“You don’t need me here. Let Heather and I go to the site and check it out.” This was too close to home for her to trust the bumbling Feds. She new the area and the threat, giving her an advantage.
“OK, stay in touch.”
46
Jules flashed her badge to gain access to the site. Even at five a.m. there was activity. Revelers were staggering by on their way home from the bars, watching as rental trucks lined up, quickly dumping their contents and leaving. The Little White House was the perfect location for the speech. Located on Front Street, just blocks from Duval and many of the resorts, President Truman’s retirement residence had been converted to a museum. The location allowed for most wanting to attend to get there on foot or via bicycle. Selected for it’s size, the space would look like a large crowd, but in fact was small enough to easily control. The time was carefully picked. Friday morning at nine a.m. would eliminate most of the drunks, who would be sleeping off last night. In Key West, especially during Gay Pride Week, you couldn’t tell a Tuesday night from a Saturday night.
She texted Gracia that they were there. Heather used her phone to take pictures until they started getting suspicious glances from the Secret Service. They circled the house, and it quickly became apparent that the most likely place to launch an attack would be from the water. The boat basin’s entry was unprotected, at least for now. Jules hoped that the Navy or Coast Guard would soon block the entrance to casual boaters.
***
Cesar watched with curiosity as the two men assembled the bomb. Although it insulted even his sadistic tendencies, he was still interested. After all, you never knew when you might need to build a nuke. His violence was geared towards individuals who got in his way - not masses of innocents. He looked over at Trufante who was staring at his finger. They were in the garage, warming quickly as the sun hit the metal roof. Patel dumped bags of ball bearings into the barrel with Ibrahim’s help. He went back to the house and returned with a canister surrounded in bubble wrap. This was carefully placed in the center of the barrel and the remaining ball bearings were added around it.
“You think about who’s going to lift that thing?” Cesar spurted.
Patel tried to tip the barrel, but it was too heavy. “You’re right. We need to make it lighter.”
“You got a freaking nuke sitting there! You don’t need shrapnel. Put it on its side and dump it out. Leave some if you want, but that thing’s got to be less than 200 pounds or it’ll capsize the boat. It’ll be hard enough as it is to keep it balanced, and I ain’t driving that mother fucker.” Cesar said.
The four men carefully set the barrel on its side, sweeping the ball bearings out with their hands.
“Now, how are we gonna get this out of here?”
“I’ll be back,” Ibrahim said. “I have a truck rented. The rental place opens at seven.” He glanced at his watch. “Almost time.”
“Better if I go. You’re too suspicious,” Cesar said. “I know the dude at the rental place. Maybe I can get him there earlier. Watch him.” He pointed to Trufante.
Ibrahim opened the garage door and pulled out his scooter. He looked toward Patel, who shook his head no. Ibrahim kicked the starter and pulled onto the street, heading back toward Duval. The streets were empty now, dawn on the horizon. He cruised back to Greene and turned left, heading toward the truck rental.
***
Mel sat on the ground. She leaned back and texted Garcia what was happening in the garage, as relayed by Mac, who was several feet off the ground in a tree, able to see through a window unobscured by a bush. It looked like they were finished with the assembly. Then the garage door opened suddenly, and Ibrahim left on the scooter. Mel sent an update to Garcia, who responded for them to stay with the bomb.
Mac crawled out of the tree and went to Mel. “Maybe we should try and get Trufante out of there now. They’re just waiting.”
“Let me see.” Mel went to the window. She turned back to Mac in shock, “Oh my freakin’ god - that’s Patel. Crap, I knew that guy was bad.”
Mac ignored her. He didn’t care who was in there. His mind was focussed on two things: getting Trufante out and diffusing the bomb. “They’ve got to be paranoid and tired. They’ve been up all night. Maybe we could create a diversion and get him out of there. Stay here, let me see what I can come up with.”
She moved to follow. “I’m going with you.”
“Okay. Follow my lead.”
***
“Tell Garcia we’re coming over.”
Mac peered around the side of the garage. No one in sight, he stepped out quickly, heading away from the house. Mel followed, and they crossed the street together. The truck took them by surprise, barreling down the road way faster than the 15 mph speed limit. It hit a pothole and bounced, but the driver kept going. They stood on the sidewalk and stared, catching the eye of the driver before Mac realized what was happening and dove for cover.
He landed on his shoulder and screamed out in pain. A dog answered, barking as it ran toward them. The dog itself was not a problem, but it would give away their location. The truck braked and stopped in front of the driveway. Cesar ran from the garage towards them. He drew his gun as he approached. The dog led him right to the couple.
“Out of there,” he snapped.
Mac nodded at Mel, who went out first. He looked out of the corner of his eye and saw Garcia walk calmly up to Cesar, gun pointed at his head.
“Drop it, now. Set the gun down and kick it toward me.”
Cesar complied, cursing under his breath.
“Now on your knees.” Garcia was going for a twist tie to hand cuff Cesar when the first bullet struck him in the back. He went down on the asphalt, blood quickly formed a stream leading to the gutter.
Patel emerged from the garage, gun pointed at the group. “Amateurs. All of you inside.”
They left Garcia in the street and walked single file to the garage. “Ibrahim. Back the truck up. Cesar, tie them up. Then drag that body somewhere out of sight.” Patel ordered.
The truck beeped as it backed into the driveway, and the dog continued to bark. The beeping stopped as Ibrahim set the parking brake, and now it was just the dog barking.
Patel calmly crossed the street. One shot and the street was quiet again. “Filthy animals,” he muttered to himself as he crossed back toward the house. He motioned them into the garage with the gun. Trufante was still there sitting in a corner, nursing his finger. “Phones, please. Cesar, get the FBI agent’s when you move him.” They tossed their phones on the floor. Patel removed the batteries, then smashed each with the stock of his gun. Cesar walked back with Garcia’s phone and followed Patel’s lead, his cowboy boot smashing the phone to pieces.
“Now, tie them up, all three of them.” The gun barrel pointed at Mac, Mel and Trufante.
“We need the Cajun.” Cesar said. It’s going to take more than the three of us to move that thing.
47
“Her phone’s off. It’s going straight to voicemail,” Jules said. She set the phone down and started the engine. “We’ve got two hours before this shindig starts. Let’s go get the boat. They’re going to come in by water. I’m not sitting here and waiting for some alphabet agency guy to tell me what to do. This is our home.”
“What about Mel and Mac?” Heather asked.
Jules thought for a minute, “If we don’t stop the bomb, they’re all dead anyway. We need to take care of the big picture. Mac is pretty creative, we’ve got to trust him.”
The SUV pulled out from the curb, and she made the dock in minutes — a drive that would have taken half an hour during any time other than early morning. When they pulled up to the dock, Mac’s boat was bobbing a quarter mile out, swinging on its anchor line, bow toward land with the outgoing tide.
“How are we going to get out there?”
“I have no idea how he got here.” They looked around for transport, anything to get them out there. Heather went out to the dock and saw t
he paddleboard tied by a surf leash under the dock. “That’s how.” She pointed to the board.
“That’s your deal, sister. I’m the golfer in the family.”
Heather sat on the dock and used her feet to maneuver the board parallel with the structure. She’d been on a stand up board before, but the water had been calm. Once situated she sat on the dock and set one foot at a time on the board, got on her knees, and untied the velcro closure that held the leash to the piling. Paddle in hand, she stood and started pulling towards the boat. The water was choppy from the wind now, but the outgoing tide was in her favor, making each stroke count for two. She almost overran the boat, unable to steer in the chop. After a moment of panic her hard strokes on the right turned the board towards Mac’s boat. She got on the dive platform and dragged the board over the transom. The engines started, she raised the anchor, and idled toward the dock.
“Nice work,” Jules said as she hopped over the transom. “You comfortable running this thing?”
“Yeah, if you can navigate.”
Jules used her phone to pull up a Key West map and directed Heather out of the harbor and then west, following the coast until they went under the Fleming Key bridge and headed out to open water They went around a small island and slowed.
“Let’s scout it out for a few and decide what to do here,” Jules muttered. She dialed Mel’s number again, and the voicemail picked up before the phone could ring. “It’s not even ringing. They’re in trouble.”
“We’ve got to prioritize. If this bomb goes off, there’s no saving any of us.”
***
Patel, Ibrahim, Cesar and Trufante were squeezed into the front of the truck. No one spoke as Ibrahim shifted into reverse and pulled out of the driveway, looking at the house for the last time. He’d lingered in the garage taking the diluted radioactive mixture Mac had made and added the shrapnel scattered on the garage floor to an old steel gas can with about a gallon left. He placed the can in a pan, which he had filled with muriatic acid. This second bomb would easily blow the entire block. It would take an hour for the acid to eat through the rusted can, allowing the chemicals to mix, but the beauty of the smaller bomb was that no one would know if there were more or not. Terrorism was at its most effective when people were scared into altering their behavior.
The truck moved slowly down the street, this time obeying the speed limit, Ibrahim swerving to avoid potholes. Even with the drum secured to the side of the truck, if it spilled and dumped its contents, the plan was ruined. Cesar directed them to the marina, where his boat was dry docked. Ten minutes later they pulled into the parking area. There was activity even at this early hour as a steady stream of fishermen prepared their boats and left the basin. Cesar directed the attendant to retrieve his boat. Minutes later, the forklift slid underneath the yellow and red hull of the cigarette boat and lifted it out of the rack. The lift rolled to the dock and set the boat in the water.
“Hurry! Ibrahim, back up the truck. The fewer people who see us load this, the better,” Patel snapped.
“Not a big deal,” Cesar said. “It’s pretty common around here to see folks going out with drums. They don’t know it’s full, or what’s in it. These yahoos will think we’re taking it out empty as a lobster haven. They dump crap out there all the time.” He looked at the two terrorists, “Can you two not look so freakin’ guilty?”
The truck backed up and the four men wrestled the drum off the tailgate. Cesar and Trufante rolled it on its edge down the dock, and waited for Ibrahim and Patel to help lift it onto the boat.
The combined weight of the drum and the four men all in one corner almost swamped the boat. Cesar cringed when the hull scraped against a piling, leaving a yellow steak on the old wood. Once the barrel was loaded, they separated, allowing the boat to regain its equilibrium.
“Start it up. Let’s get out of here,” Patel said.
“This is as far as we go. You said load it, that’s it.”
“Not so fast. We have one more stop to make. You think I am on a suicide mission here? We will be well away when the explosion occurs.” Patel drew his gun and placed it by his leg — out of sight to any onlookers, but visible to Cesar.
They idled out of the marina, then, impatient but careful to stay at idle speed. The last thing they wanted was to attract the attention of nearby boats by creating a wake. The engines were loud, even at an idle, as they wove through the boats and into the channel. Once clear of the last buoy, Cesar pushed the throttle down and the boat lurched forward.
“What are you doing?” Patel yelled over the engines. “Slow down. We hit one wave the wrong way and this will be a suicide mission!”
Cesar slowed to fifteen knots. Too slow to get the boat up on plane, it churned through the water.
“You don’t want to arouse suspicion. Any one looking at this boat going so slow will think either something’s wrong, or an idiot is driving it. We’re sure to attract attention.”
“That gives me an idea,” Ibrahim said. “Here, take the wheel.” Trufante took over the helm as he went back to the engine compartment and lifted the hatch, reaching around in the dark hole to find the oil fill plug. Once removed, the vibration of the engine and action of the waves caused oil to splatter out of the hole and hit the engine block. The hot engine immediately started to smoke. Satisfied, he came back up to eye level and admired the stream of smoke trailing the boat.
They continued their slow pace towards the target, the smoke and speed making them look like they’d blown an engine. Ibrahim watched the other boats, most obscured by the smoke screen.
48
Mac and Mel were prone on the floor, hands and feet tied behind their backs, duct tape covering their mouths. The metal roof on the garage absorbed the heat and the garage was starting to heat up as the sun began its ascent. They watched through watering eyes as the muriatic acid smoked, eating slowly away at the gas can. When the acid ate through the rusty metal, they both knew what would happen. Ibrahim had set the pan at eye level to insure they could watch the tool of their demise.
Their only means of communication was their eyes. Mac looked toward the workbench, unable to see the top of it from the floor, and started to fidget. After a moment, he found that he could move like an inchworm. He motioned his head at Mel, signaling that he was going to work his way there and that she should follow. They both inched toward the bench, hoping there was something there they could use to cut the duct tape binding them. Mac reached the bench first and tried to rise. The pain from his leg was unbearable. He made it to his knees, then fell, unable to balance enough to gain his feet. His leg was throbbing as the anesthetic effect of the coke had worn off hours ago.
As if the pain was not enough, the duct tape made it difficult to breathe. Hyperventilating from exertion and the accumulating smoke was letting his mind go where it shouldn’t. No time to panic, he tried to steady his breath, his dive training automatically taking over. As he calmed, he noticed glue from the tape rubbing against the five day growth of beard. It was making his mouth itch, but it gave him an idea. He rubbed the tape against his shoulder and noticed a slight pull. Repeating the movement several more times pulled a corner of the tape from his face, and then slid against the leg of the workbench, pushing his face against the leg. It took several tries before the tape grabbed. He turned his head slowly, the tape partially tearing from his mouth. It worked until his neck’s range of motion gave out. He would need to spin his body around to get the remainder of the tape off, but it was a start.
He glanced over at Mel, who was trying the same thing. The tape adhered to her smooth skin better than Mac’s rough face, though, and he tried to reassure her with his eyes as he readied himself. He figured he’d only have one shot at this. If the tape came off the table leg, there wouldn’t be enough adhesive left to stick it back. He breathed in and released all the air from his lungs. Every joint ached in protest as they were strained past their norm, but he was able to balance enough with his feet toget
her in a squat position to spin in place. The last of the tape came off and he collapsed on the floor, screaming in pain as he hit the concrete.
He regained his breath and moved toward Mel. Their heads came together, and his teeth tore at the tape. She laughed as the tape came off and stuck to his mouth. Then they both sat back and took a deep breath. After a moment, the urgency of their situation surrounded them, as the acid etched into the rusty metal of the gas can. They had no idea how much time they had before it gave way; the smallest pinhole would accelerate the process as gasoline met acid.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” Mel said.
“You got that right. One of us needs to get our hands free to open the door, though.” He looked at the bench. “If I can get up to the bench, there’s bound to be something there we can use.” He tried to stand again, but his restraints made balance impossible. “Can you slide under me and prop me up?”
She inched towards him and tried to kneel as he stood. Just as his eyes reached the bench and saw the blade of a drywall knife, he toppled over backwards and smacked his head against the floor.
When he recovered, he grinned. “That hurt. Crap. But there’s a small saw on the table. If we get that, I can hold it with my teeth and cut you free.”
Suddenly the pan hissed. They both turned and watched the smoke increase.
“We’ve got to try again. Now,” Mel snapped.
They set themselves up as before and he tried to rise again. As he reached the crux, he felt his balance start to go. He did the only thing he could and grabbed for the table edge with his mouth, his teeth digging into the old wood top. It was enough leverage to stand. He spat out the wood and moved for the saw. It was about eight inches long, a keyhole saw, with a rough, serrated blade and a wood handle. He got the handle situated in his mouth and went to his knees.
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