by T. S. O'Neil
He took a long look—taking her in from head to toe. She had well-tanned and long athletic legs earned from years of running 10K and half-marathons; she said preparing for a full marathon made her tits disappear and she couldn’t have that; they were full B-cups at best, but Handley imagined that they were firm and defied gravity, he could see her nipples popping though the shear silk top, sans bra, he thought.
“Hey, baby, you back to playing decoy hooker?” Somewhat perplexed by the appearance of his new partner dressed so provocatively on her day off.
“Nope, just going down to the beach to meet some girlfriends and have a few cocktails, I just wanted to see if you would like to join us.”
Handley had a finely tuned bullshit alarm, having dealt with pimps, whores, gangsters, junkies and other assorted scumbags for most of his life. From the moment he was suddenly partnered with the tall, exotic looking Latina, he got the distinct impression that Ramirez was conning him.
Hell, he was a fifty eight year old balding patrol cop with a bot belly and a drinking problem—hardly the stuff that twenty-something females lusted after—unless they wanted something. Still, he could picture himself behind her, sliding those white shorts down over her tan ass and down to her ankles. He felt his groin twitch, but he had bigger fish to fry and if things went his way, he would be retiring south of the border where he would have a never ending stream of hot Latinas sliding their panties to the floor.
“Sorry, kid, I have got something I gotta do tonight,” he replied while blatantly looking down her top and catching a glimpse of her small hard breasts topped with eraser shaped nipples.
“Some other time,” he said while getting into the vehicle—leaving her standing there with a confused look on her face; all dressed up for battle—with no one to fight. He quickly backed up and drove away, with little more than a wave.
She waited a minute for him to leave the parking lot and then retreated to her blue Nissan Pathfinder to make a call.
“He’s up to something, she told Eddie, I did everything short of offering him a blowjob in the parking lot and he turned me down.”
Eddie admired her zeal, but didn’t want her to get involved further. He knew that Handley fancied himself a Lady’s Man, albeit it with ladies you rented by the hour. In his opinion, Handley would never have turned down an opportunity to slip it to this young sweetie unless he had something urgent to do. She verified he did and that was all he wanted her to do.
Marilyn was a young capable cop, but she was batting above her average and these thugs would think nothing of slitting her throat and laughing while she bled to death.
“Okay, let me work it from my end, take the night off and I will call you tomorrow.”
She ended the call and cursed under her breath. Marilyn was used to winning; whether it was in a 10K or busting Johns stupid enough to mistake her for a prostitute. She hated Handley even before she knew him. He was a rare specimen of a slowly dying breed—the crooked cop. And she longed to speed his demise.
Given his distracted demeanor in light of her come-on and slutty attire, she could probably guess where he was headed with such exigency and with the storm looming toward the Florida Gulf Coast.
She guessed that the robbers Eddie was tracking would use the closure of the park as cover for their activities. Weather in Florida was good for at least three quarters of the year—the summer was too hot and fraught with storms, but other than that people tended to spend a lot more time out of doors than their northern brethren.
Marilyn had taken up a lot of hobbies since moving here from New York and kayaking was one of her favorite—she often spent her days off paddling along the gulf shore, sometimes fishing, but more often than not, just exploring the many coves, canals and estuaries.
“It might be a nice night to do some night fishing around Mullet Key,” she said aloud as she turned the ignition of the pathfinder and sped towards her house.
***
Eddie looked over at Carla, who was reclining on his couch wearing a short silk robe he had gotten years ago in South Korea while he was assigned to the CID Command at Yongsan Garrison. It did little to conceal her ample charms.
“I have to go out for a while. Do me a favor and answer the phone, but if anyone asks who you are, say you are my sister, Cheryl, visiting from out of town.”
She nodded solemnly, “Be careful, Eddie.”
“Sure baby, always,” he smiled at her confidently, but felt strangely uneasy.
Eddie figured he would head over to Tampa and check with the Tampa cops who routinely surveyed Sally Boots’ expansive house more as harassment than as part of an active investigation. He called ahead and they cleared him to come on over.
“Not much to see here,” said Sandovol, the cop on the night shift assigned the thankless duty of watching Sally Boots’ house from inside a clandestine surveillance vehicle disguised as a power company van.
The van had an array of cameras, low-light and infrared and a range of non-invasive electronic listening devices, but no active listening devices were planted, so he could not ordinarily hear inside the house, although sometimes he got lucky. “You just missed him. A ninety eight brown Dodge piece of shit pulled in about an hour ago. About thirty minutes after that, he and the driver left on his yacht that was docked at the back of the property,” explained Sandovol. He
consulted the digital clock embedded above one of the television monitors and wordlessly backed up the surveillance media to the point where the sedan entered the property and disappeared behind the cavernous four car garage.
“Guy Handley,” said Eddie, immediately recognizing the figure stopped at the speaker in front of the black iron gate.
“You haven’t fired that crooked cocksucker yet?”
“Fucking union,” replied Eddie, while slowly shaking his head. One way or another the scumbag cop’s days were numbered and this tape could probably help that initiative along.
Sally was well-insulated from most of his alleged crimes, therefore it was difficult to get probable cause for the issue of a wiretap warrant, but the Tampa Organized Crime Unit was not without hope that he would eventually slip up. Until then, they would randomly surveil his house to let the old mobster know he was still in their sights.
Eddie thought about calling the Sheriff and giving him a full report. He figured that Waller being a cautious man would order SWAT, the Maritime Unit and hell, maybe even the Dive Team in and around Fort DeSoto. It would be like the Marines landing at Iwo and they might possibly scare off their quarry. Eddie figured he could wait to call in the cavalry. He would drive across the causeway, park his sedan, hoof it into the park and see what he could see.
Both Blackfoxes: Char and his son, had proven to be cunning, resourceful and quite possibly homicidal. Eddie had little doubt that Jimmy had killed at least one of the bodies they had discovered last week in the warehouse and the “double tap” on the other corpse indicated that he was killed by a professional—perhaps a battle-hardened, Recon Marine.
Eddie figured that Sally and Handley would sit off shore of Mullet Key, the island that served as host to Fort DeSoto, and wait for Blackfox and O’Brien to make their move—it was pretty sure that involved digging up the gold, he just wasn’t sure exactly where on the fort that would be.
Chapter 33 - Operation Re-Duck
“No drinking alcohol in the vehicle,” ordered the Duck’s Driver as he caught view of the two full size marine coolers that Michael and Triple G were in the middle of loading on aboard.
It was the same guy that Michael had dealt with the previous day. Apparently, a one man operation.
“Okay, it’s cool—no drinking on board, we get it. I just didn’t want to leave these coolers in the bed of my pick-up,” said Michael, indicating his Patriot Blue F150 with a jut of his chin.
One of the coolers was filled with an assortment of weapons—four automatic pistols, two assault rifles, an assortment of additional ammo, C-4 and a detonator. The other co
oler held two folding entrenching tools, a small pick used for working in tight spaces, empty sand bags, glow sticks, heavy duty flash lights, water, and a few other surprises. Michael liked to plan for contingencies.
Jimmy and Char climbed on board and the driver turned to address the Stag Party.
“My name is Mitch, he began. I was in 1st Amphibious Truck Company (DUKWS), 1st Marine Division, during the Korean War. I drove one of these vehicles during the landing at Inchon and for some time afterward, until I was wounded during the second battle for Seoul. He patted the steering with his left hand, “I found this particular Duck in a junk yard and restored it myself. I had to compromise on the color and paintings on the hull to lure in the tourist trade, but she is essentially the same vehicle that first stormed beaches in 1943.” Apparently, he had given this speech before, thought Michael.
“Gentlemen, respect this vehicle, as without it things would have turned out a lot worse for us at places like Normandy, Sicily and Inchon.”
They all nodded, and thought the same thing; this guy was suddenly someone they had to respect—to Char, he was a fellow wounded combat veteran and to Michael and Triple G he was also a fellow Marine. They took turns to explain their similar histories and felt a sudden strange camaraderie with this grizzled old man—quite suddenly, he was a “brother in arms.” It made what they had to do all the harder.
When started, the Duck had the low pitched whine of a vehicle geared with high torque in mind. Mitch pulled the Duck out of the lot and headed north on Gulf Boulevard towards The Friendly Tavern; the place Michael got jumped when he first came to town. Char invited Mitch in for a beer, but he protested saying but he had to guard the Duck and their coolers.
“I’ll stay with the Duck; I do my best drinking after the sun goes down,” volunteered Triple G.
“Okay then,” said Mitch. “Just don’t let anyone else on board.”
The four went inside, took a table in the back and ordered a round of Budweiser. Char was curious about how Mitch had come to own and restore the amphibious vehicle.
“Found it in a scrap yard near Baton Rouge, Mississippi, he told them. I was going through a tough period in my life and restoring it helped center me again.”
Boy, thought Char, hold on Old Son, as things are about to get a bit off-kilter. Mitch seemed happy to continue talking, it did more than center him, and it made him happy. Char could tell that the Duck was more than just a work tool that Mitch had a serious emotional attachment to it and it sucked that they would have to fuck with that.
He waited for Mitch to finish his beer, figuring that perhaps it would soften the blow.
“Look here, Mitch, we need to borrow the Duck from you. We have something we have to do.”
Mitch looked shocked. He began to make a move to physically resist, but Char briefly brought the Sig Sauer 9 millimeter pistol above the table and pointed the business end at him.
“Nothing you can do. You come with us for a ride. When we are done, you drive away; no harm, no foul. ” The man thought for a minute and then spoke quickly, but with passion.
“Listen, I don’t know what you guys are up to, but I am betting it’s not sightseeing. One thing I didn’t mention was I had a hard time adjusting back to civilian life after Korea. I robbed a string of pharmacies in the Pan Handle after my discharge and ended in Apalachee Prison in Chattahoochee.”
Jimmy smiled, “just what we need—another convict!”
Mitch continued. “The duck is all I have—you fuck it up, I might as well go back to robbing drugstores.”
Char seemed unmoved, “sorry, Mitch, but this is going to happen whether you like it or not.”
“It’s difficult to handle in the water, which is what I assume you want it for?”
“Smart man,” replied Char.
“You need me driving it, especially with the surge from the incoming storm. You fuck up and turn too sharp, the craft will swamp and you and your plan sink with it!” Mitch locked eyes with each one of them in turn; Char, Michael and Jimmy, to make sure they understood the implications of what he was saying.
“One final thought— you take my vehicle, you will need to tie me up and that’s kidnapping, but I have a deal for you. I will take you where you want to go and not say a word to the cops, agreed?”
Char looked at Jimmy, who nodded his head affirmatively and then to Michael who shrugged.
“Okay, maybe we can make it a win-win scenario,” said Char as he signaled the waitress for the check.
As twilight gave way to full dark, Char directed them south down Gulf Boulevard towards Gulf Way, passing condominium complexes, high end beach houses, restaurants and bars. At the end of Gulf Way, a left turn would loop them back to Gulf Boulevard, instead the Duck turned left down a sand access road that led out to a low concrete fishing pier. They were all keyed up; after all this time, it was finally happening. The duck took a right at the fork and pulled out onto the beach and into the heavy surf; the sea was beginning to churn with the incoming storm.
The Duck glided into the heavy surf, Mitch engaged the single propeller and they began maneuvering southwest to skirt the various islands that made up Shell Key Preserve. While in water, the Duck’s exhaust was automatically rerouted to the front of the vehicle, where it escaped from a vent in the hood.
Fifteen minutes later, Mitch steered due south towards Mullet Key. The island was shaped like an arm, with the upper portion running north to south to the elbow and then northeast toward the Skyway Bridge and Tampa Bay. Mitch steered the Duck towards their target—the old sand covered bunkers that once contained ammunition for the mortars and direct fire cannons, which sat roughly at the point of the elbow.
The key sat in near complete darkness and Mitch was having difficulty seeing the shoreline.
“Use these,” said Michael, handing the man a pair of night vision goggles he had found on the battlefield and neglected to turn in during redeployment from Iraq.
Mitch was amazed with his suddenly enhanced vision, “wish I had these in Seoul, I probably could have avoided being shot,” he said to no one in particular. The goggles were effective, but you lost depth perception and bright lights would cause temporary vision loss, but they were a definite improvement over night blindness.
***
Marilyn pulled her Nissan Pathfinder off the Pinellas Byway south of Tierra Shores at Saint Barbe Key, just short of the bascule bridge that crossed onto Mullet Key.
State officials always raised the bridge during a storm closure, but that didn’t matter as she would just paddle across the bayou and land on the east side of Mullet Key. She pulled a yellow waterproof bag and secured it under the shock cord in front of the cockpit, slid the kayak into the water, stepped in and sat down in one coordinated move. Marilyn pushed off with her paddle and was soon gliding across the unusually choppy waters of Mullet Bayou— dead reckoning as there were no lights to aim for as the park was closed and the sky was overcast with ominous looking clouds.
As if on cue, the sky opened up with a deluge of wind driven rain—she was glad she had taken the time to slip on a wetsuit and Sheriff’s Department ball cap.
“The sea was angry that day, my friends; like an old man trying to send back soup in a deli,” she said aloud, repeating a line she remembered George Costanza saying in an episode of Seinfeld. She smiled, despite the weather and continued paddling.
After fifteen minutes of determined effort, she could just barely make out the shoreline of Mullet Key a short distance ahead. Ten minutes later, she heard the kayak scrap along the sandy bottom of the bayou and felt relieved. She dismounted the kayak, carried it ashore and pulled the waterproof bag from the bungie cords that were securing it.
The bag contained everything she felt she might need in a confrontation—a flashlight, Sig-Saur 9 millimeter pistol, two extra fifteen round magazines, her official Smartphone, and Sheriff’s Department credentials—little did she know she was vastly outgunned.
Marilyn had
landed near one of the numerous sand roads that crisscross the island connecting pavement to boat launching sites and estimated that she had a half mile to cover on foot before reaching the fort. Marilyn took off at a jog toward the bunkers.
***
The Duck was made to operate in surf of up to ten feet in height so the early storm surge barely challenged the vehicle’s capabilities. As they approached the coastline of Mullet Key, Char directed Mitch to exit north of the area where the remnants of the gun battery were located and main north south thoroughfare to approach the bunkers from the back.
As the Duck approached the shoreline, Mitch disengaged the propeller and shifted power back to the drivetrain for the three axles powering the vehicle up and over the beach in a roar of torque and diesel exhaust.
“Dry land,” said Jimmy with relief.
***
Eddie arrived at the draw bridge and cursed as he had forgotten that it would be up because of the pending storm. He cursed again and pulled out his Blackberry when he recognized Marilyn’s vehicle parked by the boat launching ramp.
“What do you think you’re doing, officer?” he asked in an exasperated tone.
“Investigating,” replied Marilyn into her cellphone. He knew arguing was futile, so Eddie pleaded with her to just observe and leave the arrest and whatever else to SWAT.
Eddie next called the SWAT C.O., Lieutenant John Trevino, and a former tight end from Florida State who gave up a chance to try out for the Pros to instead join the Army Rangers. He had served with distinction in Panama, and returned to active service after 9/11, serving one tour in Afghanistan until a close call with a rifle propelled grenade left miraculously unscathed, but shaken and convinced him to seek a relatively safer line of work. It was hard to argue that being the commander of a Special Weapons Unit was any safer these days, but normally his enemy was not armed with RPGs and the hours were certainly an improvement. Better still, he got to call the shots— not some pinheaded general officer working on a new bullet point for his Officer Efficiency Report.