by James Hunt
Demetri laughed, shaking his head. He handed the key to one of his men, who opened the cooler, stacked the wrapped bricks of cocaine into his arms, and passed it to the others. Another one of Demetri’s henchmen gave him a small bag, then he extended it to Cooper. “Just have enough respect to wait and count it until after I’m gone.”
“Just make sure I don’t have to come looking for you after I do.” Cooper opened the bag and thumbed the thick stacks of hundreds inside. Money always had a distinct smell, like a crisp piece of paper that had been baked in the sun for too long and left out to dry. She zipped the bag back up and headed over to her car, with Demetri and his crew in tow.
“I look forward to working with you in the future,” Demetri said, his crew piling the cocaine into his trunk. “We’re going to make a lot of money together.”
The graveled parking lot came alive with sirens, lights, and police vehicles as they were surrounded with at least thirty officers. Cooper, Demetri, and his men removed their pistols, firing into the police, retreating to the docks.
Cooper’s feet smacked against the wooden planks of the boat dock. The water echoed the gunshots across the bay. She aimed her pistol into the clustered group of officers bottlenecking themselves at the front of the dock. Gunshots fired back and forth, and one of Demetri’s men caught a bullet in the back and collapsed to the dock before they made it to the boat that had stored the cocaine. The vessel rocked as the four of them climbed on board.
“What the hell did you do?” Demetri roared, gripping Cooper’s neck and squeezing.
Cooper ripped Demtri’s hands off her and shoved him back. “You told me the feds weren’t watching you anymore!” She fired down the long dock, her bullets splintering the wooden pillars the officers tried hiding behind. The pistol’s slide rocked back, signaling the magazine was empty. She ducked back into the cover of the boat and reloaded.
Demetri’s henchmen fired while their boss hung back, close to the boat’s console. He searched frantically, trying to figure out how to start the engine. “Where are the keys?”
Cooper padded her pockets. “Shit! I left them at the car.”
Demetri turned on her as gunfire blasted their eardrums. “How the hell are we supposed to get out of here, then?”
“I don’t suppose you can swim, can you?” Cooper peeked above the edge of the hull’s wall and saw that the officers had marched more than halfway down the dock. They were overrun, outgunned, and running out of time. “I’m not going to jail.” She jumped from the boat and onto the dock, firing wildly into the authorities.
A bullet connected to her stomach, and a gush of blood erupted from her shirt. She stumbled to her knee and continued to fire, clutching her abdomen. The pistol’s magazine emptied, and another bullet impacted her chest, triggering another spat of blood, and she collapsed to her back. She lay there, her arms and legs twisted as she watched the faces of the officers circle above her then march their way down the rest of the dock.
Cooper lay there, motionless on the splintered docks, her eyes closed, listening to the battle between the police and Demetri’s men. She lost track of time as she lay there, and wasn’t exactly sure when the gunfire stopped, but she was suddenly aware of being lifted up and onto a stretcher and carried down the dock.
The paramedics slid her inside the ambulance, where she was greeted by two officers in DEA jackets. The medics closed the doors, and she felt the ambulance lurch forward.
“You got a lot of balls,” the DEA agent said.
Blood still covered her chest and stomach. Agent Cooper propped herself up on her elbows and eyeballed the two of them. “Had to make it convincing.” She slid her hand down her shirt and yanked out two small pouches of torn blood packs and slung them on the floor. She gently pressed down where the rubber bullets had bruised her flesh. “Damn, those things hurt.”
Agent Diaz tossed her a jacket, and she took off her bloody shirt and exchanged it for the jumpsuit. “Worth it, though. There’s enough cocaine to put Demetri away for a long time.”
Cooper zipped up her jacket and pinned her badge on the belt of her pants. “Good to finally have that back. Hey!” She shouted up toward the driver. “Take us back around to the surveillance vans. I want to see the bastards in cuffs.”
“Coop, that’s probably not a good idea,” Diaz said as the ambulance made a wide-sweeping turn. “You want to keep your distance for a while, and the boss wants a debrief ASAP.”
“I’m not going to get out and talk to them,” Cooper answered. “I just want to see the reward of four months’ worth of work.” She positioned herself just next to the window as the ambulance pulled back onto the harbor. Only Demetri and one of his henchmen walked out alive. She couldn’t help but grin as the officer pushed Demetri’s head down and locked him up in the vehicle. Cooper leaned back against the ambulance’s wall. “He was never anything more than a wannabe.”
“His father will do whatever he can to break him out,” Diaz said. “Despite their prickly relationship.”
“Well, tell him good luck. The Shoscovs don’t have the power they used to. We’re slowly cutting off their money, and without that, they won’t be able to hide behind their expensive lawyers or their concrete walls and security systems.”
“They won’t be able to weasel their way out of this one. It’s cut-and-dry. The coke was real, you’re dead, and they exchanged hands. This was foolproof.”
“A lot of things are supposed to be foolproof.” Cooper rubbed the tender flesh on her chest where the blood packs had detonated, and once the officers carrying Demetri and his henchmen disappeared, she climbed out of the van and joined the remaining DEA agents tagging evidence.
Glances and hushed whispers followed Cooper as she made her way through the crime scene. She felt each eye drill into the back of her head like a laser. She rolled her shoulders, uncomfortable from the attention. She made her way down the dock, passing the bloodstains on the wood where she’d been hit. Two coroners were wrapping up one of the dead henchmen by the boat, but Cooper kept walking until she ran out of dock.
The horizon was nothing but black and water. Waves lapped against the dock pillars, and Cooper closed her eyes to smell the salt air, but the only scent that grazed her nostrils was bird shit. When Diaz walked up behind her, he offered a light smile, which Cooper didn’t return. “Somebody know something I don’t?”
Diaz let out a sigh. “You’ve been undercover for a long time, Coop. When you go under that long, rumors start. It’ll blow over in a couple of weeks, once you get back into the routine.”
Cooper scoffed. “Seven years with the department, and they think I’m dirty? Why? Because some prick dropped a tip that I was dealing on the side. It’s bullshit.”
“And the bullshit will clear,” Diaz replied. “I know you’re not dirty.”
“Yeah, well, you might be the only one.” It wasn’t a secret that Cooper had been in more undercover operations than any other DEA agent in history, and along with those long stints came a reputation. A reputation that maybe she’d sunk herself too deep, let herself go in too much. Even she had to admit, it was a rush, living in the underworld that most people never see. Never knowing what would hit you. Maybe she had been under too long.
***
The office was small but adequate space for Homeland Deputy Director Richard Perry’s needs. The stapler, pens, and computer monitor on his desk were lined up in an organized grid, everything in its proper place. The walls and shelves were bare of any personal effects. No pictures of family or friends. Nothing.
Despite the small collar and tie, Perry’s thin neck wiggled loosely against the stiff collar. His jacket hung on the back of his chair, the American flag pinned to the lapel. His bony fingers typed along the keyboard, crawling like an insect over a larger foe. The cuffs of his long-sleeved shirt had crept up his forearms, exposing flesh that looked cracked and flaky. He quickly pulled them back down to his wrists.
The only light in the ha
llway was emitted from his office. The rest of the staff had gone home long ago, leaving Perry alone to burn the midnight oil. He finished up a few details on his report, spell-checked it, then sent it to his superior. He checked his watch and waited, looking at the phone on his desk. A few seconds later, and it rang. “Director, what can I help you with?”
“Perry, is this some sort of joke?”
Perry rose from his chair. Even when he stood, his body seemed twisted, and his legs and arms seemed too long for the rest of his body. He stepped around the desk, walking to the window to shut the blinds, a habit he went through even when no one was around. “No, sir, I’m afraid it’s not.”
“If this gets out, and we’re wrong... Christ, if we’re right, this could cause a national emergency.”
Perry nodded his head, making his way back to his desk. “Yes, sir. That’s why I wanted to bring it to you directly. Keeping this out of the public eye will be important.”
“We’ll need to bring in the Secretary of the Navy on this, make sure the West Coast is prepared.”
“I already have a proposal in your inbox, sir.”
The director gave a light laugh on the other end of the line. “I’ve never met anyone that made my job so easy and hard at the same time. I’ve set up a meeting for first thing this morning at 8:00 a.m. It’ll be on the second-floor conference room.”
“I’ll be there, sir.” The call clicked dead, and Perry set the phone down. He checked the time on the wall and pulled out a cell phone. He dialed a contact labeled “unknown” and waited as it rang. A few seconds later, an older voice picked up, and Perry spoke in a calm whisper. “Is it done?”
“Landing will happen before sunrise.”
Perry snapped the cell shut then stuffed it into his pocket. He grabbed his forearm. Even under the cloth of his shirt, he felt the bumps and grooves that tattooed his skin. Soon.
Chapter 3 – Saturday 2:00 a.m.
With the bandana tied around his eyes, blocking his vision, all Dylan had to rely on was what he heard and felt. The pirate’s gibberish and the heavy clunk of crates and boots across the ship’s deck. The side of his face still felt tender from the hit, and the temperature of the air had dropped dramatically, letting him know the sun had long since sunk beneath the horizon. His shoulders felt tight, and his back was rigid. The restraints around his ankles and wrists were bound together, and his knees had gone numb from sitting on them for the past few hours.
The adrenaline had long run out of him, along with the mixture of grief, fear, and anger that went with it. All he could do was sit there while the image of Tank’s face plagued his thoughts until his mind was soaked with the blood that had poured out of his crewman. He’d only known the boy for a few weeks, but despite Mark’s flogging that he was worthless, Tank caught on quick.
When Dylan watched Tank from the wheelhouse, he would catch a smile creep up the side of his face when he was chumming bait or stowing a line. The boy loved the water. But when the images replayed in his mind, a hole would appear in Tank’s left cheek, and blood would spout from it and onto the deck, and his body was tossed overboard. His family and friends couldn’t even bury him.
Mark, Billy, and Dylan had remained silent during their imprisonment. None of them were willing to risk the beating or bullet they knew would come if they spoke. Even Mark’s mouth yielded after a round of thrashing from the pirates.
The dialogue between their captors suddenly turned heated. While they still spoke in their foreign tongue, Dylan knew something was wrong. The words reached a crescendo when a hand yanked off the blindfold. Dylan blinked repeatedly, his eyes adjusting to the moonlight. He looked to his left and saw that Mark and Billy were both still tied up and blindfolded. The pirate who had taken the blindfold off him dropped a map in front of him with scribbling all over it.
Dylan unfurled the map in his hands, and under moonlight he saw a circle around a small stretch of land just south of Boston on the coast. Dylan tossed the map back at the feet of the pirate. “I’m not taking you anywhere.” A right cross connected to Dylan’s face, and he stumbled from his knees to his side, bumping into Mark, who fell with him. The pirate fisted a clump of Dylan’s hair and yanked his head back, exposing his neck to the blade in his hand. Dylan felt the cold steel just below his Adam’s apple. “Go ahead. Do it.”
The head pirate looked at him and smiled. “Captain Dylan, it seems like you’re finally understanding what we’re trying to do.” He crouched down and met him at eye level. “It’s a place here.” The pirate pressed his forefinger into Dylan’s chest, hard, until it pulsed in and out with the beat of Dylan’s heart. “The mind makes us believe that it’s the one in control, but it’s the heart that fuels our desires, our fantasies, and our revenge.”
“Whatever you’re doing. Whatever you’re planning. I won’t have any part of it.”
“That’s because you lack the proper incentive.” The pirate smiled and pulled out a small square of faded paper, and when he flipped it around and placed it in front of Dylan for him to see the faces of his children, Dylan lunged for him but was too slow, and the side of a pistol smacked into the back of his head. “Our GPS is no longer functional. You will take us to the coordinates on the map, and if you don’t, then I will kill your children myself.”
The pirate dropped the picture, and it twirled in a spiral to the deck. Dylan retrieved it from a small puddle and wiped the photograph on his shirt, drying its worn and faded edges. He gently rubbed his thumb over their faces then tucked the picture safely into his pocket as the pirate who’d held the knife to his neck shoved him violently.
Dylan jumped to his feet and gave a forceful shove back. The pirate raised his pistol, but before it escalated any further, the head pirate spoke in their foreign tongue and then untied Mark and Billy’s restraints, taking their blindfolds off.
“You two all right?” Dylan asked.
“Yeah,” Mark answered. Billy simply nodded, eyeing the bloodstain on the deck where Tank had been shot. Dylan handed Mark the map as the three reboarded their ship, now heavy with four pirates and whatever else the pirates had stored below deck while they were tied up.
While Mark and Billy untied the ropes from the cleat connecting the two vessels, the pirates exchanged their pistols for AK-47s, and each of those barrels was aimed at one of them at all times. The lead pirate joined Dylan in the wheelhouse, and once the distressed vessel was behind them, both Billy and Mark were sent below deck with their guards.
“How long?” the pirate asked.
“We should get there before morning,” Dylan answered, although he was in no hurry.
“It needs to be before sunrise.”
“I can’t make any promises.”
“Then neither can I.” The tone was threatening, as it was meant to be. “Turn the lights off,” the pirate demanded.
“There’s a lot of traffic out here. If I can’t see anyone, and they can’t see me, that’ll do more harm than good.”
“No. Lights.”
Dylan flicked off the bow and stern lighting, sending the ship into darkness, with the exception of the moon and stars above. Even the cabin lights were off. “I can’t get us to the destination if I can’t see the map.”
The pirate turned on a flashlight and shone it over the nautical gear then flashed it off. “Just keep us on course.”
The hours that passed felt more like days. Above, clouds flashed lightning, and it danced across the sky. Dylan remembered the weather forecast from earlier. The projections had them missing the storm, but if an alert had come through while he was blindfolded, he would have missed it. A light rumble accompanied the flashes of hot light in the clouds, and Dylan heard the pirate shift uneasily behind him. For the first time in his nautical career, Dylan found himself wishing for rain.
Thunder boomed and lightning clashed the closer they moved toward the shoreline. The first few drops of rain splattered against the windshield, and the bow rose up the side of swells an
d then sped down the opposite slope. Waves crashed over the front of the boat as the wind picked up and howled. “You need to let my crew tie down the gear.” Dylan gripped the wheel hard as the rain thickened.
“No, they stay where they are,” the pirate answered, the resolution in his voice refusing to break.
Another bolt of lightning and crash of thunder sounded simultaneously as Dylan steered the boat into the wall of water careening toward them. The force of the wave sent fishing lines and weights crashing into the windows of the cabin, and with it the water from outside.
The rain whooshed through the broken panes of the cabin’s window and pelted Dylan’s face and the pirate, who finally turned to his men and yelled at them in his native tongue, then looked to Dylan. “If your crew tries anything, I will kill them.”
Dylan examined the dripping pistol in the pirate’s hand. He shouted through the window to Mark and Billy below. “Stow the lines and put out the anchors!” But before he could even finish his words, Mark was already barking at Billy to do just that. The two men hurried around the ship, doing their best to stay upright in the howling wind and rocking waves of the storm.
The engine of the boat whined and strained to follow Dylan’s commands, but the captain willed the boat forward, pushing it beyond its limits. Mark finally lowered the anchors on either side of the ship, giving the vessel some stability. The Wave Cutter charged through the storm, and Dylan fought to keep them on course.
The storm clouds had blocked out the moon and stars, and all Dylan could see in front of him was blackness with the lightning from above flashing, occasionally illuminating their path. “I need to turn the spotlight on.”