Gray Ghost (The Bill Dix Detective Series Book 1)

by Swinney, C. L.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Without the use of a high-powered microscope or a trained criminalist to inspect the cocaine, the three packages sitting on the Coleman cooler in Wilfred’s boat looked just like thousands of other kilos the detectives had seen before. Each was wrapped several times in clear cellophane. It appeared they were stamped with a symbol, but without removing all the layers of plastic wrap, none of the men could begin to guess at what it might be. Then there was the question of whether or not knowing the information would help their investigation.

  They decided to carefully open one package to get a better look. They discussed who would rewrap it to make it appear as though it hadn’t been tampered with. Bubba said he’d take care of it. Since Bubba had volunteered to close it, they all agreed he should be the one to open it.

  Bubba retrieved a pair of cloth sun gloves he used to protect his hands and slowly began the process of unwrapping one of the packages.

  Dix wondered why he didn’t think to bring gloves like Bubba’s. He glanced at Petersen, who shrugged.

  The contents were fairly mundane. It looked to be about the standard size of a kilo, two point two pound, pressed block of off-white, pure cocaine. Stamped squarely in the middle of the brick was a horse head emblem, about two inches tall and three inches wide. It was dark red in color.

  Dix pointed to the image. “Have you ever seen that mark before?”

  Petersen shook his head. “Nope.”

  Dix looked at Bubba. “You ever see anything like this?”

  Bubba paused in his work. “Actually, I heard of the red horse head before.”

  “Where?” Dix was interested.

  Petersen said, “I don’t care how or why you’ve seen something like this before, Bubba, but can you tell us anything that might help?”

  Bubba looked sheepishly from one detective to the other. “Our older brother used to run coke to Miami. He told me some of it was marked with red horse heads on it.”

  Dix shook his head. “Can we talk to him? See if he has some info that may be helpful?”

  Bubba looked away. “No, you can’t. He’s dead.” “Man, I’m sorry to hear that.” Dix shook his head.

  Taking a deep breath, Bubba looked at Petersen and Dix. “I know people on the island who still run coke. I’ll ask around when we get back to see when anyone last saw kilos with red horse heads on them.”

  The big man looked over the side of the boat where Wilfred still swam in the water below. Then he straightened. “I’ll tell you what I know so far. There’s a white guy known as the Caller. Don’t know who he is. Supposed to have a lot of money from drug running. Maybe American. Pays locals to move his stuff from Jamaica and Bahamas to Miami. He’s been in Andros for about twenty-five years. Never been caught. Nobody knows who he is. But he’s lucky and gets most of his stuff through to the U.S.”

  The detectives glanced at each other, then back at Bubba.

  Dix spoke first. “How does it work?”

  “Someone gets a call. Guy’s voice sounds weird and he doesn’t say much. Number’s always blocked. He’s careful and good at what he does.”

  Petersen whistled. “Sounds pretty sophisticated.

  “Near as I can tell, the head guy has to know something about how the feds work. Maybe he’s a fed or local narc,” Bubba added.

  Petersen looked puzzled. “Why the connection with the feds or local narcs?”

  Dix interrupted. “What about the Coast Guard, U.S. Navy, or Royal Navy?”

  Bubba shrugged. “Could be them too. Whoever he is, he got trained on what not to do.”

  Dix figured Bubba was probably right, and it bothered him tremendously. The thought of someone wearing a badge or protecting the U.S. from narcotic smuggling involved in such an elaborate operation was something he feared would happen with all the sequesters, pay cuts, layoffs, and terrible morale in federal, state, and county law enforcement recently. But this guy had gotten into the narcotic business, probably for the money, well before all the problems in law enforcement began.

  Petersen shrugged as Dix turned to him. “I’m having second thoughts about continuing this. The situation is already extremely sticky, and now two off-duty cops from Miami are knee deep in the middle of a major Bahamian problem.”

  Petersen raised his eyebrow. “Let’s wait and see.”

  Dix nodded. He rubbed his temples as he felt a headache coming on.

  They cracked open a few beers, shared the fresh tuna sandwiches from the cooler, and enjoyed the sunshine. Dix feared it might be the last time they’d be able to relax until this was all over.

  Meanwhile, below them, they knew Wilfred was busy searching for clues.

  Bubba pointed. “Here he comes now.” He was obviously relieved to see his brother was okay.

  When he surfaced, Wilfred immediately asked for something to write with.

  Dix pulled a ballpoint pen from his fishing bag and Petersen produced a crumpled up napkin from his pants pocket.

  Wilfred didn’t wait to begin talking as Dix wrote. “BEX 571 something, something, B6 06. Port, red square decal, expires 02-08, Florida. Definitely a bunch more coke down there. The whole front of the boat and the side storage area is full of kilos.”

  Dix was impressed with what Wilfred had remembered. He wasn’t too sure how far he could run with the new information, but he had a retired cop friend at the Florida DMV who was a whiz.

  He carefully put the napkin and pen into his shirt pocket. “Good work, Wilfred. Why don’t you get some food and drink? We already ate.” Bubba and Petersen helped remove the diving gear. Wilfred looked beat and desperately in the need of some rest. Two solid dives had been completed with some results, but the physical burden was all over Wilfred’s face.

  However, Dix, in full detective mode, decided to question Wilfred further. “Hey Wilfred, did you see anything else down there?”

  “Not that I can remember right now. You want me to dive again?”

  Petersen stepped in. “We’ve got enough to go on. Let the guy rest. We’ve spent too much time poking around out here anyway. Although I’d love to chase a few more bonefish, we’re gonna have to move quickly before this whole thing blows up.”

  Wilfred looked exhausted. “Besides, I can’t think of anything else helpful right now. I really just want to eat my sandwich, drink some water, and rest.”

  Dix nodded. “You’re right. Sorry, Wilfred. I get going and have trouble slowing down.”

  Wilfred quickly finished his meal, and then he and Bubba fired up the Yamahas and took their clients back to the lodge to freshen up. Dix watched as they got closer to land and was able to see more wildlife as the sun began to dip. Shame to let narcotics take away from the real beauty of the island.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  A. M. Thomas, Special Ops, retired, had been a mercenary for hire for the better part of three years. His most recent contract, which he received through secure lines, was to locate, disable, and retrieve a speedboat named Gray Ghost. He was not told what was in the boat, but his experience in these things made him theorize it would be narcotics. His employer had said it contained precious cargo. Thomas studied the mission and classified it as moderately challenging. He would be paid handsomely when it was over.

  However, due to a slight miscalculation and a somewhat errant .50 caliber round, he found himself in an undesirable situation. He’d successfully located the vessel and disabled it. But he’d failed to retrieve it. Therefore, until he got the speedboat, the lucrative contract would not be fulfilled.

  He’d spent the last three days slipping into an area along the water under the cover of darkness to observe the general location where the boat had sunk. Each day, he slowly and meticulously got into position to monitor the water above where Gray Ghost lay at the bottom of the ocean. In his hotel room, he guessed at the coordinates of the speedboat based on his calculations while looking at an underwater topographical map of the area, and comparing it to where he was when he’d shot the two
occupants of the boat.

  Thomas looked at his handheld GPS unit. The temperature was rising, and he was getting warmer underneath his light-duty ghillie suit. That particular type of suit was commonly used by snipers to blend into their surroundings. Thomas had modified it to hold a medium-size hydration unit which he kept filled with cold, refreshing water. In his small chest pouch, he had nuts and a granola bar.

  Near as he could figure, the closest house, and, therefore, most threatening, was about a half mile southeast of his location. It was occupied by a large family. Kids in the house were his biggest concern because they seemed curious and were always out and about.

  He observed two teenagers take the smaller children away at about seven every morning. The teenagers returned about seven forty-five alone.

  Before this little bit of activity, Thomas had been bored out of his mind. As he got older, he grew more impatient with waiting. He welcomed the small break, but it also meant he had to be more cautious.

  Around eight-thirty that morning, he noticed Coast Guard boats arrive fairly far north of the general area of the sunken vessel. If anyone stumbled upon the target, it would be these guys. Thomas was curious as to why the Coast Guard was spending so much time in the area. He was not sure anyone had reported the boat he’d sunk as stolen or missing. On the third day, he figured out why. He watched as two bodies were lifted out of the water, assuming they were the men he’d killed. When the first body came completely out of the water, Thomas saw there was no head. That must be the first guy I got. That discovery alone would force the Coast Guard to investigate. They’d wonder where the bodies came from.

  As a matter of protocol, and to keep news reporters off their back, Thomas thought the only real question was how long the Coast Guard would hunt for a boat that might or might not be there. He’d worked a few operations with Coast Guard teams in the past when he was a legitimate sniper. He’d learned how they operated.

  As it turned out, the crew left the area in about six hours. As Thomas had anticipated, the Coast Guard’s search efforts were unsuccessful. The deep water in the area would require weeks to search properly if there even was a boat involved. This was time the Coast Guard did not have. Also, one of the bodies they found had been decapitated and the other nearly so. Thomas hoped it would look to the Coast Guard like a cartel body dump.

  Before he had time to breathe a little easier, Thomas noticed a small fishing boat enter the area he was watching. He presumed it was a local guide with a client. It headed directly toward the area he’d marked on his handheld GPS unit as the likely location of Gray Ghost. Several of these flats boats moved over the northern end of Andros, searching for tarpon, bonefish, and permit. It was a big time business for the locals and for some investors from the United States who provided the financial backing for several of the larger hotels. The sight of the boat didn’t cause him much concern at first.

  He watched as the boat slowed down over a flat. A slender, black man jumped up to the tower with a push-pole in his hand. Thomas pegged him as the guide. The client, a middle-aged white guy with a goatee and long hair, sprang to his feet and began manipulating a rod and reel. Through his high-tech binoculars, Thomas could see the guys were excited. Almost immediately, he noticed their bodies tense. He had been trained to read lips while working Special Ops, but the guide and angler were hardly moving their mouths.

  Watching the angler work out some line and cast, he paid closer attention. The guy brought in a bit of line, paused and set the hook. Both men became extremely boisterous and began dancing around the front of the boat. But within a few seconds, it was all over. The man on the tower was laughing uncontrollably, and the fisherman was obviously pissed off. Musta lost it.

  Thomas quietly chuckled, thinking the angler might have just blown his one and only shot at a fish during his eight thousand dollar trip. After a couple minutes, the guide was back on the tower, prowling for fish, and the angler was ready for another go.

  The sniper wondered if those bozos had any idea they were close, too close now that he thought of it, to something worth more than they could ever dream about.

  He watched the man pole the flat slowly. Thomas determined these guys were a very low threat, so he began surveying the rest of the area for potential problems. He was financially motivated to retrieve the boat and its contents. It had taken him three days to procure the resources and assistance to make it happen, and he was growing impatient while lying in the ghillie suit. Then again, the suit was the only thing keeping him hidden from the locals. He watched as children casually rode bikes along the partially paved road, laughing and having fun. Sometimes they stopped at a little fruit stand to get a quick snack.

  About once an hour, a Royal Bahamian Police Force vehicle slowly rolled by the cluster of small houses to his left. The officer driving the car appeared to be as bored as he was. An ocean liner lazily cruised several miles offshore headed west. Ten minutes later, Thomas panned back over to the guys fishing the flat and felt like he’d been kicked in the stomach.

  A second boat had joined the first one there. It appeared the men were having a discussion and looking or pointing at the water.

  This isn’t good. He noticed weights for a dive belt and an air tank canister on the bow of one of the boats. They hadn’t been there before. Thomas suddenly realized one of the four men might dive.

  He blinked and raised the binoculars back to his eyes. He counted three men. The fourth must have gone underwater because he couldn’t see him. Shit.

  Realization hit. The situation might have become a real problem. His head jerked and rose from his secure location. The action ruffled the ghillie suit. Calm down, dammit. He exhaled and took a deep breath which relaxed him, but only momentarily. Thomas was not sure if these guys were poaching for conch, or if they were actually diving near the speedboat. It was impossible to know where the two flats boats were in relation to where the man was diving. He did not have the coordinates of the two fishing boats so he couldn’t compare their location to that of Gray Ghost.

  Thomas trained the powerful scope of his sniper rifle on the chest of the puzzled looking fisherman with the goatee and long hair. The man leaned over the back of the boat. If Thomas needed to squeeze off a round to eliminate the guy, it would be okay. The rifle had a sound suppressor, which allowed it to be fired fairly quietly. However, Thomas would have liked to have his other sniper rifle. It was almost undetectable when shot. But, he’d destroyed and disposed of it after killing the two Bahamians.

  The sniper watched as the goateed fisherman glanced from the water at his watch and back to the water. Quite a bit of time went by, and the guy repeated this action several times. The fact he continually stared at the water confirmed for Thomas that the last of the four men had dived in.

  Finally, the diver surfaced. Thomas trained his scope on the man, but before he could get zeroed in, the hull of the flats boat moved between him and the diver, preventing a shot.

  Thomas trained the crosshairs from his scope back and forth from man to man. He could easily have taken all of them out before they had time to react. Even the diver wouldn’t be safe forever in the water. Eventually, he’d have to come out, at which point, he’d be dead along with his friends. If the diver swam all the way back to shore while pushing the flats boat for concealment, he’d remain hidden, but it didn’t seem physically possible. Thomas dismissed that scenario.

  However, he was afraid to fire three rounds at the other men, even with the high-end sound suppressor. Not in daylight. Someone might discover his location. That wasn’t a wise choice.

  When he was younger and faced with life or death decisions, he’d never hesitated. It was why he had such a distinguished sniper career. Now he found himself trying to figure out his best option to retrieve the speedboat without giving up his location. Compromising his own safety was not an option. Thomas wanted to confer with his boss, but retrieving his cell phone might alert someone to his location.

  Thomas
had already killed two men on this mission. In that moment, he decided four more might be necessary. It would ensure no witnesses, which made things cleaner.

  He watched as the diver handed the man with a goatee what looked like a small object wrapped in plastic. Might be something as trivial like a ham sandwich or more interesting… like a kilo of cocaine. Two more packages followed from the diver in the water up to the man standing in the boat. Not much doubt in Thomas’s mind at this point. The diver had located Gray Ghost. God damn it. How else could this get screwed up? No more indecision. He decided they all needed to die, right then.

  Thomas double-checked the distance and his rifle for any imperfections, also the wind measurements. He shot better from right to left, so he trained the scope squarely in the back of the man farthest to his left and drew in a breath to help steady the rifle. He planned to slowly squeeze the trigger, watch the others panic, line them up, and take them out. Exhaling, Thomas drew in another breath and moved his finger to the trigger. These poor bastards. As his brain told his right index finger to move, he heard what sounded like a twig cracking off to his right. He exhaled slowly and froze. Probably just a rabbit or bird. There was no way anyone who figured out his location could get to him before he knew it. I’m re- tired Special Ops. Ain’t no way these island bozos could get to me. He let his guard down slightly and began breathing more normally. It had taken close to five minutes before Thomas was ready again to eliminate the four men in the two boats.

  When he checked the image in the scope again, he saw the boat. He counted all four men this time. The diver had exited the water and was eating a sandwich. Thomas lined up on the man in the dive suit and began controlling his breathing again for another clean shot. This needs to be accurate.

  He drew in a final breath and again heard an odd sound. This time it came from just two or three feet behind him. Holding his breath, he froze. It was too late. He heard and felt the air space around his head push across the ghillie suit as he was crushed along the temple with a blunt object.