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

by Wayne Stinnett

  I did the same with the other handgun and machine pistol, stuffing the extra magazines into my pockets.

  “We don’t fire unless fired upon,” I told him.

  Nearing the familiar causeway, I slowed the Revenge. Billy had given me a rough idea of where the two shrimp boats were docked. There weren’t any other boats on the water as we passed under the bridge and turned up the Caloosahatchee River, barely on plane.

  Billy guided me to the marina and we were soon tied up at the diesel dock, behind a shiny, well-kept but older Sea Ray Sundancer.

  Before stepping off the boat, I pulled a pair of worn windbreakers out of the bench seat and we put them on to conceal the machine pistols. A sleepy looking dockmaster came out of the little shack, as Billy and I climbed down.

  “Two hundred gallons of diesel,” I said, as he approached.

  The old man looked my boat over. “That’s six hundred. Cash in advance.”

  It wasn’t the first time Gaspar’s Revenge had been mistaken for a smuggler’s boat. Who else would fuel up at an out of the way marina in the middle of the night? I peeled off the bills and handed them to the man. Odds were, some of them would end up in his pocket.

  “And you never saw us,” I said.

  “Saw who?” the man asked, exposing several missing teeth, in what I assumed was a conspiratorial grin.

  “We’re gonna take a walk,” I said. “Stretch our legs a little and maybe get some breakfast. My boat be okay here until sunrise?”

  “Sure,” the old man said, pulling the hose from the pump. “Ain’t none of the boats here going out until tomorrow.”

  “How come?” Billy asked.

  “Got me,” the dockmaster said. “Only diesel boats here are three shrimpers. One of ’em must still be out. They usually go out for one night, on Monday and again on Wednesday and Friday. They don’t catch more than a couple hundred pounds and spend the next day at the dock.”

  “Never make any money that way,” Billy said.

  “I don’t know,” he said with a sigh, his voice carrying the message that he’d seen it all and then some. “Maybe it’s just a hobby to ’em. Ain’t none of ’em looks like a shrimper. I’d say they was up to no good, ya ask me.”

  “We’ll be back shortly,” I said, turning away.

  Billy fell in beside me, as we followed the pier toward shore. We’d seen the two shrimp boats as we entered the little marina. They were docked side by side, at the far end of the compound, near the parking lot.

  “Last chance,” I said, stopping at the foot of the pier.

  One corner of Billy’s mouth turned up slightly. “Saturday night, brother. Rock and roll.”

  With that, we each racked the bolts on the MP5s as quietly as possible, chambering a nine-millimeter round. The same round as our handguns, but the machine pistols were full-auto.

  The pier connected to a concrete wharf, where a decrepit boatyard stood, machinery rusting in the elements. We walked along the wharf, keeping to the shadows as much as possible. When we reached the far side, I led Billy into a maze of lobster traps to a spot where we could see both boats. Neither had a light on and we didn’t see any sign that there was anyone aboard.

  “Let’s check the nearest one first,” I whispered.

  Billy nodded, and we moved out of the maze and onto the northern pier. It extended a hundred yards out into a small, natural harbor, just like the pier on the other side, then turned at a right angle, a mirror image of the fuel dock where the Revenge lay, with the ends of the two docks a mere fifty feet apart. The shrimp boats were tied up on the outside of this one and the fuel dock was on the outside of the other one.

  The two L-shaped docks surrounded another shorter pier in the middle. This one had a couple dozen slips, most of which were empty. None of the boats in the marina showed signs of life, and I had serious doubts if any had been used in months, except the two trawlers. I couldn’t help noticing that there was room at the end of the pier for another trawler.

  We reached the turn of the pier and crouched next to a large dock box mounted to the dock, the paint peeling and the wood showing signs of rot from the harsh south Florida environment. The stern of Eliminator was right in front of us. This was the boat that Al Fader said had a strange odor the night it anchored among the Key West shrimp fleet.

  I moved toward the low gunwale of the shrimp boat, Billy right behind me. Just as I lifted a leg to step over, I heard a very distinctive sound and froze. Billy stood motionless beside me. The double clunking sound came from behind us, where a beat up old Silverton was tied up.

  Billy and I knew that sound well and it sent a cold shill down my spine. The sound of a heavy, twelve-gauge shotgun shell being racked into the chamber will do that to anyone.

  Devon sat at a table idly picking at a half-day-old muffin. Both she and Ben were disappointed that Brady wasn’t in the warehouse. She felt guilty that she hadn’t figured on another vehicle or another exit. She wondered if she’d been seen, or if one of the men had seen Tom Broderick crossing the street to join her. She doubted that he was a Marine combat infantry officer.

  But more than anything, she felt guilty about her decision concerning Jesse.

  “Don’t beat yourself up,” Ben said, taking a sip of his coffee.

  They’d stopped on their way back to Key West to get a bite to eat. It was still a few hours until sunrise, and they both needed coffee for the drive back.

  “That obvious?” Devon asked.

  “Yeah,” he said. “You couldn’t watch the front and back at the same time. Uniforms will sit on Brady’s car and the APB will turn up one of them, sooner or later.”

  “I know,” she replied, still picking at the muffin. She felt like she should be starved, since she hadn’t eaten since lunch. But her stomach was in knots and nothing looked appealing on the menu, so she’d chosen the blueberry muffin.

  “It’s something else, isn’t it?”

  “You’re not going to like it,” she said, her eyes quickly glancing up at her boss and mentor.

  Ben stretched his legs and leaned back in his chair. Though only seven years older than her, he always reminded Devon of a concerned uncle, though she never had an uncle.

  “The job offer from that City Manager up in Georgia?” he asked. “You should take it.”

  Devon’s eyes came up to meet Ben’s steady gaze. “Why would you say that?”

  “Don’t pretend with me, Devon. You’ve already decided. You’re only thirty-five. Sure, it’s a small rural town, but it’ll be your town. Let me ask you something. How many thirty-five-year-old female police chiefs have you heard about?”

  “Not many,” she replied.

  “Four currently, in the whole State of Georgia,” Ben said. “I checked. And the sheriff in the same county you’re going to is the first woman sheriff in the state. It’s a great opportunity.”

  “But I have friends here.”

  “You’ll make friends there, too,” Ben said, leaning forward, and placing his elbows on the table. “Stop being a dumbass, Devon. There’s no such thing as a perfect relationship. Sure, you and McDermitt get along well, and I don’t remember you ever mentioning any kind of disagreement, and I’d pick up on that vibe even if you didn’t say anything. You two have similar backgrounds, morals, and convictions, but you and I both know it won’t work in the long run.”

  “Jesse will never leave his island,” Devon admitted, starting to realize for the first time that her instincts were right. “Not for me, or anyone else.”

  “And you’re a landlocked islander who doesn’t like the water.”

  “It’s still not an easy decision to make,” Devon said.

  Ben grinned. “If it’ll make it easier, I can fire you. But you’ve already made up your mind, haven’t you?”

  Devon drained her coffee and stood up. “Yes, I have. I’ve got over a month’s vacation time saved up. Can I take it? Starting now?”

  “No,” Ben replied, standing, and dropping a
ten on the table. “You gotta go back down to Key West first, and turn in your vehicle.”

  Outside, the two detectives stood by their cars. “I’ll get started on the paperwork in the morning, but consider your comp time as having started at midnight.”

  “Thanks, Ben.”

  “One thing,” he said, as she reached for the door handle. “Is your decision based partly on the little girl?”

  “How’d you know about her?”

  Ben smiled broadly. “I’m a lieutenant. It’s my job to know everything.”

  “Jesse hasn’t said anything,” Devon said, opening her car door. “But my gut tells me the child is his. Once he knows, he’ll want to be a part of her life. I don’t know anything about the woman, except that she seems to be a better fit for Jesse than I am, and I would never stand in the way of that.”

  “Now you’re talking like a detective, Chief.”

  She laughed, though she liked the sound of the title, then turned and hugged him. “Thanks for everything, Ben. I won’t forget this.”

  He hugged her back, though she knew he felt awkward about personal contact. “I’m going home to get some sleep and probably won’t be in until noon. By then, you’d better be on the Florida Turnpike, halfway to Georgia.”

  Devon got in her car and waited a moment until Ben backed out. She waited a few minutes longer, letting him get far down the road. She didn’t want him to look in the mirror and see her crying.

  The sounds from over at the bar had quieted shortly after midnight. Savannah had put Flo to bed right after Rusty had delivered them back to his little marina.

  Sitting on Sea Biscuit’s fly bridge, Savannah saw Rusty turning off the lights in the bar. A moment later, he stepped outside, locking the door behind him. Her bridge was covered, and she was in the shadows, so he didn’t see her when he turned and surveyed his property. Savannah watched as Rusty walked toward his little house adjacent to the bar and then went inside. She waited another twenty minutes, until she saw the lights in the back room of the house turn off. Then she waited a half hour longer, to allow the man to get to sleep.

  Right after Jesse and his Indian friend had left the hospital, the ME arrived and told her that his investigation was complete, and she could arrange transport. He’d even had all the necessary documents for her to sign. Sharlee’s body would be picked up in just a few more hours and transported back home to Beaufort. It was time to move on, though she didn’t have a destination in mind.

  Starting the boat’s engines, she went quickly down to the aft sun deck to untie the lines, leaving Woden asleep on the bridge deck. As she began to step down from the sun deck, she saw Rusty standing on the dock, next to her boat. He was dressed as he had been when he went into the house. His presence startled her. She thought she was pretty good at reading people and never guessed that a man his size could be very stealthy.

  “Dangerous setting out in the middle of the night,” he said.

  Woden rose and emitted a low, rumbling growl. She silenced him with a raised hand, and turned to face the man. “You knew I was going to leave?”

  “Suspected as much,” he replied. “Once Doc Fredrick released your sis’s body, there just ain’t much holding you here, is there?”

  Seeing Jesse again had made her want to stay—but there just wasn’t any way she could put that burden on him.

  “No,” she said. “Nothing at all.”

  Rusty glanced to the front of the boat, where Flo slept in the forward vee-berth. “She’s his, ain’t she?”

  “I told you, Rusty, I just don’t know.”

  “That’s why you’re runnin’ in the middle of the night.”

  Savannah stepped down to the small cockpit behind her little stateroom and stood with her hands on her hips. “I’m not running.”

  “Where ya headed?”

  “I don’t know yet,” she replied.

  “You’re runnin’ then.”

  Savannah sat on the roof of the cabin, a single tear streaming down her cheek. “Don’t you get it? I can’t saddle him with the knowledge and I just don’t want to know.”

  “You’re a coward,” Rusty said. “If Jesse is the dad, there ain’t no way in hell he’d shirk his responsibility. Being a dad’s about all the man’s really got going for him.”

  “And both his daughters are grown women,” Savannah said, looking up at the bar owner. “He’s nearing fifty years old, Rusty. A man shouldn’t be the father to a small child at that age.”

  “Hah!” Rusty exclaimed. “I’ve known Jesse for damned near thirty of those years. He’s my own daughter’s godfather. I seen him around his girls when they were little. You ever seen a warrior in camouflage sipping make-believe tea with a little girl? I have. He looked comical sitting there in boots and utes, but he didn’t give a damn what anyone thought, ’cept that little girl. It ain’t about the years in a man’s life, it’s about the life in a man’s years. Jesse would make a great daddy for your little girl.”

  Savannah dropped her head in her hands, sobbing a little. “Don’t you see, Rusty? I can’t ask him to take that on. Besides, he has a woman in his life.”

  “He don’t love her.”

  For an instant her resolve melted. If she could only be sure of that, it might make a difference. “Did he tell you that?”

  “No,” Rusty replied. “But like I said, I know the man as well as I’d know my own brother. She’s young and pretty, but she’s all wrong for Jesse, and deep inside, he knows that.”

  Savannah brushed her cheeks with the back of her hand, as she stood. “Makes no difference.”

  Rusty stood there a moment, looking deep into her eyes. In his, she saw the wisdom of a very old soul. This was a man to be trusted.

  “Go on up to the bridge, Captain,” he said. “I’ll get your dock lines for you.”

  She started to step up onto the cabin roof, then stopped. “Don’t tell him about our conversations.”

  “I can’t promise ya that, Savannah. All I can promise is that I won’t bring it up. But if he asks me did I talk to you before you left, I’m gonna tell him the truth. He was really tore up the last time you up and disappeared in the middle of the night.”

  That stung, but at the same time, it gave her a feeling of warmth. She’d only been here a little more than a week, all those years ago. But it had been an emotional roller coaster of a week. She had to cut it short because she’d known that she was falling in love with a man she barely knew. And she’d still been married.

  “I can’t stay,” she said flatly, and turned to go up the steps to the fly bridge, tears streaming down her face.

  “Turn around real slow,” a voice behind us drawled.

  I knew that voice. As I slowly turned, I saw the old sports fisherman the man was on and recognized the dingy look of it, the faded brightwork and green stains running down from the scuppers. It was the dive boat I’d seen on the wreck and I suddenly realized why it had looked familiar then.

  The man pointing the shotgun menacingly at me and Billy was the same Texan who had held a knife at my throat when he delivered me to Tena Horvac almost two years ago.

  The rage that had been building inside me and had nearly tipped when Brady walked into the ER now pegged the meter at full tilt. I turned off my mind. I allowed muscle memory to take over. I’d trained many long days, for many years, to move and fight by instinct.

  Time slowed. The man’s mouth began to open to say something else, but I was already in motion. Some sixth sense told me that Billy was also moving, though my focus was on Tex’s midsection.

  I dove to my left, my right hand already brushing back the open windbreaker, and falling onto the grip of the MP5, which hung from my shoulder.

  I hit the ground in a roll, coming up onto one knee, my cheek molded to the weapon and my sights right on Tex’s belly. I pulled the trigger, firing a two-round burst just as he fired at the spot where Billy and I had been standing.

  As Tex spun around from the impact of the
two bullets, I heard Billy firing. Most civilians are never in a firefight. Many have never even heard a gunshot. But if you’re a twenty-year infantry Marine, trained daily in every possible condition and weapon, your situational awareness and your mind and muscle memory will recall things without your mind even knowing. Billy was shooting at something above me.

  Suddenly, more men appeared on the other trawler, all firing at us. Handguns and shotguns roared from where they stood on the deck eighty feet away.

  A man’s body fell onto the dock next to me, two red dots expanding from the center of his chest. Some part of my mind recognized him. It was the kid that’d been on the dive boat, the one who’d tried to kill Marty.

  I moved behind a storage box and quickly extended the butt of the HK to its fullest. The MP5 is a great weapon in tight spots. It combines the small size of a pistol and a forward grip like an assault rifle, with a telescoping butt. Though not as accurate as a rifle, in the hands of someone who knows how to use it, it’s far more accurate than handguns and shotguns.

  I rose, leading with the weapon, my cheek melded to the stock. I heard Billy fire a two-round burst behind me. Again, years of training told me which direction he was firing, which my eyes confirmed when my head came up and I saw one of the men on the trawler drop. I chose a target at random and pulled the trigger again. Another man spun and went overboard, the splash sounding unusually loud and out of place amid the gunfire. My mind registered a man on the roof of the pilothouse, rising and starting for the ladder, just as I dropped back down behind the box.

  Billy ran up and took cover behind a post, checking the dock to our rear. He looked over and nodded. I rose and shot the man climbing down from the pilothouse. He fell backward onto the dock with a thud.

  Like a cat, Billy rose and moved across the dock ahead of me, dropping behind another dock box. I instantly rolled to my left, taking advantage of the distraction, and came up kneeling by the post Billy’d just vacated. I saw him rise and fire again.

  I didn’t see, but I knew he’d dropped another man. Though Billy had only spent four years in the Corps, he was one of those guys who was always prepping for a possible government overthrow or some sort of apocalypse. He had a tactical infiltration course on his property, back behind the off-road track he’d built.