were after."
Archer’s brow crinkled. "Who would want to kill me?"
I shrugged. "I don't know you well enough to comment."
"Not funny."
"You are looking into some pretty heavy hitters. Maybe that was a message?"
My first thought was that Isabella had sent operatives to take out Agent Archer, figuring I wasn't going to do the job. But this wasn't Cobra Company’s style. This was far too crude. Sabotaging a regulator? Definitely Cobra Company’s style. A drive-by shooting? Not so much.
I pressed the mag release button and dropped the magazine from my pistol and slapped in another one. I pulled the slide back, charging a round into the chamber. I flicked the weapon on safe, then holstered it. I planned on keeping the weapon close by the rest of the day.
I checked the engine compartment, and the fuel lines, to make sure no critical structures had been damaged in the gunfight. Everything seemed okay, but there was a possibility I missed something.
Most of the damage was cosmetic. All of the nice cabinetry in the salon was splintered and pocked with bullet holes. The fiberglass hull looked like Swiss cheese.
Once I w
as sure there were no fuel lines ruptured, I cranked the engines up and headed us back toward the marina. I kept a pretty slow pace for the first several minutes, making sure everything operated properly.
Archer was still unsettled. She stayed in the salon for a while, then joined me on the bridge deck.
"You hanging in there?" I asked.
She nodded.
"Want a beer?"
"No. I think I want to keep my head clear."
She got on the phone and reported the incident to her agency. The attempted murder of a federal agent wasn't something that was treated lightly.
When we got back to the marina, we went down to the station and filed a report. The next day, FBI investigators would come down from DC, and there would be lots and lots of paperwork.
Archer was ready for that beer by the time we finished at the station.
17
"I'm sticking with beer, I promise," Archer said. “No more margaritas.”
We had gone over to Billy's Big Wave for happy hour. Surf music filled the air, and long boards hung on the wall. There were pictures of famous surfers from the 60s through to the present day. It reminded me of the Hard Rock Café, but with surfing memorabilia.
Archer's nerves had begun to settle. But she still wasn't comfortable. The first beer took the edge off. The second brought her to baseline.
"So, you really grabbed a grenade and threw it back at them?"
"Yup."
"You don't seem freaked out at all."
"You can't let this stuff get to you. You don't want fear creeping around inside your head. We all have to die sometime. What matters is what you do with the time you’ve been given. And when the time comes, you greet death without fear."
"You should write self-help books. Sounds very stoic."
"Memento Mori," I said. “Embrace the fact that you going to die. Make this life count. We don't often get a second chance."
I'm guessing you’ve been close a number of times,” she asked.
"Closer than you can possibly imagine."
"So, are you ever going to tell me your story? Or are you just going to keep me guessing?"