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

by Wayne Stinnett

  Now there were only two. I stood up fully, shouldering the MP5, and advancing toward our assailants. A man on the boat stood, pointing a revolver at me, of all things. I shot him in the chest.

  Billy stood, and together we marched deliberately toward the shrimp boat, weapons at the ready. I knew there was one more man on board, but the deck was cluttered with nets, buckets, and bodies.

  Suddenly, the back door to the pilothouse opened, and I heard an engine start beyond the trawler. Brady stepped out of the wheelhouse, a shotgun in his hands. Billy’s weapon fired before Brady could even raise the barrel.

  The engine I’d heard suddenly roared, churning white water directly ahead of us. At first, I thought it was the Revenge and someone was trying to steal her. But it was the Sea Ray that had been docked in front of us.

  The bridge deck was awash with light and there was only one person at the helm that I could see. He turned and looked back at us. It was Ballinger.

  “Back to the boat!” I shouted.

  Billy was right behind me as we raced down the dock toward the wharf. We were both breathing hard when we got to the Revenge. I tossed off the stern line and jumped aboard. Billy raced past me to cast off the bow line.

  In seconds, Billy was aboard, and we were underway. I hadn’t seen the old dockmaster. His little shack was empty. He’d probably run off as soon as the shooting started.

  The other boat had disappeared in the darkness but the disturbed water from his wake left a trail of bioluminescent plankton that at least gave me an idea which direction he’d gone.

  Billy got the radar up and running and pointed to the only moving echo on the screen. “Downriver,” he said calmly. “Headed toward the causeway. How fast can his boat go?”

  “I don’t know,” I replied, turning the wheel to go after Ballinger. “Probably forty knots.”

  “That’s how fast we went coming up here.”

  “But we weren’t going full speed,” I said, pushing the throttles to the stops. The Revenge surged forward, as the superchargers spooled up, creating a high-pitched scream. “Take the wheel. Force him to run for open water.”

  Descending quickly down the ladder to the cockpit, I dreaded opening the hatch to the engine room. My ears were still ringing, both from the underwater blast and the firefight. When I opened the hatch, the sound of each engine’s twin turbos and the superchargers wound up as high as they’d go, made me dizzy. I quickly stepped down into the engine room and grabbed a pair of earmuffs from a hanger on the bulkhead. They helped a little.

  In seconds, I had the two hidden compartments open and placed the tripod and mini-gun up on the cockpit deck. Another purchase from Billy. I removed the lower half of the tripod, leaving only the gun mount and pedestal with its two-inch titanium connecting rod. Removing the strap that holds the ammo box and the twelve-volt motorcycle battery below the pedestal, I slung it over my head and shoulder, then picked up the mount and gun.

  Holding the gun by its handle with my left hand, I stuck the lightweight mount under my arm and stepped up onto the narrow side deck. Grabbing the handrail of the cabin roof with my right hand, I reminded myself for the millionth time that an access from the galley to the foredeck just made good sense.

  A year ago, Tony had mentioned the need for a forward mount. I nixed the idea for obvious reasons. The handrails around the foredeck are barely knee-high, except at the pulpit, and standing up to use the tripod would just be too dangerous. So we’d stripped the tripod from its mount and had a small insert fabricated into the deck next to the anchor chain in lieu of the tripod.

  Fortunately, seas were still dead calm as I carefully moved out onto the open foredeck. The Revenge rocketed ahead at nearly fifty knots. I had to stay low, with my feet far apart, but I made it to the relative safety of the bow rail. Kneeling and leaning against the rail, I removed the cap from the receiver in the deck and inserted the connecting rod. Fitting the mini-gun into the swivel mount, I latched it in place, then secured the ammo can and battery pack to the opposite rail.

  Looking ahead, I was shocked to see how fast we were approaching the causeway. I could see Ballinger’s boat; he was just passing under the high arch. Billy was steering toward the opening to the left of where Ballinger was, forcing him to turn around the tip of Sanibel Island.

  We flashed under the bridge, and Billy yelled out, “Hang on!”

  I gripped the starboard rail, knowing he was going to turn sharp to force his way between Ballinger and the beach. The Revenge rolled over onto her side, the starboard chine digging deep into water.

  When Billy recovered from the turn, I went back to work. In seconds, I had the belt fed into the mini-gun and the battery cable attached. I flipped on the electric belt feed and waited for the green light.

  When it came on, I sat down on the deck, bracing my feet against the raised pulpit and the rail stanchion. Ballinger’s boat was less than a mile off the port bow and heading west-southwest, directly toward the setting moon.

  A minute later, Billy turned and we crashed through the yacht’s starboard wake, just a hundred yards away and coming alongside. I aimed well ahead of the yacht and depressed the firing switch. The motor whirred, spinning the six barrels up to speed. Then the belt feed engaged, and the gun spat a stream of flame, as more than a hundred rounds flew across Ballinger’s bow in two seconds. Only every fifth round was a tracer, but the steady stream from the barrel looked like a whip of fire.

  Ballinger turned sharply away from us to the southeast, paralleling Fort Myers Beach. Billy turned and crossed his wake again, far too wide, putting Ballinger behind me. The set-up for the pedestal mount had to be off-center so as not to interfere with the anchor chain. The gun could only be fired forward or to port.

  Ballinger turned southwest again and I realized Billy had gone wide to give the man a false sense of security and turn him back toward open water. Billy slowed slightly, then turned and crossed the other boat’s wake again, bringing it into my field of fire.

  Ballinger had gained nearly a quarter of a mile, but we were slowly chewing up the distance. I realized what Billy was doing. There was no turning back once this started. Ballinger wasn’t going to stop just because I sent some lead across his bow. Billy was forcing the man farther and farther from shore, into deeper water. Water that a boat could disappear under and not be found.

  Ballinger began a series of swerves, trying to avoid being hit. Billy countered like a sheep dog, constantly forcing Ballinger away from shore. I was certain that his boat didn’t have the range to cross the Gulf; it was a luxury yacht, not an expeditionary vessel. Maybe he thought he had enough range to just out-distance the Revenge. But our tanks were full. We could chase him to Havana or Pensacola, or any part of the Gulf in between. Like the deep waters I was sure we were entering.

  Looking behind us, I saw no other boats, and Sanibel Lighthouse was a good five or six miles away and fading fast. We were in forty or fifty feet of water now.

  I pointed, pumping my arm, urging Billy to get us alongside. I felt the Revenge surge forward, as the superchargers spooled up again, forcing more cool, clean air into the turbocharged engines.

  Ballinger attempted to turn away from us. Billy turned with him, slowly overtaking the yacht on the outside. I aimed and pressed the button, holding it down. The flame and loud buzz of the mini-gun split the night air. I moved the wicked line of tracers onto the target and watched as they chewed the aft cockpit and sundeck to pieces. I moved the line of fire like a whip along the waterline.

  The yacht exploded in a bright yellow fireball. It broke up, parts and pieces skimming across the surface. The water quickly extinguished most of the flames, as what was left of the yacht rolled and went under, taking Ballinger with it.

  Billy slowed. It was over. Pieces of flotsam scattered the surface of the water, some still burning. But the yacht was gone. Ballinger was dead. Brady was dead. Harper was dead. And the Texan was dead.

  I kept looking behind us as we cruise
d south past the Ten Thousand Islands for the second time. We didn’t want to risk going back to Fort Myers, or on up the river to Labelle, where Billy lived. It would mean going right past the marina. So we’d set a course for my island. Billy would hang out until we were sure nobody was looking for us.

  Taking another person’s life isn’t something done lightly, at least not for a person of good conscience. But I knew those men were bad, and I was glad they were dead. I just hoped that I hadn’t gotten Billy into something we couldn’t get out of. Vigilantism isn’t what I do. Nor him.

  The only one who knew we were going to Fort Myers was Deuce. I’m sure Morgan or even Devon could put things together. And the old man at the dock had seen us.

  Billy had spent the first half hour of our return trip on his satellite phone, texting people, trying to get a read on what the police in Fort Myers knew.

  An hour into our trip, he finally put the phone in his pocket and looked over at me. “You owe me ten thousand dollars.”

  “You’re a merc, now?”

  He chuckled softly. “Taking out the garbage is on the house. I just had one of my people visit Zac Lunsford.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “The dockmaster,” Billy said. “He said he knew something was going down and as soon as he filled our tanks, he left the marina. My friend gave Lunsford ten grand to say that he never saw us, and only went to get a bottle of rum. He readily agreed.”

  When we got back to my island, the sun was already up. Pulling into my channel, I half-expected people in FBI jackets to come streaming down the pier. The only greeting we had was from Finn.

  Carl and Charlie’s boat was gone. We tied up and I took my cell phone up to the deck. I was tired and felt old. Billy went inside to shower and change clothes. I turned on the phone and called Deuce.

  “Where the hell are you?” he whispered urgently.

  “At home. How’s Marty?”

  “He’s gonna be fine, already complaining to go home.”

  “That’s good,” I said. “What’s up?”

  “What’s up?” he said more urgently, but still in a whisper. “You go and shoot the hell out of half of Fort Myers and want to know what’s up? You need to get to Marathon riki tik.”

  “Who knows?”

  “That you went on a vengeance streak?” Deuce asked. “Only me, and maybe Chyrel. But there have been some developments. You need to get here right away.”

  I took the time to shower first, after Billy was finished. Dressed in clean clothes, we boarded El Cazador and headed to the hospital. When we arrived, there wasn’t anyone I knew in the ER lobby. I asked at the desk and a nurse told me there was a waiting area in the wing where Marty had been moved to, and gave me the room number.

  When I got there, Kim, Deuce, and Julie were still there. Eve and Nick had gone back up to Miami, but his father, Alfredo was still there.

  “Where’ve you been?” Kim asked, as we entered the waiting room.

  I glanced at Deuce and he shook his head slightly, telling me that Kim didn’t know.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, hugging my daughter. “There were things that needed tending to. I was in constant touch with Deuce, though. He told me Marty’s gonna be fine.”

  “They’ll probably let him go home tomorrow,” she said, eyeing me suspiciously. “I was just about to go visit him. Why don’t you come with me? He’s been asking to see you.”

  We started to leave, but Maggio pulled me aside and asked for just a minute of my time.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Last year, I took a case pro bono for a man who was trying to avoid a foreclosure.”

  “How is this important?” I asked, briskly.

  “His name is Zachary Lunsford.”

  He knew already? I knew he had connections all over south Florida, on both sides of the law. Was he trying to hold some perceived information over me, to get out of our deal?

  “I just want you to know,” Maggio said, with a half-grin, handing me a business card, “if you should need representation, call me. That’s got my private cell number on it.”

  Sticking the card in my pocket, I thanked him and went with Kim to Marty’s room. Billy sat down with Deuce and Chyrel, who had her computer open on the table in such a way that only the three of them could see it. They were speaking in low whispers.

  Marty was awake and alert when we entered the room. He smiled nervously. Kim stopped at the foot of his bed and said she was going to go get Marty something to drink.

  “I’d like to ask you something,” Marty said, after she left. I had a feeling I was being set up.

  “And what’s that, Marty?” I asked, taking a seat in the chair next to his bed and pushing my hair back over my ears with both hands.

  “I saw the guy. He was in my house. Everything happened in slow motion. He shot me, and I thought I was going to die.”

  “You’re a tough man,” I said, trying to avoid calling him a kid.

  “The thing is,” he said, “the only thing I could think of while I lay on the floor bleeding was that I might not see Kim again. I want to marry her, Mister McDermitt. But I want your approval before I ask her.”

  “Have you heard what happened to Brady?”

  “Yes, sir, I did. Fort Myers police think he was trying to stop a drug shipment or something.”

  “And what do you think, Marty?”

  He looked me straight in the eye. “I think the engines on your boat show about eight hours more run time than they did yesterday.”

  I gazed back at the young man. He knew. “And you want to do the morally right thing, by asking me for my daughter’s hand?”

  The ball was in his court. What Billy and I had done was wrong, and I knew it. Marty also knew it.

  “Sometimes,” he said, “doing what’s morally right might not always be the ethical thing to do.”

  “Pretty wise statement, considering your age.”

  He chuckled softly, then winced and put a hand to his chest, where it was bandaged tightly. “I heard it from you.”

  “From me?”

  “A long time ago. You were drinking at the Anchor with some of your friends, discussing the difference between ethics and morals.”

  “I’ll have to take your word,” I said, not remembering anything about what he was saying. “I’m not responsible if I’m drinking rum.”

  “Brady’s fingerprints were found on my boat, where he put the head. Sergeant Evans saw him with the guy who shot me and the guy who was making the meth. Fort Myers PD found the meth labs on Ballinger’s boats. Did you know my dad’s from Texas?”

  “I seem to remember that, yeah. What’s that got to do with it?”

  “He says that in Texas, they needed killin’ is a valid defense.”

  I stood up and extended my hand. “I’d be honored to have you for my son-in-law, Marty.”

  He took it, and we shook—I expect in much the same way that men have been doing with prospective fathers-in-law for generations.

  Though probably without the specter of the betrothed possibly arresting the father of the bride.

  Ben Morgan entered the room. “Ah, Mister McDermitt, I’ve finally tracked you down.”

  I went to full alert. Morgan was a good cop, as good as they come. I wasn’t going to resist. “You’ve been looking for me?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

  He went on to tell me that several weeks ago, Devon had been approached by the City Manager of Apple Valley, Georgia, just north of Athens, about taking on the job of police chief.

  I was confused. “What are you saying, Lieutenant?”

  “Devon decided to take the job. She left last night.”

  I was having trouble comprehending. He and Devon had been at Ballinger’s store when I left for Fort Myers. Morgan led me out of Marty’s room, to a small chapel where we could talk privately. He told me that Devon had been agonizing over it for weeks, more so in the last couple of days
. He explained to me what she suspected about Savannah and her daughter.

  “Not that it’s any of my business,” he said finally. “But you’re a smart guy, you had to have known it wouldn’t work.”

  He was right. I’d known it right from the start. She wanted the house with the picket fence, and two cars in the driveway. And being eleven years younger than me, she could still have that. But not with the likes of me. I couldn’t stomach living in a subdivided neighborhood, even Key West. The logical part of my brain understood and even agreed with that, but the emotional side took a hit. It was fun being with Devon. She made me feel more alive than I had in years.

  In nine years, I thought. My mind suddenly reeled with the knowledge that I was no longer attached. A voice in my head chastised me for thinking of Savannah, but I couldn’t deny it. Even Devon had thought that Florence was my child. I suddenly needed to know.

  Excusing myself, I left the chapel in a hurry. Kim was probably in the waiting room with Deuce and the others. I needed to get to the Anchor. The overwhelming urge was more powerful than anything I’d ever experienced.

  By boat, I’d have to go all the way around the island. By car, it was just a few minutes. But my car was at the Anchor. I could get a ride from Deuce, or even Julie, but I didn’t want to waste time explaining, nor could I explain the irrationality of it.

  What could I say? Devon just left me, and I need to see Savannah right now? I turned the other way and went to the stairs. If it was minutes by car, it wasn’t any longer than running. I went down the steps in near leaps, swinging around the landings by the rail.

  Outside, I ran through the parking lot, angling toward the corner and the sidewalk. I ran across the intersection at Sombrero Beach Road, against the light, a car honking at me as I did so. I ran past the Kmart. I turned down the crushed shell driveway covered in foliage. I ran into the small parking area on the other side of the jungle barrier.