“What did you get us into, Chase? Who are these people?”
“I'm sorry guys, I think you were in this from the start. They'll use you to get to me, just like they're using me to get to someone else...” He moved down the dock dragging her by the hand, Pam trailing behind.
“Why don't we just call the police?” breathed Pam, trying to keep up.
“We'll be dead or gone by the time they get here,” replied Chase.
“I don't understand, why..?”
“We don't have time for this discussion...” Chase whispered, slinging the little duffel with his debugging gear and laptop over the handlebars of the first Jet Ski.
The two houses were stormed simultaneously, flash-bangs thumping the night air, the flash illumination seen through the widows. Yelling of voices could be heard and Chase, Pam and Karen flattened themselves on the watercraft ramp between the Jet Skis, doing their best to remain invisible in the darkness. Chase clutched Allie and gently held her muzzle lest she bark. Two figures in black ran between the houses and stopped at the seawall, checking the small yards, patio and water. Seeing nothing, they moved back to the street side.
“Who knows how to drive one of these?” whispered Chase.
“I do,” volunteered Karen.
“Pam, you ride with her, Allie will ride with me. Get on but don't start it until mine's in the water. Leave your lights off...”
“Ok.” Karen hung the backpack over the handlebars so it sat in her lap, swinging her leg over and sliding up onto the seat. Once they were both on, a couple shoves with his feet and the Jet Ski slid nearly silently into the water.
“They're on the dock two houses down...” hissed Karen.
“Stay still.” whispered Chase, frozen in place. He watched, barely able to see their heads as they disappeared between the houses. He tapped the seat and Allie climbed up, laying awkwardly with her rear legs hanging off one side, perched on the foot board. Chase pushed the Jet Ski back, swinging his leg over the seat as it slid into the water, keeping his body low over the German Shepherd. “Go,” he whispered, pushing his start button.
The two PWCs puttered once or twice and sputtered to life, idling quietly, Chase pulling up abreast of Karen. He idled slowly down the channel hoping to remain unnoticed but the sound echoed off the backs of the houses on the quiet canal. He caught the bobbing motion of flashlights out of the corner of his eye coming between the houses and the shouts for them to stop as the men ran out onto the docks. More lights ahead of them appeared between the houses.
“GO! GO! GO!” shouted Chase, squeezing the throttle. “Stay with me!” The Jet Ski leapt forward, coming up out of the water on plane almost instantly. He checked his mirror and Karen was right behind him. That a girl! He couldn't hear over the engine whine but he could see the muzzle flashes and the sprites of water out in front of his Jet Ski. He passed through the sprays of water, docks, boats and mooring posts passing him in a blur. He drifted right to make the left-hand turn into the main channel at speed.
Karen saw the muzzle flashes and the shots hitting the water, weaving, to avoid them, sailing through the spray, slowing down some to maintain control. Pam was holding on with a vice grip with her head buried against Karen's back, screaming. Seeing Chase swing right, Karen thought that's the way they were going, then realizing they were going left. She steered hard and squeezed the throttle, the PWC skidding across the surface of the water before digging in, launching ahead, jetting hard to catch up. The men in black were running around the tip of the block along the seawall, taking shots at them and she did her best to go fast and stay small, crouching as low as she could, docks and houses whizzing past. She weaved hard to avoid a boat sticking out from its dock, missing its exposed outboard motor by inches, the sight of the stainless propeller flashing past her face imprinted in her mind.
Swinging wide through Bimini Basin, Chase felt they were in the clear and slowed down to let Karen catch up. Besides, he didn't know how far they we going to go and they needed to conserve fuel. He knew he could milk a hundred miles out of a tank of gas, but not hot-rodding like that they couldn't.
He flipped on his running lights so she could see him and kept it at a steady thirty miles an hour, well below the sixty to sixty-five miles an hour they were capable of. He checked his mirror to be sure she was staying with him. He couldn't see her face but he was sure she was scared to death. He didn't blame her. He rolled a chart of the islands through his mind's eye but still had no idea where they were going yet.
■ ■ ■
“They're heading for the Casahoochee... Coolahatch... ”
“Caloosahatchee River,” said the driver of the black SUV, stomping on the accelerator, launching the heavy vehicle down the quiet street. “Yeah, I can see that.”
“Turn here! Turn here!” pointed the passenger in the front seat. “Take this all the way to El Dorado!”
The driver wrestled the SUV around the corner, tires wailing, the SUV behind him racing to keep up. At the end of a two block stretch the driver had to brake hard and navigate another corner, smoke coming off the complaining tires. “Fuck it doesn't connect... Gotta cut over another street,” he grunted. The black SUV behind them didn't brake hard enough and slid up on the grass of the house at the end of the block, plowing up the lawn, a shower of grass and mud splattering the house as its driver fishtailed the truck across three lawns and the sidewalk to catch up, barely missing the cars parked in the driveways.
“Where the hell are you going?” crackled a voice over the radio.
Sitting in the passenger seat of the first SUV, Doug Mooreland grabbed the mic. “To El Dorado. We can take the parkway all the way to the bridge and cut them off at the bridge...”
“What bridge, Doug?”
Doug keyed the mic, “The bridge from East El Dorado Parkway to West El Dorado Parkway... where it crosses over the canal.” He shook his head. “Dumbass,” he muttered.
“Doug, there's no bridge.”
“Bullshit. What connects East and West then?”
“Nothing...” came the reply. “They're not connected.”
“Then how the fuck do you get to the other side?” demanded Mooreland.
“You have to take Coronado out to Cape Coral Parkway and go all the way around...”
“Son of a bitch!” Doug threw the mic against the dash, “We passed Coronado a half a mile back.”
Mooreland wanted to know how the RFID ended up heading north when Holt had ended up back here. He had been so sure if he stranded Holt, he would reach out, connect with whomever could help him most. Dan Murphy. He wanted to catch the group together. He wanted that equipment, he just didn't know who had it. Maybe the neighbor girls had it. It would make sense considering he came right back here. He knew if he could find that alien transmitter he could lure Steele back to Earth.
■ ■ ■
Running in close formation, Chase felt comfortable turning his running lights back off. Allie was watching over the handle bars as they made the last turn in the canal toward the river. Once they hit the open river nobody would be able to track them. At least not easily. But where to go? There were plenty of marinas, fuel wouldn't be a problem. He wanted something secluded, removed from vehicle traffic. Maybe North Captiva for a few days till things cooled down. Hell there were any number of islands with little or no habitation. He was hoping they might find an empty house, something that wasn't lived in year-round. He was getting ahead of himself... One thing at a time, they needed to get out to the river first. There was little if any moonlight and Chase was staying in the middle of the channel, guided by the lights of the houses and the docks lining the water.
It was the moving shadows along the seawall blocking out those lights that caught his eye. “Hold on Allie!” He squeezed the throttle all the way in, a straight shot to the river. The Jet Ski launched, the engine screaming and when he checked his rear view mirrors all he could see was the giant rooster tail his craft was making. Cmon, girls!
/> The flashes lined the seawall, men running along it, rounds splashing the water around him. He couldn't hear a thing except for the scream of the engine and the gale force wind ripping past his ears. He lay down across the Shepherd, his chin on her head. When he glanced down at the gauges, he was hovering just below seventy on the glassy surface of the canal, dock posts whipping past like fence posts. Dammit, he hadn't thought about them taking El Dorado all the way to the end like that. But in a few short seconds he was clear, the docks, cabanas and moored boats blocking their lines of sight. The opening into Redfish Cove and the Caloosahatchee River never looked so good. He eased off the throttle, looking for Karen, his rooster tail dropping as he slowed down. She wasn't far behind him and he had to speed up to keep her from over-running him. He waved her to the right toward the Gulf of Mexico and they followed the sweeping curve paralleling the shoals of Glover Bight.
Nearly a mile wide at this point, the breeze kicked up a little chop on the river. When Karen waved back at him he slowed down waving her closer. “What's wrong?”
“Where are we going?”
“Some place we can beach these things and rest for the night.”
“I think there's something wrong...”
Chase let go of the throttle altogether, steering gently towards Karen's PWC to get closer. “Sounds like it's running OK,” he gestured to the other Jet Ski.
“No, Pam. She won't answer me.”
“She's probably scared to death... Pam!” hollered Chase. “Pam!” He shrugged, squinting in the dark, I can't see anything, maybe she fainted. Is she holding on?”
“Yeah,” nodded Karen.
“Might be like battlefield shock. I've seen guys freeze up. We'll go over to the back of Captiva and beach over there for the night. You OK?”
“Depends on what you call OK...”
■ ■ ■
Chase coasted in to the beach and let the nose of the Jet Ski nudge the sand. One extra goose on the throttle to push it a little further up and he shut it off. “Ok, Allie,” he sat back and took his weight off her. She got up stiffly and jumped off onto the beach, stretching, wandering off to explore. Chase waved Karen in, “Just let it coast.” He reached down and caught the nose. “Ok, shut it off.” He pulled on it to secure it a little higher on the sand. “Ok climb off...” he said, opening the hatch on the nose. He reached in and pushing other gear aside, pulled out a small anchor with some line.
Karen looked over her shoulder, “Pam, you can let go now, we're safe...” she looked over at Chase in the darkness. “She still won't let go.”
Chase dropped the anchor in the sand and sloshed over in the water. Her arms wrapped around Karen's waist, he grabbed Pam's hand and had to pry her fingers off her other wrist, her hands ice cold. It sent a spike of fear up his spine and he touched her face, her skin cold. It was more than eighty degrees outside, she shouldn't be that cold. He dug the small flashlight out of the cargo pocket of his shorts and turned it on, putting it in his mouth so his hands were free. He released Karen from Pam's death grip and picked her lifeless form off the Jet Ski, carrying her to the sand. He could feel the sticky slickness on her back and side as he laid her down, Karen standing there, mute.
Chase examined her closely, she had been hit twice in the lower back and once in the side about three inches below her armpit. She had saved Karen's life. “I'm sorry,” was all he could think of to say. “She's... gone...”
Karen wailed and sank to her knees in the sand, burying her face on Pam's prostrate form, sobbing heavily. Allie trotted over and lay down next to her, doing her best to be comforting, nuzzling her hand.
Karen and Pam had been friends since grade school, pretty much inseparable as best friends. Anyone who didn't know them would have assumed they were lovers, when the truth was they were better described as twins from different mothers. Chase had known them for the better part of fifteen years, since high school. Karen was the athletic one, competing on the swim team and running track, while Pam who could have easily passed for a cheerleader, was the bookworm. Chase was heartbroken, he loved them both dearly. Probably even more than Penny... because, well, Penny was new in his life, he had a long -term connection to Karen and Pam. Now he had lost three important people in his life, two within the span of a week. And as far as he could tell, to the same evil.
■ ■ ■
Sheriff Frank Naywood was not a happy man, by any stretch of the imagination. Cape Coral Police and his Sheriffs had missed the carnage by mere minutes as it spread through the neighborhoods between Bimini Basin and Redfish Cove. Property damage was widespread; cars, boats, houses, broken windows... The minor consolation was no injuries were reported. Detectives and CSI teams were combing the entire area for evidence, having a good portion of the block cordoned off with crime tape, from the house where the two girls lived all the way down to the end of the street.
Standing in Chase Holt's driveway, Naywood greeted the man getting out of the black Crown Victoria, his hand out, the two man shaking briefly. Frank Naywood...”
“Phil Cooper, FBI. Looks like you're a little busy tonight...”
“Understatement of the year, Mr. Cooper. We have empty brass casings from the house behind me all the way to the end of the street along the seawall.”
“9mm, I'm guessing. Sounds like they were trying to stop a boat?”
“Jet skis, plural. I think the two girls who lived next door got swept into this whole mess...”
Phil Cooper pursed his lips. “My guys briefed me about Holt. I understand you have a Deputy at large somewhere that fell off the radar too?”
Naywood nodded. “Dan Murphy...”
Cooper casually stuffed his hands in his pockets, “Mmm, husband of the dead newscaster, right?”
“That's right.”
“How about Holt's girlfriend?” Cooper's head tilted to one side.
“She's OK, we have her in protective custody.”
“Does he know that? Holt, I mean.”
“No, Holt's been missing for about a week, we've had no contact with him... well until tonight,” motioned the Sheriff. “We're guessing he came back. Not sure how it involves the neighbor girls yet.”
“Hmm, exponential expansion. Let me tell you a little story Sheriff,” began Phil Cooper, leaning in. He reached into his suit jacket and withdrew a pack of cigarettes. “Do you mind?” he motioned.
“No,” waved Naywood, “go ahead.”
Cooper tapped the pack, and pulled out the tallest one. Lighting it, he inhaled deeply. “I'm trying to quit, but I never know what to do with my hands...”
“The story?” prompted Naywood, a little annoyed.
“This is completely off the record, open to interpretation and may or may not represent the whole truth...” grinned Cooper. “It's not repeatable. Ever. But you need to believe everything I'm going to tell you, understand?”
Naywood sighed, “I get it.”
“Once upon a time, the CIA was running guns to Venezuela by way of Brazil. It was a bid to supply weapons to rebels fighting against Chavez in an attempt to destabilize the government. The White House wanted him out. A man named Jack Steele was the pilot flying that transport. Now, Steele didn't work for the CIA and he had no idea he was being used, he was just a pilot. Someone tried to steal that plane and bless his heart he wasn't about to let that happen. Cop skills. The Kid's a serious boy scout. Did I mention he used to be a cop? Yeah it runs in his family.” Cooper took a draw on the cigarette before continuing, the smoke expelling as he talked. “Well it started a whole incident... especially when his plane disappeared over a corner of the Bermuda Triangle with two navy fighters in hot pursuit. They disappeared too.”
Naywood rolled his eyes and Cooper caught him. “It gets better, Sheriff. And I'm telling you, it only gets farther out there. But believe me, you can't make this stuff up. Everybody's looking for this Steele kid; FBI, CIA, Military Intelligence, KGB...”
“KGB?”
Cooper smirked, “
Yeah. But that's not important. At least not right now. See, the Steele kid comes back a year after he disappears and I get a call from his folks, I know them pretty well. When he comes back a little hell breaks loose, after which I get to actually meet him.” The Agent's face changed to one of contemplation, “Interesting kid. He's definitely got a strong command presence...”
“Did you put him in custody?” asked Naywood, wondering how this all tied together.
“No, that wasn't going to happen. Because we want the technology he has at his disposal and the Bureau figured to make nice to get it...”
“What kind of technology?”
Phil Cooper exhaled a cloud of smoke and looked up at the sky. “The kind that you get from out there...”
Naywood didn't know whether to laugh or take him seriously.
“But the Bureau wanted proof,” continued Cooper. “So, the kid showed it to me...”
“What kind of proof?” interrupted Naywood.
“Concrete proof. We'll leave it at that.”
“Like what?”
Cooper sighed, “You wouldn't believe me if I told you.”
“Try me. What, did you see a ship or something?”
Cooper's jaw muscles flexed while he was deciding how much to tell Naywood. “Nah, I didn't see a ship. I visited a ship.”
Sheriff Naywood stared at him blankly, looking for deception in the FBI agent's face. He saw none. “You're not kidding...” his voice trailed off to a whisper.
“No I'm not. It was an angels singing, shaft of light from heaven, life-changing event.” He paused for a moment, neither man speaking. “So... I got the FBI to back off and play nice. The CIA got in hot water, facing a Congressional investigation to explain why they were pursuing an American citizen inside our borders. Basically they got a slap on the wrist for being in a pissing match with the Bureau and not letting us handle it.”
“So how did the NSA get involved?”
“They saw the data from NASA and DARPA during his visit and basically went nuts that they hadn't been included in something they'd decided was a national security concern. Well, the Steele kid left a gizmo behind for his family to stay in contact with him and...”
Wings of Steele: Revenge and Retribution Page 10