Rising Fury: A Jesse McDermitt Novel (Caribbean Adventure Series Book 12)

by Wayne Stinnett

  Published by DOWN ISLAND PRESS, LLC, 2017

  Beaufort, SC

  Copyright © 2017 by Wayne Stinnett

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without express written permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Library of Congress cataloging-in-publication Data

  Stinnett, Wayne

  Rising Storm/Wayne Stinnett

  p. cm. - (A Jesse McDermitt novel)

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9981285-8-0 (Down Island Press)

  ISBN-10: 0-9981285-8-9

  Cover photograph by Pieter Jordaan

  Graphics by Wicked Good Book Covers

  Edited by Larks & Katydids

  Final Proofreading by Donna Rich

  Interior Design by WDR Book Designs

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Most of the locations herein are also fictional, or are used fictitiously. However, I take great pains to depict the location and description of the many well-known islands, locales, beaches, reefs, bars, and restaurants throughout the Florida Keys and the Caribbean, to the best of my ability.

  Table of Contents

  Titlepage

  Copyright

  Foreword

  Dedication

  More from Wayne Stinnett

  Maps

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Epilogue

  The Rusty Anchor Bar & Grill

  Read More Jesse McDermitt

  This past fall, my wife and I watched the Breaking Bad series, again. The scenes in the RV got me thinking. How hard would it be to hide a meth lab in the hold of a shrimp trawler? Apparently, not that hard. I hope you enjoy it.

  As always, my wife gave me a lot of insight when I first came up with this idea. Together, we figured out logistical problems, like how to keep anyone from smelling the fumes from the lab, or how to keep a Coast Guard inspection from finding the hidden lab. As always, I thank Greta for pushing me onward.

  I have a private Facebook group, just for my beta readers. There are sailing ship captains in this group, along with doctors, former and current military, explorers, pilots, and folks from very diverse backgrounds among the twenty or so people who help me polish my work, pre-editing.

  Many thanks to Dana Vihlen, David Parsons, Katy McKnight, Alan Fader, Deg Priest, Karl Schulte, John Trainer, Dan Horn, Mike Ramsey, Ron Ramey, Drew Mutch, Debbie Kocol, Dan Horn, Charles Hofbauer, Marc Lowe, Glenn Hibbert, Linda Winner, and Tom Crisp. Your recommendations are worth far more than the pittance I offer. Thank you for all your help.

  I extend my deep appreciation to my friend and talented musician and songwriter, Eric Stone, for his appearance in this book. Eric once owned Dockside in Marathon, but now tours with his wife Kim and their three birds, Chief, Harley, and Marley. He takes his trop-rock sound all over the country, singing his own tunes and a few favorite covers. The timeline in my stories was a bit before when he owned Dockside, so I’ve been looking forward to catching this series up closer to current time. The events that befell Dockside and led to Eric and Kim buying the place are appropriate for the time this book is set, late 2008.

  At the end of this book, you’ll find the lyrics to a song he recently recorded (at my bold request), “The Rusty Anchor Bar & Grill.” It’s sure to be a perennial favorite very soon. As of this writing, I’ve yet to hear the song, and the studio date is four days away. But I’ve read the lyrics and really like the story. I’m eagerly looking forward to this merger between trop-rock and trop-fiction. To download Eric’s music, including The Rusty Anchor Bar & Grill, visit his website at www.islanderic.com and tell him I sent you.

  There are a bunch of friends I need to thank, as well—other writers who have given me a lot of sage council over the last couple of years. We sit in a corner reserved just for us, and talk shop and gossip. A casual listener might think we were planning a government coup or mass genocide, or something similar. It’s just us, being us, in the author’s corner.

  Lastly, thank you to the hundreds of professional authors of Novelist, Inc. for honoring me with the task of leading the organization in 2019. I enjoy the NINC conferences immensely and will do all I can in 2018 to assist incoming president Julie Ortolon, and to learn the role from her as the incoming president-elect.

  For my readers who might be concerned that my role at NINC could interfere with my writing, don’t worry. I plan to continue releasing something new, in either the Jesse or Charity series every four to six months, just as I always have. Enduring Charity will be released in the spring, and Rising Force in the fall, with four more releases scheduled for 2019.

  Dedicated to the memory of Ginger, the most ferocious chi-weenie the world has ever known. For more than two years, this nine-pound, black-and-tan miniature long-haired dachshund and Chihuahua mix, would sit beside me as I worked. I often read dialogue to her. Had anyone told me I’d ever own, much less love, such a tiny, whining lapdog, I’d have said they were nuts. She was a senior when we adopted her; we made sure her final years were good ones and she knew she was loved when she passed away sitting on my lap last spring. I’ll see you at the Rainbow Bridge, Short-Round.

  “You can say any foolish thing to a dog, and the dog will give you a look that says,

  ‘Wow, you’re right! I never would’ve thought of that!’”

  —Dave Barry

  If you’d like to receive my newsletter, please sign up on my website:

  www.waynestinnett.com.

  Every two weeks, I’ll bring you insights into my private life and writing habits, with updates on what I’m working on, special deals I hear about, and new books by other authors that I’m reading.

  THE CHARITY STYLES CARIBBEAN THRILLER SERIES

  Merciless Charity

  Ruthless Charity

  Reckless Charity

  Enduring Charity (Spring, 2018)

  THE JESSE MCDERMITT CARIBBEAN ADVENTURE SERIES

  Fallen Out

  Fallen Palm

  Fallen Hunter

  Fallen Pride

  Fallen Mangrove

  Fallen King

  Fallen Honor

  Fallen Tide

  Fallen Angel

  Fallen Hero

  Rising Storm

  Rising Fury

  Rising Force (Fall, 2018)

  The Gaspar’s Revenge Ship’s Store is now open. There,

  you can purchase all kinds of swag related to my books.

  WWW.GASPARS-REVENGE.COM


  The thump and rattle of the anchor chain was the only sound in the still morning air. It created a low, rumbling clatter as the rode slowly came up from the anchor locker in the bow, lumbered across the roller on the pulpit, and splashed into the water as the current gradually carried the boat toward the southwest.

  To the east, the sun was just beginning to turn the sky from inky black to a dark gray, as one by one, the stars in that direction winked out. The forecast called for cloudless skies, with little to no wind, and as it quickly grew lighter, it became apparent the weather guy was right.

  The sea was about as smooth as a polished granite countertop, with the graying eastern sky reflecting off its surface. Where the sea and sky actually met seemed uncertain. The water was so calm they melded as one, creating a sense of floating in space.

  Captain Al Fader knew it was going to be a hot day, and he wasn’t looking forward to it. Warming weather was good for shrimping, but for the last week, it had been ten degrees hotter than normal for the middle of December, and the air conditioner onboard Night Moves wasn’t working at its best. Not anticipating a hot December, Al had put off repairing it until the season ended in a few more months. Most of the men were eating their meals out on the work deck. The galley was just too uncomfortable. Hot temperatures made for hot tempers.

  Other boats were going through pretty much the same daily drill as the crew of Night Moves. The early morning hours were all about cleaning the deck and sides of the boat and cleaning, maintaining, and repairing the nets and equipment. Only after the work was done would the hungry crew wolf down a hot meal and sleep through the heat of the day. Or try to.

  Shrimping wasn’t like other jobs; there wasn’t any going home after a hard night’s work. Most of the time, home for a shrimper was on board the boat. The shrimp boats left the docks early on Monday and didn’t return until the holds were full. It didn’t matter if that took four days or six. When the run was exceptionally good, the holds might be full in three days and the crew would gladly put back out on Thursday afternoon to catch more. A second run was all bonus money, even if it meant staying out until Saturday and only half-filling the holds on the week’s second run. For some, that meant an extra car or house payment. For others, a higher time at the many bars on Duval Street.

  Captain Fader leaned out the starboard door of the pilothouse and looked back before reversing the engine. Far astern, another boat was anchoring, but it was almost half a mile off. Shifting to reverse, Al backed the boat up slowly while letting out more rode.

  “That’s enough,” Al called out to his first mate, standing ready at the anchor windlass.

  JoAnn engaged the brake on the windlass, and Al continued to back down, taking up some of the slack in the rode and setting the heavy anchor deep in the sandy bottom. Once satisfied, Al shifted to neutral and monitored the gauges for a moment before shutting down the engine.

  “Good night’s work, Skipper,” JoAnn said, entering the small wheelhouse. “A little over five hundred pounds.”

  JoAnn Thaxton was a Carolina girl. She’d arrived in Key West two years earlier, nearly broke, carrying all she owned in a single large duffel. A lot of people arrived in Key West that way. Many of them left with nothing at all, just weeks or months later. When JoAnn arrived, she had something in her duffel bag that set her apart from the thousands of other people who came seeking tropical paradise at the end of the highway—she had papers that indicated she was a Coast-Guard-licensed Near Coastal Mate.

  Al hired her on a temporary basis and she quickly proved she wasn’t afraid of hard work. Two weeks later, he made it permanent. At the end of that first season, his old first mate quit and moved north, and Al asked JoAnn if she’d be willing to take the job. The crew had no trouble working under her; she was as knowledgeable, capable, and competent as any man in the fleet and was well-respected for that and her work ethic.

  “That boat back there,” Al said, jerking a thumb astern. “It came up on the radar a couple of hours ago, out of the north.”

  JoAnn stepped out of the pilothouse with a pair of binoculars and looked back toward the other boat. “Shrimper, but it’s none I’ve ever seen. It came from the north?”

  “Yeah,” Al said, stepping out into the gathering light. He took the binos and trained them on the other boats in the fleet scattered across New Ground to the east and north of Night Moves. He counted five. “Not one of ours that strayed off. Everyone’s here.”

  Turning, Al looked aft at the strange boat in the distance. He raised the binoculars and studied it a moment. It was too far away to make out any details, but in the gray light of dawn, he could see the outriggers and nets clearly.

  “How far is the mainland?” JoAnn asked.

  “’Bout a hundred miles to Naples,” Al replied, still watching the boat. “Another twenty to Fort Myers and Port Charlotte. That’d be the nearest cities a shrimper might be out of. Well, except Havana.”

  “Think that’s where they came from?”

  “No way to tell. Stern’s away and she don’t have name boards on the bow.” Al lowered the binos and measured the distance to the boat with his eyes: half a mile. He turned and looked at the other boats, all within a quarter mile. “Happens just about every winter. A rogue boat from one of the fisheries up on the mainland comes down for the pink run.”

  Hearing a series of clicks from the VHF radio in the pilothouse, Al stepped back inside and hung up the binos. He and the other skippers from the Key West fleet used several non-commercial radio frequencies to talk to each other in private, but if you announced which channel to go to, anyone could listen in. They’d devised a code to let one another know which channel to go to without announcing it to the world.

  Turning to channel seventy-two, he heard Bob Talbot, the skipper of Miss Charlie speaking. “Came in from the north a couple of hours ago.”

  Al keyed the mic. “Anyone have an idea who it is?”

  “Hey, Al,” Charlie Hofbauer, the skipper on Morning Mist said. “Nobody knows. We were just talking about whether we oughta take my tender to go and find out.”

  Al leaned out of the pilothouse. “JoAnn, have someone launch the dinghy.” Then he keyed the mic again. “Stop by here, Charlie. We’re putting a boat in now.”

  A few minutes later, Al heard the buzzing of a small engine and looked forward. Charlie’s fourteen-foot tender was skimming across the water toward Night Moves. Charlie was at the helm, with his first mate, Ernie King, standing to one side of the console and Bob on the other.

  Al went aft to the work deck, where JoAnn waited at the transom.

  “What’s going on, Skipper?” Lee Cordero asked. Lee was a new deck hand, young and as green as a key lime—but the kid had muscles on muscles and didn’t mind the heat.

  “Dunno,” Al replied to the broad-shouldered young man. “How about you come along?”

  “Sure thing,” Lee said, rising quickly to his feet and moving to the trash can to scrape the rest of his supper away.

  “Take it with you, Lee,” JoAnn said. “Never waste food. A time’ll come when you’ll have to skip a meal.”

  The two men climbed down into the little inflatable boat and Al started the small outboard. JoAnn loosed the line from the transom cleat and tossed it to Lee, who caught it and quickly coiled the painter at his feet. He sat down and began shoveling food in his mouth as Al steered away from Night Moves to wait for the other boat.

  Charlie slowed his tender, bringing it down off plane and then stopping as he came alongside Al’s dinghy.

  “These guys are like herpes,” Charlie said, as the two boats rocked on the disturbed water. “They just keep coming back.”

  “I don’t think they wetted a net yet,” Al said. “I first spotted them on radar several hours ago. They’d been on a southwest heading at five knots, in deep water the whole time, so they haven’t taken any pinks.”

  “How do you wanna handle it?” Bob asked.

  Being the oldest of the fleet’s capt
ains, Al was the unofficial spokesman for the hearty group of men and women who pulled their livelihood out of the water every night.

  “Same as we always do,” Al said. “We politely but firmly tell them they wasted their time and fuel getting down here.”

  The other two skippers nodded in firm agreement. Al sat down astraddle the small aft bench seat. He shifted the little outboard to forward and twisted the throttle on the tiller arm. Steering the little dinghy around the larger tender, he accelerated in a straight line toward the unwelcome shrimp boat. The bow of Charlie’s tender rose as he throttled up too.

  It only took a few minutes for the two small boats to reach the trawler and they slowed as they neared it. There were two men on the boat’s port-side deck, watching their approach.

  “What do you want?” one of the men yelled, when the two small boats slowed to idle speed.

  “Where are you from?” Al shouted back, as the small dinghy drew nearer the larger vessel. Al could see that it was a big boat, probably more than sixty feet. There was something about it that wasn’t right, but he couldn’t put his finger on what it was.

  “I asked first,” the man on the deck sneered. “And that’s close enough. What do you want?”

  “What we want,” Charlie said, shifting to neutral and rising from the helm, “is for you to go back up to wherever you came from and leave our fishery be.”

  “We ain’t here for your shrimp,” the man on the deck said with disdain. “And we’ll leave when we’re damned good and ready.”

  Al shifted to forward and twisted the throttle. He circled the big shrimp boat quickly, noting the name Eliminator on the transom, with its home port of Cape Coral stenciled below that.

  The second man on the deck of the shrimp boat raced around to the starboard side, then aft, keeping an eye on what Al was doing. After circling the boat, Al stopped alongside Charlie’s tender and glared up at the man on the deck.

  “I suggest you just go on back up to the Caloosahatchee where you came from,” Al shouted. “Wet those nets around here and there’s gonna be hell to pay.”