Hmmm. The light went on in my thick skull. She’s playing mind games with me.
I moved into her embrace, welcoming the warmth, inhaling her perfume. “Always testing me aren’t you, Vick?”
She snuggled up tight and bit my shoulder.
“Ow! No rough stuff. Come on, let’s get you to bed.”
She pulled away and flashed a sexy smile, “Okay. But I’m not that tired.”
I felt a rush of emotion. “That’s more like the Vicky Borne I know. You had me going for a bit.”
“And you fell for it, hook, line and sinker. I thought you knew more about fishing, Charley Manner.”
We continued along the dock past my boat slip and up the walk to the Winnebago. The waves slapped the end of the dock. It was a quiet evening with a gentle breeze. A loose halyard beat against the mast of a sloop moored in the channel. A steady, rhythmic beat. It’s still early, but maybe a little bedtime is what we both needed. It’s been a while.
“Let me go in first, Vicky.”
“Why? Is there another woman? Or have you got your place booby-trapped?”
“Not exactly. Whatever you do, no sudden moves.”
Vicky frowned but I knew she had no clue. I heard a low-pitched growl as I turned the key. The door flew open and a flash of fur flew through the air, knocking me on my back before turning toward Vicky. I yelled, “Spirit. It’s okay. She’s with me.”
“What the hell is that?” Vicky asked as she raised her hands to her face.
“Sitz!” Spirit obeyed my command and sat. But she parked her butt between me and Vicky and assumed a defensive posture.
“Vicky, meet Spirit, my war dog turned playmate.”
“Playmate, huh? She plays rough.”
“She’s always on the job, Vick. Training from the SEALs never leaves. Don’t worry. She’s just protecting me from a stranger.” Spirit continued to stare at Vicky, her ears perked up. “Be nice to Vicky. She’s a friend.” Spirit lowered her head in a more submissive posture. “Braafy, Spirit.”
Vicky crouched down so her eyes were lower than Spirit’s and extended her upturned hand. What does braafy mean?” Spirit smelled her, snorted and gave her a juicy lick.
“Well that didn’t take long. I figured she’d be jealous. Braafy means ‘good’ in Dutch. She likes the praise. Dog trainers use Dutch, German and Belgian words when they train warrior dogs.” Spirit nuzzled Vicky’s hand for more pats. “I’m amazed how fast she accepted you.”
“Charley. Don’t you know that strong, independent women have an understanding?”
“What’s that?”
“You should know, it’s all about respect.”
I nodded and stayed silent. Not going near that opening. Leave well enough alone. “Let’s go inside.”
Spirit led the way, looking over her shoulder at Vicky. I closed the door and twisted the deadbolt. I turned around, opening my arms, hoping the romantic moment we shared on the dock could be extended. Vicky walked into my embrace. It lasted only a second before Spirit pushed her nose between us.
Vicky pulled away and knelt down to give Spirit a hug, looked up and said, “Let’s call it a night, Charley.”
Spirit barked her agreement, ran to the bedroom and hopped onto the bed. She put her head on the pillow, looking back at Vicky with a goofy grin, tail thumping away.
Vicky followed and looked back at me. “So where are you going to sleep, Charley?”
Spirit lifted her head off the pillow and woofed at me.
“Two against one, not fair, Spirit.” I pointed to the dog bed in the corner. “Get in your bed.” She rolled off the bed, lowered her head, tail wagging, and slinked into her bed.
Vicky sat on the edge of my bed, looked at me and patted the spot next to her. Before I could occupy it, Spirit leaped up and sat next to Vicky, leaning against her, nuzzling her hand for a massage.
Vicky took the suggestion seriously. “Well, aren’t you sweet, Spirit. And persistent, too.”
Spirit flopped on her back, accepting Vicky’s rubs. Both ignored me standing there. My plans to get reacquainted with my favorite DEA agent dashed, I grabbed a spare pillow and headed for the couch. So much for bedtime. Maybe later.
~~~
THE OLD LIGHTHOUSE, abandoned in the 1940s, on the largest of the island group called Elbow Cays in Cay Sal Bank, loomed out of the darkness as the Grady-White approached. Halfway between Havana and Key West, it was used until the late seventies as a lookout for spotting drug smugglers and a waypoint for Cuban refugees fleeing across the straits. Built almost two hundred years ago by the English, the stone structure is in serious disrepair, barely safe to climb, but still useful for illegal activities.
More recently, local authorities had made it too dangerous as a halfway point for refugees escaping Cuba. Capture and imprisonment in a Cuban jail awaited the few that tried. If you were a drug smuggler, able to buy off the Cuban military, that would not be a problem. The coyotes piloting the Grady-White had permission to land. Their stop would be brief.
Nearly two dozen women and children cowered in the lower chamber of the lighthouse, shackled to each other and chained to a large cleat bolted into the concrete floor. Mostly Mexican but there were a few Cubans and Salvadorans in the mix. They were deposited in this convenient holding-cell just two days ago, left with only a few bottles of water to sustain them.
Their destination was America, but their destiny did not include freedom. They were victims of the expanding human trafficking arm of Mexican drug smuggler, Jose Guizarro.
Almost as valuable as cocaine in many private circles of unscrupulous wealthy Americans in need of low-cost labor, they faced brutal treatment throughout their journey from Mexico, Cuba and Central America. Sometimes a worse fate awaited the prettier girls and even some of the young boys.
They were weak from hunger and offered no resistance to the armed men that entered the chamber.
Manny Gonzalez barked at his men, “Vámonos, muchachos. We have no time to waste. This shipment of packages must arrive at the oil rig before first light.”
Carlotta Gomez shielded her twelve-year-old daughter from the club-wielding men as they poked and prodded the “packages” awake. She bottled up the rage she felt for these bloodsucking scumbags. Her husband and two brothers were found two weeks ago with a bullet in the back of the head.
Carlotta was a beautiful woman; dark hair, smooth olive skin and flashing green eyes. Perhaps some Italian blood is mixed with her Mexican heritage. Her daughter was even more beautiful. Both were targeted by the human traffickers as prime product, worth thousands of dollars. With no men left in her family, they were easy prey.
The human cargo marched down the steep path from the lighthouse to the outcrop of flat rock that served as a loading dock. Still shackled together, it was slow going, which inflamed Manny Gonzalez’ temper.
“Aieee, muchachos. Remove the chains so we can load these pathetic people quickly.”
Carlotta managed to find a spot on the deck near the transom of the Grady-White and pulled her daughter next to her. She barely settled in when the boat headed out, accelerating on a westerly bearing.
The overloaded boat dug deeply into the rolling swells, nearly taking water over the side. Almost two dozen women and children clung to each other. Some prayed out loud. Carlotta had heard about the human trafficking by boat that had become more common with the recently heightened security along the southern US border.
She had heard horror stories about many victims dying in route or soon after delivery. Carlotta was fiercely independent especially since her husband was killed by the drug cartel. She would not become a victim even if it took bold, life-threatening measures.
An hour-and-a-half into the trip the boat slowed. No land in sight. Apparently, they were not going to a mainland beach. Her captors were all looking forward at a large oil rig tower in the distance. This might be her last chance to escape. She stood and grabbed a boat fender with one hand, her daughter’s a
rm with the other and jumped overboard. A desperate attempt to avoid slavery or worse.
Her daughter had matured early and no doubt would attract a high price for use as a sex slave. Carlotta would rather die in the sea before that could happen. She hoped the boat fender would provide enough buoyancy for them to float until someone picked them up, God willing.
Manny yelled to his helmsman when he saw a woman and girl jump overboard. “Keep going, we are late as it is, muchacho. Señor Guizarro does not tolerate a late delivery. Besides, the sharks have probably already eaten them.”
A few minutes later, the overloaded boat slowed to dock at the oil rig’s lower level. They wasted no time shoving the packages up the steep gangplank and into a shed on the second level.
Manny checked his watch. It was a few minutes past five, pre-dawn light glowed dimly on the eastern horizon.
“Vámonos, muchachos, we need to report the drop to Guizarro, or we don’t get paid.”
~~~
EARLY RISE
One hour earlier...
A LOUD BANGING on the door jolted me awake. During the night, I managed to slip into bed with my two female guests. “What time is it, Vicky?” I could barely hear her moan above the pounding on the door. She rolled over, leaned on the sixty-pound Belgian Malinois between us and planted a kiss on my cheek. Spirit yawned and hopped down to check out the visitor. The door nearly burst open from the pounding.
“What time is it?”
“It’s four AM, Charley. That must be Hawk.”
I leaped out of bed, slipped on my jeans and opened the door. Spirit slid past me, stood on her hind legs and gave Hawk a big lick on the face.
“It’s o-four-hundred, squid. You look like you just woke up.” Hawk ruffled Spirit’s fur, grinned at me and peaked over my shoulder. “Where’s Vicky?”
The bathroom door opened. Vicky walked into the room fully dressed, a rucksack slung on her shoulder and a Glock holstered high on her hip. “Morning, Hawk. I’m ready. Charley’s the laggard here.”
Hawk’s grin turned to a frown and he whispered to me, “Guess you struck out, CJ.”
“I heard that, boys.” She headed out the door with Spirit close behind. “Come on, let’s move out.”
Hawk snapped a salute and bolted after her. I grabbed a tee shirt, the keys for Too Fast for U and hustled to catch up.
My boat slip was just a few yards away—an arrangement made with the marina owner. He was a Navy vet from the Viet Nam era. We traded war stories and sipped—check that—guzzled a few bottles of Jack Daniels to seal the deal when I arrived almost a year ago. Bought an aging Ocean 35 that occupied the slip at the time, too. It sunk out on the Straits but that’s another story.
The replacement boat, Too Fast For U, was sitting pretty, fuel tanks full, with four Merc Verado 350’s recently tuned, ready for action.
She’s a Fountain 38 capable of 85 mph on smooth water. I’m a lucky man, the insurance payoff on the Ocean 35 covered the down payment. A man’s got to have toys.
Hawk untied the lines, jumped on board, and checked the bilge and fuel tanks for leaks. Navy SOP—hard to break our training. Vicky parked her cute butt in the bolstered passenger seat while I cranked the engines. Spirit took her usual position on the sun-pad in front of the windshield. I added deep cushions and an anchor cleat to attach her harness. At top speed, I don’t want her rocketing overboard. She loves the wind in her face.
The no-wake zones from the marina and through Boot Key Harbor kept our departure at a leisurely pace. Once we reached open water, I pushed the throttles to max. The pre-dawn seas were flat, enabling Too Fast to plane quickly. We flew along at nearly 85mph for a few minutes, the hull gliding effortlessly through the gentle swells. We picked a good day. I backed her down to sixty to conserve fuel.
The discontinued dumping ground was about forty miles out from Marathon. We ate up the distance in forty minutes. I love this boat.
Two miles from the coordinates Vicky gave me for the oil rig location, I switched off the running lights and slowed to trolling speed. The tower’s red navigation light glowed in the pre-dawn haze. My radar easily picked up the structure. I stopped two of four outboards and set our trolling speed to max. Too Fast’s efficient hull design prevented a wake. Running silent like a ghost ship we closed the distance quickly. Let’s see who’s home.
~~~
DEEPWATER DRILL
RUNNING LIGHTS OUT, we circled the drilling rig a quarter mile away. I recognized the type from our deep water training in SEAL SQT. We made several dives with hard-suits, practicing on a similar offshore rig near San Diego. It was a deep-water spar design—for drilling in depths up to 8,000 feet. The chart showed only 700 fathoms in this location, about 4,000 feet deep.
Out of the darkness, another boat approached the platform, dropping a heavy wake before edging up to a floating dock with a steep gangway leading to the first level. The boat had come from the south. I cut our engines to avoid discovery.
Hawk lifted a pair of night vision binoculars to his eyes to get a better look. “Shit, there must be two dozen people crammed onto that boat. It’s a Grady-White open bow, maybe thirty feet. Way overloaded.”
Sound carries over water, especially in the pre-dawn hours when wave action is minimal. We could here loud chatter, Spanish swears.
Hawk continued to look at the boat. “The men on board are waving their hands and looking aft at something splashing in the water.”
After a few seconds of irate chatter, they resumed docking at the spar.
Vicky grabbed the ‘nocs and studied the view. “They look like refugees. Women and children, scrambling up the gangplank.” She handed me the binoculars.
I counted more than twenty people before they disappeared inside a small building on the platform. “Not your typical drilling rig crew.”
As quickly as it arrived, the boat pulled away from the platform.
“Everybody down, they’re leaving and headed in our direction.”
Spirit crouched low at the bow while the rest of us flattened on the deck. The nearly empty Grady-White accelerated quickly on a southward heading and was out of sight within a minute.
We stayed down for five more, watching for activity on the rig. The spotlight over the loading dock went out.
Hawk said, “Looks like they’re locking down. CJ, want to get a closer look?”
Vicky un-holstered her Glock 22. “I’m ready to board, boys.”
“Better wait here, Vick. Hawk and I can approach underwater. I have two Draegers on board. Too bad your FAST Team visit didn’t include rebreather training.”
Vicky frowned and jabbed me in the ribs. “Big, bad SEALs get all the fun jobs.”
Spirit hopped off the foredeck and nuzzled Vicky’s hand. The one without the Glock. Smart dog. Vicky softened her glare and scratched behind Spirit’s ears. “Go ahead, boys. Spirit and I will watch from here. But no contact. I don’t want to spook Guizarro if he’s linked to this activity.”
“No worries. We’re silent fish, I mean SEALs.”
Vicky choked back a laugh. “Stick to your day job, Charley. Or have you become a stand-up comic while I was away?”
“The boys at the Blue Parrot think I’m funny. And they love my fish stories.” Hawk rolled his eyes. I shrugged and went below for the Draegers while Hawk lowered the electric trolling motors mounted at the corners of the transom to move Too Fast closer to the platform. A feature I added for our bone fishing trips on the Islamorada flats. Silent running, like a ghost.
Vicky took the helm and slowed our forward motion as we crawled toward the spar. She set the motors and GPS to hold a fixed position despite the Gulf Stream flowing east-northeast. We swam the remaining eighth mile. Still no movement on the rig. Hawk climbed the gangplank and approached the shed while I took an overwatch position on the dock. Not much light, just a red glow from the tower lights.
I heard Hawk’s low voice through my comms earpiece. “The door is padlocked, CJ.”
“Affirmative, and I don’t see any guards. Doesn’t look like there’s any drilling or pumping operation either. Is there anyone else here?”
~~~
VICKY HOLSTERED HER GLOCK and peered through the night vision binoculars, watching Charley and Hawk make their way up the gangplank. Yes, I know what a Glock is and night vision binoculars, too. Charley used them in his training and I have seen what a firearm can do first hand. My hind leg still aches from the wound I got in Afghanistan when Charley got caught by some bad man they called Mullah. Anyway, something’s wrong. I smell danger. I growled a warning and pushed my nose under Vicky’s arm.
“What is it, Spirit?”
Of course, I can’t speak English so I looked into the darkness, my ears erect, tail high, twitching. A tell that Vicky did not understand. She kept looking through the binoculars trying to locate Charley and Hawk.
Not good. She needs to look behind us. I growled again and shoved Vicky off her seat.
“What do you want? It’s not time to play.”
She doesn’t get it. I tugged at her sleeve.
“That’s it. You’re going in the cabin. Come on.”
Wait, how can I protect you if you lock me up? She held my collar and led me through the cabin door. I could easily resist but my training tells me to obey this human even if she has no clue.
“Stay. Err, Sitz. I think that’s what Charley said.” She closed the door and went topside.
I sniffed and chuffed at the door, trying to open it. The handle was different than the ones Charley taught me to open, but I’ll figure it out. I heard a man’s voice. It wasn’t Charley or Hawk. I better get out there. Vicky is in trouble.
~~~
VICKY FOCUSED THE BINOCULARS on the rig, scanning for the boys. As she focused on the platform, a cold, wet hand grabbed her around the throat, pulling her to the deck.
Charley Manner series Box Set Page 17