Rising Tide

by Wayne Stinnett

  “Just stay between the palmettos,” I told DJ.

  “That would’ve been nice to know when I pulled in,” Tony quipped. “But being a Navy man, I knew to stay in the middle of the channel.”

  Just ahead, I could see the reflection of Tony’s taillights. He stood off to the side of his car as DJ came up behind it.

  “Leave your lights on, DJ,” I said. “And angle park so they’re on the side and back of his car.”

  I did the same thing on the other side and turned my lights back on, bathing the rear and both sides with light. Then I shut off the engine. I could see the effect our arrival had on Bumpy. His face looked panicked, as he peered out the back window, struggling against his bonds.

  “Okay,” I said, “he knows we’re here. Kill the lights.”

  Tony and DJ came over to my car as I climbed out. “What’s the plan?” Tony asked in a low voice.

  “I want names and addresses,” I said. “And I want to know how many girls this guy has personally killed.”

  “Here’s his cellphone,” Tony said, handing it over. “He got three calls while we were coming out here. Caller ID showed just a number for one of them. The other two were from someone named Malik. Be sure to check his texts.”

  I took the phone and scrolled through the recent call log first. Bumpy had called or been called by Malik ten times in the last two days. The guy got a lot of incoming calls late at night. Many of them were just numbers, not in his contact list. I guess that was to be expected for a drug dealer, though.

  Next, I checked recent text messages. He and Malik had an ongoing conversation going back more than a month. The most recent was from Malik, asking him where he was.

  Security didn’t seem paramount to these guys. In a text conversation from a week ago, Malik told Bumpy to “round up every puta in town and kill them all.” Bumpy then asked if he and the Boyz could have fun with them first, to which Malik replied, “As long as they end up floating out to sea, I don’t give a fuck.”

  The text messages went on to describe what Bumpy and his crew had done to at least eight women. Scrolling back farther, I found where Malik told Bumpy to “take a few brothers over to Razor’s and kill him, then tear his place apart.”

  Razor was the name of the guy whose place Alberto had been staying at while his mother was out turning tricks.

  The next two exchanges turned my heart cold.

  There’s a kid here.

  Send the little shit for a boat ride.

  “Malik must be the head honcho,” I said. “And this Bumpy seems to be the one who takes care of his wet work. At the very least, he’s responsible for killing eight women. One of them was Alberto’s mother.”

  DJ turned suddenly and lunged for the car door. I grabbed him by the arm and held him back.

  “Easy, man,” I said. “This guy’s not leaving here. But I want to know what he knows first.”

  DJ looked at me with fierce conviction in his eyes. “He was probably the one who beat Alberto up.”

  I handed him Bumpy’s phone. “Those texts were the night Alberto was taken. Malik ordered him to send Alberto down the river in a little boat to die in the heat out on the Gulf of Mexico.”

  “I’ll kill this fuck with my bare hands,” DJ growled.

  I nodded somberly. “He meets Satan tonight,” I said, my words as cold as ice. “But we do this slow and methodical.”

  “What’s your plan?” Tony asked again.

  I looked from DJ to Tony. “Bumpy is going to die here tonight,” I stated flatly. “Whether that’s from extreme pain or a bullet in his brain depends on how tough he is.”

  Both men looked me in the eyes and nodded. Having read the texts, we were all in agreement.

  “Get him out of the car,” I said to Tony.

  Tony wasn’t real big, but he was wiry and powerfully built. When he opened the door, Bumpy kicked out his cuffed-together feet at him, so Tony grabbed his ankles and yanked him out hard. Bumpy’s head hit the door sill before he was dumped unceremoniously onto the dirt.

  Bumpy looked around, dazed. “Whatta you guys want, man?”

  “Pick him up,” I growled. “And open the trunk.”

  Tony opened the car door and reached inside. The trunk lid popped open. Then he and DJ dragged the gangbanger to the back of the car.

  “Cut the cuffs off his wrists,” I instructed. “And hold his arms tight.”

  Bumpy struggled after the plastic strap was severed, but DJ and Tony were too strong.

  “I can get you anything you want, man,” Bumpy pleaded. “Money, meth, women, guns, anything! Just let me go.”

  “Is that right?” I asked, grabbing him by the hair and straightening him up. “Can you get Carmel Marco back? Or any of the other girls you killed this week?”

  “They was nuttin’ but hoes, man. Those MS-13 punks been killin’ ours, too.”

  I punched him squarely in the face—a big haymaker from way in back. Blood spurted from his nose as his head rocked back.

  “Where does Malik live?” I roared at him.

  The blow stunned him, but he just shook his head and spat blood on the ground. “That the best you got?”

  I wrestled his right hand away from DJ and folded all his fingers except the pinky. Then I looked him in the eyes. “You’re going to tell me everything I want to know, Bumpy. Every time you refuse or give me the wrong answer, you lose part of a finger. That simple. We have the rest of the night and I’ll work my way all the way up to your shoulders if you don’t give me what I want to know. By the way, that was your first wrong response.”

  I pressed his little finger into the gap between the car’s body and the trunk lid, then slammed the trunk closed. He screamed in pain as blood spurted from the stump of his finger.

  “Got a lighter?” I asked DJ.

  He produced one, a mini-butane torch, for lighting campfires. In seconds, with Bumpy screaming in pain, DJ cauterized the stub of his pinky to stop the bleeding.

  It took two more fingers before Bumpy started spilling his guts about everything and everyone. Tony jotted down names and locations on his phone’s notepad.

  I had no qualms about what I was doing, nor about what Bumpy’s final end would be. Back in Marathon, a sheriff’s investigator once accused me of being judge, jury, and executioner. He was right. For some low-life turd fondlers, prison and trials were a complete waste of taxpayers’ money.

  When we had all the information we were going to get from Bumpy, I personally dragged him through the saw palmettos and oaks to the water’s edge and shot him in the back of the head.

  We left him for the alligators.

  “We hit three locations simultaneously,” I said, as we drove back toward the north end of Fort Myers. Before we’d left, Tony sent me and DJ the list of names and locations. “All three of Malik’s lieutenants first. If you guys have any problem with what we’re gonna do, say so now.”

  “Let the bodies hit the floor,” came DJ’s growled response.

  Tony replied, “One! Nothing wrong with me.”

  I’d heard the Drowning Pool song before, though I’d never been a fan of heavy metal.

  “DJ, you take the second address on the list,” I said. “Tony can take the third, and I’ll hit the fourth. Then we’ll converge on Malik’s place. It’ll likely be better guarded and they may be on alert.”

  As we reached town, we split up, each going to an assigned place. I wasn’t worried about me or the other two guys getting hurt. We were trained professionals. We were going against punks who grabbed their crotches and held their weapons sideways when engaging. If any of us came up on more gangbangers than rounds in a single magazine, we’d have to rethink things.

  Tony arrived at his location first and circled the block until DJ and I were in position. Both reported few cars and no activity outside.

  “No prisoners,” I said.

  “And no survivors,” DJ replied.

  “Don’t hurt any non-coms,” I warned. “W
e want this to look like what it is—retribution. Combatants only.”

  I got out of the car and walked toward the house identified as belonging to Bumpy’s friend Roshaun, who he said had been part of the gang rapes and killings. The lights were on inside but there weren’t any lights on outside of the house.

  As I approached the front door, I pulled my Sig Sauer 9mm from the holster at my back. I tested the door. It was locked, with only the standard deadbolt above the doorknob. I could either knock politely, putting anyone inside on alert, or do a forced entry.

  I stepped back, then lunged forward, planting my boot heel just above the doorknob. The frame splintered as the door flung inward.

  Three black men were sitting on a couch and recliner as I entered, leading with the Sig. I shot all three in the center of the chest.

  At the same time, I heard gunfire erupt over the comm. Tony and DJ had made their entries, too.

  Movement caught my eye from beyond the living room. I wheeled and found a fourth man rounding the kitchen counter with a big Colt .45 coming up in his right hand.

  I fired twice, dropping him back behind the counter.

  The house became deathly quiet.

  One of the men on the couch moved, so I shot all four in the head for good measure.

  Then I collected my brass and left.

  Outside, it was still dark—no lights coming on in the neighbors’ houses. I got in the car and took off. The whole engagement had lasted less than a minute and I’d left four men dead.

  “You guys okay?” I asked.

  “All good,” Tony said. “Lake Boyz lost three soldiers.”

  “Make that five,” DJ added.

  “Nine,” I said. “Head toward Malik’s place. Tony, you’re closest. Find a public place that’s open and we’ll meet you there and all go in my car.”

  Five minutes later, I pulled into a 24-hour Winn-Dixie and found the others parked in the middle of the lot. DJ got in front and Tony climbed in the backseat.

  I drove three blocks to where Malik lived. This house had lights on outside and there was a guy sitting in a chair on the front porch.

  “It doesn’t look like they’re ready for us,” DJ said. “Just the one guy outside.

  “Drop me half a block down,” Tony said. “Then time your arrival for when I get to the porch.”

  DJ and I, being white, would never get close to Malik’s yard, let alone the covered porch where the guard sat.

  I dropped him off at the corner then circled the block. As DJ and I approached the house again, Tony was starting up the sidewalk. I stopped at the curb and DJ and I bailed out of the car, moving quickly.

  The guard rose. Tony pulled his Beretta and shot him twice. The man slumped back in his chair, blood spreading across his chest.

  DJ and I were already at a run coming up on either side of Tony as the door flew open and two men stepped out, handguns raised. We opened fire before either man got a shot off.

  Automatic weapons fire erupted from inside, blowing the window out. All three of us took it for what it was—a show of superior firepower.

  But being able to shoot a gun was a lot different than shooting with accuracy. The gunman did nothing more than break glass.

  We returned fire instantly, advancing toward the house. On the porch, we got low, taking positions around the open door and shattered window.

  I heard a thump as something or someone slammed against the wall just inside the door. I stepped back and fired through the wall, spacing four rounds between the door and window.

  A shirtless black man fell just inside the door. I nodded at Tony and he went in first, diving over the three corpses and barrel-rolling to the right. I went in behind him, moving to the left. DJ was right on my heels, weapon raised and covering the center of the room.

  A tall, black man stood naked at the head of a hallway, holding a terrified Hispanic-looking woman, also naked, with an arm around her neck and the muzzle of a gun against her temple.

  “Who the fuck you think you are, bustin’ inna my crib?” the man said, shielding himself with the girl.

  I’d seen this scenario play out many times. Human shields were only effective against poor marksmen. The bad guys always seemed to leave their head vulnerable when doing it.

  My and DJ’s weapons fired at the same time. Our bullets found their marks, less than an inch apart, on Malik’s forehead. His brain ceased to function before the sound even reached his ears, as two nine-millimeter hollow points ripped through the cerebrum, the front part of the brain, which initiates movement, among other things. His head flung back, and he dropped his weapon as his body collapsed to the floor.

  The girl screamed and fell to her knees.

  Tony and DJ swept the room as I went to the girl and knelt before her. “Is anyone else in the house?” I asked urgently, picking up Malik’s handgun.

  She was gasping for air, unable to form words. I took her by the shoulders and shook her a little.

  “Is there anyone else?” I asked more forcefully.

  “No!” she shouted.

  “Get your clothes,” I told her. “Hurry!”

  She disappeared down the hall, then returned quickly, pulling a tank top over her head, but still naked below the waist.

  “Let’s get out of here!” DJ shouted.

  I took the girl by the elbow and guided her past the dead men at the doorway, down the steps, and out to my car. Tony got her in the backseat and slid her over roughly as he got in beside her. DJ and I got in front and as soon as I put the still-idling car in gear, I stomped the accelerator.

  Three minutes and five more dead. Fifteen men dead in all. I didn’t know how big the Lake Boyz gang was, but losing their leader, his second, his three lieutenants, and ten foot soldiers in one night was going to put a serious hurt on their ability and will to do much of anything. Not to mention the drop in income from losing their drug dealers and prostitutes.

  “Who are you guys?” the woman asked, struggling to get her shorts on in the backseat.

  DJ turned in his seat. “I’m the judge,” he said. “That guy beside you is the jury.”

  “And I’m the executioner,” I said, as I turned south on Cleveland.

  I slowed the car and took stock of what we’d done. Fifteen of the Lake Boyz gang were now dead, three of their street dealers were probably in jail by now, and half a dozen of their hookers were off the streets and safe.

  “Where are you taking me?” the girl asked, fear rising in her voice.

  “I can take you to the Pine Manor area,” I replied. “Or out to Isle of Palms…Maria, Bella, and several others are there.”

  “You’re him,” she said.

  I glanced back at her in the mirror.

  “El gran hombre blanco,” she breathed. “Maria called me, just before one of those cabrons picked me up. She said to go to Isle of Palms.”

  “Would you like to go there?” Tony asked her softly. “It’s a rehab center. You’ll be safe and the people there can help you.”

  In the mirror, I saw her look at each of us in turn. Then she caught my eyes in the mirror and slowly nodded. “Si, por favor.”

  I handed my cellphone to DJ. “Pull up the number to the clinic and make the call.”

  He did and handed me the phone. Cat answered after several rings.

  “It’s Jesse,” I said. “We have one more for you tonight.”

  “I thought you’d stopped,” she replied.

  Two police cars flew past, headed north with their lights on. I glanced in the mirror. The Hispanic girl worked for MS-13—the other half of this gang war. They were still alive and well, minus a few street dealers and prostitutes. That is, unless they’d gone after Callie while Billy was watching over her. That would definitely result in a change in the balance of power.

  “No, Cat,” I said. “Our job is only halfway complete.”

  After retrieving the other cars, we went back to the marina. Dawn wasn’t far off. Shutting off the car’s engi
ne, I suddenly felt very tired.

  I got out and saw Mark, leaning against his pickup, smoking a cigarette.

  “Is that it?” he asked when I approached.

  “For tonight,” I said. “There may be more tomorrow night.”

  There was a click from inside Mark’s car, and then a staticky voice announced, “Juliet four, multiple one-eighty-seven. Five dead, including Malik Taylor.”

  Mark reached inside for a moment. “That’s a police scanner,” he said, straightening and looking me in the eye. “Am I a conspirator to multiple murders? That’s the fourth one in the last hour. All up in the Harlem Lakes area.”

  “No, brother,” I said, shaking my head. “The only thing you’re guilty of is taking a bunch of women who needed help to a place where they can get it.”

  “That was you three,” he said, jerking a thumb toward his truck’s open door. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

  I didn’t say anything. Tony and DJ stood behind me, on either side.

  Mark looked at them and then back at me. “You just wiped out the Lake Boyz gang.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said. “I’m tired and going to bed.”

  The three of us moved toward the docks.

  “Jesse, wait.”

  I turned back to face Mark.

  “Semper Fi,” he said. “If you need help tomorrow, you know how to reach me.”

  I nodded. Then we went down the dock to where the boats were tied up on opposite sides of the T-head.

  “Tomorrow night?” Tony asked. “We hit MS-13?”

  “We only have one full name to go on,” I said. “Diego Alturaz is the head of the gang here. His top lieutenant is someone named Esteban. And I’m sure Razor wasn’t given that name by his parents.”

  “It’s a start,” DJ offered.

  “Billy’s been watching over a girl here,” I said. “She’s been targeted by Alturaz and his MS-13 posse. He’s already put a few of their gang out of commission. I’ll call him and get a status report and we can talk about what’s next in the morning.”