“Nice,” he said, sitting down heavily in the recliner, “that would be excellent.”
“Joe,” she said quietly.
“Yes?”
“You know that none of this information I’ve given you can ever be linked to me.”
“Trust me, I won’t get you fired,” he said.
“I’m not worried about getting fired.”
Joe’s mouth opened but nothing came out.
“It’s okay,” Ashleigh reassured him, “just keep this between you and me.”
“Of course.”
“Goodbye, Joe.”
“Bye.”
He clicked the phone shut. Two minutes later his phone beeped, it was the download from Ashleigh. He installed the program and within a half hour had located Hector Martinez.
He dialed his partner. “Steve, gear up,” he said. “We’re going to South Beach.”
“Sweet!” Steve’s voice was lively on the other end.
“On business, Steve.”
“Awwww, damn.”
“Just meet me at the station in twenty minutes.”
“You got it.”
24
A Blaze Of Glory
The figure in the soaked poncho didn’t bother to slow his approach up onto the sandy beach. His boat crunched to a halt and he killed the engine. He shivered as he shouldered a rifle and fought the deafening wind to exit the boat. Dim lights lined a walkway up from the sand through the stinging rain into the arched opening in the high brick walls. He gripped the pathway railing tightly and pulled himself onward. With his head buried in his hood, he never noticed the second boat resting on the far side of the beach.
“Home, sweet home,” the figure said to himself as he nearly dove through the door and out of the weather.
James Howard shook the rain from his shoulders, rumpled the poncho into a heap by the door, and headed down the long hallway toward his quarters. He felt safe from the storm sheltered by Fort Jefferson’s thick stone tunnels. His footsteps echoed as he hurried back to his room.
He finally shuffled through his door and slammed it behind him. He let his back thump against it and closed his eyes. He was glad to have that little piece of business behind him.
The computer on his desk was the only softly glowing light in his room and he could see the screensaver flickering back and forth. He moved to the desk and propped the rifle against the side as he slumped down into his chair. He inhaled a deep breath and wiggled the mouse to bring the computer to life.
While he waited for the screen to pop up, he pulled his cellphone from his pocket. He scrolled up to the number he had listed as Big Brother, his own private jab at his present superior. He composed a carefully coded text message to convey that his latest mission had been carried out successfully. He pushed the send button and was startled when from a dark corner of the room came the familiar chirp of a received message.
“What the—”
He was interrupted by a shrill whoosh of air and a sharp sting in his neck. Fear raced through his veins and he tried to stand up, but the fluid rushing into his jugular vein was icy and had him paralyzed in seconds.
His eyes flicked to the barrel of his rifle leaning against his desk, but his hands were powerless to reach for it. He could hear something move in the darkness beyond his desk. He watched in horror as a figure emerged in the glow of a newly opened cellphone.
James’ vision began to waiver and his fear began edging into terror. His forehead trickled with sweat and his pulse began to race. He couldn’t recognize the face of his intruder in the dim light.
“Who the hell is there?” he demanded with a heavy tongue.
The man tapped a few buttons on his cellphone and clicked it shut to disappear back into the darkness.
“You sure you got ‘em all?” the voice asked.
James’ lips began to feel thick and he slurred slightly.
“Yeshh,” he said, concentrating. “Yess, they were all there.”
“You done good,” the man said.
Suddenly, a small flame flared into view illuminating the man’s face as he lit a cigar.
“You done real good,” Vince Pinzioni said as the embers of his smoke smoldered between his leather-gloved thumb and fingers.
“Why?” James pleaded, sinking down into what seemed like a deep dark staircase. “What have you… done to me?”
Vince stepped over and clicked on a small lamp that rested on the corner of James’ desk. He sat down on one corner of the desk and plucked the dart from the park ranger’s neck.
“My own special concoction,” he said and twisted the long dart in his fingers, “induces complete paralysis, then makes a person’s blood work look as though he’s been on a drinking binge with a healthy dose of PCP.”
James moaned; he knew what was happening. A loose end was being tied up.
“By the time da police get here,” Vince explained matter-of-factly, “it’ll look like you got stoned to da bejesus and shot yourself.”
James’ eyes went wide. His body was now completely heavy and limp. His glance flitted to the rifle again.
“Yeah, ain’t that a bitch.” Vince followed his gaze. “If only, eh? Fughedaboutit.”
James could feel tears trickling down his cheeks. “But, I killed zhaa man who ssshhhot the plane down,” he protested, “And zhen I went to the shhhpot… got all the others on the boat too. I did what you…”
“Now, now, no reason to get all mushy on me,” Vince mocked, wiping the moisture from James’ face. “You done real good, but you know we can’t have any loose ends hangin’ about.”
With a supreme effort, James quickly turned his head and bit down hard on Vince’s fingers. Until his jaw went numb again, he clamped down as tightly as he could. He tasted blood as Vince yelped.
“Sonofa…” the Italian smashed his fist into the side of James’ head again and again and finally the ranger’s jaw went limp.
He pulled his hand from his leather glove and could see the deep punctures in his fingers. Blood trickled down and spattered on the desk.
James smiled weakly. Vince punched him again, but the drugs were now coursing through his veins so thickly that the ranger felt nothing.
Vince pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped up the blood he could see on the desk and computer keyboard. He wrapped the cloth around his bleeding fingers and gingerly pulled his glove back over them.
He shoved James’ chair back from the desk and opened the center drawer. The ranger’s heavily lidded eyes followed the Italian man’s hand. It reached for the Government Issue Glock that James had never fired.
Vince checked to see if it was loaded and slid the clip back into the pistol’s handle. He turned toward the computer and had a moment of inspiration. He opened a word processing program and tapped out what he thought was a brilliant letter of sorrow and loneliness. He wrote a goodbye letter expressing a struggle with isolation and drug use that were sure to fit the scene of this soon to be suicide. He clicked save, but left the note open on the screen.
With that, he wrapped James’ hand around the gun’s grip and fired it once into the big man’s throat. Gore and blood splattered the wall behind.
Vince let the gun fall to the floor near the dead park ranger. He clicked open his cellphone and dialed.
“Yeah, it’s done.”
He laughed and read part of his suicide note to the person on the line. Apparently, the voice on the other end did not think this was funny at all. Vince deleted the note and turned off the computer.
“Yeah, yeah, I deleted it.”
He listened for a minute more and hung up the phone. His hand ached as he walked out of the fort and onto the windswept beach. The wind, now ferociously strong, pushed him down once. He propped himself up on the walkway railing and waited for a lull in the storm. When it finally came, he ran to his own boat and shoved hard until it released into the stormy water. His engine roared to life and he rode as fast as the waves would allow back t
oward Key West.
25
This Too Shall Pass
The wind around the drifting survivors whipped stinging rain into their faces. Surges at least ten feet high lifted and dropped them over and over. R.B. got sick and heaved until his stomach held no more. Troy drifted on the edge of consciousness, aware that passing out meant certain death for him and, more importantly, for Megan. He willed himself to hang on to the floating basket of shipwreck rubble even as the hurricane tried to rip him from it.
Megan’s head lolled from side to side; the bleeding had slowed, but she had not awoken. A cloudy, blotted night sky left them stranded and beaten in total darkness. Troy wondered how long it would be before they just gave up and sank to the bottom, back to his shipwreck yet again. He thought it appropriate that his final resting place would be among the less fortunate travelers aboard the sunken Señora de la Muerta.
R.B. must’ve seen the resignation on his face and called out to him.
“We’re gonna make it,” he yelled over the violent surges. “The storm won’t last for more than a few hours.”
Troy nodded and wondered how long his grip would hold out. He thought idly about trying to swim away from the storm’s heading but then realized he had no way of knowing what direction that was; best just to hold on and hope the storm wasn’t carrying them along with it.
Megan’s head suddenly jerked up and she screamed. She looked around wildly clearly terrified by their deadly surroundings. Troy shook her until she finally came to her senses.
“Where? How?” she finally asked in a painful groan.
“Somewhere above the shipwreck.” Troy nodded to the basket that was keeping them afloat.
She said nothing. A few moments later it dawned on her that they were one short.
“Natasha?”
Troy just shook his head. “I dunno. She hasn’t come up.”
A new round of whipping wind grabbed them and slammed Megan into Troy’s back.
“Sorry,” she moaned.
She stretched her arms out and pulled herself off his back over to the basket. She wrapped her arms into one of the ropes holding them afloat. Troy sighed with relief. Her dead weight had been straining his own arms more than he had realized.
With amazing suddenness, the wind stopped. The surges continued, but not nearly as violent or high.
“Thank God!” R.B. yelled.
“It’s not over yet,” Megan said, and looked around them. “We’re most likely in the eye of the storm.”
Troy laid his head down on the basket between them. “Save your strength,” he mumbled and drifted off to sleep.
Amazingly, he dreamt of gold and treasure, but as bright and shining and close as it seemed, it slowly dimmed and fell away. It looked like it was falling into the deepest, darkest well.
Troy awoke suddenly to a new wave crashing over them and threatening to flip them into the white-capped water. Megan was unconscious again and R.B.’s eyes were opening and closing. His grip was loose and this new wave jerked him away from the basket.
“Dammit!” Troy yelled “R.B., wake up!”
Nothing, no response. He frantically ripped his belt off and began strapping it under Megan’s lifeless arms and through the mesh of the basket. R.B.’s head dipped below the water.
“NO!”
He clasped his belt and dove into the surging water after R.B. In the darkness he could see nothing, and icy terror stung its way into his lungs. He rose and took a deep breath and dove again. He thrashed his arms wildly and kicked his legs hard to dive deeper. He knew he could easily get lost in the rolling water and never find his way back to the basket. Hell, I might not even find the surface again. He strained to see in the dark water, the salt burning his eyes. Nothing.
Then, miraculously, he felt R.B. slide past him. He grabbed his shirt and tugged as hard as he could. They broke the surface only to be met with more pounding waves. Troy looked around. The sun was beginning to shine a gray light through the sheets of rain. He caught a glimpse of the basket and the limp body strapped to it. It looked like it was already miles away and moving further away from them every second.
He rolled R.B. over onto his back and swam as hard as he could. His legs and arms were already burning, and it seemed that every breath he took was half air and half salt water.
What seemed like hours later, Troy latched his numb fingers to the basket. Megan was still strapped safely to the side. He checked R.B. and by yet another miracle he was breathing. Out like a light, but breathing. He didn’t know if the waves had crushed the water out of his lungs or if he’d simply coughed it up on his own, but he was safe for the time being. He ripped his shirt off and wound it under R.B.’s arms and strapped him to the flailing basket as well.
He knew then that their survival depended on him staying awake and afloat. He held on for dear life. For what seemed like days the water stung his eyes and his exposed back. He couldn’t feel his fingers and his arms and shoulders ached and burned; he resigned himself to the fact that his strength would probably give out and he would let go and drift away. At least he had given his friends a chance of surviving.
And that was when it finally stopped.
Troy watched as the waves moved away from them and the darkest skies left them behind. It was still rough at times, but nothing like the past few hours. He checked his friends. Megan was breathing and her cut had stopped bleeding. R.B. was also breathing, though somewhat labored. Troy laid his head down on the basket.
Distractedly, he worried about how he would get them back to shore. But he would think about that later. He had gotten them this far; he’d figure out how to get them the rest of the way home later.
As they drifted, he felt his eyes getting heavier, but he couldn’t sleep. No. No sleep. The storm still thrashed violently and loudly away from them. But in his delirium, between surge splashes and wind whips, he almost thought he could make out the distant buzzing of a motor. He jerked his head up and scanned the churning gulf water. A couple of feet away from their makeshift life raft, he saw an Outback Tea Stained straw cowboy hat bobbing on the surface. He groaned as he realized the peacock feather was gone. Like a scene in a movie, the hat slowly floated back toward him. When it touched his arm, he picked it out of the water and shook it off.
“Welcome back, old friend,” he said as he perched it on top of his head.
Shielding his eyes, he scanned the horizon. Nothing. Just his imagination. Idly, he wondered how long they would last exposed to the harsh elements. He wondered how long it would take before the sharks made their way back into these waters.
26
Can You Hear Me Now?
The flight aboard Gidget, Troy’s small seaplane, was rough, and that was putting it mildly. George Wyatt and Bill Bane were scanning the waves below them for any sign of the oil rig’s tanker, the Wy Knott. So far, they hadn’t seen anything. No boat, no debris, no people. Nothing.
“Boss, we’ve been out here for three hours flying over this spot,” Bill said over the rushing wind. “They ain’t here.”
Wyatt studied the water. “But this is where the beacon stopped sending a signal. They have to be here.”
And then it dawned on him; a boat without power does not sit still in moving water.
“That’s it,” he said and pointed toward the dark violent sky, “the hurricane has dragged them.”
Bill was shaking his head vigorously. “Don’t even think about it. We ain’t goin’ in there.”
“But they’re in there,” he said, already turning the plane toward the storm, “my boat is in there!”
Bill didn’t reply, he just pointed his finger at the fuel gauge. They had enough to keep flying, but not enough to search and then make the flight back.
“Dammit!”
“We have to go back, boss,” Bill said quietly. “We’ll refuel and come back for another round.”
Wyatt knew he was right. He stared into the distance. He knew they were out there. “Damn,”
he said again.
“If they made it through the night,” Bill said, “they’ll still be there when we get back. If they didn’t, we’ll know that too.”
With that, George Wyatt turned the plane back toward the Wyatt 1.
He picked up the CB. “Wyatt ,1 this is the Gidget, you got any word on that storm.”
Gene’s voice cracked over the static. “Yep, it’s headed for land, but not even at level two anymore.”
Wyatt looked at Bill and nodded. Maybe they actually did have a chance of surviving.
“We’re gonna need some more fuel, so can you have it ready when we get there?”
“You got it. Over.”
Gene clicked off his CB radio and headed out to the fuel station aboard the oil rig, Wyatt 1. The rain had finally stopped and the first rays of sunlight were straining through the clouds.
He turned on the fuel pump’s generator and began filling a fifty-gallon drum. He whistled for a minute and pulled out his cellphone. He flipped through the latest messages and clicked to reply to a few random notes from his mother. He closed the cellphone and wiped away a stray drop of rain from the outside cover.
He stared hard at the phone and suddenly had a thought. He squeezed the pump, willing it to go faster. Finally, the pump clicked off and he jammed it back onto the machine. He turned off the generator and ran toward his command room.
He picked up the CB radio and almost yelled. “George, I got it!
For a long second, he heard nothing. Panic crept into his mind. Oh, my God, did something happen to them, did they run out of gas?
“Whaddaya got, Gene?” Wyatt’s voice finally crackled through the speakers.
“Geezus,” Gene said and slumped down in his chair. “What took so long?”
“Well, I am flying a plane out of a hurricane here.”
“Okay, okay, sorry, just a little stressed out here.”
The Complete Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Collection Page 40