Castigo Cay

by Matthew Bracken

  I sank into the bucket seat, my head back against the headrest. The car still smelled of fast food, but no wrappers or cups were in evidence. They had already gotten rid of the paper and plastic evidence, no doubt out of consideration for me.

  Kelly must have been on my wavelength, or maybe she caught my sniffing and looking about the car. “We’d already ordered when you called, or we would have gotten you something.”

  “No problem, I just had something while I was waiting.”

  “So why’d you leave the conference early?” Nick asked.

  “Because I ran into Richard Prechter face-to-face, and then a half hour later Trevor Ridley showed up. It looked like he had been brought there to ID me. That was my take on it, anyway.”

  Nick said, “You mean Prechter recognized you?”

  “It’s possible. Yeah, I think so. But I’m not sure.”

  I heard a loud sigh behind me, Nick audibly venting frustration. My visit to the RASE Conference had not ended on a positive note. My presence in Miami might have been known to my enemies. It certainly was known to Frank Bloomfield and whatever government agency he represented.

  “But he might have made you?” Kelly asked.

  “He might have.”

  “So, how does that change things?”

  “It might make Prechter more careful. It might cause him to move up his plans, or change them altogether. We can only guess.”

  “Just what we need,” Nick grumbled. “A tougher mission. As if it wasn’t tough enough already.”

  What he said was true, but I had also learned some valuable information, and I’d received an invitation to a party that Prechter would be attending. I decided to save this news for later. It could keep. I had my own questions for Nick and Kelly. “So, where were you guys? I called you for a pickup and you were twenty minutes out. Where were you, back on the mainland?”

  “Here’s what happened,” said Nick. “After we called you from the condo, we drove back across the MacArthur Causeway. We were going to try to find a place to park where we could see the end of Hibiscus Isle. But we couldn’t see Topaz or Prechter’s house from any angle down at ground level, so it wasn’t even worth trying a bogus breakdown or any other way to stop that would be believable. And not with guns in the car anyway. The police would have been all over us if we tried anything cute like that. So we kept driving.”

  Kelly said, “It was really just a matter of pure luck. We saw a truck coming over the bridge from Palm Isle to the causeway. It was pulling a trailer with a pair of waverunners on it. It was stopped at the red light at the end of the bridge, and we got a perfect view of the waverunners.”

  “I’m positive they were from Topaz,” said Nick. “They’re the exact same turquoise color. I’m sure of it. The truck had a little crane on the back. It was easy to follow because of the crane, so we didn’t have to stay right behind it. It went about a mile up Biscayne Boulevard, then over 36th Street toward the airport.”

  “You followed it?” I was a little miffed. “You dropped the Topaz recon to follow a truck?”

  “The recon on Topaz was going nowhere. We could only see Topaz from up on the condo, and that was a one-shot deal. From street level you can’t see Hibiscus Isle, much less Topaz. So we took a chance and we followed the truck and the waverunners.”

  “So what happened?”

  Kelly continued the account. “There’s a boat warehouse place out there, mostly ski boats and waverunners. Trailer stuff. They have a big storage lot. It’s right next to the highway, and a lot of the boats had shrink-wrap plastic on them, like they just came from the factory. Anyway, that’s where the waverunners went.”

  “Why didn’t you call me, at least? Who made that decision?”

  “We both did,” Kelly said rather heatedly. “It was only logical. We had an idea, which we turned into a plan. And we didn’t want you to shoot it down, because you weren’t there and couldn’t see how good it was. We knew you wouldn’t leave before Prechter’s speech was over, so we thought we had that much time at least. So, do you want to hear what we did? Or do you just want to rag on our asses for showing some initiative?”

  She had me there. “Okay. What did you do?”

  Nick said, “We put the satellite tracker inside one of the waverunners.”

  “You did? And you’re assuming the waverunners are going back onto Topaz? How did you know they weren’t selling them? Getting rid of them, or maybe trading them in?”

  Kelly said, “No, that wasn’t what was happening. We’re not stupid, Dan. The waverunners were going in for a quick tune-up. The mechanic told us so himself. Look, we made a decision. We saw a shot, and we took it. I thought you’d actually be happy! The waverunners are going back to Topaz, and the tracker will be on board.”

  It was obviously a done deal, so there was nothing to do except roll with their fait accompli. I could rebuke them for operating outside of their instructions, but what purpose would that serve? That might be a fast way to pare my team down from three members to one tall guy without a car, standing on the sidewalk with a couple of bags. “Okay, so tell me how it went down.”

  Nick said, “We watched him back the trailer into their shop area, and after a few minutes we went into their office on the front side of the building, where their showroom is. Mostly they’re selling outboard motorboats and waverunners. Big outboards, like 250-horsepower jobs. Anyway, we faked like we were interested in buying a used waverunner. The old guy in the office really didn’t want to be waiting on us, he was more like an office manager, but he didn’t chase us away either. Then we sort of wandered from the showroom back into the shop area that opened into the back. That’s where they had some used waverunners for sale. Just one mechanic in back, and he didn’t care. He was the same guy who drove the truck. The two waverunners from Topaz were still on the trailer, but they were opened up. You know, the seats come off so the mechanics can get at everything. Kelly was great; she knew just the right questions to ask. Not too pushy, just real interested.”

  She said, “We told the mechanic that it would be a good chance to learn about waverunners while these two were open for servicing. You know, is it smarter to buy a new one or a used one, what features to look for, what wears out or gets ruined, that kind of thing. Apparently, waverunners get put away salty a lot and it really tears them up. So the waverunners from Topaz were in bad shape. One wouldn’t even start, but he said it was easy to fix. New electrical harnesses, new computer modules and stuff like that. The main thing we learned was that he has to get them fixed up and have them back where they came from ASAP, no ifs, ands or buts. He had to get some stuff from the parts room, and Nick put the tracker in while he was out of sight.”

  “So where is it, exactly?”

  Nick said, “On the left side of the motor—but you can’t see it. I reached way down and shoved it out to the side. The engine is narrow, it just fits under the seat. But the boat is a lot wider down at the bottom. The hull sticks out there to make the foot rests. I stuck it out as far as I could reach. There’s nothing over it but a quarter inch of fiberglass, and you’d need a mirror to find it.”

  “And you turned it on before you put it in there forever?”

  “Of course I did. I’m not a complete moron, Dan.”

  Now I’d insulted Nick’s intelligence and pissed him off. Still, I wasn’t convinced that their renegade mission had been worth it. “The waverunners are kept inside of Topaz’s boat garage. That’s a lot of material between the tracker and the sky.”

  He replied, “Topaz is made of composite, not metal. Remember what Yance Mabrey said back in West End?”

  “Yeah, I remember, but the signal has to get out of the waverunner and through Topaz’s hull. And it only has an internal antenna.”

  Nick said, “The tracker only beeps once an hour, so it’s probably a pretty strong signal. It was made to go on high-value cargo, so it’s got to be powerful.”

  “So now what?” asked Kelly.


  A new concept came to me in a flash. “New plan. Back to the waverunner place. We have to get there before the truck leaves the shop.”

  “Why?” said Nick. “The tracker is on the waverunner, and in a few hours the waverunner will be on Topaz. So what’s the problem?”

  “That’s not the point. We’re going to hijack the waverunner truck and drive it right onto Hibiscus Isle. Right up to Prechter’s house. Hell, right up to his dock! The truck is approved already because it was just on the island. So we’ll drive it instead of your buddy the mechanic, and that gets us straight to Topaz.” In my mind, we were already boarding Topaz and rescuing Cori. What a genius I was!

  Kelly reached over to the GPS, and in a few clicks our new destination was the Miami Boat Depot. I removed the Glock from the door, fit it into its plastic concealment holster from my pack, and worked it under my belt and pants on the right side. My Hawaiian shirt would hide it from anything short of a pat-down or a metal detector.

  I said, “If we hijack that truck, we’re as good as on Topaz. Then we take care of Prechter and Ridley, find Cori, and get the hell out of Dodge.”

  “What if she’s not on the boat?” asked Kelly.

  “Then she’s probably in his mansion. He’s not going to take her on a tour of Miami. We get on their island, we get inside their perimeter, and we can take them down. We can do this. Piece of cake.”

  Kelly glanced at her wristwatch and said, “Do you know what time it is?”

  “I know, it’s time to check the Orbcom.” It was almost noon. I unzipped my daypack, slid out the unit and installed its battery pack. The satcom text transceiver was the size of a brick and made of black plastic, with a keyboard and small screen.

  She asked, “Why does the tracker send a location only once an hour? Why isn’t it continuous?”

  “Battery power. It’ll last for six months when it’s set for once an hour. It was already set that way when I got it. It’s a sealed unit, and I couldn’t change it.”

  Nick muttered, “This Cori Vargas rescue better not take six months.”

  The Orbcom screen lit up. I checked for new messages; there were none. A few seconds after 12:00:00 rolled over, a message icon told me I had mail. The subject line was the tracking unit’s twenty-digit account number. The body of the message was just a latitude, a longitude and the time.

  I grabbed the GPS from its cradle on the dash and clicked through menus until I found the coordinates for the Miami Boat Depot. They matched the position on my Orbcom. I said, “Well, the waverunners are still at the shop. You wanted to show us what this GTI can do in traffic, right? So show us—just don’t get pulled over.”

  We were coming back down the high bridge into mainland Miami. Kelly said, “The waverunner truck didn’t take 95 to get to the shop, it took Biscayne Boulevard to 36th Street. We can save maybe ten minutes if we take the highways instead.”

  “No, he’ll probably come back the same way he went. If we take the highways, we might miss him. What time did he get to the boat place?”

  “Around ten fifteen.” She glanced at the time on the car radio’s display. “Almost two hours ago. It’s probably still there—even if it’s a rush order.”

  I looked at the GPS, the paper map, and ahead at the over-head signs. “The right lane turns into 13th Street, and that goes into Biscayne.”

  “I know, that’s how we did it before.” She decelerated from highway speed and made the turn on a yellow light. A mile and a half up Biscayne, we turned left on 36th Street. Less than two miles to go. A Metrorail commuter train on an enormous cement monorail track whirred overhead as we passed 12th Avenue. No union strikers blocking the roads, no homeless camps, no beggars wading into traffic at red lights. The five-lane street was lined with warehouses, apartments and outlet stores up to the corner at each cross street. As we neared the airport, the buildings became lower and more widely spaced. One mile to go. Traffic was not gridlocked, but it was not flowing freely and we were stopped by several long red lights.

  The visible standard of living dropped a level at each major intersection. Away from Biscayne Boulevard, Miami was roughly comparable to Rio, Caracas or a dozen other South American cities. But for all that, a sense of order prevailed. Here in workaday Miami the trash was still being picked up. Packages were being delivered by UPS and FedEx. Life went on, even on the lower rungs of the socioeconomic ladder. Under Chief Romeiro the Metrorail was running on time and it wasn’t covered with graffiti.

  ****

  At last we were within a few blocks of the Miami Boat Depot. The next major intersection was where we would make our turn. We were in the right lane waiting for the traffic signal to turn green when a flatbed towing a trailer crossed directly in front of us and turned left to head back on 36th Street. The turquoise jet skis on the trailer left no room for doubt. Both side windows on the truck were open, only the driver was visible in the cab.

  Kelly pounded the wheel with both hands. “That’s it! We just missed them!” The waverunners were already head-ing east, and we were trapped at a red light and facing west.

  The truck was out of sight before the light finally turned green. The cars ahead of us and in the left lane proceeded at zombie speed, prolonging our torment. Kelly finally slipped through the intersection, forced her way to the inside lane and fishtailed while hooking the U-turn. We were just in time to catch the same red light again, on the other side. We were forced to wait while the little crane on the back of the Miami Boat Depot truck disappeared.

  Then it was green and we were through the light, but still trapped in slow-moving traffic. Kelly drove through the next yellow light as it went red, but we saw no police and she kept the gas pedal down while weaving through traffic. She braked hard for another unavoidable red light, and I was thrust forward against my seatbelt. When it turned green, she moved to the front of the pack of cars with frequent lane changes, and in a minute we shot back under the elevated Metrorail and then beneath I-95’s concrete flyways.

  When we emerged from beneath the interstate, I saw the truck’s utility crane. “Two blocks up, see it?”

  Kelly said, “I see it. So, what’s the new plan?”

  “Get behind them at a red light. I’ll handle it from there.”

  “Handle it?” she asked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I’ll still hijack the truck, and then we’ll drive it onto Hibiscus Isle. Same plan as before.”

  “You’ll hijack the truck at a red light?”

  “You have a better idea? Yes, I’ll take over the truck at a traffic light. I can do it, you have to trust me. It’ll look like I’m just a friend of the driver who’s getting in. His windows are down; I’ll just unlock the passenger door and get in before he can even say perdóname. Really, it’ll work. I’ve done it. Just get behind him in traffic, and I’ll do the rest. Then I’ll make him pull the truck over, Nick will get in with me, and we’ll drive to Hibiscus Isle and find Cori.”

  Kelly said, “You’re not going to do anything to the driver, are you?”

  “I’m not planning to. We’ll leave him somewhere safe when it’s over.”

  She shook her head. “That’s crazy, Dan. Crazy!”

  “It’s not crazy. I can do it. I’ve done it before.” Traffic was growing more congested ahead of us, slowing down and piling up as 36th Street approached North Miami Avenue. “We have to be right behind him.”

  “I’m doing my best, Dan.”

  “You’ll catch him on the next block.” We were rapidly making up the lost distance, until we were only a half-dozen vehicle lengths behind the waverunners. We were past North Miami Avenue when the traffic signal ahead of us at Second Avenue turned red, and immediately from the right there appeared a double row of police cars and SUVs rolling through the intersection. They formed a solid line all the way across 36th Street, a blockade with a hundred flashing red and blue lights. The truck’s little crane disappeared on the other side of the wall of law enforcement vehicles.


  “What the hell?” I exclaimed.

  Kelly just said, “Welcome to Florida’s safest metropolitan area.”

  15

  Scores of law enforcement officers were climbing out of the dozens of vehicles now blockading the intersection, like infantry dismounting from APCs. I even saw a German shepherd K-9 springing from the back of an SUV with its handler. The police all carried carbines like our old M-4s, dangling barrel-down from one-point slings. Each carbine had a compact red-dot optical sight on the top rail. Aimpoints, by the look of them, not unlike the one on my Kalashnikov back on Rebel Yell. The cops were all wearing brown armor vests with extra ammo magazines, radios and all the rest of their military and law enforcement gear.

  While my eyes were pulled to the amazing spectacle in front, Nick was still watching six as our rear security. He reported, “They’re blocking off Miami Avenue. What’s going on?” I checked my side mirror. Another line of police cars and trucks was all the way across the five lanes of 36th Street a block behind us.

  “Chill out, guys,” said Kelly. “They’re not looking for us. They do this all the time in Dade County. It’s a show of force operation. Sort of like a law enforcement flash-mob. They call it a Blockdown. They put a whole block on lockdown, get it? I never saw it happen in person, but it’s on TV all the time. Everybody knows the Miami-Dade police can put forty or fifty cops into a neighborhood in like nothing flat. They even have a reality TV show. Sometimes Ray Romeiro comes out. They want people to see it and think it can happen anywhere, anytime. It deters crime in a major way.”

  Nick said, “A police state is a safe state.”

  “Don’t knock it,” Kelly replied. “At least you can still drive around Dade County, thanks to Chief Ray. Anyway, it’s better than getting carjacked and murdered up in Broward County.”