by Landon Beach
✽✽✽
Conrad had seen nothing but had heard it all. He was breathing heavily now and could no longer stop his legs from shaking. How much longer could he hold out? Not much. Stansie moaned again from above.
Hang in there, baby. We can make it.
✽✽✽
The floatplane banked hard to the right as seventy-three-year-old Captain Scooty Daugherty struggled to maintain control. Special Agents Patrick Bruno and Maggie Schiff held on from their seats on the back bench. In the co-pilot seat was Scooty’s St. Bernard, Sofia, slobbering over the instrument panel and barking.
“Sofia, you old bitch, shut up!” Scooty yelled. Reaching between the seats, he grabbed a handful of dog food and fed the beast. Sofia devoured the brown pellets and then licked his fingers.
“That’s my sweetheart,” he said, rubbing behind her ears. The dog settled back down, panting and looking out the windows.
The sky was pitch black, and the relentless rain needled the exterior of the plane. The wind had turned the sea below into a churning mess. A lightning bolt shot through the sky, and for a brief second, Patrick could see the island out of his left-side window. “There’s South Bass,” he said. We made it, he thought.
Scooty nosed the plane down. After a few seconds, he said, “I can make out three boats. A big yacht, a peach of a sailboat, and a small cabin cruiser that’s gettin’ tossed like a tin can down there.”
“We’re joining up with the tin can at the rendezvous,” Patrick said.
“Sucks to be you,” Scooty said. After no reply, he said, “Roger that. I’ll get you as close as I can. This is going to be a nightmare to land in. You both got your life jackets on?”
They replied yes.
“After I drop you off, I’m buggin’ out. Gonna land in Put-in-Bay harbor, tie up to a mooring buoy, and ride this witch out with Sofia and a bottle of Cutty Sark. Look me up tomorrow if you still need a lift back.”
Patrick shook Scooty’s hand and felt some of Sofia’s slobber and fur transfer over.
This is why I have a cat.
Scooty flipped a few switches, petted Sofia again, said “Hang on,” and immediately took the plane down toward a stretch of water that would be hidden from the yacht, sailboat, and house. Patrick’s stomach felt sucked up into his mouth. His eyes darted to Maggie. Her face was emotionless—and white as snow.
✽✽✽
“Divers,” Brad said from behind his binoculars. He was looking at the giant yacht that had been anchored when they first arrived to scope things out forty-five minutes ago. It had now moved further out to a position approximately one thousand yards offshore and re-anchored five minutes ago.
“How many?” Allison said.
“Two.”
Allison had been watching the house but now swiveled her binoculars toward the yacht. They were both wearing wetsuits. Brad was seated behind the helm, and Allison was seated on the port bench. Two more divers appeared at the yacht’s rail and then rolled into the water. “That makes four,” she said. They held their gaze on the yacht, but no more divers entered the water, and no one else appeared topside.
“I can’t see the name of the yacht. Can you?”
“No.”
“Wonder what they’re up to?”
“Whatever it is, they don’t seem too concerned with us. If they were, they would have already sent someone over to check us out.” Allison’s binoculars were focused back on the house.
“Why in the hell are they diving in this kind of weather anyways?”
“Your brother said to bring a boat. Think he was any of those divers we just saw?”
“I don’t think so,” Brad said. “His voicemail sounded like he was about to be abducted. None of those divers looked like they were being forced to go overboard. They looked in sync—like a team.”
There was another bolt of lightning, followed by a BOOM of thunder. “That was close,” Brad said.
“You okay?” Allison asked, not breaking her focus from the house at all.
The steady rain wasn’t a problem, but he was no fan of being on the water when there was lightning. “I’m fine,” he fibbed.
The sound of a propeller buzzing through the storm above caught his attention. He swung his binoculars up. “That’s them,” Brad said from behind the Stingray’s helm. “They’re heading for the rendezvous.”
Allison still had her binoculars trained on Nico Colombo’s house. The waves took the boat up and down with a violent motion, and she had to anticipate the rolls and adjust her body to keep the binoculars level. It looked like her legs were doing a dance with each wave that slammed into the boat. “I still can’t see inside the main house,” she said. Then, motion from the sunroom caught her eye. “Hey, three guys just entered the sunroom from the house.”
The sunroom was one of the first things they had noticed when they had rounded the triangle of land that jutted far out into the water, giving them cover earlier. The furthest point out was directly west of the inland start of the Jane Coates Wildflower Trail. As they had motored by the house, they had seen Apollonia’s Ashes tied up to a mooring ball fifty yards out to sea from a gigantic deck that extended out over the water. The top of the deck was covered with a bulb of glass, making a huge sunroom. There were massive pilings that extended down into the water to support the deck, and the sides were one giant square of seawall so you couldn’t see underneath the deck.
“I’m heading for the rendezvous,” Brad said. “Get ready with a line.”
“Wait!” Allison shouted. “One of the men just disappeared.”
“What do you mean, disappeared?”
“Well, I mean, it looked like he just dropped straight down out of sight.”
“That would put him under the deck though, wouldn’t it? Doesn’t sound possible.”
“Well, we’ll have to see after we pick up those two Feds.”
Brad throttled up, and the Stingray raced back toward the section of coast that had given them cover before.
✽✽✽
The captain of Empire State of Mind had watched as the floatplane had disappeared and now watched as the small Stingray motored away from the area. “What a pair of dumbasses. Plane better land soon, and that small craft has no business being out here in this weather.”
He pushed the button on his radio handset and attempted to give Don Fabian and GiGi an update about the plane and boat, but after three attempts, he put the receiver down and shrugged. He now doubted if anyone had heard his last report. Oh well, he could always blame it on the weather if they called him out on it later. He looked at the chronometer on the bulkhead. It would still be a while before his divers started hauling the cash up from the bottom—getting the dry boxes out of the cave had to be a pain in the ass down there. He was glad to be in the posh air-conditioned and dry flybridge. After pouring himself a fresh cup of coffee, he sat back in his chair and calmly sipped while watching the storm over the lake.
✽✽✽
The final few sensory inputs of Nico “River Nicky” Colombo’s life were as follows: First: the foul stench as the sliding glass door was opened and he was pushed into the sunroom—Don Fabian and GiGi gagging at the smell as they shut the door quickly behind them. Second: after seeing Apollonia’s Ashes tossed by the increasing seas, the sound of his own voice, “Let me swim out and check on her. That mooring ball isn’t going to hold.” This followed by the laughter of Don Fabian and GiGi at the ridiculousness of his request. Third: the chafing of the handcuffs against his wrists as he tried to free his hands, then the burn of the heavy rope—rope that he had used many times in the past, taken from his own special deck box—being tightened around both of his legs and finally around his neck before being run through a loop attached to a webbed basket that held an enormous stone weighing around one hundred pounds—his drowning would look like suicide. Fourth: the pain of GiGi Rizzo’s strong hands squeezing his arms, positioning of him over the secret trap door. Fifth: the “click” sound of
GiGi Rizzo pushing the button, which was on the bottom of Nico’s favorite sunchair. Sixth: the brief overwhelming foul odor that escaped the under-deck compartment when the trapdoor opened. Seventh: the cold water engulfing his body. Eighth: the immediate cartwheeling of his body underwater as the stone plummeted to the bottom; it settled at twenty-five feet, kicking up a cloud of silt, with Nico’s head a few feet above the stone—his body upended as if he was doing an underwater headstand. Ninth: the sound of the trap door closing with a loud THUNK. Tenth: the feeling of the cocaine coursing through his body and, for a moment, him thinking that he possessed the superpower to break free of his handcuffs, chop the stone in half like his mafioso idol Johnny Judo from Las Vegas—who blinked twice before every kill—and then ascend to the trap door and get the hell out of there. But the idea lost its appeal after he blinked twice and failed to break free of his handcuffs. His lungs began to burn.
Then, his thoughts overcame his senses. Usually, one would feel alone, ready to die a suffocating death in solitude. However, this was not the case. He knew there were others down here with him. How did he know this? Because he had put them there. For years, he had disposed of the bodies one by one, but because the product had such a hold on him—why not admit it now—he had become inefficient. How many were down here now? The smell in the sunroom told him many, which was why he had stopped going out there—and had not let Stansie or Conrad enter when they had stayed with him. Of course, he had planned to take care of all of the bodies at some point. The entire deck, drowning pool, and sunroom structure was an engineering marvel that his salary from The Association had paid handsomely for. There was an airlock on the far side of the pool where he would, wearing scuba gear, enter from the pool with a body, seal off the pool by securing the inner hatch, and then open the outer hatch to enter Lake Erie and swim with the body to his beloved sailboat. Then, he would load the body, sail away, and then deep-six the unfortunate soul far off shore. If he could only make it to the airlock now… No, that was not going to happen. Had Don Fabian and GiGi made him wear a mask, it would have been too horrific—seeing what was left of those whom he had disposed of. A lover who backtalked, a condescending summer vacationer who thought he owned South Fucking Bass Island, a dealer on the island who started skimming from him, and others. He looked around. Shapes, like huge billowing weeds, hung around him at different intervals. He had mistakenly told Don Fabian about the chamber under the deck and his rope and stone-in-the-basket method as a way to dispose of Conrad and Stansie—even bragged about his secret button on the bottom of his chair. He thought he was helping. Instead, the procedure had become the instrument of his death and the compartment: his grave.
His thoughts subsided, and his senses returned as something cold and clammy touched his shoulder. He started to squirm. The end was near. The cold water felt good up his nose. He opened his mouth and let death in.
29
Brad grabbed Patrick’s wet hand and pulled him aboard the Stingray, and the men now stood in the stern with Maggie and Allison. Maggie took Patrick’s gear bag and brought it below with her own. A line made to a cleat on the Stingray and a cleat on one of the float plane’s pontoons kept the boat and plane within twenty yards of each other.
“Is that everyone and everything?” Brad asked.
Maggie had swum over first, carrying a gear bag above her head, and then Patrick had done the same thing.
“We’re all set,” said a soaked Patrick.
Brad gave Scooty a thumbs up, and the old pilot bent down and uncleated the line from the pontoon and threw it over.
Lightning lit up the sky behind the plane and was followed by thunder so loud that Brad heard ringing in his ears.
“Gettin’ outta Dodge!” Scooty yelled.
“Thanks for the lift!” Patrick shouted back.
Scooty gave a salute and then opened the side hatch to enter the plane. Sofia’s constant barking could now be heard as Scooty squeezed in and then shut the door. A minute later, the propeller started, and the plane taxied out to sea until it finally lifted into the sky—a small white angular bird against the black backdrop.
“He’s heading to Put-in-Bay to ride this thing out,” Patrick said.
“Should be fine there—if he makes it,” Brad said, watching the small plane dip, then regain altitude, then dip again.
For a moment, they all watched the plane fight the weather until it banked right and headed northeast.
“Okay, situation?” Patrick said.
As Brad pushed the throttle down and started driving the boat back toward their previous surveillance position, Allison debriefed them about the yacht and divers and then the house where they were sure that three people were there, but that one had just disappeared out of view in the sunroom.
“And we’re sure that no one who we’ve seen is Conrad or the woman?” Maggie asked.
“We’re sure,” said Allison.
“Okay, that yacht is owned by one of the top members in the Detroit Mafia,” said Patrick. “We’re dealing with serious people here. And that house is owned or at least used by one of their top drug runners. We want to get your brother and the woman out of that house safely if they’re still alive. You got the phone call yesterday afternoon, right?”
Brad nodded. They had rounded the bend a few minutes ago, giving them a view of the house, yacht, and sailboat again. Now, Brad slowed the boat as they approached their desired position. He squeezed the helm’s wheel, his forearms flexing as adrenaline sped through his frame.
This is real.
“Okay, well, we just have to hope that they have done something since arriving here to buy themselves some time,” Patrick said.
Maggie had been watching the yacht through her own binoculars. She lowered them and spoke. “There doesn’t seem to be anyone paying attention to us right now. Her stern is pointed directly at us, so if anyone is on the flybridge, he or she either can’t see us or hasn’t seen us. My guess is that all of their men are diving—there might be a crew member or two on the yacht’s interior. If someone would have been paying attention to us, then there would be movement.”
Allison broke in. “The two remaining guys in the sunroom could have noticed the plane. They’re now back inside the main house.”
“Then we’ve got to move now,” said Patrick. “They came via the yacht, so as long as we don’t let them get to it, we’ve got time.”
“I can bring us right in near shore,” said Brad.
Patrick shook his head. “You two have done a helluva job, but we’ve got to take it from here. I’m not getting either of you hurt. Agent Schiff and I are trained for this.”
“No time for that,” Brad said. He couldn’t believe his assertiveness. He’d never had it his entire life, but maybe it had always been there. “We’re not just going to sit here and do nothing. Ms. Shannon is ex-military, and we’re on board for everything. My brother and his girlfriend are on borrowed time, and we’re going to help them.” His voice was gruff, and he felt like there was an animal inside of him, ready to burst out. Every muscle now felt tight and alert.
Whether Patrick Bruno sensed this or knew that it would just be a waste of time to talk anymore, he said, “Okay. Then that’s the way it is. We’ll go for it. I’ll gear up, and you drop me off. You three—”
“I’m going with you,” Brad said. “I don’t care who’s in that house. He’s my brother.”
Patrick eyed Maggie, then said, “Okay. It should be Agent Schiff and I working as a team to clear the house, but we’re short on numbers. I need her and you,” he said, pointing at Allison, “to suit up, dive, and see what those other divers from the yacht are up to.”
“On it,” Allison said, but Brad could see her legs shaking. Whatever had her spooked about diving, she would have to overcome it right now. There was no time to talk about it.
Maggie and Allison headed below, and in minutes they were back in the stern with their gear on, crouched low. Both had dive knives strapped to
their calves, and both had loaded spear guns in their hands. Maggie had a large dive light that looked like a radar gun, while Allison had a smaller light that had a drawstring around her wrist.
Brad had pointed the bow of Reminiscing at the large yacht, hoping that Allison and Maggie could slip into the water unnoticed.
“We’ll clear the house and then come out and join you,” Patrick said.
“I’ve got your dive gear out on the bench below,” Maggie replied.
“And yours is too, along with my Glock and extra cartridges,” Allison added, looking at Brad. “Good luck.”
Then, Maggie said to Brad, “I put my bulletproof vest by the Glock. Might be a little snug, but you’ve got an ordinary build.”
Just like everything about me. “Thanks,” he said.
Allison and Maggie crept down onto the swim step, put on their masks, and slid into the churning water.
Brad watched them disappear beneath the surface and then followed the trail of bubbles heading away from the boat. “They’re clear,” he said to Patrick.
“Let’s gear up,” Patrick said.
They headed below, and Brad put the bulletproof vest on. It fit fine. He grabbed the Glock and extra cartridges while Patrick pulled his own vest over his head and strapped it tight. Then, he holstered his Glock and slung a strap with a Heckler and Koch MP5 submachine gun on the end over his shoulder. “Let’s go,” Patrick said.
They emerged topside, and Brad nudged the throttle forward while performing a turn to port. The moment they were aimed at the desired point of land, he steadied up on that course and pushed the throttle down. The Stingray sped toward the beach.
✽✽✽
“Who in the hell are they?” Nolan said, now standing next to GiGi Rizzo and Fabian De Luca in the dining room. “You said no one knew about this place.” His tone was firm with the slightest hedge toward annoyance.
Both Fabian and GiGi picked up their radios and tried to contact Empire State of Mind’s Captain. They heard nothing in return.