Burn Notice: A Key West Thriller (Kelly Maclean Book 2)

by Nate Hawk

  The sun had set and the warm outside air was kept in check by a small air conditioner. Kelly was sprawled out in thought on a couch in the living space of his boat. The curtains had been closed and he was alone. The boat was rocking side to side to its own rhythm or rather that of the rhythm of the sea. Kelly had gone up against more formidable opponents than a group of sport bikers but he was irritated that once again he couldn’t live in peace without the thought of somebody gunning for him. Who was this Franco that his current problems seemed to stem from? Damn, he said to himself as his mind quickly jumped from the thoughts of finding a solution to a more pressing issue. Someone had just interrupted the rhythmic sway of his boat. Someone big and the man had just climbed aboard. Then Kelly felt another unnatural rock and realized that at least two people were now on his boat. The bikers had returned!

  Kelly rolled off of the couch onto all fours and ran his hand between the cushions until he felt the warm and smooth wooden grip of his favorite revolver. He removed a S&W .41 Magnum from a holster that he had secured within the couch. He made sure there was no dirt or fuzz that might impede the action and then double-checked to ensure that all chambers were loaded. He had six shots. Damn, if I’d been thinking straight I would have gotten out a rifle, he regrettably mumbled to himself. He knew other men were on deck and there was only a flimsy door between them now.

  Kelly flung open the door with the pistol raised and his finger on the trigger. Front sight, front sight, he thought to himself in an effort to stay focused on what he must do. As the sights lined up it he saw that it was not a tattoo-laden biker but rather a beautiful red-headed woman. She wasn’t a stranger; in fact they knew each other well.

  “Don’t shoot!” she pleaded. “I’m looking for Kelly…,” she began to say to the overgrown man in the dark before her whose finger rested on a hair trigger. As she looked deep into the man’s eyes she saw something familiar. “Kelly… It’s Megan. Is that you?”

  Kelly just stared at her. He didn’t lower the weapon. Caught off guard, he just stared.

  “Megan? What the hell are you doing here?” he asked, finally lowering the gun. “I thought you were somebody else.”

  Just then a black man appeared around the side of the cabin. Kelly’s eyes worked fine but it was dark and the man’s features were indistinguishable. Kelly momentarily fidgeted with the thought of raising his gun once more before he realized that he knew the man too. In fact, he knew the man well. Owen “Tiny” Tucker and Kelly had pursued a group of ISIS terrorists in the Bavarian Alps the year before and barely lived to tell the story.

  Owen was an operator within the Political Action Group of the CIA and Megan was a nurse who carried with her Agency credentials, as well. Kelly hadn’t seen either of them for six months or so, well since he had left New England for good.

  “What, are you two down here on your honeymoon?” Kelly asked sarcastically.

  Megan looked at the open beer bottle that was sitting by the helm where Kelly had been sitting earlier, while helping Bones and Shifter. Her face quickly turned sour as she pondered a different vision of Kelly than she had remembered. “Kelly, I spent a lot of time and effort putting you back together after you got hurt and this is how you repay me? You look awful! Are you drinking again?”

  Owen’s face seemed to have a fleeting expression of disappointment as well as he too looked towards Kelly. The man had saved Owen’s ass (more than once) but he didn’t currently look like anymore than an ex-convict lacking employment. He also looked as if he lacked any real desire to make changes in his life.

  “Well,” he said. “Maybe this was a bad idea, Kelly. I had this thought in my mind that you might be able to help but it looks like you need to focus on taking care of yourself. You look like shit!” he said without any humor. “Damn it,” he added with disappointment as if he wasn’t sure what to do next.

  Kelly said, “Before we get carried away here, why don’t you two come inside so we can talk.”

  “The monster can still speak English,” Megan said humorlessly.

  Megan wasn’t sure she wanted to enter but Owen had a brief memory of Kelly at his best and knew he was in the presence of a good man. Maybe Kelly just needed a little encouragement. Well, maybe a little more than just a little encouragement. Maybe he had gotten cabin fever after months of solitary confinement within his boat. As the two guests entered Kelly’s living space they were reluctant to sit down. Kelly figured a brief explanation was in order.

  “Megan,” he said. “I’m not drinking per se. I helped a couple of stranded fisherman earlier and that was their idea of payment. I’m sorry about the gun but I’ve got a group of steroid raging bikers who are hell bent on killing me and I thought for a moment that they had come for me again.”

  “Jesus Christ, Kelly! You just can’t keep your nose clean can you? You’re going to get yourself killed yet. I just know it!” she said, regretting the fact that she had let more emotion show than she had intended.

  Owen had a different reaction. He finally found some peace after Kelly’s explanation. Realizing that poor hygiene in itself wasn’t a crime, relieved; he sat down to get to the bottom of what was going on.

  “Look Megan, I’m sorry about the gun,” he said with sincerity. “I’m truly sorry,” he repeated for effect.

  “Look, can we move past that? Having a firearm waved in my face is the least of our problems. We’re being hunted.”

  Kelly was concerned at the idea of his friends being hunted but the entire situation had the makings of a practical joke.

  He said, “Did you two just come down here to bust my chops or what? You expect me to believe that between you two and the Agency, you can’t take care of it?”

  Owen spoke up. “Kelly, the Agency isn’t on our side anymore. Someone within the Agency filed a burn notice on me. I’ve got nothing. Remember Angelo? Well he was just killed over this. My accounts are frozen. They tracked my phone and sent trained killers after me from which I barely escaped. I didn’t want to bring Megan or you into this but this is my final Hail Mary.”

  “Did you ever think about calling me before you drove all the way down here?” Kelly asked. “I’m not sure exactly what help I can…”

  “Getting ahold of you was my idea,” Megan said. “We would have called if you even had phone service. I looked up your account and it’s gone to collections, Kelly. I was worried the entire drive down here. But now I can see what is going on. You’ve really let yourself go!”

  Kelly thought about the fact that he hadn’t heard a cell phone ring for a while. “Oh yeah… now that you mention it, I had forgotten about that. I tossed the phone out my window somewhere on South St. around mile marker one, a few months back. Got tired of being tethered to the world.”

  Megan said, “Why am I no longer surprised at your revelations?”

  Kelly was sorry that Megan didn’t like him in his current form. He’d not cared too much about his presentation since arriving on the island. “What exactly is all of this about?” Kelly asked.

  “It gets kind of complicated.”

  “I used to do complicated. Maybe I still can. Try me,” Kelly said curiously.

  Owen decided to slowly wade into the conversational waters. “It’s all about a piece of artwork.”

  “Artwork?”, Kelly asked, envisioning a world he knew very little about.

  “Well, yeah. This is all started with a painting,” Owen said.

  ***

  Back in D.C. and up on Capitol Hill, Congressman Swanson was anticipating Will Riley’s briefing. But Swanson was in a hurry. In fact, Swanson was in such a hurry that he’d had half a mind to cancel their meeting if it hadn’t been so important. He wasn’t in the mood to listen to Riley but damn if Swanson’s most feared secret had finally come out. Well, not come out exactly, thank God. Someone calling himself Deep Throat had intuitively deciphered Swanson’s mystery and he had solicited a blackmail payment that had in fact been paid. As luck would have it, Swanson and
Riley ran into each other on the way to the men’s room, ten minutes before their meeting. Riley knew that there was an unwritten code that you don’t talk to any other man when you’re standing in front of the urinal with your dick in your hand but Swanson’s time was short. Plus, he didn’t know the code. Will Riley found some limited comfort pulling himself in close to the urinal so Swanson’s peering eyes couldn’t size him up. Riley became more uncomfortable after Swanson’s hand slapped the wall in the defeat of release and he gave a long exhale. Then, hearing the Congressman humming a well-known pop song, Riley quickly glanced to his left just in time to see Swanson standing back about a foot from the urinal. He was carelessly discharging urine into a growing puddle on the floor and shaking his blessing for the world to see. This of course gave no pleasure to Riley and only served to make him feel even more uncomfortable about the bad news that he knew he must share.

  “Well, we can’t just stand around all day! Speak up Will! Whada ya got?” Swanson said, growing impatient and acting as if men’s room conversations were his norm.

  Riley uncovered the courage to speak up. “Sir, I have spoken to the contact calling himself Deep Throat. That painting we agreed on… not that I need to remind you…”

  “No, you damn well don’t!

  “No sir. I apologize sir… so you know it was sent to a large export business in Southern Florida but we have been unable to locate its final destination from there. Deep Throat confirmed that he’s received it though.”

  The Congressman zipped his pants and turned to Will Riley, catching the smaller man off guard.

  “Look”, he said.

  Look at what? Riley thought to himself in disbelief before finally understand it was a metaphorical command involving perspective. Then Swanson continued.

  “I hated sending that painting off to this son-of-a-bitch that thinks he can blackmail me, a sitting US Congressman! You know its value and you know it has been in my family for years! We will get it back! He doesn’t know it yet but we are gonna nail this cock-sucker.”

  Will Riley recoiled in disgust as the man’s chosen description. “Uh, yes, sir,” he stammered, trying to discreetly fasten his trousers out of sight.

  Swanson continued, “We need the address that the painting was delivered to so we can kill that son-of-a-bitch! I’m overdue to visit my constituents down in the 23rd District anyway so let’s make a trip to Florida and shake down this import business at the same time. We’ll get the address from their records. In the meantime, you can write me up one of those masterpiece speeches full of promises for more federal funding to be spent locally. Besides pork, throw in some sincerity and loyalty and all the usual bullshit. Then we’ll knock out two issues at once.”

  “Uh, sir… I don’t think…”

  “Riley!” he screamed. “I don’t want you to think about it! I just want you to get it done!

  ***

  Chapter 7

  Lou Deluca was standing in the shipping warehouse of Southern Florida Import and Export and he was upset. Well, pissed off is a bit more accurate. First his brother had his leg broken and now he was hobbling his mangled ass around the building doing absolutely nothing productive. Well, except getting on Lou’s last damn nerve. He was down another man as a product of the same stranger who had rendered his brother useless, not that Franco was much more useful to Lou in one piece. Only half his brain seemed to work and he was always using the wrong half. A few days later three more of Deluca’s men had been in need of medical attention or at the very least a day or two off work.

  “Who is this asshole?” he demanded of his younger half brother Franco. “What kind of a man can take out five testosterone enhanced dimwits with his bare hands, just in time to trot back to his boat for an afternoon nap?”

  Franco just stared at his brother with an all-too-common look of fluttering brain activity. He didn’t know what to say. He’d just wanted to have a little fun with the crippled old man. It wasn’t supposed to turn into a problem. In fact, it wasn’t the first time Franco had given the old man a hard time. It had become a kind of ritual between them.

  “Franco, we’re this close,” Lou said, as he held up his index finger and thumb about an inch apart. “We’re this close to making enough money to disappear and retire for good. No more imports. No more exports. No more dangerous trips to Miami with our product. No more wondering when the mob is going to tire of doing business with us. You want Basciano on your ass then keep it up. We’ll both end up buried under a concrete slab somewhere.”

  “I know what you’re saying, bro. It just got out of hand,” Franco whined. “I’ll make it up to you.”

  “Well make it up to me by getting serious for once. We’re so close to a life of luxury and relaxation. We both buy a one-way ticket to a more mild climate and it’s smooth sailing the rest of our lives. So stop mess’n around before you fuck everything up!”

  The sound of motorcycles broke the laid back atmosphere of the island. The loading gate was opened and the crew came in and parked their bikes in the shade as they always did. Some days they’d trickle in one at a time and some days they would mostly arrive together. It always ended with the bikes’ engines making a ticking noise in the shade as they cooled down and were temporarily forgotten about.

  Knowing that several of the guys had been involved in a second altercation with the stranger and that they had run some bullshit surveillance operation the evening before, Deluca directed his lecture towards them and continued railing on.

  ***

  Being chased in a game of life or death was awful. Worse, there were two groups doing the hunting and both of them were playing for keeps. Owen and Megan had crashed on Kelly’s boat for the night and had woken up with their minds on what must be done. After all, danger was headed their way. The three of them knew they had to get out in front of it while they still had the element of safety and surprise.

  Kelly had aroused the escalating interest of hormonal raging bikers that had developed a hard-on for him. Even more serious was the fact that the ever-resourceful CIA had apparently sent a kill team for Owen. He had carelessly gotten Megan wrapped up in it when he’d asked her to apply medical aid to his friend and fellow agent: Angelo. Angelo had been dead before Owen even got to Megan but he knew he had to try. Now being chased, the three had committed to a few days on the lam at a local bed and breakfast, using aliases that the CIA were unfamiliar with. Megan’s VW SUV was parked a few streets over from the B&B in case it was being tracked. All three of them had agreed to combine forces in an effort to overcome both groups of adversaries: safety in numbers.

  Knowing that they would need some sort of transportation, they had gone over to Tropical Cars and Scooters off of Duval Street where they had rented an electric Gem car. And it was a gem. It had no doors offering zero privacy. The battery bank would allow the vehicle to travel thirty to forty miles before running out and it offered a white-knuckled, top-speed of twenty-five miles an hour. The benefit was that there were hundreds of them crawling around the island so it offered quite a bit of anonymity. A large white guy… An even larger black guy and an unassuming redhead riding in the back seat. They began putting off in an easterly direction, towards the other side of the island.

  Owen said, “There is another reason that we’re in Key West, Kelly.”

  “Besides my good looks and charm?” he asked, almost needing to look through the bangs that were beginning to grow over his eyes.

  “Yeah, besides that,” Owen said. “To understand I’ve got to give you some background that we’ve never discussed. So…,” he began. “My parents deal in art. I’ve been around vases and sculptures and paintings and all, well… all of my life. I’ve seen rare ones. I’ve seen my share of fakes.”

  Kelly let out a yawn. It was unintentional but telling of his moderate level of indifference. Owen sent a look to the passenger seat that conveyed a bit of annoyance.

  “So my… boss,” Owen continued. “My boss, Rick Quinn, had a paint
ing arrive at his office a few weeks back. He’s the eccentric type so the expensive looking painting seemed to fit his psychological profile well. I happened to be there and he asked me to help hang it. The damn thing was painted on panel, not canvas, so between the weight of the panel and the weight of the frame, well it was chunky.”

  Kelly gave a look to Owen that said, “Did you just say chunky?” Owen understood the look.

  “Heavy! Bulky!” he explained. “So, what he didn’t know is that I know paintings as well as I know the spy game. I can tell most fakes a mile away and my initial suspicions of Rick Quinn were confirmed after I did a bit of research on this painting.”