“Dammit, James,” she cursed as she pulled the boat out to deeper water, “just once, fill up the boat after you take it on a joyride!”
She brought the boat up to cruising speed and flipped on her laptop. Good thing these babies are waterproof, she thought while wiping the hot stinging spray from her face. She tapped the coordinates she’d narrowed her search down to into her onboard G.P.S., and estimated it shouldn’t take more than twenty minutes to get there; so, she throttled up to fifty and turned on the radio.
An emergency tone was blaring through the static and the weather center was calling for a total evacuation of the Keys by Thursday. It seemed that Hurricane Daniel was going to take a turn straight at the island chain. She clicked to a new station and the same alert was blaring out there too. She turned it off in disgust.
“Twenty-four hours to get this thing up,” she said, laughing sarcastically. “Not a problem.”
With the wind and engine noise surrounding her, she never even noticed the boat racing up behind.
Not ten miles to the west of Natasha’s boat, Troy cocked his straw cowboy hat back on his head and glanced down at the G.P.S. in the cockpit of the Wyatt Knot, the small tug they had borrowed from the Wyatt 1.
“Almost there,” he said to R.B., who was dozing in the passenger’s seat.
“Hmm, huh, what?” He rustled himself up into a sitting position.
“The shipwreck, we’re about five minutes away.”
“I’ll go tell Megan.” R.B. stood and stretched.
Troy could feel his heartbeat begin to speed up; he had been waiting for this for a long time. In just a few minutes, his whole life was going to change. For once, his fortunes appeared to be looking up.
Megan and R.B. entered the cockpit of the boat as he was slowing. Megan glanced out the misty window as if trying to recognize the spot where she had gone down. But the storm was clouding the water and visibility was reduced to about ten feet.
Troy shut down the engine and turned to face them. “This is it.”
He had a grin that reminded R.B. of a long-forgotten Christmas morning and seeing the pile of packages and gifts for the first time.
“Well, don’t just stand there, let’s get in the water!” Troy jumped up and turned them both toward the cabin door. “R.B. and I will go down and you can operate the crane.”
“I’m not afraid to get in the water,” she retorted and put her hands defiantly on her hips, “and besides, I’m the one who’ll make sure we do this correctly and protect the reef around this thing.” She crossed her arms and tapped a foot impatiently.
“I know, I know, you want to protect the environment and all that jazz, but we need someone smart up here to operate the machinery,” —he winked at her— “and that puts us right out.”
“Hey!” R.B. chimed in.
“Just messin’ with ya, bro.” Troy nearly shoved him out onto the deck. “Now let’s get this party started, because the hard rain will be on us soon.”
He turned to Megan. “I promise we’ll make sure we disturb as little as possible getting’ this thing up.”
She didn’t look like she was going to give in, but finally relented as Troy squeezed into a wetsuit.
“Hold on to my hat, would ya?”
She took the Outback Tea Stained straw cowboy hat from him and slipped it on her head. Troy raised an eyebrow, and she winked.
“You might look better in that than I do,” he said, laughing.
“Okay, you two can work out who gets the hat after we get back,” R.B. said, bringing them out of the moment. “Can we do this now?”
They worked out a rope tug signal for lifting their findings from the bottom as R.B. also squeezed into his wetsuit. Megan took a cursory glance at the crane operation panel. It seemed pretty intuitive; the crane controls were labeled simply; UP, DOWN, and ROTATE. Another lever operated the cabled hook and it also read UP and DOWN.
“I think I can handle this,” she said as they began rigging up a wire mesh box on the end of the hook.
“I knew you could, sweetie.” Troy clapped his hand on her shoulder and winked again.
“Let’s go.” R.B. was tugging at his slightly too small wetsuit. “I feel like a sardine in this thing!”
They shouldered their air tanks and pulled their masks on. Troy took a few breaths from the regulator and gave the thumbs up. R.B. did the same and they both turned to the water.
As they resurfaced Megan slowly lifted the cage from the deck and lowered it in beside them. A few seconds later they were down too far to see beneath the choppy surface, so Megan relaxed and waited.
The wind began to gust harshly at times and the rain became steadier and soaking, so she ran into the cabin to grab a poncho, and by the time she was back they were already tugging the rope.
Natasha Wainwright had immediately stopped when she saw the other boat on the horizon. She grabbed her binoculars and peered into the distance.
The back end of the boat said Wyatt Knott.
“What the hell is George doing out here?”
A figure emerged from the cabin of the boat, but whoever it might be was wrapped and concealed in a bright orange poncho. The figure moved toward the large crane on the boat and began pushing buttons and levers on the control panel. Natasha decided to wait and see what they brought up. She caught herself holding her breath. She wiped the rain away from the binoculars and looked again.
A basket of some sort rose out of the water and two divers surfaced shortly behind it. The person operating the crane quickly unhooked the raised bounty and strapped it to a buoy on deck. Given the choppy water, the cargo could easily slide overboard. She strained through the steady mist to see them begin emptying the basket. It appeared that what they had found, mostly dark, randomly shaped objects, was probably pieces of her downed drone. She pushed her throttle up to just above idle and moved slowly toward the Wy Knott. The boat a hundred yards behind her did the same.
19
Buried Deep
Joe Bond’s desk phone chirped and the station receptionist’s harsh voice blared through the speaker.
“I have Ms. Ashleigh Hamilton on line one for you, Joe.”
“Thanks, Betty, put her through.”
Joe leaned back in his chair and switched the phone from his left ear to his right. He grabbed a yellow pad and pencil and flipped over the top pages until he found his notes regarding the Skipper Johnson case. A soft beep in his ear told him he’d been connected.
“Ashleigh, how are you doing?”
A deceptively mousy voice laughed on the other end of the line. “Just fine, Joe, just fine. And you?”
“Ah well, it’s eighty-nine and cloudy, gettin’ ready to rain.”
“Hurricane season, eh?”
“Yeah, yeah. “He really wanted to dispense with the talk about the weather but it had been years since he had spoken to Ashleigh. “So how’s the C.I.A. treatin’ ya?”
“Ah well, you know, it’s mostly dull paperwork on cold cases… pretty boring really.”
He knew this wasn’t likely to be true; it sounded like a stock answer. Ashleigh had finished at the top of her class at American University Washington College of Law. The ink was barely dry on her diploma when she’d been recruited by the C.I.A. Joe had met her in New York just after 9/11, before his own accident and subsequent transfer. He’d lost a lot of friends, and worked very hard with the C.I.A. shortly after the attacks to track down suspects living in the city. Ashleigh had appreciated his hours of tough street work and promised him a favor. Now he had a reason to collect.
“Ash, I’m workin’ on something down here in Key West.”
“Okay.” He could hear her tap something out on a computer.
“It’s a double homicide from last year and I finally have a lead on a partial print from some pretty cold evidence.”
“Okay.” More clicking keys.
“My print doesn’t show up on the local database, but it does show up nationally.”
“Well, that’s good.” She didn’t click this time. “Who did you come up with?”
“That’s just it,” —he tried to feel out the best way to come out with it and went for the straightforward approach— “my guy is classified by the C.I.A.”
Much more clicking. “Hmmm, do you have the print on file?” she asked.
“Yup, got him right here.”
“Send it over, and I’ll run it and see what I come up with, but Joe…” she paused.
Suddenly, a prickly sensation twitched the back of his neck. He wondered if he’d stepped over some invisible intelligence line. He clicked the send button and the e-mail was gone.
“I can’t promise anything.” She sounded monotone and unyielding.
He heard the alert beep over the phone, meaning she’d gotten the file. Her quick change to the straight and narrow tone left him convinced she was going to stonewall him. He pictured Ashleigh sitting at her desk looking at his mystery man’s profile on her computer. He knew she couldn’t give up anything too sensitive. Another dead end. He heard a click and a sharp sudden hiss of static.
“Give me your cell number,” she said. “I’ll call you later.”
He told her his number and they said their goodbyes.
“That was weird,” he muttered as he hung up the receiver.
A quick rap on his opaque glass door barely preceded Steve Haney rushing into his office.
“Hey, Steve,” he said sarcastically, “open the door, c’mon in.”
The big man blinked once, didn’t say anything, and turned around and walked back out. He closed the door behind him, knocked on the glass and waited. Joe laughed.
“I was just kidding, Steve, get in here.”
“Now that we’ve dispensed with the pleasantries, take a look at this.”
Steve unfolded a map of the Florida Keys and surrounding waterways. To the west of the islands there were ten small red dots in various locations. They were fairly spread out with no semblance of any pattern.
“Lisa made us a map of the coordinates she found stored in the G.P.S. unit,” Steve explained, “so I got us a boat ready if ya wanna take a trip.”
“In this weather?” Joe stood up and put his hands on his hips. “You sure that’s a good idea?”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Steve said, “but if we wanna find anything out there, we gotta do it before the storm.”
Two minutes down the road, they were soon inside the marina bait and tackle shop watching boats being lifted out of the water.
“Sorry, fellas,” said a grungy kid with dreadlocks behind the counter while shaking his head, “just got the orders from the feds, no more boats in the water.”
“But this is a homicide investigation!” Steve was yelling over the counter.
“Dude, I’m really sorry, wish I could help,” —the kid was holding his hands in the air— “but if I let anyone go out there, I could get locked up. It’s a felony, ya know.”
Steve reached into his back pocket and whipped open his badge. He nearly shoved it into the poor kid’s face.
“Do you see this?” he asked. “We are the police, and we’re the ones who decide who gets arrested and who doesn’t.”
Joe pushed his arm in front of Steve and dragged him back a step.
“Easy, Steve,” he said calmly, “it’s not his fault. It’s no big deal; we’ll just have to wait until the storm passes.”
“But it’s gonna be swept away by then,” he pleaded, with beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead, “we have to get out there today.”
“Hey, we’ve been working on this for a year;” Joe said quietly, “so another week and a storm isn’t going to bury it any more than it is already.”
Steve’s shoulders slumped and he sighed heavily. “You’re right, you’re right.” He slipped his wallet back into his pocket.
He turned to the kid who still had his hands in the air.
“I’m really sorry,” —Steve held out his hand— “I’m just a little tense these days.”
The kid reached out and shook his hand quickly.
“No problem, bro.” He put his other hand down. “I just got a job to do and all, ya know?”
“Yeah.” Steve turned to walk out of the marina shop. “Hopefully in a week I’ll be able to do mine.”
They both quickly jumped into the cruiser to avoid being soaked by the rain. Joe didn’t start the car immediately. Instead he just looked at Steve. “What the heck was all that in there?” he asked.
Steve clicked his seatbelt on and shook his head. “I dunno,” he said with a pained frown on his face, “I just thought we were so close. I mean, breaking a case like this can do a lot for a guy’s career.”
“Hey, take it easy, big guy.” Joe clapped his hand on Steve’s shoulder. “I see Lieutenant Detective in your future, but it takes more than one break to prove yourself.”
“I know that,” —the window next to Steve was beginning to fog up from the heat he was generating— “I just got a little worked up with that punk in there.”
“No worries, my friend.” Joe booted up the hybrid cruiser. “He probably had it coming anyway.”
He was about to pull out when his cellphone vibrated. He opened it to see a voicemail from an anonymous number. He dialed in and waited for the message.
“Hey, Joe, it’s me, Ashleigh,” she said in a hushed tone. “We’ve got to talk. Please call me later.” She repeated her number twice and then paused. “I’m not sure what’s going on here, but your man here is buried deep. Something really big is going on around him.”
20
Cut The Rope
Troy Clint Bodean couldn’t keep himself from grinning like a Cheshire cat, even through his goggles and regulator mouthpiece. As Megan began to pull pieces out of the basket, the importance of the find hit him.
After just seconds of sifting through the sand on the gulf’s floor, they had found hundreds of obvious shipwrecked objects: pottery shards, intricately carved pieces of eating vessels and gourds, carpentry tools, copper bindings and stray pieces of timber that the ship’s partial burial had protected. There were several bowling ball sized objects that were unrecognizable under a sheath of coral; Troy had hefted two of them into the basket with considerable effort.
“I think I even saw a piece of a gun!” Troy exclaimed, pulling his goggles up onto his forehead, “and that big dark shape is definitely a cannon. We gotta get that thing up!”
Megan was dumbfounded at their findings. The pottery alone could help them determine if this was their ship or not, but the number of plates and drinking cups they had pilfered into the basket surprised her.
“This is kinda odd,” she said, turning one heavily corroded cup over into her hands.
“What’s that?” Troy asked.
“Well, the Muerta is basically a casket ship.”
“And?”
“What did they need with all this?” she said, holding up a plain drinking cup.
“Well, the crew’s gotta eat and drink, right?
“Yeah, but…”
She was interrupted by the sound of another boat motoring into view. Troy immediately recognized the government vessel.
“Dangit, it’s the feds,” he muttered, and quickly began placing items back into the basket. “How in the hell’d they find us?”
He stood up and faced the approaching boat, but motioned R.B. to step closer to him. It was moving slowly toward them and Troy felt it best that they keep this find to themselves as long as possible.
“As quickly and nonchalantly as you can, strap a buoy to this thing and get it back into the water on the other side of the boat,” Troy spoke quietly.
“Got it, bro.”
R.B. was just shoving the basket overboard when the boat pulled alongside. Through the sheeting rain, Troy finally recognized their guest.
“Natasha,” he said as she handed him a rope and climbed aboard the Wy Knott, “what brings you out on such a rough night?”
>
“I might ask you the same.” She adjusted her own poncho and threw her hands up to her hips. “What in God’s name are you doing out here in this weather, and on George Wyatt’s boat?”
How does she know George? Troy wondered to himself? A question best saved for later. He paused for a second and she didn’t seem inclined to fill the silence.
“Let’s go inside,” he said, and motioned toward the ship’s cockpit. “I can explain everything.”
Before they heard the report from the rifle, Troy heard a whiz just over their heads and saw the boards splinter near the roofline of the cabin.
“Down!” was all he had time to yell as he grabbed Megan by her neck and shoved her toward the cockpit floor.
Natasha was already diving for cover.
“Get your ass in here!” Troy yelled to R.B.
He crouched and ran for cover as fast as he could, expecting the next shot to explode somewhere into his body. But it never came. R.B. rushed in and slammed the door behind them. Troy killed all the lights and crawled over to the ship’s throttle. Natasha peered through the glass toward the black water where the shot had come from, but saw nothing.
“Everybody, hang tight,” —Troy reached up to the control panel— “I’m gonna get us out of here.”
“Wait,” Natasha yelled, “my boat is still tied on.”
“We have to cut it loose.”
“It’s a government boat,” she protested, “I can’t just leave it out here.”
“Look, darlin’, it’s you or the boat.” Troy had his hand on the throttle.
Natasha stared hard at him but remained quiet.
“I’ll cut the rope,” R.B. said, pulling out a knife strapped to his thigh.
Troy nodded. “Careful.”
“Always.”
R.B. opened the door and army-crawled his way back out onto the boat’s rear deck. Rain pelted his cheeks and forehead and he could feel his heart pounding under the tight wetsuit. As he reached out to cut the mooring rope, another shot whizzed above his head. It pinged off something metallic and he jerked his head around to see what had been hit. A shower of sparks flew off a red, rusted fifty-gallon drum. Under the coating of corrosion, he could just make out the universal triangle symbol for highly flammable contents.
The Complete Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Collection Page 38