Aground on St. Thomas

by Rebecca M. Hale

  She hadn’t received any bribes during her short term in office. She would simply step forward and proclaim her innocence. Wincing, she released herself from Bobo grasp and prepared to stand.

  Before she could move, a voice called out, “Hey, you!”

  It belonged to Gilda, the guard from the Legislature’s front entrance. The woman had worked in the building for decades and was a stickler for protocol. No matter a person’s rank or seniority within the senate, Gilda insisted that everyone abide by the full set of security procedures, each and every time they entered the building.

  In the few months since Sanchez had taken her senate seat, she had been subjected to Gilda’s stern lectures more times than she cared to remember. Any deviation from the established protocol was met by rigid rebuke. She could only imagine Gilda’s rage at the sight of federal agents running roughshod over her domain.

  Gilda moved in front of the closet and gestured down the hallway.

  “I saw them run around the corner,” the security guard said in a convincing tattletale tone. “The two you’re looking for—they went that way.”

  The rubber-soled boots jogged off toward a separate wing of the building.

  “Stupid pasty boy,” Gilda grumbled under her breath. Then she rapped on the closet door. “Hurry up. You can’t stay in there forever.”

  Bobo pushed open the door and leapt into the hallway, nearly knocking over Sanchez in the process. “Can you get us to the side exit?”

  The guard nodded grimly. “Come with me.”

  Sanchez stumbled out of the closet. “But I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  The guard put her hands on her hips. “You think that matters? You want to end up like the rest of your lot? They’ve got ’em hog-tied in the main meeting chambers. Every last one ’cept for you two. I heard ’em hollering for their lawyers, but the pasty boys aren’t letting anyone in.”

  “Hog-tied?” Sanchez repeated, in obvious disbelief. Surely, Gilda was exaggerating.

  But suddenly, she didn’t feel quite so willing to announce her presence to the arresting agents. Maybe it would be best to slip out of the Legislature Building and regroup. She could make herself available for questioning at the courthouse—accompanied by her lawyer.

  “All right,” Sanchez sighed, relenting. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Sanchez slipped off her heels and crept barefoot down the hallway, her painted toenails treading behind Bobo’s worn huaraches. Following the guard’s hand-waving instructions, they made their way toward the building’s north flank.

  Gilda strode about ten feet in front of the senators, casually glancing from side to side, jauntily swinging her baton. It was a good act, Sanchez thought wryly, but the guard was perhaps enjoying her role in the subterfuge a little too much.

  At several points along the way, they picked up snippets of the ongoing protests in the meeting chambers. While it didn’t sound as if anyone had been tied up, the captured senators obviously weren’t happy about their confinement.

  For Sanchez, the raucous audio confirmed her decision to flee. The Legislature was a contentious decision-making body; discussions over the most mundane policy matters could evolve into shouting matches. She cringed at the thought of being cooped up with the other thirteen accused. She’d made the right decision to sneak out.

  Now all she had to do was lose Bobo.

  Sanchez spied the rectangular exit sign above Gilda’s head. One last stretch of hallway to traverse and they’d be out the door.

  She reached into her briefcase, feeling around for her cell phone. She’d call her lawyer, have him meet her, and then . . .

  Bobo suddenly slid sideways into a recess created by a square column that jutted out from the nearest wall. Before Sanchez could object, she found herself yanked into the cramped space beside him. The Reverend’s repulsive hair oil once more clogged her sinuses as the linen sleeve of his tunic wrapped around her neck.

  “You have got to stop doing that,” she hissed, trying to pull free of his grip.

  “Shh,” he replied, spitting into her ear.

  The familiar squeak of rubber soles on tile emerged from an intersecting hallway—accompanied by a man’s gritty voice. He appeared to be speaking into a wireless device.

  “This is what we get for calling it Operation Coconut . . .”

  “Agent Friday,” Gilda greeted him with regimented formality. She tapped the exit door with her baton as if checking to see that it was secure.

  The man’s distracted reply was followed by the gradually disappearing squeak of his rubber-soled boots.

  Sanchez squirmed free of Bobo’s arm as Gilda jogged back to their hidden position.

  “You two are going to get me fired,” she sniped, signaling for the senators to come to the exit door.

  Sanchez noted the harried expression on the guard’s face. The game had lost its appeal. Another close call and she’d blow the whistle on them.

  “You’re on your own now,” the guard said as she dismantled the security alarm and ushered the pair through the opening.

  “Bless you, Gilda,” the Reverend intoned in his placating preaching voice. He leaned in, as if to kiss her on the cheek, but the guard adeptly evaded his overture.

  “Don’t touch me, Bobo,” the woman spat, wrinkling her nose from the acrid hair oil.

  As the guard pivoted back toward the building’s interior, she issued a last piece of advice.

  “Get off the streets, fast as you can.”

  ~ 14 ~

  Blessed by God

  THE WORLD OUTSIDE the Legislature Building was not the one Julia Sanchez thought she’d left a half hour earlier.

  How had she missed the navy vessel docked at the cruise ship terminal on her drive in to work? Had she been so focused on her upcoming committee meeting—and so worried by the fact that she was running late—that she’d missed the anomaly in the harbor?

  If so, she was one of the few. By now, the presence of both the navy ship and the FBI had been noted by almost everyone in Charlotte Amalie—along with the abrupt termination of the island’s cell phone service.

  Sanchez now joined in this last discovery. Still barefoot, she stood on the sidewalk outside the Legislature Building, punching buttons on her phone, trying to get a signal.

  Bobo shook his head. He pointed down the block to a couple of taxi drivers cursing at their phones. “Forget it. It won’t work. Best to turn it off. They’ll only use it to track us.”

  As Sanchez powered down her phone, she saw a pair of FBI agents, crossing at a streetlight not more than a hundred feet away. She sucked in her breath and instinctively stepped backward.

  Another duo in black clothing soon appeared at the next corner.

  Escaping the Legislature, she realized, was only the beginning of their ordeal.

  “This way,” Bobo said, jogging across the street to the rear of Fort Christian.

  Sanchez dropped the phone into her briefcase, tugged on her shoes, and scampered after the Reverend—immediately regretting her decision to follow when he hopped through the gap in the fort’s rear fencing.

  “IT’S A MIRACLE we made it here without getting caught,” Sanchez summed up from her position inside the fort’s courtyard.

  “Blessed by God,” Bobo replied, once more touching four points across his chest.

  “Right,” she replied, trying to keep the sarcasm from her voice. “What do we do next?”

  The senators listened to the noise outside the fort. The air carried a volume of angry voices overlaid with the repeating pop of ammunition.

  Bobo nodded toward the base of the fort’s front tower. “There’s a ladder inside to access the clocks. Let’s climb up and see what’s going on.”

  •

  WEAVING AROUND PILES of discarded construction material, Bobo and Sanchez picked the
ir way across the courtyard.

  As they passed the little room that had been set aside for the museum, Sanchez caught a glimpse of a well-tended display area with exhibits dedicated to various aspects of the island’s heritage. There were black-and-white photos, framed documents, maps, and, hanging on the far wall, one of the ubiquitous cutlasses that had been used to cut sugarcane.

  Someone had taken a lot of care with the layout, she thought as she followed Bobo through to the fort’s front foyer. It was a shame the rest of the structure was in such disrepair.

  The Reverend reached the open shaft that contained the clock tower’s rusty ladder. He slung his rainbow scarf over one shoulder and began pulling himself up the steps.

  Sanchez looked at the shaky rungs and decided to once more abandon her heels. She waited until Bobo made it to the top and stepped onto an adjacent platform before she began her climb. Leaving the heels on the floor beside her briefcase, she hiked up her skirt and scaled the ladder.

  A narrow ledge ran around the tower’s outer circumference, just a few feet below the clock face. Sanchez crossed the platform, ducked through an opening in the wall, and joined Bobo on the outside ledge.

  They had views to every direction, including the harbor, the downtown waterfront, and Government Hill.

  “Good grief, they’re everywhere,” Sanchez said as she watched another group of FBI agents gather outside the Legislature. If she and Bobo had been a minute later leaving the building—or crossing the street to the fort—they would have been captured.

  Turning, she rotated her gaze to look toward the central downtown shopping district.

  Just past a line of fire trucks and emergency vehicles parked against the fort’s west wall, she found the now-empty vendors’ plaza. Across the next intersection, a pricey jewelry store that occupied a prime corner lot had been locked up and secured with its nighttime barriers.

  “What is going on?” Sanchez asked, stunned by the scene.

  Bobo intoned as if speaking from the pulpit. “Hellfire and damnation are raining down on this island, that’s what.”

  Sanchez scowled in frustration. It was unheard of to see Charlotte Amalie’s downtown shuttered on a day when a large cruise ship was in port. But the only pedestrians on the street were disgruntled locals. It appeared the passengers—and their dollars—had been kept on board the vessel.

  The thought of all that lost revenue made her blood boil.

  She thrust her arms in the air, gesturing at the agents outside the Legislature Building. “Do they know how much damage they’ve caused? What kind of bribery investigation results in a complete government takeover?”

  Bobo offered a noncommittal shrug. “I’m still trying to figure out how all those people were on the take.” His voice sounded almost offended. “If someone was handing out money to senators, they sure didn’t give any to me.”

  Sanchez dropped her hands to her sides, slapping her palms against her hips.

  “Look, Bobo, we need a plan.”

  A pickup drove past the empty vendors’ plaza, blaring its radio at full capacity. Enormous speakers had been hinged to the back bed so that they could be rotated outward. The rear tires bulged from the extra weight; the bumper nearly dragged on the ground.

  Despite the static feedback, Sanchez recognized the KRAT broadcast.

  “The pasty boys are still looking for the Governor,” Dread Fred reported. Whaler let out one of his distinctive high-pitched whistles and added, “We’ve got a signed T-shirt for the first person who sends us a picture of the big man in handcuffs!”

  Dread squeezed in a last comment before the broadcast jingle started to play.

  “Run, Guvvy, run.”

  Legislature Building

  Charlotte Amalie

  ~ 15 ~

  The Man in Charge

  AGENT FRIDAY STATIONED himself in a hallway outside the meeting chambers, safely shielded from the senators detained inside. He’d had enough heckling for one day—and his head still hurt where the gavel had nicked him.

  His team had combed the Legislature Building from top to bottom. Senators Bobo and Sanchez were nowhere to be found. The entry logs indicated that both senators had passed through the security scanners that morning, but the pair must have sneaked out during his team’s initial sweep.

  Operation Coconut had officially dropped the ball.

  Bobo, he thought wryly as he lifted his cap to massage his left temple. What kind of a name is Bobo?

  The woman from the St. Thomas branch of the attorney general’s office stepped into the hallway and handed him a walkie-talkie.

  “Hey, Friday,” she said with a toss of her head. “You’d better take this.”

  Despite the AGENT STEIN tag pinned to his shirt, it had taken the locals less than thirty minutes to pick up on his agency nickname. Even the testy security guard from the front entrance was now calling him by the moniker.

  With a sigh, he took the receiver.

  “This is Friday.”

  The call was from the advance team tasked with arresting the Governor and his cabinet. One of the agents under Hightower’s command had dropped back to send a discreet warning.

  As Friday listened to the report, the lines on his face deepened into ruts.

  “What do you mean you just got to Government House? I can see it on the hill above us. How did it take you thirty minutes to hike a couple hundred yards?”

  The response caused his expression to sour further.

  “The mission is to secure the Governor. He can’t arrest everyone he comes across who’s carrying a weapon.”

  Friday’s eyes rolled toward the ceiling.

  “Yes, of course I hear the gunshots. They’re not shooting at you, though, are they?”

  He crammed his cap back down onto his head. Operation Coconut was falling apart, and he would no doubt be held responsible for the mess.

  “Tell Hightower I’m on my way.”

  Government House

  Charlotte Amalie

  ~ 16 ~

  The Gorilla

  SPECIAL AGENT IN Charge Reginald Hightower, aka “the Gorilla,” charged toward the Government House front steps, accompanied by the rest of his advance team. The agent who had dropped back to radio Friday sprinted to catch up to the rest of the group.

  “We’re here for the Governor,” Hightower announced boldly as he powered into the lobby.

  He was a beefy, overmuscled man who spent an inordinate amount of time lifting weights in the gym. His bulky shoulders hunched forward, as if pulled down by the weight of his biceps. With his closely shorn head and top-heavy physique, it wasn’t hard to see the animal resemblance. But his code name was inspired by more than his similarities to the simian shape; many thought of it as a reference to his quick, often irrational temper.

  In addition to sporadic fits of rage, Hightower was also prone to distraction—as demonstrated by the numerous diversions that had taken place during the short trek up from the shoreline. The team had stopped several times to investigate potential “subversives.” Half their number was still stuck in Emancipation Park, interviewing the increasingly hostile citizens Hightower had ordered to be detained for questioning.

  Hightower’s unlikely advancement through the FBI to special agent in charge was a mystery to the rank and file. Within the last six months, he had been plucked out of relative obscurity and elevated to a senior leadership position. A less qualified candidate had never been so rapidly promoted. Rumors of backroom payoffs and high-placed political pressure circulated with every accolade and award.

  The choice of Hightower to head Operation Coconut was a puzzle—and a concern—to the agents under his command that day in Charlotte Amalie.

  “Sir,” one had suggested on their final approach to Government House through the public gardens that covered the hillside below. “Perhaps
some of us should go around back to cover the rear of the building.”

  Hightower had replied with a withering glare. He pointed up at the suited man who had just appeared on the second-floor balcony outside the Governor’s office.

  “Don’t bother,” he said dismissively. “We’ve got eyes on the asset. Look at him. This guy’s not running anywhere—except maybe to the ice cream store.”

  He laughed at his own joke.

  The rest of the team exchanged worried glances as they followed their leader into the lobby.

  •

  AFTER A HEATED exchange with the woman standing by the security scanners, Hightower wasted no time thumping up the carpeted stairs to the second floor.

  This is going to be a piece of cake, he thought as he reached the top step and turned down the hallway toward the Governor’s office.

  The other agents closed in around him, positioning themselves against the outer wall and the inner side railing, moving in tandem to clear the area of potential threats.

  Hightower waved them off.

  The place was silent and still. No loyal bodyguards lurked in the corridor to protect the head of state. No vigilantes had camped out to challenge the agents’ authority.

  “I got this,” he growled softly.

  Motioning for the other agents to trail him at a distance, Hightower strutted toward the executive suite’s marked entrance.

  The door had been left slightly ajar. Hightower stopped outside the threshold, listened briefly, and then eased his shoulders through the opening, gun at the ready.

  It was a long room, ornately decorated. Paintings in gilded frames hung from the textured walls. Plush red throw rugs stretched across a dark wooden floor. The Governor’s wide mahogany desk occupied one corner, while a liquor cabinet and a display table for a marble backgammon set filled in another. A wall of windows framed the far end next to an open door that led out onto the balcony.