The Complete Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Collection

by David F. Berens

“No problemo, Gene, you got my attention. Now what have you got?”

  “Cellphones, was anyone carrying their cellphone?”

  “I can’t imagine they wouldn’t be, why do you ask?”

  “All phones newer than two or three years old have a G.P.S. chip in them. If I can get that signal, we can track to someone’s cellphone.”

  “Sounds good, Gene. The question is, will that work if they’re in the water.”

  Gene had to catch his breath. He hadn’t really considered that possibility.

  “Oh, um…” he shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “Well, get on that. It’s all we have at this point.”

  George turned to Bill. “Well, it isn’t much.”

  “Better than nothin’, boss.”

  A jolt shook them both harshly. The seaplane’s engine popped loudly and sputtered. And then was quiet.

  “Holy Crap!” Wyatt yelled, “what just happened?”

  Bill tapped the gas gauge. Empty.

  Wyatt peered in front of them as the plane glided along no more than a hundred feet above the water.

  “Look!” he said and pointed out the windshield.

  The towering shape of the Wyatt 1 was hazily coming into view.

  “We gonna make it?” Bill asked nervously.

  “It’s a long way.”

  Wind still buffeted the plane and they were quickly losing airspeed. They dropped lower and lower. Wyatt fought the stick to keep them airborne.

  “Come on, baby,” he said as they plunged dangerously close to the water.

  The pontoons skimmed the surface but then a gust of wind miraculously lifted them back to about ten feet above the water. Sweat was beading on Bill’s forehead.

  “It’s okay, Bill,” he reassured the man, “we can take it down and swim if we have to; we’re okay.”

  “You know I can’t swim,” Bill said, his breath shallow, “and how we gonna get the plane back to the rig?”

  Wyatt just shook his head. “We’re not gonna make it.”

  “Damn,” Bill said.

  The plane drifted close to the surface again and Wyatt put it down fairly well for his first ever water landing. They were still about forty yards from the rig—not far at all—but too far to drag the plane by hand.

  Wyatt took off his headphones and handed them to Bill.

  “Wait here. I’ll swim over, get a line and attach it to the winch, and Gene will pull us in.”

  Bill said nothing, and just nodded.

  Half an hour later Wyatt was flat on his back breathing heavily with Gene standing over him.

  “Decided to go for a swim?” Gene asked, grinning.

  “Yeah.” Wyatt looked back toward the plane.

  It looked amazingly far away.

  “I’m gonna need a minute before I head out.”

  “Well, I have great news,” Gene said as he clapped his shoulder. “While you were out joyriding, I got a rep from Troy’s cell company to give me the G.P.S. frequency from his phone.”

  “And?” Wyatt sat up.

  “I got em.”

  Wyatt sighed heavily. They must be alright.

  “They’re about twelve miles north of where we got our last signal before they lost power. C’mon, I’ll show you.”

  Several minutes later Gene was circling a dot on a map. “Right here is the last beacon signal before the lightning or… whatever hit ‘em.” He took his pen and drew a line north. “And this is where Troy is now.”

  “Or at least that’s where his cellphone is,” Wyatt mumbled.

  Gene looked up at him. “They’re okay, George. You know how Troy is, he never gives up.”

  “Anyway, we better get to them before they drift away again.”

  The CB radio crackled. Gene realized he’d been squeezing the trigger leaving the line open.

  “Speakin’ of driftin’,” Bill’s voice came over the speaker, “when they hell y’all gonna come get me?”

  27

  Shot Through The Heart

  Joe Bond and Steve Haney followed Hector Martinez’s trail—thanks to Ashleigh’s help with the implanted tracking device—all the way to South Beach.

  “He’s somewhere in there,” Joe said, looking up from his smart phone and pointing at the beachside hotel.

  “The Clevelander, eh?” Steve said with a shrug. “Ballsy, not exactly an out of the way hidden retreat.”

  “C’mon, let’s go.” Joe opened the cruiser’s door and headed into the hotel.

  At the front desk, they flashed their badges and asked to see a list of guests at the hotel. Out of the fifty-four cable television equipped rooms, there were only twenty guests registered. All of them had checked in more than two days ago and had subsequently been evacuated by the storm. All that is, except for one. A Henry Miller was checked into a room on the third floor.

  “Bingo, that was easy,” Joe said. “Steve, stay here, and find out how he paid for that room. Trace it.”

  “You got it.”

  “I’m just going to scope things out,” he said, pointing to the stairs, “so when you’re through here, come on up.”

  Steve gave him a thumbs up and started clicking into the hotel registration files.

  They were both in plainclothes, but Joe still thought he should take the stairs up, just in case Hector got spooked when he saw a strange man coming down his hallway.

  Joe pulled his gun and slowly opened the door to the third floor. Nothing. No one was in the hallway. He gingerly closed the stairway door and quietly made his way to the room where Henry Miller was staying. He listened at the door. He could hear the television was on, but didn’t hear anyone moving around in the room. Probably lying on the bed watching a movie. Joe pictured the room in his mind; two double beds, table between them, armoire with the television directly in front of the beds, bathroom to the right.

  He figured the best thing here might be to speak to Hector from behind the door. Try to get him to come out on his own. The show on the television blared louder. Gunshots startled Joe for a second but he realized it was only the movie. A second later a chainsaw roared, followed by a lot of yelling and screaming.

  Joe moved away from the door and had to smile at the irony. Hector was watching Scarface. Well, he sure wasn’t going to let this meeting with a drug-runner go down like that one scene in the movie. The elevator down the hall let out an impossibly loud ring and the doors slid open. Steve came strolling out.

  “What the hell?” Joe hissed.

  “What? What?” Steve shrugged.

  Joe gave him a harsh look and put his index finger on his lip to silence his partner. Steve saw that Joe had his gun drawn and pulled out his own from his shoulder holster.

  Suddenly, Hector’s door whooshed open. He poked his head out into the hallway, the sounds of Scarface blaring behind him. His wife-beater tank was yellowed with sweat, his boxers were tattered and dirty, and his feet were bare.

  “Shit!” he yelled and slammed the door shut.

  “Hector wait,’ Joe yelled at the door, “we just want to talk to you.”

  “I knew you would be coming,” he shouted back, “but you will never catch me, cabron.”

  Knew we’d be coming? Steve mouthed the words to Joe.

  Joe just shrugged his shoulders and shook his head.

  “Hector, we just need to ask you some questions about a boating accident that happened just off Key West.” Joe hoped he could trick Hector into thinking he wasn’t a suspect.

  Scarface still sputtered through the door. Joe stood up and walked across the hallway. He nodded to Steve that he was going to kick the door in. He took two steps and kicked hard. Sharp pain shot up from his leg into his back.

  “Agh, sonofa—”

  Steve pushed him out of the way and did the same, and this time the door flew open to reveal an empty room, the window open.

  “Shit!” Steve ran across to the window.

  Joe limped in, agony manifested in beading sweat droplets on his
forehead. Three stories down, sloshing to the edge of the Clevelander’s world-famous pool, was Hector.

  “Dammit!” Joe said. “Go after him, I can’t.”

  Steve ran out of the room and disappeared down the hall.

  When Joe finally caught his breath and the pain in his back numbed a little, he stood up and looked around the room. There was no luggage, no clothing, just a rumpled paper bag sitting on the bedside table. He limped over to the bag, plopped down on the bed, and laid his pistol on the table.

  He opened the bag and emptied the contents onto the bed beside him. A small key on a ring with a bobber, a small dirty piece of paper with some scribbling on it, and a bottle of Patron tequila.

  Steve Haney ran as fast as his thick linebacker legs would carry him. Hector was a hundred yards in front of him. His lungs were burning and he didn’t know how much further he could go, when suddenly Hector turned and ducked into a nearby restaurant.

  Steve caught up to find the place dark. Closed Due To Hurricane Daniel read a sign on the door. He pushed on the door, surprised to find it open. A bell jingled loudly on the inside, announcing his presence. Dammit.

  A stray pot clanged in the kitchen. Steve crouched behind the tables and chairs. He didn’t know if this dude had a gun, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

  “Hector,” he called into the darkness, “we just need to ask you some questions.”

  “I know how this works, Cantamananas.” Hector sounded out of breath and was wheezing frantically. “You take me in, and no one ever hears from me again.”

  Steve shook his head in confusion. “What are you talking about?” he yelled. “I’m with the Key West Police Department. My partner and I are investigating a murder and we found your fingerprint on their boat. If you have an explanation for that, then we don’t have a problem.”

  Hector said nothing, and continued breathing erratically. He sounded scared.

  “You try to trick me,” —the man sounded ragged and near tears— “but I know, Chupaverga, I know what happens to guys like me. I get disappeared.”

  What the hell is he talking about? Steve wondered.

  “Your man at the fort told me all about it,” Hector groaned. “I will die before you take me.”

  “Look, Hector, I’m gonna put my gun away and we can talk.” He shouldered his gun and stood up. “Now, look, I don’t know what information you have about this murder, but all we need to do is—”

  Hector crashed through the room with his arms raised over his head, an enormous kitchen cleaver in his hands. He was screaming as he ran toward Steve.

  “You will never take me to that evil place again!”

  “Shit!” Steve knelt, re-drew his gun, and fired three shots. Hector’s knife clattered to the ground and his body slammed into a table with chairs stacked on top. Steve jumped up and backed out of the way of the crashing debris.

  He looked down at Hector and pulled out his cellphone. He dialed Joe.

  “Is everything okay?” Joe asked.

  “Yeah, yeah, I guess you could say that.” Steve shook his head. “I had to shoot him, he was coming at me with a knife.”

  “Dammit.”

  “I know. I tried to talk him down,” Steve said, “but he was terrified. Said I was gonna take him to an evil place. He kept babbling about the man at the fort.”

  “What fort? Fort Jefferson?”

  “I dunno.”

  “Weird.”

  “Yeah, no joke.”

  “Miami P.D. is on the way here, so I’ll have them send a car down to check it out. We’ve got some interesting evidence here to check out. Coupla DVDs and a bunch of drugs.”

  “Okay, I’ll see you in a few.”

  “Gotcha.”

  Joe clicked the phone shut and looked at the dirty piece of paper he found in the bag. It was a list of ten coordinates. They matched exactly with the ones they’d recovered from the sunken G.P.S. unit.

  “So, Hector was there,” he mumbled aloud. “Still don’t know what the hell for.”

  He held the key up and studied it. No markings, no numbers, nothing, but they could match it to Hector’s boat with a little help from the marina.

  Joe rubbed his aching neck. “And who the hell was strong-arming Hector at Fort Jefferson?”

  He carefully placed everything back into the bag and waited for the Miami P.D. Looks like we might be going on another boat ride, he thought, as sirens wailed in the distance.

  28

  Dreams Of You

  Amazingly, the sky above the drifting survivors broke open, and sunbeams glittered off the increasingly calm water around them. R.B. and Megan were both in a near coma-like lethargy and Troy couldn’t keep his eyes open for more than a minute at a time. Unforgivingly, the sun began to bake them as it rose higher into the morning sky.

  A beautiful day to die, Troy thought. They were too far to have any hope of swimming to the islands and the current was most likely not heading for land. Troy looked down into the basket of shipwreck salvage. It looked like a bunch of rusty junk. I’ve killed them for some old pieces of antique store iron. He put his head down on the basket, closed his eyes and waited for the end.

  “There!” Bill pointed slightly to the north of the coordinates they had read from the G.P.S. ping from Troy’s cellphone.

  “Hot Damn,” George Wyatt said as he swung the plane around, “I can’t believe it.”

  “Gene, we got em!” Bill said over the radio to the the oil rig. “They’re in the water, probably gonna need medical attention.”

  “I’m on it,” Gene’s voice crackled back.

  “Hold on, Bill.” Wyatt took the plane around the drifting refugees to give them some landing distance. He took the plane down and coasted up to the basket. Nobody moved.

  “Oh God,” he said, and sat stunned for a minute. They all looked dead.

  And then, with what seemed like supreme effort, Troy’s head lifted, and he smiled.

  “Hot Damn.” Wyatt threw his headphones off and climbed out onto the plane’s pylons.

  “What took you so long?” Troy croaked through cracked lips.

  “Eh, you know, took a bit of a swim to relax first.”

  Troy laughed and then slumped back over the basket. Within a few minutes, Wyatt and Bill had dragged the three of them into the plane and wrapped blankets around them. R.B. opened his eyes for a second, but then drifted back to unconsciousness. Megan never came around. The cut on her forehead looked worse now than it had in the water.

  Troy shook her harshly. “Megan! Megan, wake up!”

  Wyatt grabbed him and shoved him back into a seat on the plane.

  “She’s fine, Troy,” he said and looked him in the eye. “She has a pulse and she’s breathing. She’s gonna need some stitches, but she’s fine.”

  Troy’s eyes welled up and he looked at her again. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, Troy.” Wyatt clapped his hands on his shoulders. “You’re all fine now.”

  “And my stuff?” He looked around frantically. “From the shipwreck… we brought up some things from the…”

  “Easy, big guy.” Wyatt nodded to the back of the plane.

  Troy turned and saw that the contents of the basket had been piled up on an extra blanket; rusty and barnacled and wholly indistinguishable as anything of value. He slumped back into his seat.

  Gene watched as the yellow seaplane splashed down. Troy was the only one able to exit the plane under his own power. Bill carried the others. After some minor treatment for their dehydration and exposure, they slept.

  Troy’s dreams came vividly and broke him into a feverish sweat. He stood at the wheel of a massive clipper ship. Everything was black, the wood, the iron, the steel. Even black sails whipped in the wind above him. Megan stood to his right and R.B. to his left. Neither spoke at all. He was horrified to see their eyes were rolled back in their heads. They were clearly dead.

  Señora de la Muerta, the Lady of the Dead, crashed through black
waves. A dark and electric cloud swirled above the ship and began spinning and curling in a hurricane spiral. Voices screamed at him to turn the ship around.

  “Never!” he yelled, “I will bring this ship through the storm!”

  He heard nothing but booming evil laughter. The violent wind ripped the sails and cracked the masts. Splintering wood and rigging crashed all around them, but neither Megan nor R.B. moved. Suddenly, he saw a floating form drift out of the swirling clouds toward them. It was some sort of wraith or witch in a flowing black veil.

  “How dare you disturb the dead,” she screeched at him.

  He stood terrified at the horrible apparition before him. She reached out and pointed at R.B. Suddenly, he slumped and fell to the deck.

  “No!” Troy dropped to his knees beside him. “What have you done to him?”

  “I did nothing,” she said. “You have brought them to their fate aboard the Lady of the Dead.”

  She slowly turned toward Megan, still staring out into the blackness around them. She raised her finger to point at her.

  “NOOO!!” Troy jumped at the wraith and grabbed at the black cloth swirling around her head.

  His hands felt like he’d dipped them into ice water, but he could feel the veil in his grip. He ripped it off her head.

  She screamed and reeled back from him. To his utter shock and horror, he recognized the face. Though it was blue and veined and covered with seaweed, he knew her. It was Natasha.

  “No…” he gasped, tears welling in his eyes.

  Troy Bodean jerked his eyes open and sat up.

  “Oh, my God.” He put his head in his hands and cried.

  “Natasha, I’m so sorry.”

  “You gonna be okay?” a voice rasped from the next bed.

  Troy looked over. R.B. was propped up on his elbow.

  “Yeah,” he answered, shaking off the dream. “Megan?”

  “Don’t know. I haven’t been out of bed. Still can’t muster the energy yet.”

  Troy nodded and swung his legs over the edge and rested his feet on the cold steel floor.