Wood's Wall

by Steven Becker

  Trufante waved his bandaged finger at him. “Respect.” With that, Trufante and Jeff walked out, picking up the speargun and gaff on the way.

  ***

  “Well?” Pete asked, anxious to know what had happened.

  “Hurry! Get out of here before he changes his mind.” Trufante yelled. He went forward to untie the line.

  Pete quickly put the boat in reverse, not waiting for Trufante’s signal. He heard a scream as Trufante’s finger caught in the knot as he backed. Seconds later the cleat tore from the rotting dock. He steered the boat towards the channel.

  “OK. We’re clear. So what happened?” Pete asked.

  “I’ll tell you on the way. We go back to your place, grab a vehicle, and head to Key West. He’s going to make the trade there.”

  “You really going to trust that piece of shit?” Jeff asked.

  “Hell no, but down there we got a couple of things going for us. It’s better to meet in a crowded neighborhood than this place,” he waved his finger at the yard. Hopefully the drive will calm him down and he’ll just make the exchange.”“What about the coke?”

  “Bonus if it works out, but let’s focus on getting the women.” Trufante said.

  ***

  The twelve-seat propeller plane touched down at Key West International and taxied to a stop. The pilot cut the port engine and signaled for the flight attendant to drop the door. Mist sprayed from the AC vents as the conditioned air met the humid night. The passengers rose, jockeying for position to exit, all wanting to be the first to hit Duval Street and start their vacations.

  Garcia waited in his seat for the aisle to clear, then rose and exited the craft, thanking the flight attendant and pilot on his way out the door. He followed the rest of the passengers into the terminal, then went straight for the exit. A black SUV pulled up, slowing slightly as he opened the door and hopped in.

  “Thanks, man, owe you one,” he said to the driver.

  “Good to see you again,” the driver answered.

  “Were you able to bring the laptop?”

  “You got it.” He nodded over his shoulder at the briefcase in the back seat. “A FISA warrant opens all the doors. Who are we after?” the local FBI agent asked.

  “Some guy name of Mac Travis. They’re thinking he’s tied up in some terrorist action, with some Mexicans. Ask me, it looks like smuggling, but who am I to question?”

  “You got that right, brother.”

  Garcia reached for the briefcase and opened it on his lap. The military-grade laptop inside whirled to life, and he started pecking out commands as the SUV left the airport and headed onto US1.

  36

  Mel and Jules rummaged through the kitchen cabinets, assembling enough ingredients to make a meal while Jose sat at the bar, his gun resting on the counter. She was glad Cesar had left - and the crazy factor with him. Jose seemed much calmer without his boss breathing down his neck.

  “You know, you let us walk, I’ll cut a deal for you. No jail. Maybe probation.” Jules gave her best pitch.

  Jose just nodded. He rarely talked, and she wondered if it was a language thing. “Usted sabe, usted nos deja caminar, voy a hacer un trato para usted. No la cárcel. Tal vez la libertad condicional.” His look remained the same.

  “No use. He understands. Actually pretty smart not to talk to us.” Jules said.

  Jose remained seated, drinking from a bottle of water.

  This was their best chance to escape. The Middle Eastern man and Cesar had left. They couldn’t overpower Jose, but there might be another way. Jules brushed up against her, trying to get her attention. “Keep him busy. I’ve got an idea.”

  Mel nodded, and Jules turned to Jose. “El bano, por favor.”

  Jose nodded to Jules, allowing permission. There were two bathrooms near the kitchen. She chose the powder room off the living room, hoping it would have a window visible from the street. Once inside, she turned on the light and checked the window. It slid up, revealing the handle on the hurricane shutter. She gently eased the shutter open, jumping as it creaked in its track. Escaping by herself was not really an option, as it might cost Mel her life, but this could be their way out. She looked for something to block the light under the door, but the towels were all small hand towels, the drapes translucent. It took her a long minute to realize that she was standing on a rug that would work. She moved aside, rolled it up, and pushed it against the door. It was more rigid than she had hoped, but she had no options.

  Hoping Mel would buy her some time, she started flicking the light switch. The chances of anyone seeing her were minimal, but she had to try. Dot - Dot - Dot - Dash - Dash - Dash - Dot - Dot - Dot. She repeated the Morse code distress signal over and over, trying not to rush.

  Then the butt of the gun struck the door, and she knew her time was up. “Just a second!” she called out. She turned off the light, set the rug back in place, then closed the shutter and window. One last look around to make sure the room looked the same, and she exhaled and opened the door.

  Jose lowered the gun as she slithered her way around him, doing her best to look natural. He looked in the room and turned to her.

  “Mujeres,” was all he said.

  ***

  The lobby of the sheriff’s office was empty as well, the desk behind the plexiglass barrier vacant. Mac called out for help and started to pace the floor. He was about to yell out again when a woman appeared.

  “Can I help you?” she asked through the speaker phone.

  “Yeah. Name’s Mac Travis. You’re missing your sheriff and she’s with my girlfriend.”

  The woman glanced at him, her face registering understanding, and he knew he had her. “Hold on, I’ll buzz you through,” she muttered.

  Mac grabbed the handle and met resistance until the buzzer went off. He entered the working part of the station, which was as deserted as the front, and glanced around. “This place looks like a ghost town.”

  “They’re all out looking for the sheriff. I’m Heather. I do the crime scene stuff here when they have something for me.” She looked at Mac again. “Coffee?”

  “That’d be great, but I need some help. Quickly. Can you find a deputy for me?” Mac said.

  “I’m all you’ve got. Jules is my friend, though, and if she’s in trouble I’ll do anything to find her.”

  “Crime scene stuff? You know how to track cell phones?” He asked. His computer had stopped tracking as soon as the WiFi signal from his house was lost. With nowhere else to turn he had come here.

  “I can do that. You need a court order for that, though.”

  “What if it’s mine?”

  “That’s different. I need some information from the phone, though. If you don’t have it, I can’t set it up in the computer.”

  “I’ve got a program on my laptop that can find it. I’ve lost it enough to install the tracking software.”

  “How’s finding your phone going to help us?”

  Mac went back over the story as quickly as he could. He made an on-the-spot decision to trust this girl; the look on her face when she mentioned the sheriff being her friend had revealed enough.

  “Where’s the computer?”

  “I’ve got it in the truck outside. I didn’t think about it needing internet to work.”

  She looked skeptical. “You sure this is going to lead to them?”

  “It’s the only thing I,” he paused, “I mean we have to go on.”

  “OK, here’s the deal. I help you do this, I’m with you the whole time. This is important to me personally, as well as professionally. You ditch me, I’m coming back here and calling every number for every local and federal agency that can make your life miserable. Understood?”

  Mac just nodded as he walked out to get the computer.

  37

  Trufante rode shotgun while Jeff drove and Pete leaned over the console from the back seat. He had a plan. But Jeff’s need for revenge and Pete’s waffling made him doubt their abilities. They
were close to the Bahia Honda bridge, on their way south. The car had been quiet so far, but it was clear from Pete’s body language that he had something to say.

  “Dude, you’re fidgeting like a teenage girl before the prom. Got something on your mind, spit it out.” Trufante leaned back and eyed him.

  “I just think we should have some kind of plan. Maybe we should call Homeland Security or the sheriff of something. You two seem more interested in getting the coke than making sure that stuff doesn’t get in the wrong hands. I saw the guy he handed that box to. Definite terrorist.”

  “You’re whining like a girl back there. We can do both,” Jeff said. “We take the guy by surprise and get our coke back. Then we can call the Feds or whatever and leave the plutonium and the other dude for them.”

  “You two are giving me a headache,” Trufante said, cranky now, the pain meds almost fully washed out of his system. “What about the women he’s got for hostages? That’s got to be the first priority. That dude leans a little to the crazy side, if you haven’t noticed.

  “We got to get the coke. Make him pay,” Jeff said.

  “Shut up, I got an idea coming.” He shook his head to clear it, tendrils of hair flying around and almost catching Pete in the face. “OK, here goes. The feds don’t know nothing about the coke or the boom stuff. It’s their deal to handle hostage situations. Maybe we call them in and let the SWAT team clear the house for us. Free the girls, take care of Cesar and anyone else around. Once they have what they want, we move in and find the coke.”

  “Damn, that works for me,” Jeff said.

  “Yeah, I’m ok with that too. What about the bomb stuff?” Pete said.

  “I don’t know, but with Cesar gone we can just hide it or something.” Trufante was thinking big picture, details to follow.

  “Deal, I’m in. What about you guys?” Jeff extended his fist for a three way bump.

  Before their fists hit, a truck loaded with propane tanks pulled off ahead of them. Jeff braked as he saw something rolling towards them. The cylinder was picking up speed, bouncing wildly down the road towards them. Jeff tried to swerve, but the tank caught on the dangling head light, and the car skidded. Within moments, they heard the whoosh of the tank opening up. They had a gas leak directly under their car.

  “Dude, pull over!” Trufante screamed at Jeff.

  “I can’t!” he returned, as he slowed to avoid another driver. Before he could get to the side, the shoulder disappeared as the road narrowed toward the bridge. Oncoming traffic made it impossible to pull onto the other side.

  Instead, he braked. The car slowed, causing the tank’s base to catch in the asphalt. It slid farther under the car. The wires from the broken head light separated and sparked, the 12 volts enough to ignite the air escaping from the tank. The small flare turned to a loud explosion as the flame was sucked into the tank.

  They looked backwards as the tank shot toward the propane truck, fire trailing it like a comet. The car shot forward, propelled by the blast.

  “What do we do?” Pete asked.

  “Forward,” Trufante pointed without a second thought. “I need a goddam beer.”

  ***

  Mac and Heather saw the fire ball erupt from the top of the Seven Mile Bridge. It was still several miles away, and they were untouched by the explosion, but it still made them nervous. He wondered if he was too late, and Mel was in the conflagration.

  “That’s not good,” Heather said from the passenger seat.

  “No, I think we need a change in plans. Even if it didn’t blow the bridge, they’ll close the road for hours.” He pounded the steering wheel, hoping he wasn’t right. With the only road through the Keys closed he needed a backup plan.

  “There’s no other way through. What are we going to do now?” Heather asked.

  “Boat. Only way around this mess.”

  Heather nodded and glanced at the computer screen. “The phone’s still moving. They must be on the other side of it.”

  “Damn!” He knew Trufante had his phone. Figured he has something to do with this, he thought. Relieved that maybe Mel was still safe, Mac pulled off as soon as they hit Duck Key and turned around, facing back toward the bridge. First responders sped by, sirens blaring, and he waited impatiently, then floored the accelerator, the truck sprayed gravel behind it as they headed back toward Marathon.

  Ten minutes later, they pulled into Mac’s driveway. He jumped out of the car and went to the house. “Around back. I gotta grab a few things. I’ll meet you on the boat.”

  Mac entered the house and grabbed two jackets and the other gun from the safe.

  38

  Cesar was clearly agitated, snapping at Jose. He’d almost driven by the shuttered house when he saw the bathroom light blinking. He was looking for a dark, shuttered house. Realizing it was indeed the right house, he pulled over across the street and watched. How could Jose be so stupid? Several cars and a truck drove by as he watched. He pulled into the driveway as soon as the shutter was reinstalled and the room dark.

  He opened the garage and pulled in, hitting the button to close the door before he was even out of the truck. “What the fuck was that?” He stormed into the house.

  “What’re you talking about?” Jose responded.

  “The bathroom. Who was just in there?”

  Jose pointed towards Jules. “What’s the deal?”

  “Oh nothing, you freaking moron. He stared down the women. So, I drive by the house and a light is on. She could have escaped if she wanted. You’re lucky she just tried to send a distress call.” He moved toward Jules. “Don’t think you’re going to get away with that anymore. I’ll watch you myself. Tie them up. Hands behind their backs.”

  Jose went to work on the restraints. He searched the drawers and pantry, coming back with a roll of duct tape.

  “You don’t need to tie us up. What you need to do is let us go. I’m sure there are half a dozen agencies trying to find us already!” Jules said.

  “Put a gag in that one while you’re at it. And the other one, too. I’m tired of listening to them.” Cesar said.

  They left the house, leaving the door unlocked. Cesar got in the drivers seat and watched as Jose pushed the girls into the backseat of the truck. He was impatient, but drove slowly now. It wouldn’t be a good idea to get pulled over for a speeding ticket. The truck pulled out onto US1, heading south. He had to pull over twice before they hit the Seven Mile Bridge, for emergency vehicles. His heart rate increased every time he looked in the rearview mirror and saw the flashing lights coming up behind him. Finally, he realized they were not after him and relaxed. The last group had markings from Islamorada, forty-five minutes away. Whatever was going on, it had to be big.

  The brake lights were visible as they hit the crest of the Seven Mile bridge. The lights stretched from the Bahia Honda Bridge back to Duck Key, and into the night. No headlights were coming in their direction, either — a sure sign that the road was closed.

  “Crap. We need another plan. Look at this shit.” He spun out into the empty oncoming traffic lane, executed a U turn, hitting the curb on the other side rather than using a tamer three-point turn, and sped back toward Marathon.

  “What you got in mind, boss?”

  Cesar ignored him and drove back to the shuttered house. “Get them back in there. Watch everything. They don’t pee without you staring in the bowl.”

  Alone now, he headed back north, an idea forming. He slowed as the airport came into sight on his left. Security lights illuminated the facility, housing mostly small planes. Another emergency vehicle blazed by as he waited to make a left turn into the service entrance. The access road led him to several hangers and he parked behind one, darker than the rest, its security lights out. Exiting the truck, he looked around for anyone watching and circled the building before entering through the open hanger doors. The building was empty. He went back toward where he assumed the bathrooms would be and found a changing room. Hanging on hooks by the d
oor were several jump suits. He quickly put one on, then grabbed a screwdriver and wire cutters from the workbench on his way out to the tarmac.

  His boots were the only thing that were incongruous with a mechanic, but he wasn’t losing them. He’d risk it. Planes were parked side by side, chocks under their wheels, a chain securing each wing to a tie-down secured to the ground. He passed by several small jets, looking for a single-engine craft in which he would be comfortable.

  The Cessna 172 with floats for water landings was just what he had in mind. Parked between two larger planes, it sat in the shadows, and he was able to do a quick visual inspection and remove the tie-downs. The lock popped through the thin sheet metal as soon as the butt of the gun hit the screwdriver. He climbed into the cockpit, searching for a flashlight. Most pilots carried a light in their flight bag, though sometimes a spare was left aboard.

  The access panel removed, he cut the wires, bypassing the simple ignition switch. Power went on and the instruments lit up. A quick calculation assured him that the fuel shown on the gauges was twice what he needed to cross the 45 miles to Key West. Once airborne, the flight would take less than thirty minutes.

  He would have liked to do a complete preflight, the habit ingrained even in smugglers and outlaws, but the quicker he got the bird in the air the better. The magnetos spun and fired the single engine. It sputtered, turned over and caught. He allowed the gauges to settle and pulled into the taxi lane, running lights out, radio off. He would be able to see anyone approaching and have plenty of time to react.

  Marathon, like most small airports, did not have an air traffic tower. The pilots relied on each other, calling in on standardized frequencies to alert other planes of their intentions. He scanned the sky as he pulled onto the runway and made sure the windsock was pointing towards him. No lights were on as he revved the engines and started his takeoff. The plane accelerated down the dark runway, only its shadow visible with its running lights off, and lifted into the air.