The Complete Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Collection

by David F. Berens

  She burst up and into a pocket of air, gasped, and took several deep breaths. Debris from the wreck bobbed around her, bumping into her from all sides. She used her arms to sweep a protective shield around her and thankfully bumped up against what felt like a flashlight. She felt around the barrel and clicked a button on the side. Dim light filled the cabin and shocked her vision. The light flickered and threatened to go out, so she clicked it off to conserve the probably nearly-dead battery.

  As she treaded water, she began to think about what had just happened. They had been fired upon directly over the site of Troy’s find and over the site of her drone crash. The perpetrator could be anyone; foreign national after the drone, shipwreck hunters after Troy’s gold, drug runners thinking her coast guard boat was after them. She was literally and figuratively in the dark. And that’s when something bumped against the window of the cabin.

  She froze. Slowly pointing the light in the direction of the bump, she clicked it on. A massive gray shape was easing by the windows of the cabin. She immediately clicked the light off, praying the shark hadn’t seen the light. It bumped a few more times, probably just investigating the wreckage. It never threatened her, but just seemed to be hanging out. Perfect, she thought.

  The shark bumped again and the boat lurched and settled into the sand. Air bubbles rushed out of some newly exposed opening, shrinking Natasha’s current air pocket to the size of a basketball. Her heart raced and she clicked on the light. The black eyes of the shark were staring directly at her through a window right next to her face. She shrieked, shutting the light off and slamming her hand over her mouth. The shark went into a frenzy of slamming into the window. Each time it hit the boat, more bubbles escaped from the cabin, but the air pocket held. For what seemed like an eternity—maybe six or seven hours—it went on this way until Natasha heard the low rumble of an approaching boat.

  Shit, she thought, can’t get to the surface in time to catch a ride. The boat seemed to hover nearby for a few minutes, then the roar started again and she heard it move away. Well, that was it, my rescuers have disappeared into the distance and I’m going to be eaten by a shark. She waited for the shark to bump again, figuring one good shove would push the remaining air out of the cabin and she’d be forced to evacuate, but it never came. She strained to keep as still and quiet as possible. Nothing.

  Here goes nothing, she thought and inhaled deeply and clicked on the light, ready to extinguish it if she saw the shark. No sign of it. She peered from window to window looking for the grey hulk. It was gone, or at least beyond her line of sight. It made sense; the boat probably spooked it.

  She took a good look around, planning her escape. The hatch was hanging open, floating lazily back and forth under her. She could stick her head out, see if the coast was clear, and then make for the surface. Once she was out, she’d be a sitting duck, nothing more than shark bait. In her mind, the theme from Jaws began to rumble as she drifted over to float above the hatch. She took a deep breath and went under.

  A few minutes later, she broke through the surface with no interference from the shark… yet. Pieces of drifting wood still littered the surface. The sky to the north was black and foreboding. The storm had passed over. Good grief, she thought, how long was I under there? More than six or seven hours for sure. Funny how time flies when you’re having fun.

  A large section of wood, maybe a section of flooring with green AstroTurf glued to it, drifted nearby and she swam over to it. It was big enough to roll herself up on and despite the warning alarms clanging inside her head, she fell asleep.

  Waking sometime the next day, she assessed her situation and determined the best direction to swim. With nothing but blue water all around, she made a judgment based on the sun and the current and started off. After hours of kicking, paddling and resting, kicking, paddling and resting, finally—amazingly—Fort Jefferson came into sight.

  It was off to her left in the distance… if she hadn’t been close enough to catch sight of it, she would’ve been paddling out into the Atlantic Ocean and would’ve surely been lost at sea. She raced against darkness to get to the sandy shore of the fort before night obscured it again. She had crawled ashore at dusk, and with no energy left to get inside, she passed out again on the beach. She awoke to the sound of a boat coming ashore nearby and watched as a man dragged R.B. and the girl from Troy’s boat into the fort. Not long after, she watched him get back into his boat alone.

  She padded into the Fort and down the long stone hallways to her office. She drank three bottled waters and stripped out of her damp, crusty clothes. Replacing them with a new uniform and feeling wind-burned and achy, she set out into the fort to find the two people the man had apparently dropped off here. As she passed by James Howard’s office she jumped. Crime scene tape crisscrossed his door. No one was inside. She realized with a start that she’d watched the whole scene of this kidnapping unfold with no sign of James.

  She passed the room by… that mystery would have to be solved later. There were two people stashed somewhere in the fort and she needed to find them—or their bodies—quickly. If I were hiding people here, she thought to herself, where would I put them?

  After a second, she jogged down the corridor leading to the prison wing.

  Vince Pinzioni knocked on the door at the Dolphin Research Center on Grassy Key. The door was a non-tourist type with an industrial lock and keypad. He knocked again and saw a young girl look through the glass.

  “We’re closed.” Her voice was muffled and she shrugged as if to indicate she was sorry.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Vince said and smiled his biggest smile. “I know, I’m a friend, though. Megan and R.B. sent me.”

  A look of confusion came over her face and she clicked the button to buzz the door open. Vince shoved his way in quickly, grabbed her around the neck and one hand covering her mouth.

  “Anybody else in here?” he asked quietly.

  She shook her head.

  “Okay, then,” he said, “we’re gonna do this nice ‘n slow. I’m gonna take my hand off your mouth and you’re gonna take me to my stuff.”

  Her eyes narrowed, clearly not understanding what he meant. He eased his hand away.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.

  “Listen, um—”

  “Chelsea.”

  “Listen, Chelsea,” —he tightened his grip on her neck— “your friends, R.B. and Megan, brought some things up here the other day. Things that don’t belong to them. I want them back.”

  Chelsea’s eyes flicked toward the lab. “In there.”

  “That’s real good.” Vince eased his grip. “Let’s go in there and see what we got.”

  Ryan Bodean opened his eyes, but pain shot into his temple and he closed them quickly. The pain did not go away. He heard himself groan.

  “Oh, thank God!” came a voice nearby. “Are you okay?”

  His head was so fuzzy he couldn’t tell if it was a woman’s voice or a man’s. He didn’t know if he knew the speaker or not. Everything felt like it was being strained through a bunch of cotton balls.

  “I… I don’t… ” he started.

  Words were hard. The voice was chattering at him a mile a minute, but he still couldn’t understand her. Her? It dawned on him that he could tell it was a woman.

  “R.B.,” she said at the end of a long and rambling rant, “how are we going to get out of here?”

  His head slowly began to clear. He opened his eyes and all was dark. “Where are we getting out of exactly?” he asked the voice.

  “Fort Jefferson,” Megan spoke rapidly. “Vince kidnapped us and brought us here. He didn’t kill us, though. I’m not sure why. Just tied us up and…”

  Her voice faded into the background. Megan. Her name was Megan. Bits and pieces of their situation began to come back to him.

  “Okay, okay,” he pleaded, “just give me a second. Head still spinning.”

  “Oh, God,” she said, “are you okay?
”

  “I think so,” he said, “just need a minute.”

  He heard her sniff, probably crying. He decided to pretend confidence to keep her from falling apart.

  “Listen,” he said calmly, “give me a sec to clear my head and we’ll figure this thing out.”

  “Mmhmm,” she said, sniffing again.

  “Don’t worry, Megan,” —his head throbbed, but he was beginning to feel human again— “I’ll get us out of here.”

  Then footsteps, running, reverberated down the stone hallway.

  “Omigod, omigod,” Megan cried frantically, “he’s coming back!”

  The footfalls stopped.

  “Shhhhh,” R.B. said and strained to listen.

  “Helloooo?” a voice echoed in the darkness.

  R.B. saw a flashlight beam sweep back and forth.

  “R.B.?” the voice called. “Are you down here?”

  He knew his head was not right yet, but he could swear it was Natasha’s voice. But she’d drowned in the boat explosion.

  “Helloooo?” Her voice was more insistent.

  It was definitely her.

  “Natasha?” he croaked.

  “Yes, it’s me.”

  The beam of light got stronger and suddenly washed into their cells. The light was blinding and he closed his eyes.

  “Thank, God. Oh, thank God,” he heard Megan crying out.

  “Hold on a second.” Natasha covered the light with her hand to ease the brightness. “Let me cut you loose.”

  She pulled a knife from her belt and made quick work of the duct tape. R.B. eased himself to his feet. Megan jumped up and hugged Natasha with both arms around her neck.

  “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

  “Natasha, it’s good to see you made it,” R.B. said as he rubbed his raw wrists, “but how in the world…”

  “Long story. I’ll tell you over a beer sometime.”

  Suddenly, Megan was running down the corridor.

  “Megan!” R.B. yelled after her, “where’re you going?”

  “Chelsea,” her voice rang out, “he’s going after Chelsea.”

  She disappeared down the hallway.

  “R.B.,” Natasha said and turned, “do you want to break the bad news to her, or should I?”

  “Huh?” he asked, “what bad news?”

  “I swam to the island,” she said, walking, “we don’t have a boat.”

  “Oh,” he said, “that bad news.”

  They walked at a fast clip back toward her office.

  “Phone?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Power’s still off from the storm. And I have no idea where my cell is… probably at the bottom of the ocean.”

  “Okay, fantastic,” R.B. said and clapped his hands together, “looks like we’re gonna need an old-fashioned bonfire.”

  “Smoke signals?” she asked.

  “Yup.”

  41

  Motion Sickness

  Gidget, the seaplane of the Tortuga Adventures ferry service from Key West to Fort Jefferson, rushed into the air. Troy Bodean was piloting and Joe Bond was sitting in the first passenger seat looking incredibly green. The detective had admitted to Troy that he hated flying and within minutes of taking off, he’d stuck his head in a bag and lost his lunch.

  “You gonna be alright, Joe?”

  Joe’s muffled reply, followed by the retching sounds of dry heaving, answered that question pretty quickly. Troy decided to leave the fact that they were burning fuel too quickly left unsaid. He knew they would make it out to the fort, but wasn’t sure about the trip back. Gidget is a thirsty girl.

  After the sick detective had filled the last barf bag, his stomach finally settled enough that he could carry on a conversation.

  “Troy,” he started, “I just want you to consider the possibility that we will find something… bad… when we get there.”

  Troy had already considered that. It could be that Pinzioni had killed them. But it didn’t seem to fit. Why bother to haul them out to Fort Jefferson if you were just going to kill them. And since reconnecting with his brother, that weird sibling bond had come back. He knew R.B. was okay, even if he couldn’t explain how he knew. But he was still concerned.

  “Nah,” he said, “I think they’re gonna be just fine.”

  He wasn’t sure how much he really believed that, but he said it just the same.

  “Well, it looks like the C.I.A. is going to claim jurisdiction over your find.”

  “Yeah,” —Troy sucked air over his teeth— “looks that way, don’t it?”

  “That’s gotta hurt.”

  “Won’t be the first time I’ve lost it all.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah,” Troy said. “After the war, I thought I lost my brother and then there was that craziness back in South Carolina.”

  “You lived in South Carolina?”

  “Yup, out on Pawleys Island,” he said and nodded, adjusting his Outback Tea Stained Straw cowboy hat, “but that’s a long story.”

  “Arrogantly shabby, eh?” Joe smiled.

  “That’s what they say,” Troy said.

  He wondered idly what Karah was up to these days. He’d gone out of his way not to make contact and dredge up things that were better left… un-dredged. Every now and then, he drank a Corona and thought about what might have been.

  “There she is,” Joe said and pointed a finger out a nearby window.

  The sight of Fort Jefferson from the air is truly breathtaking. The walls of the fort are two-tiered casemates in a hexagon shape, with two of the walls measuring three-hundred twenty-five feet, and the other four measuring four hundred seventy-seven feet. Large corner bastions, designed to allow defensive fire along the faces of the walls they joined, contained gunrooms, gunpowder magazines and a granite spiral staircase. Each tier of the casemates contained one hundred and fifty guns, and another one hundred and fifty were placed on top of the fort itself. The heavy guns were mounted inside the walls in a string of open casemates, or gunrooms, facing outward toward the sea through large openings called embrasures.

  Inside the walls is a thirteen-acre parade ground that contained additional powder magazines, headquarters, a hospital, officer quarters and three large barracks. A modern light tower replaced the old Garden Key lighthouse—the first structure built on the island.

  “Incredible,” Joe said.

  “Mmhmm,” Troy said, nodding, “takes my breath away every time I see it.”

  “Looks like someone’s having a fire.”

  Troy banked the plane and looked out the side window. A plume of smoke was drifting up from the center of the parade grounds. He smiled to himself. “Looks like R.B. set a signal fire,” he said. “I knew he’d be—”

  Troy was interrupted by a loud sputtering sound coming from the engine. The fuel gauge sat on empty… dead empty. And just like in the movies, he tapped it with a finger, hoping that it would magically snap up to a full tank.

  “Dangit!”

  “What?” Joe asked, a touch of hysteria slipping into his voice. “What’s that sound? What’s going on? Are we going down?”

  “Don’t worry, Joe,” —Troy looked back up toward the fort— “We’re gonna land just fine.”

  “Okay, good,” Joe said, sweat beads forming on his forehead. “That’s good, right?”

  “Yup, I ain’t worried about the landing at all.” Troy sniffed. “It’s the takin’ off again that might be a problem.”

  That’s when Detective Joe Bond barfed again… without a bag… all over himself.

  R.B. spotted the plane a few miles out and began to jump around and yell. “Hot damn,” he yelled, “he did it! My bro figured it out! We’re getting’ outta here!”

  After the harsh swim Natasha had been through and Megan’s kidnapping experience, they couldn’t help but join in. Like a group of natives in a tribal ritual, they circled the fire, dancing and whooping.

  And that’s when R.B. heard the sput
tering sound he knew all too well. He stopped dancing and looked up toward the plane. Shielding his eyes, he peered at it closely. The propeller had stopped moving. His elation became immediate sorrow, then his sorrow became anger.

  “Tell me he didn’t,” he groaned.

  Natasha and Megan slowly realized that R.B. wasn’t happy anymore and they stopped their celebratory dancing as well.

  “What do you mean?” Megan asked. “What’s wrong?”

  “He’s out of fuel.”

  “Wait, what?” Natasha asked, “he’s out of fuel… as in… no gas?”

  “Yeah,” R.B. inhaled. “He’s out of gas.”

  “So, what does that mean?” Megan asked.

  “It means that we’all are stranded out here now.”

  “Yeah, but he can radio or call the shore, right?” Natasha asked.

  R.B. thought about it. “Yes, he can, but that still means another two to three hours, probably more like four or five, before we get out of here.”

  “But that’s not quick enough!” Megan cried. “He’s going after Chelsea.”

  “Going after Chelsea?” R.B. turned to her. “Why?”

  “Because she has the artifacts from the wreck,” she said, “and he wants them bad. I have no idea why, but he was going to kill me. I had to tell him where they were.”

  “Okay, okay,” R.B. said, holding his hands out, “we’ll just call the police inland and have them head up there. She’ll be fine.”

  Megan had tears in her eyes. “Are you sure?”

  “It’ll be fine,” R.B. said, completely sure that it wouldn’t be fine, “I promise.”