Wings of Steele 3: Revenge and Retribution

by Jeffrey Burger

  “Douglas,” acknowledged the man, staring at the tanks on the grass. “A bit different than Florida, eh?”

  “About a forty degree difference...”

  “Well don't worry, you won't have to endure it for long,” he smiled. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Mooreland tense up. “Relax Douglas...”

  “Why are we meeting out here?”

  The Deputy Director crossed his legs at the knee, his gloved hands resting casually in his lap. “Because I rather enjoy these brisk mornings before the hotter months set in... So if you please, take your hand off the firearm I'm sure you have in your pocket before you accidentally do something we'll both regret.” He turned to look Mooreland in the eye, seeing nothing but the agent staring stoically back at him. Unmoved. “Suit yourself, Douglas...”

  “So why am I here?”

  “Because you and your team have been getting rather sloppy of late, and it has to change.”

  “You want the equipment and I'm trying to get it for you...”

  “You're calling too much attention to yourselves,” interrupted the Deputy Director. “You're supposed to operate in the shadows not broad daylight with witnesses. Finesse not force.”

  “You've been putting a lot of pressure on us for results, we...”

  “Have missed some prime opportunities,” added the older man, hijacking his sentence. “Look, I don't want to take away your team, I think you are capable of handling this, but the Security Council thought you might be able to use a little incentive, a little boost. So we have a new member for your team...”

  “My team is fine, I don't need anybody.”

  “Oh, but you do.” The Deputy Director swept the cuff of his coat back to glance at his watch, “As of five minutes ago, your team is short a man.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “We decided to retire Pete Whitman.”

  “Pete?! Nooo not Pete, not Pete...”

  “I can assure you, Douglas, it was quick and perfectly painless...”

  “Death is never painless,” hissed Mooreland, incensed.

  “He never felt a thing...” said the older man, reassuringly. “Trust me. Besides, he was holding you back, he was a weak link. You cannot afford that on this mission. I decided to attribute that Chase Holt catch and release catastrophe to Peter. Had the Security Council suspected it was your doing... well, let's just say Peter would have had company.” The Deputy Director shifted position on the bench, leaning closer, his elbow on the back of the bench. “Now, to your assignment; find and pick up the friends, the parents, the ex-wife, in-laws and anyone else you can think of. Bring them all in. In one piece. And for God sakes, you're secret agents, start acting like it.” He rose from the bench and smoothed his coat, looking up at the sky, “Looks like it's going to be a beautiful day...”

  ■ ■ ■

  Considering the late night he'd had with the Cape Coral shootings, Sheriff Frank Naywood was going casual today, a pair of black tactical pants and a black Sheriff's polo, his shield and rank embroidered on the shirt. He jammed the cruiser's key tag under the buckle of his duty belt and swung his leg out of the open cruiser door, not forgetting to reach for the travel mug of his wife's fresh, hot coffee. “Beautiful morning, eh Buck?” He glanced up at the pale blue sky, scattered clouds drifting past, the last remnants of morning dew drying off the parking lot pavement.

  “Not for this guy,” replied Buck Harper, walking up, thumbing over at the crime scene. A sedan, parked alone in a nearly empty mall parking lot at the far end of the row was shielded from prying eyes by temporary walls of blue plastic tarps. Curious motorists arriving at the mall drove slowly past, hoping to catch a glimpse of something they could gossip about while shopping.

  “Let's try to keep the media out of this for a while. Where's the rest of our guys?”

  Buck waved, “Still back in Bimini Basin interviewing neighbors, doing damage reports, collecting evidence...”

  The Sheriff nodded, “OK, let's send some uniforms over to help them out and speed things up...”

  “Did that boss.” The detective glanced at his watch, “I'm hoping to have them clear by noon.”

  “Good deal.” He eyed Buck, “When was the last time you slept?”

  The detective shrugged wearily, “What day is it?”

  Naywood nodded, he remembered those long days and nights as a lead detective. “Go home and get some sleep, Buck.” He motioned to the crime scene, “CSI got here quick.” He sipped from the travel mug, “Do we have an identity yet?”

  “Drivers license and credit cards all say; Pete Whitman.”

  The two men walked across the asphalt, ducking under the yellow tape, past the uniformed officers. Detectives and crime scene technicians moved around the car, in and out of view. “The cup of coffee in the guy's cup holder is still warm.”

  The Sheriff looked into the car from the open driver's window, the victim's head leaning back against the bloodied headrest, his mouth slack, his eyes open, horribly askew, one looking up and left, the other looking right. Blood dripping from his nose had stained his shirt and tie. “How?”

  “Two to the back of the head,” replied Buck, making a finger pistol. “Small caliber, probably a .22 caliber. Scrambled his brains but good.”

  “Someone was in the back seat then, this was a hit.”

  “Looks like it.”

  Phil Cooper flipped his FBI identification at the officer standing outside the tarps before stepping through the opening, two cups of fresh coffee in his hand. He passed one to Buck Harper, “Here, you look like you need it.” He motioned toward the doughnut shop across Colonial Boulevard, “Our cockeyed friend here, was in the coffee shop two hours ago with another guy. Their security tape shows both men in suits, coming in, getting coffee and doughnuts and leaving. You can even see the nose of the car through the front door. It was this one,” he tapped on the roof.

  Buck glanced back into the car, “Doughnut's gone, half the coffee too.”

  “Last meal,” retorted Cooper sarcastically.

  “Pretty shitty last meal. Think he knew it was coming?”

  Phil Cooper sipped his coffee. “I doubt it. It looks like business as usual, they picked up something to start their day before their meeting with a third party, here...”

  Frank Naywood raised an eyebrow, suspicious. “What do you know about this? Specifically?”

  “This is one of your actors from last night.”

  Frank's eyes widened, “What?! Are you sure? They offed one of their own guys?”

  “Pretty sure,” nodded Phil. “Look at his hands,” he pointed, “well trimmed nails but rugged hands, those are not executive hands. His hair is tight, everything trimmed... look inside his suit, there won't be any tags. If they forgot to strip his watch, it'll be a very tactical timepiece, totally divergent from his conservative suit. No rings or jewelry and they'll have taken his cell phone. He'll have his driver's license, two credit cards and about a hundred dollars cash. If you run his cards, they will all have a zero balance and no history. When you dust the car, there won't be any fingerprints, probably not even his own.” He took a moment to blow the steam off of his coffee, “I'm betting every door was unlocked...”

  “They were,” said Buck.

  Phil took a sip, “Check the security tapes of that store there,” he indicated the department store facing them. “If we're lucky, their security cameras will have picked up another car arriving and the Chinese fire drill after the fact, when they clean the car up. It'll go fast, they can sanitize a car in about sixty seconds. Did you find any disposable bleach wipes lying around?”

  “The CSIs picked up a couple dry wipes off the ground...”

  “Proves my point, I can guarantee you they weren't dry when used. So you won't get any DNA off of them, the bleach will see to that.” He wagged his finger, “One more thing, run the plates and the VIN on the car, you probably won't find a thing, it'll be invisible...”

  Naywood f
rowned, “But why would they off one of their own guys?”

  “It's called retirement,” said Cooper. “Such a nice word; retirement. Sounds so innocent, so relaxing.” He shrugged, “Evidently, someone was not too thrilled about his work... maybe sending a message to the team. Maybe replacing the team leader... not sure.” He sipped his coffee again, “I sure hope they're not retiring the entire team... or he won't be the last one you find...”

  “Oh dear God,” breathed Naywood.

  ■ ■ ■

  The biggest problem with most of the island locations in the Cape Coral area, was that the mangroves made it nearly impossible to beach the Jet Skis. But Chase Holt had gotten lucky in the dark and stumbled upon a nice, smooth sand shoal that had built up in the center of the bay behind Pine Island. Dotted with small scraggly trees and tangles of mangroves on it, there was little shade as the sun came up. It had been a difficult night and Karen had slept fitfully at first, finally calming down a couple hours before dawn. Covering her face with a shirt for shade he let her sleep while he did what he could to patch the holes in the hulls of the Jet Skis. Aluminum AC duct repair tape should never be confused with the fabric duct tape. With an extremely aggressive adhesive, the heavy aluminum foil tape could even be applied underwater and was an effective emergency hull repair product, among other things. Keeping a roll in each of the storage compartments of the two PWCs, he had plenty to cover the multitude of 9mm holes. While neither unit was unscathed, Karen's boat had definitely taken more of a beating with holes at the water line. It was a wonder her's had not sunk.

  With the upper cowling standing open on Karen's machine he was taping both the outside and inside of the holes he could reach, the foil tape adhering to itself in the center of the holes. The engine and transmission looked like it had been hit several times and although the block and casing had deformities there were no punctures. He wasn't sure if they were a result of low velocity ammunition for the silencers reducing their power, or if the rounds had dumped some of their inertia by hitting the water first. It truly didn't matter, except it busied his mind.

  “How does it look?”

  Chase straightened up suddenly, whacking his head on the underside of the open hull with an audible thwunk. “Son of a...” he groaned grabbing his skull, rolling on his side. He rubbed his head vigorously, looking up at Karen, “Hiya.”

  “Sorry,” she sighed with sorrowful eyes.

  “S'OK, I'll live,” he winced, sitting up. “Man, that smarts.”

  Karen dropped limply on her knees to the sand next to the Jet Ski, “What do we do now?”

  “We survive.” he replied, reaching up and pulling the cowl down and latching it to the bottom half of the hull. “We'll need to find a place to hole-up.”

  “I can't believe she's gone,” muttered Karen, her bottom lip quivering, her eyes full of tears.

  Her mind had jumped the tracks and Chase needed her focused. He shuffled on his knees to her, taking her by the shoulders at arm's length. “Hey, look at me. I'm sad too, I loved Pam, but I need you here and now, I need your mind in the game, I need you thinking...”

  “I don't know if I can, I don't know if I want to live...”

  Chase fought back the burning in his eyes and the clutch in his throat. “I've lost Penny, I've lost Pam, and now you just want me to give up the person closest to my heart? Does that sound fair to you?”

  Her eyes were wandering loosely but they locked with his, “You mean me?”

  “I mean you. I loved you both, I always have. But I didn't love Pam like I loved you. Like I love you...” he corrected himself.

  “Me? You love me?”

  “Yes, you. I need you with me. I need you...” Chase felt as surprised at the epiphany as she looked at this emerging revelation. She threw her arms around his neck, kissing him hard, the two of them toppling over in the sand. They lay on their sides in that embrace for a while.

  Chase's ears recognized the thump, thump, thump, of helicopter rotor blades. He lifted his head, “Uh oh, chopper.” He raised himself up on one arm, searching in the direction of the sound, spotting the orange and white Coast Guard helicopter passing out over the water from the mainland.

  “What do we do?”

  “Hide.” Chase jumped to his feet and began gathering their gear, stuffing it into the Jet Ski's storage compartments and slinging their backpacks onto the handle bars. He was praying the chopper would swing north and go up the coast, away from them. When it banked and swung south, his heart jumped as he wrestled the Jet Skis one at a time, into the water. “C'mon, c'mon...”

  “Where are we going?” asked Karen, swinging her leg over the seat and thumbing the starter button, her PWC puttering to life.

  “We're out in the middle here, we don't have time to make it anywhere else. We're just going around to the other side of the shoal where the mangroves are denser. Hopefully the overhang can hide us...”

  ■ ■ ■

  Clinging onto branches of the overhanging mangroves, Karen, Chase and Allie had waited and watched through the leaves as the Coast Guard helicopter passed directly overhead, tensely waiting until it was well on its way toward Punta Rassa Point before venturing out from their concealment.

  Around the southern tip of Pine Island, turning north, heading to North Captiva Island was a good thirty miles. Pine Island Sound, the bay between the islands could get choppy at times, like today. Traveling without life jackets, Chase had hoped out loud that they wouldn't run into any Coastguard, Police or Game Warden boats which would give them cause to be confronted. Being a relative novice on a Jet Ski, Karen was not encouraged by the lack of a life jacket, the choppy conditions of the bay, or the sketchy condition of her PWC. Twenty-five to thirty miles an hour, if her gauges could be trusted, was all she could manage under present conditions. She watched how Chase handled his machine and wished she had that much confidence in her abilities. Under different circumstances, very different, she'd probably be enjoying herself.

  Reflecting back on events of the last ten days, Karen reminded herself she still needed to press Chase for answers. There had been no real opportunity for discussion or explanation. She was lost as to a reason why any of this could really be happening. It seemed like something out of an action movie and she was an unwilling participant. She just wanted to go home, she wanted her life back. She wanted Pam back. Pam. Her heart ached, her throat caught and she had to blink away the wetness around her eyes. Chase was not a criminal... at least she didn't get a sense of that. There had to be a reasonably sensible answer to all of this...

  Karen suddenly realized Chase's PWC was gradually pulling away and she was having to add throttle to keep up. Except she couldn't. Her engine seemed to be working harder than it should, the hull wallowing. She was sinking.

  “CHAAAAASE!!”

  Allie woofed and strained to look back around Chase. He caught her cue and after failing to locate Karen in his mirrors, whipped his head around to see her waving wildly, her Jet Ski sitting low in the water, still under power, but just barely. “Hold on dog.” He turned into the waves and waited until he was over the crest before goosing the throttle, hard. The PWC leapt out of the water, the German Shepherd clutching the seat with her nails as they pounded across the top of the chop like riding a horse at full gallop.

  Chase cut the throttle early, his momentum sliding him past her, using the throttle to slingshot up next to her on the opposite side. “Pass me the bag!”

  “What about me?” she asked, pulling the backpack off her handlebars.

  “You can swim, the bag can't. Give it to me!” He reached out, trying to maintain control of his machine.

  “Oh, nice,” she snipped, reaching out to hand him the backpack with both hands. “Good to know where your priorities lie.” Her engine puttered to a stop with a cough and Chase, still under power, idled away. “Hey, wait!”

  Chase recognized the stress and fear in her voice, “Relax, I'm not going to leave you.” He throttled the Jet S
ki around in a circle, slowly passing her head-on, the machines bobbing opposite each other in the water. “Careful, don't tip us...” His small laptop backpack slung across his shoulders, he directed her to grab onto the straps as soon as she slid onto the seat. As Chase applied throttle to steady the PWC, Karen had to hold on tight to keep from sliding off the back, her face pressed against the heavy fabric of the flat backpack. They circled once around Karen's sinking machine, the nose barely protruding from the water's surface, bobbing in the waves. “Somehow, I don't think my insurance is going to cover that...”

  ■ ■ ■

  North Captiva Island has no connection to the mainland. You can get there by boat, water taxi or the small airstrip on the island. Vehicles on the island are limited to scooters, dirt bikes and electric carts. With a small residential population, most people on Captiva are vacation visitors, attracted to the chilled, unconcerned, disconnected and laid back island life. If Chase and Karen could avoid more than passing contact, they should be able to stay long enough to make adequate plans. An unoccupied rental or an empty residence would be a perfect recipe for being anonymous, away from prying eyes and nosy people. But they had to get there first and Chase was losing confidence in his Jet Ski's ability to get them to the populated end of the island, obviously laboring, over capacity and somehow damaged. He angled toward Foster Bay and the narrowest part of the island, nursing the machine along, the engine sputtering and belching.

  ■ ■ ■

  When Chase nosed the Jet Ski up on the sand and turned the key off, the engine sighed as it puttered down. “I think this one's done too...” he grumbled. Allie jumped down, happy to be off the machine on solid ground to stretch her legs.