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

by Wayne Stinnett

  “Jesse sent you?” she asked. “What for?”

  “Actually, Deuce sent me,” he replied. “Um, would you mind if we continue this with me inside the car? I’m sort of out in the open here.”

  “Go around the front of the car,” Devon replied.

  As Broderick went around the hood, keeping both hands in plain sight, Devon pulled her weapon from the holster and turned in her seat, so that her back was against the door. She wasn’t taking any chances. Broderick gently opened the door. Leading with his hands, he slowly slid into the seat.

  “I promise I’m not here to hurt you,” he said. “May I close the door?”

  “Use your left hand,” she ordered, noticing the hideous burn scar covering the side of his head, and the missing left ear. “Keep your right hand on the dash.”

  He did as she instructed, and an uneasy silence enveloped the two of them. Broderick turned his head toward her. “I’m deaf,” he said, “but I read lips. If you want to tell me something, get my attention first.”

  “Why did Jesse send you?”

  Broderick looked anything but harmless, though that was the vibe she got from him. He was a muscular six-foot, and seemed to carry himself very well. She kept the gun pointed at him.

  “Deuce thought I might be able to help you.”

  Suddenly it dawned on her. “Use the binoculars,” she said. “Tell me what they’re saying.”

  Broderick picked up the glasses from the dash and trained them on the store. “There’s three guys. One’s older, one’s younger, and one’s a cop.”

  “Can you tell what they’re saying?” she asked, holstering her gun.

  Broderick continued watching through the binoculars. She reached over and touched his arm. When he looked at her, she repeated the question.

  Broderick looked through the binoculars again. “Write this down,” he said. “I’ll call them Old, Young, and Cop. Old is pissed. He seems to be calming down, though. Like it’s the end of an argument. He says he can’t believe how amateurish the other two were.”

  Devon put her gun away and took a notepad from her jacket pocket and began writing down what Broderick told her.

  Broderick continued, as if giving a play-by-play announcement of a football game. “Young is saying he did what he was told.”

  “Now Old is saying that the two of them need to work together and finish the job.”

  Devon continued writing furiously, trying to keep up, and falling into a rhythm, using abbreviations.

  “Cop says if he’s getting any deeper, he wants more money.”

  Broderick paused. “They’re having a stare down. Old just put a briefcase on the counter and opened it. Cop and Young are both looking in it. Cop asks how much. Old is facing away, I can’t see his answer.”

  Devon’s phone beeped. She looked and saw that it was from Ben telling her that he was twenty minutes away, but the judge still hadn’t signed off on the warrant.

  “Cop agreed,” Broderick continued. “Old says he wants the fisherman dead, too.”

  “You’re sure about that?” Devon asked. Then she touched his arm and repeated the question when he looked at her.

  “Yeah, the older man just told the other two that he wants the deputy and the fisherman dead before the sun comes up.”

  “Okay,” Devon said. “Keep watching. This gives us probable cause.” When Tom resumed watching, she added, “I doubt it’ll hold up in court, though.”

  “They’re going into the back room of the store,” Broderick said, putting the binos on the dash and turning to face her. “You and Jesse are seeing each other.”

  “Is that a question?” Devon asked, thumbing the little keypad on her phone. She quickly conveyed the threat Broderick had seen said in a message to Ben, and sent it. Knowing even as she did it, that there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell that anything the deaf man said could be used in court.

  “I’ve known him for more than thirty years, Detective. Knew his wife and was there the day his second daughter was born.”

  “You said you and he served together?”

  “I was fresh out of OCS,” Tom said. “That’s Officer—”

  “Officer Candidate School,” Devon finished. “I’m a Marine, too.”

  “Ooh rah,” Tom grunted. “No wonder you and Jesse get along. I was a second lieutenant when I met him. I was assigned to command his platoon. Jesse was a sergeant then. He helped me evolve as an officer.”

  “You were an officer?” Devon asked.

  “Colonel Tom Broderick, medically retired. Call me Tom.”

  “Then you call me Devon, Tom.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Devon.”

  “What was his first wife like?” she asked.

  “Sandy?” Tom said. “Nothing like Jesse. She was pretty, and they made a handsome couple, but they were like oil and water.”

  “Let me guess. Sandy didn’t like boats.”

  “Did you say boats?” Tom said, confused. “Sorry. Sometimes I miss words.”

  “Yes, I said boats. Was that their falling out? Because she didn’t like the water?”

  “No, I don’t think that had anything to do with it,” Tom said. “At least not that I know of. They had differing ideologies. She hated him going on deployments, and he was attracted to the action. She left him when we deployed to Panama. That was nineteen years ago, almost to the day. At the time, we were both with the Fleet Antiterrorism Security Team’s First Platoon. None of us were even given the chance to call our families when we were ordered to Panama. My wife told me that Sandy had movers at their house the next day. Took the girls and every stick of furniture in the place. Jesse slept on the floor in a sleeping bag for two weeks, hoping she’d return.”

  “Did he love her?”

  “Yeah,” Tom replied. “In his own way. I think Jesse was more in love with the idea of being the stalwart Marine husband and father, though.”

  “What was he like with his daughters?” Devon asked.

  “Kim was just born; couldn’t have been more than six months old when they split up. Jesse doted on those girls. He’d sit and drink imaginary tea with Eve and her dolls. I’d say he was a devoted father. Why the interest in ancient history?”

  Devon was about to answer when her phone chirped. She picked it up and saw that it was Ben calling. She held the phone up to Tom, to signal her intent, before answering it. She did make sure to hold the phone to her right ear. Marine officer or not, police communication had to remain confidential.

  “I’m here with Tom Broderick, Ben.”

  “Good, we’re almost there,” Ben Morgan replied. “Uniformed deputies are in route and should be there any minute. Where are you?”

  Devon gave him the name of the cross street and told him to go a few houses down the street to turn around and then he could park right behind her. Moments later, Ben’s brown sedan drove past them. She watched in her mirror as the car’s lights turned off and it turned into a driveway.

  A moment later, Ben pulled in behind Devon’s car and parked. Both front doors opened, and Ben moved quickly to the driver’s side and got in the backseat as another man got in behind Tom. It was Jesse’s friend, Deuce.

  “What’s going on?” Ben asked, not bothering to introduce himself to the man sitting in front of him.

  Devon turned in her seat. “Brady and the other two men went to the back of the store about twenty minutes ago.”

  “The store’s owned by Eugene Ballinger,” Ben said, consulting his notebook. “Has homes and yachts in both Miami and Fort Myers. He owns a manufacturing company that makes deodorizers for commercial and industrial air conditioning systems. The older guy you photographed with Brady is Ballinger. No warrants and no record to speak of, just a few traffic infractions and a possession charge eight years ago.”

  “Possession?” she asked. “Meth?”

  “Cocaine,” Ben replied, looking over his reading glasses. “An eight-ball. Paid a fine and did community service.”


  “You get the warrant, yet?” she asked.

  “Just came through,” he replied, patting his jacket pocket. “We’ll move on the store as soon as backup arrives.”

  “I know we’re civilians,” Deuce said, “but my men and I are armed if you need us.”

  “Thanks, Deuce,” Ben said, “but I can’t involve you. You know that.” Then he grinned over at Jesse’s friend. “However, when we go in, if the bad guys shoot us all, feel free to take them out when they come back outside. Just don’t be around afterward.”

  Deuce winked at Devon. “I kinda doubt that’s gonna happen, but we’re here, just in case.”

  A sheriff’s patrol car turned onto the side street and rolled slowly past Devon’s cruiser. A moment later, a second and third one arrived. Each turned around and parked behind the two unmarked cars, blocking the driveway of the first home.

  Four deputies got out of the three cars. Devon and Ben got out, and Tom and Deuce joined them. The four of them met the uniformed deputies as two more of Jesse’s friends got out of Ben’s car.

  “Four uniforms and six detectives?” the patrol sergeant asked.

  “Two detectives,” Ben corrected him. “I’m Lieutenant Ben Morgan, and this is Sergeant Devon Evans.”

  Ben extended his hand and the sergeant took it. “Sergeant Rick Percy, Lieutenant.”

  “These four men are feds,” Ben said. “Just observing. They have a private security firm across the road, a few doors down from the store where the suspects are located.”

  “Still six of us,” the sergeant said. “What kind of desperado are we after here?”

  “A fellow deputy,” Ben said. “Sergeant Steven Brady out of the Ramrod substation. He may have been involved in the shooting of another deputy earlier today.”

  “Marty Phillips?” one of the other uniformed deputies asked.

  “Yeah,” Ben said. “Outline the situation, Evans.”

  “We have three suspects inside the store across the highway. The one in the middle with the inside lights on. They went into the back room about twenty-five minutes ago and haven’t reappeared. When they entered, I didn’t see anyone lock the door, so we’ll enter through the front door.”

  “Brady is in uniform and armed,” Ben said. “The other two men are to be considered armed, as well. Sergeant, you take two men to the right. Evans and I, along with one of your deputies will go to the left. We can converge on the store from opposite sides.”

  “You sure we can’t help?” Deuce asked.

  “I checked on you,” Ben said. “You’re not officially a civilian for a couple more weeks, right?”

  “Tom here is,” Deuce replied. “But the rest of us won’t be officially retired from government service until January first.”

  “Then Tom stays in the car,” Ben said. “You three take positions in the bushes ahead of the cars and keep watch until we’re in position. Strictly as backup.”

  “Understood,” Deuce said, leading Tony and Andrew to the dense foliage lining the entrance.

  Devon fell in with Ben and one of the deputies. They moved north along the residential entrance until they were out of the illuminated area cast by the orange lights of the parking lot. They crossed the street quickly and silently, sidearms drawn. When they reached the corner of the strip mall, they stopped and waited for the other three deputies to get into position.

  Ben led the way, as they moved toward the lighted storefront, staying close to the wall, but not too close. Looking across the street, Devon could see Deuce, kneeling in the shadows. He signaled a thumbs-up that it was still clear. The other team approached from the opposite end. They reached the door without incident, and waited a moment, listening intently. There weren’t any sounds coming from inside.

  Ben held up three fingers. The sergeant on the other side of the door nodded, pulling a heavy flashlight from his utility belt. The other deputies did the same, keeping the lights off until they made entry.

  Ben held up one finger. Then two. When he showed the sergeant three fingers again, they all moved in unison. The door was unlocked, and the six of them swarmed inside.

  Ben shouted, “Sheriff’s department! We have a warrant!”

  A text from Deuce told me that Brady and the other two men had gotten away. When Morgan and Devon entered the store at the strip mall in Islamorada, there wasn’t anyone there. Apparently, there was a back entrance and another vehicle was parked out back.

  Billy and I took turns at the helm, while the other caught a nap. We both knew that we’d need to be sharp when we arrived. While I’d been napping, Billy had learned that the younger man in the picture, the man who’d shot Marty, was Cedric Harper. He was some sort of small-time criminal from Detroit with a long record. The word Billy got from his contacts in the area was that Harper worked for Ballinger and had helped the man meet the right people and set things up to manufacture the meth.

  Billy assured me that his contacts were very reliable. One man he talked to was actually part of the refit on one of the shrimp boats. When he relayed this information after my nap, I didn’t ask how he’d learned this stuff in the middle of the night.

  I already knew that Ballinger had bought the three trawlers to repurpose as floating labs. I also knew that he used money Charlotte Richmond had stolen from her father to finance the refits. From what Billy’s people said, Ballinger was quickly on his way to becoming a serious distributor.

  Billy’s boat guy told him that each boat had a regular crew of three, plus two cooks, as he called them. They sent the trawlers out to anchor during the day with other shrimp boats, to be inconspicuous, but always downwind. The holds on the boats had been partitioned off with a water-tight bulkhead and door. When they were in the lab, the aft part of the hold was filled with seawater and shrimp, trapping the people inside the lab until they were finished making the drugs. Their thinking was that if the boat was searched while the men were in the lab, all the Coast Guard would find was a hold filled with seawater and shrimp. I had to admit, it was a clever idea.

  When Billy took his turn for a nap, halfway to Fort Myers, I made my decision, and turned off the sat-phone. Ballinger was facing at least twenty years, I’d bet. Harper would go away for a long time for shooting a cop, and Brady would be dead meat in prison.

  Ballinger didn’t have much in the way of liquid assets, other than his real estate holdings and yachts, but he did have some powerful friends, one a sitting Florida senator who was once a public defender. One word from him, and Ballinger could be released on his own recognizance. With boats at his disposal, he could disappear.

  It was Ballinger I wanted. He was responsible for the deaths of Charlotte and the others on the shrimp boat. He’d sent Harper to kill Marty. He supplied drugs to addicts who died from using them. In my mind, he was as dirty as they come. Cut off the head, you kill the snake.

  I could see the lights of the causeway about five miles ahead and was about to flip the switch for the intercom when I heard the salon hatch open and close.

  “Still no plan?” Billy asked, when he’d climbed up.

  I didn’t answer for a moment. Then I turned in my seat and looked at my old friend. “I think you should stay on the boat, Billy. Or catch a cab home to Labelle. I turned off the sat-phone and removed the battery.”

  Billy’s look was grave. He fully understood what that meant. “I’m going with you, brother.”

  There was no changing his mind. When we were twelve years old, Billy made me his blood brother after helping him out of a bad situation with some other kids that were picking on him. He’d been smallish as a boy, and I’d always been big for my age. There were four of them, and two were teenagers. Billy and I had taken them on, our backs to one another, and beat them. He’d never consider his debt repaid.

  “I want to get aboard one of those boats and see for myself.”

  “And if the shrimpers don’t want to let you?” Billy asked.

  “At most, there might be five people on each boat,
” I said. “Odds are we won’t find anyone; maybe a single crewman. I want to see the inside of the holds, and if we encounter resistance, we’ll meet it with overpowering force.”

  “You’re dead set on this?”

  I looked over at him. “These guys make drugs, man. The one called Harper shot a deputy in his own house. The deputy may well be my son-in-law one day, and at any rate, I consider the young man my friend. Ballinger is responsible for the death of a woman I know, plus a few others who were on the boat with her. Running drugs through my backyard is one thing, but now it’s personal.”

  “We go in hard then,” Billy said. “Weapons?”

  “Mind the helm,” I said.

  Going quickly down the ladder, I made my way forward to my stateroom and knelt by the bunk. I punched in the code and raised the bunk on hydraulically assisted arms. Beneath it was an assortment of reel and rod cases, along with other boxes labeled as boating supplies. At least that’s what they looked like.

  Taking two Fin-Nor rod cases out, I placed them on the deck. I also grabbed a large box that said it contained a Shimano reel. Closing the bunk, I picked up the rod and reel cases and returned to the cockpit, handing them up to Billy.

  Billy smiled as I climbed up the ladder. “These feel a might heavier than the rods and reels I’m used to fishing with.”

  Sitting on the port bench, I opened the larger of the reel boxes. Inside were a pair of Sig-Sauer nine-millimeter handguns, along with four magazines. I slid a mag into one of them and handed it to Billy.

  “Just the kind of tackle every fisherman needs,” he said, taking the Sig and one extra magazine. “What’s in the rod cases?”

  “A pair of Heckler and Koch rods,” I said, opening one of the cases and handing the MP5 it contained to Billy.

  He racked the slide on the ugly machine pistol, locking the bolt to the rear with a practiced hand to inspect the chamber. I’d bought both guns from him, along with quite a few more. He slapped the cocking handle, releasing the bolt, then reached over and took one of the thirty-round magazines, slipping it into the receiver. Then he took the other two mags from the case and put them in his pocket.