They watched as Troy brought the plane down, gliding it in expertly. The landing looked perfect, even if it was on an empty tank. The fire had mostly burned out, so they decided it was safe to leave it. They had intentionally built it in the center of the parade ground with nothing nearby.
Jogging down to the beach ahead of the girls, R.B. watched as Troy sloshed through the surf, pulling the seaplane behind him with a tow line. He struggled some, but the surf helped him push the plane toward the island. When he got close enough, R.B. waded out to help. A few minutes later, when the plane was safely secured, R.B. punched Troy hard on the shoulder.
“Are you kidding me?” he demanded. “You didn’t check the fuel?”
Troy rubbed his shoulder. “Bro, I was in a hurry! I thought you were dead.”
R.B. grabbed him and hugged him tight. He noticed a figure sitting in the plane. The man looked ill.
“Who’s that?” he said, pointing at him.
“A detective. He knows who’s been trying to kill us and get my treasure,” Troy said.
“Good.” R.B. started wading out toward the plane. “We need him to call the shore. Chelsea’s in danger.”
“Chelsea?” Troy asked, following him out.
“She works with Megan,” R.B. said, “and she’s got the artifacts at the dolphin center on Islamorada and Vince is on his way there now.”
“Dangit,” Troy grunted. “Dang Pinzons and Columbuses… why can’t everyone just leave my shipwreck alone.”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” R.B. said, “but let’s get in there and radio the Coast Guard.”
Troy nodded.
“They’ll call the police and get them on their way,” R.B. said as they reached the plane, “and then we can get them to send someone out here with fuel… or a boat to take us back.”
“I got that covered,” Troy said as they climbed aboard Gidget, “so after you call the police, I’ll call George.”
“Who?” R.B. slumped into the pilot’s seat and clicked on the radio. “George Wyatt? Why?”
“Long story,” Troy said as Joe stood up and leaned into the cockpit. “Joe, meet my brother, R.B.”
The detective reached out a hand and threw up on R.B.
42
History
Chris Collins got the call and drove as fast as the two-lane road up from Key West would allow. Grassy Key is 59 miles up the chain of islands known as the Florida Keys and the average speed limit is below thirty miles-per-hour. Chris’s black Mercedes was traveling at about ninety-five. Fortunately there was just his and three other cars going north. None going south. He passed them easily without slowing down. On the way, he dialed into the secure line at the C.I.A. and re-routed all incoming personnel to Grassy Key, but he knew it would take too long for them to back him up. He was on his own for this operation.
He pulled in to the Dolphin Research Center about a half hour later. It looked to be deserted. He approached the rear door cautiously and noticed it was slightly ajar. A keypad lock was buzzing, apparently to notify the occupant that the door wasn’t closed properly. Pulling his Glock from his shoulder holster, he eased the door open so he could slip inside.
His shoes clacked loudly as he walked the halls. If Pinzioni was here, he would certainly know he was coming. He tipped open door after door and found no sign of Vince. He found the saltwater tanks that R.B. had told him the artifacts had been soaking in… empty. And maybe more disturbing was that there was no sign of the girl, Chelsea, either.
Dammit, I’m too late. Pinzioni had probably high-tailed it out of here with the girl and the artifacts a long time ago. He clicked open his phone to see how long a satellite image would take when something began to tickle at the back of his mind. Vince wouldn’t go north. His history, his ancestors, his legacy… it was all south of here in the Gulf of Mexico. But Chris hadn’t passed anyone going south… not one single car.
“He’s on a boat,” Chris suddenly said to himself.
This whole story was about a boat, the Santa Maria, and the unfortunate events that were still up for debate today. Vince Pinzioni would’ve come up here by boat and that’s how he would return. Chris squealed his car out of the parking lot, taking a left and then immediately another left into the Grassy Key Marina.
He caught sight of a man shoving a girl in front of him out onto the dock. He was also dragging a large, army-style duffel bag that looked to be heavy. Beside the dock was his boat, The Ocean Blue.
Of course, thought Chris as he jumped from his car and ran toward them. In fourteen-hundred and ninety-two, Columbus sailed the ocean blue. Vince either wasn’t paying attention, or didn’t expect anyone to be there, but he never saw Chris coming up behind them.
He dumped the bag into his boat and started to shove the girl in after it.
“Pinzon!” Chris yelled, leveling his gun at him.
Vince froze. He turned slowly and looked back at the Deputy Director of the C.I.A. Chris saw the pistol tucked in Vince’s waistband.
“Well, well, well,” he said, smiling, “if it ain’t the golden boy, Chris Columbus.”
“It’s Collins now.”
“Same difference.”
“Let the girl go, Pinzon.”
“It’s Pinzioni now,” Vince said through a sneer.
“Same difference.”
“Touché.”
“Let her go,” —Chris holstered his own gun and held up his hands— “and I let you get in that boat and sail off into the sunset.”
Vince Pinzioni tilted his head back and laughed. “Yeah, right. Like you ain’t got the whole agency bearin’ down on us right now.”
Chris nodded. “It’s true.”
He glanced at his watch and shook it toward Vince. “But they’re probably still a good two hours away. Plenty of time for you to disappear.”
“Ha! Disappear from the C.I.A.?” Vince said sarcastically. “I know the end of that scenario. I’ll be disappeared all right. Up to Siberia, or wherever it is you guys are keeping people now.”
“Guantanamo,” Chris said, “they’d take you to Guantanamo. But I can call them off if you let her go right now. Start a new life, find a new place. We won’t bother you anymore.”
Vince’s face faltered for just a second. “That ain’t happenin’, Chris. You know that.”
“Then I guess I’ll have to take you out, Vince,” —Chris drew his gun— “I don’t have any choice.”
“It ain’t true, ya know?” Vince said suddenly.
“Excuse me?”
“The stories.” Vince jerked his head toward the water. “The Pinzons didn’t do what you think they did. It’s all gotten changed and rearranged and the real history is anybody’s guess.”
“I think those things you have in that bag might tell a different story.” Chris pointed his left hand toward the boat and eased the gun up to point at him.
“This junk?” Vince laughed. “Ain’t nothin’ but a bell and some pots. Nothin’ more.”
“Then you can keep them,” —Chris had a solid grip on his gun— “just let me have the girl.”
“Nah, sorry. No can do,” Vince said as he shook his head.
Chelsea, who had been watching this exchange in silence, apparently wondering at the alternate history being debated in front of her, suddenly snapped into motion. Her hands were duct-taped together, but Vince was holding her by the elbow. Her interlaced, bound hands became a sledge-hammer. In a flash, she swung up hard, slamming them into Vince’s chin. He was lifted off the ground as his head snapped backward. He lost his balance and tumbled into the water beside his boat.
Chelsea ran toward Chris. He grabbed her and ducked behind another boat moored nearby. Vincent was struggling to climb onto the dock.
“Vince,” Chris called out, “if you start that boat, I’m going to have to shoot you.”
“You ain’t gonna do shit,” he heard Vince yell, “or I’m gonna slice that kid R.B. and his girl to pieces and mail them to you.”
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Dammit. He’d forgotten about them. He knew that Joe and Troy were searching for them, but as long as they were still missing, he couldn’t shoot Vince.
“Okay, okay.” Chris’s mind raced trying to come up with a solution. “You have your artifacts, I have the girl. I’ll call off the C.I.A. dogs if you’ll let those people go. Otherwise, I’ll have them hunt you down.”
“Eat shit, Collins,” he said as his boat rumbled to life.
It turned away from the dock and jumped up on its wake, speeding away from the marina. Chris raised his gun and aimed at the back of the boat.
“No!” Chelsea yelled. “If you shoot him, we’ll never find Megan or R.B.!”
“Dammit!” Chris holstered his gun and watched as the boat disappeared into the distance.
He opened his cellphone to a missed text message from Detective Joe Bond via the Coast Guard.
-We have them. All safe.
He closed the message and dialed a number.
“This is Deputy Director Collins,” he said into the phone, “I want all satellites pointed at the Florida Keys. I want all boats tracked anywhere within ninety miles of this place.” He hung up.
“Okay, Chelsea,” he said tucking the phone into his pocket, “let’s go.”
43
Flaring Up
George Wyatt’s new boat chugged along about fifty-feet off the shore of Fort Jefferson. As difficult as it was, Troy managed to drag a line from the seaplane out to the newly christened Wyatt Load and then crank it in close with a winch attached to the barge.
The fifty-gallon drum of Jet-A fuel Troy had stashed on Wyatt’s oil rig had finally come in handy. Initially, they were in a rush to fill the plane’s empty tank, but the radio message from shore told them Chris Collins had rescued Chelsea. The bad news was that Vincent Pinzioni had escaped with the artifacts.
Chris assured Troy that he wouldn’t get far as the full weight of the C.I.A. machine was after him now. But Troy couldn’t help but feel that he’d missed his chance yet again. It was his wreck. He’d discovered it. He was entitled to the rights… but it was gone, back to the sea.
After loading the passengers onto the plane, R.B., Megan, Joe, and—unbelievably—the resurrected Natasha, Troy fired the engine up and taxied out into the open water. The gulf was calm today, belying the fact a tropical storm had come through only days before. Gidget lifted out of the water, freeing them all from their prison on the island.
“What’s that smell?” asked R.B., bringing Troy out of his funk.
“Joe had a bit of a tough time with the ride out to the fort,” he said, laughing, and puffed his cheeks up imitating a dry heave.
“Gross,” Megan said, pinching her nose.
“No worries, Joe,” —Natasha slapped him on the back— “happens to the best of us.”
Joe nodded, his lips pursed.
“Oh… ” she said leaning away from him, “you’re not gonna—”
She didn’t get the sentence out before Joe let go of another spew.
“Really?” R.B. asked.
Troy laughed as the passengers all scrambled to get away from the ill detective.
“You’re cleaning that up?” R.B. raised an eyebrow to Troy.
“I got it, I got it,” he said.
Ten minutes into their flight, Joe had exhausted his stomach and had fallen into a fitful sleep. Still, no one sat near him… just in case.
“What’s that down there?” R.B. asked, pointing. “At your ten o’clock.”
Troy craned his neck to see out the window. A boat was drifting in the water, no passengers visible. A thick smoke was drifting from its back end. Under the smoke, Troy could barely make out the words, Ocean Blue.
“Well I’ll be!” he exclaimed. “That’s Vince’s boat.”
“But where’s Vince?” R.B. asked.
“Might be down below working on the engine.”
“Good point. Swing in a little closer.”
Troy moved the stick and the plane angled into a soft bank down toward the boat. In a split second, Troy saw the man stick his head out of the lower hatch and aim the gun.
“Dangit!” he said, jerking the controls back and lifting the seaplane into a sharp climb.
Three shots pinged against the belly of the plane.
“Shit, get us out of here!” Natasha cried from the back.
“Workin’ on it, darlin’,” Troy said, fighting the wheel, but the plane refused to climb.
“What’s wrong?” R.B. demanded, “why aren’t you climbing?”
“I’m pullin’ up hard,” Troy said straining, “but she ain’t respondin’.”
“Dammit.” R.B. turned to look out at the wing above them.
A loose cable flapped roughly out of the back of the wing, severed from the flap.
“He’s cut the flap cable,” R.B. said. “We’re gonna have to put her down.”
“Double dangit!”
The plane shook as he turned her away from Vince’s boat and glided it down toward the water. Second crash landing in a day, Troy thought. I’m on fire.
Gidget splashed down harder than before as the flap made the descent a little rougher than his first landing. Joe Bond woke up on impact and jerked his gun out of his holster. He looked a little less green than before; the sleep had done him good.
“What the hell’s going on?” he demanded.
“Just a quick detour,” Troy said, taking off his headphones.
They had come down in circles with the wounded flap and more sharply than a normal landing. They ended up about fifty feet away from the Ocean Blue.
“Get down everybody,” Troy said, and crouched and shuffled into the back of the plane. “How many bullets you got in that thing, Joe?”
The detective checked the magazine. “Three.”
“Aw hell!” Troy peered out the closest window at the nearby boat.
Nothing. No sign of Vince. Smoke still poured out of the back of the boat. He must’ve been dead in the water.
Suddenly, three more shots pelted into the side of the plane. Glass shattered out of one of the windows and showered the passengers.
Joe jerked upright and aimed the pistol through the now open window. He fired off three shots, temporarily deafening everyone in the cabin.
“Really?” Troy had his hands over his ears. “All three shots? Just like that?”
Joe Bond shrugged and holstered the pistol. “I had a clear shot. I think I got him.”
Troy eased himself up and strained to look out at the boat.
Unbelievably, the current was closing the gap between the plane and the boat… and fast.
Vince popped his head up and fired again. More glass shattered and Megan screamed. The silence of an emptied gun filled the cabin of the seaplane.
Vince’s voice called over the water. “Ha ha! You out of bullets over there? Well, I got plenty over here and I’m gonna put one in everybody’s head over there.”
Troy took a quick look. The Ocean Blue was only twenty feet away now and still closing fast.
“Crap,” Troy mumbled.
“Everybody stay low and crawl toward the back of the plane,” Joe urged them, “and don’t give him anything to shoot at. If we’re lucky the current will change and he won’t be able to get a clear shot at us.”
“And if it doesn’t change?” Natasha asked.
He didn’t answer. They all army-crawled their way toward the back of Gidget.
“It’s all over now, Troy!” shouted Vince. “You got about three minutes before I sink you all to the bottom of the gulf.”
A crackling sound came from the cockpit. What now? Troy thought. Dadgum, the radio!
He put a finger to his lips and crawled as quickly as he could to the cockpit. He reached up to grab the headphones and a shot pinged through the glass and hit his left shoulder.
“Ow, shit, gosh-dangit!” he yelled and grabbed his shoulder.
“You okay, Troy?” R.B. called.
More
shots ricocheted off the plane near the cockpit.
“I’m good,” he wheezed, “just scratched me. Didn’t go through.”
“Come on, T-Boy,” called Vince, his voice sounding like he must only be ten feet away now, “stick that head up again.”
“Gidget, this is the Wyatt Load,” came George Wyatt’s voice over the radio. “We’re picking up shots fired. Troy, you okay? What’s going on?”
More shots rang into the cockpit. Troy waited for the firing to stop and jumped up. He grabbed the headphones and dove to the floor. Glass shattered above his head and pelted into the metal sheeting of the seaplane.
He shoved the headphones on, and said, “Wyatt, we’re dead in the water. Pinzioni is out here shootin’ up my plane. Get your ass over here!”
No answer. The radio was dead. One of the bullets must’ve pierced it and put it out of commission.
Dangit, Troy thought, wondering if his message had gotten through.
“Vince!” he called toward the shattered opening. “Don’t shoot. I’ll come up and you can take me. Don’t hurt anybody else.”
Vince’s laughter echoed up to the plane.
Shit! Troy thought he sounded as if he was right there, just a few feet away. If he made it to the plane, they were all dead.
“Yeah, yeah,” Vince said sarcastically, “stick your head up there again. I promise not to hurt anyone.”
Troy knew he was lying, but he decided to make a play of it to see if Vince would let him on the boat.
“Okay,” he yelled out the window, “I’m gonna open the door. Don’t shoot. I’ll come over and you can do whatever you want.”
“Deal,” Vince said shortly.
Troy crawled back toward the crouched passengers.
“You are not doing this!” R.B. hissed at him.
“He’s gonna kill us all,” Troy said, “gotta try something to distract him.”
“Troy, he’s just going to shoot you,” Natasha said, “and then climb on here and shoot all of us.”
“Let’s sit tight,” Joe said, and held his hand out, “wait for the cavalry to come. They’ll realize we’re not there and send out a boat.”
The Complete Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Collection Page 48