by Chris Niles
Ramiro handed over a small ring with three locker keys on a red float.
Vince rooted through the bag, pulled out a wide knife in a leather sheath, then locked away the bag containing the rest of the weapons. He crammed the keys into his pocket and waved the knife at Ramiro. “Everything goes smoothly. Right?”
“Si, señor. Smooth.”
“Good. Now go up there and keep watch since you seem to think that’s important. Come get me when we’re twenty miles from Mariel.” He stepped into the master stateroom then slammed the door behind him.
Vince tossed and turned on the soft king bed, a hard lump from the fishing knife tucked under his pillow making him uncomfortable. Just after four, he gave up. After a quick exploration of the cabin, he found a hidden panel in the built-in nightstand, hid all his cash inside, then climbed the ladder to the bridge. Stars dotted the inky sky.
Ramiro slouched in the captain’s chair, his face barely visible by the dim red light of the instrument panel.
The boat was thirteen miles off the Cuban coast, just barely into international waters. Vince picked up the mic, flipped the VHF to channel 16. “M/V Mariella hailing Astillero Mariel. Wake up, you lazy old man!”
Moments later, a voice cracked over the speaker. “Mariella, this is Mariel Fuel Dock. Go to twenty-three. Two three.”
Vince flipped the VHF to channel 32. A simple security protocol he’d used with the Cuban before. “Go for Mariella”
“¡Amigo! I was not expecting a call for two more weeks. Your boys were just here a few days ago.”
“I know, this trip was unexpected. I’m just passing through and need to fuel up. Four hundred gallons should do it. I’ll be there in about an hour, but I’m in a hurry. Can you open up for me?”
“Of course, of course. I’ll meet you on the west pier.”
“Gracias. Mariella out.”
Vince switched the VHF back to sixteen, the hailing channel, then dropped the mic back into its slot. He elbowed Ramiro. “Go below and stay there.”
The boy scrambled out of his seat then down the stairs.
Vince flipped off the autopilot and stared across the water toward the dark horizon. The radar showed a few fishing boats puttering toward the Mariel Harbor. He relaxed, seeing nothing on the screen to his stern. Approaching the waypoint he’d set, Vince gently guided his vessel to starboard into Cuban waters.
Half an hour later, he entered the channel, dropping in ahead of a slower shrimp trawler then easing into the harbor. A lone man stood near the end of the pier holding a fuel hose. Vince eased the boat alongside the pier.
The dockhand tied it off then started fueling.
Vince climbed down. “Coffee.”
The dockhand pointed to a small shack with peeling white paint.
He made his way there. Worn hinges squeaked as the door swung open. The dockmaster’s office reminded him of a 1950’s schoolroom. A heavy, metal desk filled the back wall, its corners curved, its edges marked by rough patches where the salt air had eaten away the metal faster than the men could spread on more industrial gray paint. Stacks of file folders covered the desk and the floor beside it, clipboards with rust-eaten clips hung from open wooden framing on every wall.
An old electric percolator dominated a tiny table against the south wall. Simple, colorful coffee mugs hung from nails on the wall above it. Vince selected a bright aqua mug then filled it with thick, steaming coffee. He sat in a worn wooden chair and took a sip.
“It’s good to see you, amigo. It’s been too long. I was beginning to think you were too good for an honest day’s work anymore.”
“Not at all, old friend. Just diversifying, that’s all. Not seeing me is a sign of trust.”
“So what does it mean, seeing you now?”
Vince laughed. “It just means I need fuel.”
The old dockmaster’s eyes quickly flashed to the clock above the door and then back to Vince. “Fish don’t get caught in deep water…”
“I trust our arrangement has been profitable for you?”
“Sí. Very.”
“We’ve been experiencing some growth lately. We expect to increase our business within the coming weeks. Will you be able to grow with us?”
The man twitched.
Vince spun on his chair just as the door swung open and slammed against the wall.
Two huge men in olive green military fatigues burst through the door. The first man through the door — the one with sergeant’s strips on his shoulders — pointed a gleaming Kalashnikov directly at Vince while the other blocked the doorway.
“¡Manos arriba!”
Vince fought to hold a blank expression. “No comprendo, man. You speak English?”
The soldier jammed the barrel of his rifle into Vince’s shoulder and motioned to put his hands up.
He fought the urge to grab the barrel, twist the weapon out of the man’s hands, pound the butt into his nose, then turn it on his friend. Instead, he set his coffee cup on the dockmaster’s desk before slowly lifted his hands up over his shoulders.
“¿Qué es tu asunto aquí?”
“He wants to know what your business is here,” the dockmaster whispered from the corner.
“I figured that much, asshole. I pay you to prevent these little interactions, not translate them. Tell him the truth. I’m just taking on fuel, then I’ll be on my way.”
The dockmaster opened his mouth, but the soldier raised a hand to silence him.
Vince watched through the shack’s tiny window as four more soldiers passed down the dock. One stood watch on the pier while the other three boarded Mariella.
“What we find aboard your boat, señor?” The soldier’s English was passable.
Vince grinned. “Nothing. I’m just a guy on the way from Mexico to the Bahamas for a little vacation. I’ve got one crew member aboard, but nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Please do not make us destroy such a beautiful craft. Tell us where to look, and we will not damage anything.”
He shrugged. “Tear it up. You won’t find anything. I don’t even have enough cash to pay for my fuel.”
The dockmaster’s eyes widened.
Vince glanced over at him. “What, you don’t take American Express here?”
His so-called friend hung his head.
“Guys, I’m serious. I don’t even have enough cash aboard to offer you a respectable bribe.” Out the window, soldiers were leading the Mexican boy up onto the pier and securing his hands behind his back.
The lead soldier motioned to Vince with the barrel of his rifle. “Get up.” His partner let his rifle dangle from its strap across his shoulder and pulled a zip tie from a cargo pocket on his thigh. He secured Vince’s hands then shoved him out of the tiny shack and into the back of an open army-green Jeep. Moments later, Ramiro appeared at the end of the dock, herded from behind into a second Jeep.
From Vince’s vantage point in the dirt lot that served as a parking area, he watched his boat rock as the men searched it from bow to stern while the sun climbed up over the horizon.
Two hours later, the sergeant shoved past his guard posted at the door to the dockmaster’s shack. Then he heard muffled shouting. The longer it continued, the wider Vince grinned, knowing the soldiers had come up empty and the duplicitous dockmaster would pay the price. The shouting continued as three soldiers climbed off the boat, marched up the dock to the Jeeps, then cut the zip-ties from Vince and Ramiro’s wrists.
Vince climbed out and stretched, rubbing his wrists. He waved Ramiro past the weather-beaten shack and down the dock. They untied the boat, jumped aboard, then shoved as hard as they could away from the pier.
As soon as the boat cleared the channel, Vince opened the throttles all the way. The boat shot northeast away from the Cuban coast toward freedom.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Kate squirmed in the narrow bunk. William tried to insist she take the master stateroom, but Kate refused. He stood a full foot taller than her, so
it seemed disrespectful for her to take the huge bed and leave him to fold himself into the smaller cabin. Now she kicked the covers tangled around her legs and stared at the low ceiling. She missed Whiskey’s heavy weight and steady breaths.
Thanks to the wide stateroom windows, the cabin slowly brightened until Kate was able to make out the pattern on the bedspread and then titles on the books lined up on a rack above the door. The boat rolled in the low waves, and the previous day’s clear sky had been replaced by a pale haze dotted with dark clouds. Giving up on sleep, she wiggled back into her khaki shorts. Then she popped into the boat’s small but well-appointed head to splash water on her face.
“Morning! Sleep well?” William’s cheerful voice annoyed Kate. He sounded well rested and ready for a perfect day at sea.
Kate expected the opposite. They should have been back to Shark Key with the book last night. Now they were bobbing in the middle of the ocean just off the coast of Cuba with no real idea how or when they’d get home, or even whether they’d be able to get the book back.
This whole trip was a complete fiasco, and she regretted agreeing to help at all.
“Like a baby,” Kate lied. “Do I smell coffee?”
“Sure do. I just made a fresh pot.” William pulled out a heavy mug, filled it, then handed it to Kate. “Cream or sugar? They only have powdered creamer on board.” He grimaced as he reached for the sugar packets.
“Neither. Black is fine, thanks.” Kate closed her eyes and swallowed a gulp of the dark liquid, savoring it as she waited for the caffeine to find its way into her bloodstream. “Where are we?”
“Still waiting a few miles outside Cuban waters, a little bit east of Mariel. When I took fresh coffee up to Steve and Susan a few minutes ago, the signal showed they were still sitting at the fuel dock. Should have been in and out of there in under a half hour, but they’ve been there over two.”
“Looks like the weather is starting to turn. I hope we can get this over with before a storm hits.” Kate flopped down in the dinette and wrapped her hands around the warm mug.
William sat opposite her. “I don’t mean this to be rude, but you look tired. Are you sure you slept okay?”
She shook her head. “If you want to know the truth, no. I didn’t sleep at all. This whole thing is ridiculous. We’re chasing a complete stranger across the Caribbean for an old book that may or may not have a map to a hidden treasure. For real? I don’t know why I’m here. And for that matter, I really don’t know why YOU are here. At least Steve and I have an interest in keeping Shark Key the way it is. You’re just passing through. Shouldn’t you just be swimming or fishing or relaxing with your wife? What does any of this matter to you?”
The corner of William’s mouth turned up slightly. “It matters because it matters. What Chuck has built on Shark Key is pure. It’s beautiful. And what Baumann wants to do to it is wrong. Whether I stay on Shark Key for a day or a year, I’m here now, and I have the ability to help, so that makes it my responsibility.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Maybe, but here’s the thing. When I lived for myself and worked for vanity — for accolades and recognition and awards — I was constantly chasing the approval of people just like Baumann. People with money and power who were ultimately only out for themselves. And after Michelle sold her app, it got worse.
“We attended fundraisers for everything. But it finally clicked for me when we paid five thousand dollars for an event to save the everglades, and every major Miami developer was hosting a table. Heck, Baumann was probably there. These were the very men who lobbied for environmental waivers and variances, who brought in truck after truck of fill dirt and concrete to pave over the land we were there to protect? I realized that night how hypocritical we all were. Michelle had always been reluctant to join the society circles and had questioned the authenticity of purpose. We had a long talk. She’d been prodding me for a while to step back and evaluate how we were spending our time and our resources. So she was all over it when I called a realtor. We moved onto the boat and made an intentional choice to travel with no plan. To be fully part of wherever we stopped for however long we were there. And to trust that when we arrived where we were supposed to be, we’d know. I think Shark Key is that place.”
“But you’ve only been here a few days.”
“Yes. We’ve been a lot of places and made a lot of friendships. Shark Key is special. Chuck is special. Steve and Susan are special. You and Whiskey, even though you won’t accept it, are special. Speaking of Whiskey, I hope you don’t mind, but Michelle slept up on your roof deck with him last night, and Chuck gave her all the leftover grouper for him after the restaurant closed. She said he was pretty antsy without you there. Anyway, you have a special community, and it’s worth chasing some jerk across the gulf to keep it safe.”
“How …”
William laughed and held up a small phone with a thick antenna. “I’ve lived in the Caribbean long enough I don’t go anywhere without a sat phone. I talked to Michelle about a half hour ago. Also, Babette should be getting out tomorrow, if not later this afternoon.”
Kate took a sip of coffee and leaned back, relaxing just a tiny bit. “Thank you. Thank Michelle, too. With everything else going on, I didn’t want to make a fuss, but I was worried about Whiskey. I knew Chuck had my spare keys and figured he’d make sure he got food and bathroom breaks, but I feel awful just taking that for granted.”
“It’s not taking it for granted, Kate. It’s what friends do. We all watch out for each other. It’s not quid pro quo, either. When one of us needs something, we all jump in. We don’t have to be asked or begged, don’t need to strike a deal. We just do. And whether you realize it or not, it’s why you’re here right now.”
“I still—”
“They’re coming out and they’re moving fast.” Steve’s voice crackled over the boat’s intercom. “All hands on deck!”
Kate wiggled out of the soft seat and poured the rest of the coffee down her throat. “I’ll wake him.”
William climbed the stairs to the rear cockpit while Kate opened the door to the crew quarters to wake Alejandro.
Chapter Thirty-Six
The plate of steaming shrimp and grits landed in front of Tina with a thud. Two thick pats of butter lay melting in the center.
“You want another order of these for your son? No pressure, but we’re almost out of today’s shrimp.” A group of tourists stood at the edge of the deck. The teenaged waitress waved them in. “Y’all sit anywhere you like. View is best over on that side. I’ll be over to you with coffee in just a second.”
Tina leaned forward on the bar and shoveled up a scoop of grits. “Dated a guy once who always said, ‘Ya snooze, ya lose.’ Guess that finally applies. The boy wants fresh shrimp, he can get his ass out of his sleeping bag earlier.” She shrugged and ate.
The waitress seated another couple near the edge of the deck, then bustled around the tables, filling coffee cups and taking orders. The door from the kitchen opened, and the hair on Tina’s neck tingled. A barrel-chested fifty-something man with thinning hair pushed under a faded Mercury hat limped out on a pair of crutches. She nodded at him. “You’re the owner here, right?”
“Am for now, anyway. Chuck Miller.” He reached across the bar, and Tina shook her cousin’s hand for the first time. “You and your boy are in site forty-seven, right? Sorry I wasn’t here to welcome you personally. Are you finding everything to your liking?”
“It’s a damn sight better than the car. Thank you for your hospitality. We’ll get something a little more permanent as soon as we find some work. How long you been here?”
“All my life, and then some. I was born here, and my dad was born here before me. My Gramps came from up north during the Depression.”
“Wow. Unusual to meet another native down here.”
“Ayup. Gettin’ more transplants every day. Few of ’em are suited for it, but most of ’em ain’t. Were you born in the Keys?�
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“North Miami. Spent my summers working on Key Biscayne.” Scrambling over security fences at the resorts and lifting whatever she could from the pockets of sunburned tourists.
“That area sure built up over the years. Gramps used to tell stories of how beautiful South Florida was before. Then it was all about who could build the tallest condo or the most prestigious golf course. Nothing’s sacred to those greedy—” He shifted on the crutches and adjusted his cap. “Sorry. I just get a little …”
“I know what you mean. At least you’re safe on your little piece of heaven here.”
Chuck looked down at the bar. It took him a minute to answer. “Not really. I’ll be honest, this place has been in my family for three generations, and I’m about to lose it to one of those slime-suckers. The investors and tourists run up the property prices to a point where honest, hard-working people don’t have a chance anymore. The people who keep those air conditioners running and the lawns mowed and put fresh fish on every plate on Duval Street? Most of us can’t afford to live any closer than Big Pine.”
“That sucks. Ain’t you got any way to save it?”
Chuck bit his bottom lip. “Not that I’ve found yet.” His shoulders drooped lower with each word. She almost felt sorry for him. But if she didn’t find an angle, there might be nothing left. Pity could wait.
“How long you think you got left here?”
“End of the month.” He glanced at his watch. “About ten days, I guess. Might squeeze a few extra days in before they pretend to run an auction and the developer buys it for the loan balance, which is about a tenth of what it’s worth, and leaves me with nothing.”
“Why didn’t you just sell it?”
“Didn’t think it’d come to this, really. I’ve always been able to make it through off-season. Would have this year, too, if that bastard Baumann hadn’t set his eye on stealing it from me. And now that I’m in the hole, why should he buy it for market value when he can get it on the cheap?”