Rising Tide

by Wayne Stinnett

  I couldn’t help it and grinned over at her. “I felt recoil.”

  She punched me in the shoulder. “You know what I mean.”

  I gazed into her eyes. “How did you feel on Hoffman’s Cay?”

  “It made me physically ill,” she replied. “Not at the moment, but later.”

  “Me too,” I admitted, gazing into the flames. “The first time was on my second deployment to Lebanon. I killed a terrorist from five hundred yards away. That night in the barracks, I threw up thinking about it.”

  “Did it get easier?”

  I thought about it for a moment. Taking a life was something that should never become easy. At least not for a person with morals. I considered what we’d done the previous night as saving innocent lives more than the taking of lives.

  “Some,” I said, searching for words. “But not a whole lot. People like those we killed last night aren’t like you and me. Yes, I feel some remorse for what we did, but I’d do it all over again. People like them kill without remorse and there’s only one way to stop them.”

  “I don’t fault you,” she said softly. “Or DJ and Tony. I just worry how it will affect you.”

  “Well, you won’t have to worry about that after next week. This old cowboy’s hanging up his guns.”

  “Somehow, I don’t think so,” she said.

  “Being captain of a ship like Ambrosia will be a full-time job and then some.”

  “Well, I know you, Jesse McDermitt. You’re a hands-on kind of man.”

  “I promise I’ll—”

  “Please don’t make a promise you can’t keep,” she interrupted.

  “I’ll do my best,” I said, realizing she was probably right.

  She looked up at the sky. “It’s a beautiful night. Let’s go down to the pier.”

  “I like that idea,” I said with a grin, knowing her penchant for making love under the stars.

  We walked hand-in-hand toward the pier extending past our house on the south side of the island. After grabbing a couple of big beach towels from the locker under the stairs, I spread them at the end of the pier, and we sat with our feet dangling in the water, then lay back to look up at the stars. By then, our night vision had returned, and we could see millions of them.

  Savannah sighed contentedly. “Every time I look up at the night sky, I’m reminded how small and insignificant we are.”

  “Two people, out of more than seven billion Earth inhabitants,” I said. “And it’s just one planet in a vast solar system that’s a miniscule part of a galaxy twirling through infinite space with millions of other galaxies.”

  She turned her head toward me. “Does anything we do really make a difference?”

  I thought back to an event that had happened right before my parents died and I’d gone to live with Mam and Pap.

  “When I was little,” I began, looking up at the stars, “Mom and Dad took me sailing in a boat he and Pap had built. It was Christmas and Dad was leaving for Vietnam shortly after that. We’d gone ashore at Cape Sable to walk the beach, and we came across thousands of sand dollars. Some were alive and piled up at the water’s edge, but the tide was going out and many were dying on the beach. Mom used her shirt as a basket and carried dozens at a time out to deeper water. Me and Dad helped, though he’d said it was impossible to save them all. I’ll never forget what Mom told him. She stood facing Dad, in water up to her waist, picked one sand dollar out of her shirt and held it up to us, saying, ‘What we do can’t save the world. But it means the world to this one sand dollar.’ Then she put it in the water, along with dozens more in her shirt.”

  “I would have loved knowing them,” Savannah said, then rolled onto her side and kissed me.

  Carlos Santiago leaned back in his recliner, holding a cell phone to his ear. Another man sat across from him on a luxurious sofa. The atmosphere was tense.

  “Bring her here,” Santiago told the man on the phone.

  “To Miami?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Santiago replied. “Do you know the warehouse on the river?”

  “Si, Jefe,” the man said. “But why?”

  Santiago sat forward and glared at the man sitting on his couch. He wasn’t the object of his ire, but being the only one in the room, he was the recipient. The man on the couch was used to it.

  “Because I said to, cabron!” he shouted into the phone. “I personally sent Enrique—the Razor—over there. Now you tell me he is dead, along with those he has recruited. It makes me wonder how you are still alive.”

  “Just lucky, jefe. Besides the dead, three other camellos are in jail and our putas have disappeared.”

  “Bring the piruja negra to me,” Santiago growled. “I will find out who did this.”

  “Si, Jefe. I will be there by morning.”

  “No,” Santiago said, suddenly anxious. “Take her to the airstrip where we bring the coca. I will alert the pilot.”

  He ended the call and turned toward his friend and the number two man in their organization. “Take Gabriel. Go out to Opa-locka field and bring the girl to the warehouse.”

  “Si, Santiago,” Manuel Ortolano replied. “Would you like me to call the pilot there and alert him?”

  “Si, Manuel. Gracias. I will be at the warehouse at midnight.”

  Ortolano left without another word.

  At the bar, Santiago poured a double shot of Corralejo, a sipping tequila, and tossed it down, grimacing as the clear liquid burned his throat.

  An hour later, he had one of his men drive him to the warehouse on the Miami River. The flight from Fort Myers should only have taken thirty minutes, but when they arrived, Manuel’s car wasn’t parked outside.

  The two men walked toward the door, where Santiago ordered the driver to stand guard outside.

  As they entered the outer office, a squat little man rose quickly from a chair behind a small desk. “Jefe, I didn’t know you were coming.”

  “I’m not here to check anything,” Santiago said. “When Manuel and Gabriel arrive, they will have a woman with them. Tell Manuel to bring her to my office.”

  Without waiting for a response, Santiago strode down a hallway and unlocked the last door.

  His office wasn’t as opulent as his home, but it surpassed the average business office in the warehouse district. The walls were done in a rich, dark wood, with ornate trim. Leather and wood furnishings decorated the space. The floor was brown Ecuadoran tile.

  Being the leader of the largest and most notorious gang in South Florida had its advantages. Need was a relative thing for Carlos Santiago; it bordered on what he wanted.

  Santiago seated himself in the custom leather chair behind his desk. After opening his laptop, which was connected to a private network, he quickly checked the status of MS-13’s vast drug importation business while he waited.

  Ten minutes later, there was a knock on the door.

  “Entra,” he said, and closed the laptop.

  Manuel opened the door and came in. Gabriel was behind him, shoving a bound, gagged, and blindfolded black woman ahead of him.

  “Go outside and bring me three strong men,” Santiago told Gabriel.

  As he left, the big man closed the door behind him.

  Santiago pointed to a chair in front of his desk and Ortolano pushed the woman down into it.

  “Remove the gag and blindfold,” Santiago ordered, as he leaned back in his chair.

  Ortolano did as he was told and the woman looked around, obviously frightened.

  “Do you know who I am, puta?”

  The woman’s clothes were disheveled. She had an open cut on her cheek, and dried blood smeared her skin.

  “No,” she replied nervously.

  “My name is Carlos Santiago,” he said. “I run MS-13 here in Miami.”

  Her eyes locked on his. “What do you want with me?”

  “Do you know what happened in Fort Myers last night?”

  She looked up at Manuel, standing next to her with his arms folded
across his chest, then turned panicked eyes back to Santiago. “I heard there were some shootings,” she said.

  Santiago could see in her eyes that she knew about all the black prostitutes he’d ordered Razor to kill in retaliation for the murders of MS-13 hookers.

  “Where were you when last night’s shootings happened?”

  “I was in a rehab center,” she replied. “Please…I had nothing to do with what happened.”

  “What were you doing in rehab?” Santiago asked, as he opened his desk drawer and took out a small bag of crystal meth.

  She eyed the bag with a look that bordered on voraciousness.

  Santiago produced a small meth pipe and butane lighter, placing them beside the drugs.

  “Me and a b-bunch of other working girls went there,” she replied. “I left this morning. I couldn’t take being there anymore.”

  “Just puta negras like you?” he asked, unworried that he might be insulting her. “Or were there Chicanas, as well?”

  “Both,” she replied. “Even a coupla white girls. More than a dozen altogether.”

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Un minuto,” Santiago said, as he dropped a large rock into the pipe and pushed it and the lighter across the desk. “Go ahead,” he told the woman. “Ride the cloud.”

  With her hands tied, she fumbled with the pipe.

  “Untie her, Manuel,” Santiago said. “I think she is being very cooperative, don’t you?”

  Manuel flicked a big knife open. “Si, jefe.”

  The blade parted the nylon rope binding her wrists.

  “What is your name?” Santiago asked.

  “Aliyah,” she replied, flicking the lighter and holding the flame to the bottom of the bowl. “Aliyah Wilkins.”

  As smoke started to swirl in the pipe, she put it to her lips and inhaled deeply until it was all gone. Then she blew out a gray-blue plume and slumped back in the chair.

  “Is that better?” Santiago asked.

  “Oh yeah, man.”

  “Open the door, Manuel.”

  Ortolano turned and opened the office door. Gabriel entered, followed by three gang members—warehouse workers—stripped down to their jeans. Each had numerous gang tattoos covering their sweaty torsos. The three men looked at Santiago, then at the woman.

  “Take this puta out to the warehouse and fuck her up good,” he told the biggest of the three men. “Let the others join in if they want. Just don’t kill her.”

  Aliyah looked confused.

  Two men lifted her by the arms and the third man grabbed her knees, bringing her legs up until her butt smacked his groin. She struggled, but not much, as the three men easily carried her out of the office.

  “Do you think she knows anything?” Ortolano asked.

  “Maybe,” Santiago said. “Go out there and question her while the men gangbang her. I want to know why so many were in rehab and I want to know who was responsible.”

  I woke early, before dawn’s first light. Looking out the east-facing bedroom window, I could still see stars, which was all the weather forecast I needed. The old idiom of red sky in morning, sailor take warning was true—at least in spring, when weather patterns typically came out of the east.

  It was going to be a nice day.

  Savannah stirred as I rose from our bed. “What time are you leaving?” she mumbled, rolling onto her side.

  “After sunrise. I texted Tank last night that we’d pick him up by zero eight hundred. He chastised me for being a late riser.”

  “You’ll be back in time for dinner?”

  “By mid-afternoon, at the latest,” I replied, pulling on my boxers. “Dink said he was getting cobia off Channel Key Bank.”

  “Channel Key Bank?”

  “A few miles northeast of Grassy Key.”

  She sat up and the sheet fell down to her waist. We typically slept in the nude when it was warm. I was tempted to stay but knew Alberto would be rising soon.

  “I’ll make some breakfast,” she said. “And some sandwiches to take with you on the boat.”

  “Thanks. I’m gonna get Alberto up, get the boat ready, and go out to the dock to watch the sunrise.”

  She looked at her watch, the only thing she had on. “It’s an hour before dawn. I’ll make some sausage biscuits and bring them down there.”

  Pulling on a clean pair of shorts and a T-shirt, I left the bedroom. Finn and Woden lifted their heads, one lying on either side of Alberto’s makeshift bed.

  I went to the little galley and poured two cups of coffee. I’d set the machine up the night before. The aroma of fresh-brewed Costa Rican Tarazzu caused my nostrils to flare.

  The dogs rose and went to the door, so I opened it to let them out. The closing of the door woke Alberto.

  He sat up and looked around. “Is it daytime yet?”

  “It will be in a little while,” I replied. “Savannah is going to make breakfast and bring it out to the dock for us, so we can get the boat ready and watch the sun come up.”

  Alberto’s new clothes were in a suitcase beside his bed. He got up, picked out a pair of shorts and a T-shirt and was dressed before Savannah came out.

  “We’ll have to do something about that suitcase,” I told him. “But since we’re leaving in just a few days, that’ll have to do for now. Once we get to Ambrosia, you’ll have your own bedroom and dresser.”

  “Really? I never had my own room,” he said, as Savannah entered.

  I wondered just how much of his memory he’d regained.

  “Not even before your dad’s accident?” Savannah asked. Then she turned quickly and faced him. “Oh, I’m so sorry. You probably don’t like talking about that.”

  “It’s okay,” he said. “It was a long time ago. I don’t remember a whole lot from when I was little.”

  He’d been five when his father was killed. I couldn’t recall a lot from when I was that age either. Yet, he’d retained the ability to play chess, and play it well. He must have continued playing someone after his father was killed.

  “I mostly slept on the couch after Dad died,” he explained. “Me and mom lived with her friends sometimes and sometimes in the car.”

  Savannah covered her mouth with her hand to stifle a gasp.

  “Well, this is just temporary,” I said. “On Ambrosia, you’ll have a whole suite to yourself.”

  “What’s a suite?”

  I chuckled. “It’s a small room with a separate bedroom and bathroom. You’ll even have your own TV.”

  “You mean it? I can’t wait.”

  “Y’all go on,” Savannah said, shooing us toward the door. “I’ll bring breakfast down in a few minutes.”

  “Come on,” I told Alberto. “You can help me get the boat ready.”

  I flicked on the light below the house as I started down the steps, illuminating the dock area.

  “Are we taking the big boat?” Alberto asked.

  “Not for this job. The Revenge is for the ocean.” I walked around to my Mirage Maverick in the far bay. “We’ll take this one.”

  I stepped down into the flats skiff and used the key fob hanging in the ignition to open the big outer doors.

  “What’s this one’s name?” he asked, looking down from the dock.

  “It doesn’t have a name,” I replied. “It’s just a work boat. Good for shallow water, but not for offshore.”

  “You sure have a lot of boats,” he said, looking around the docks.

  “Each has a different job,” I explained. “That other Maverick belongs to my daughter, Kim. The big center console, El Cazador, is for small groups fishing the Gulf.”

  “That means The Hunter,” he said.

  I nodded as I went to the end of the middle dock and opened the storage closet. “For hunting grouper and snapper on reefs.”

  I chose three light rods with spin-casting reels and handed one to Alberto. “Think you can handle this?”

  He took the rod and held it horizontally in both hands.
“I think so,” he replied. “Dad took me fishing some when I was little.”

  “Let’s stow these onboard,” I said, stepping down into the boat.

  I eased the tip of one rod into a holder under the starboard gunwale, then settled the handle into place. I did the same with the second rod, leaving the upper holder for Alberto.

  “Right there?” he asked, pointing.

  I nodded and he carefully slid the tip into the hole and placed the handle into its cradle. Then he stood up, grinning, and looked around again.

  “What’s that one for?” he asked pointing to my little eighteen-foot Grady-White center console.

  “That one’s kind of an all-purpose boat,” I replied. “We use it mostly for bringing groceries from Marathon and reef fishing with just two people.”

  “Does it have a name?”

  “Pescador,” I replied.

  “That means fisherman,” he said. “How come they have Spanish names but you don’t speak it very well?”

  “How do you know I don’t speak it?”

  “Because Savannah had to tell you what I told her.”

  “Ah, yes,” I said. “Well, I understand more than I speak, but I know enough to get by.”

  “And that one?” he asked, pointing toward the homemade boat tied up behind the Grady. “What’s it for?”

  “That one’s called Knot Late,” I said, sounding out the name on the transom. “She only has one purpose.”

  “What?” he asked walking around behind her and looking at the woodwork and the spelling of the name, Knot L-8 on the transom.

  “She’s for going real fast,” I replied. “Nothing else.”

  He smiled, staring down at the sleek runabout. “Can we take it?”

  “She doesn’t make much of a fishing boat,” I said. “And we have work to do. She’s just for fun and showing off. But we can take her out one day this weekend.”

  I started the Maverick’s outboard and Alberto came back over to the boat. I helped him in, then untied the lines. A couple of minutes later, I tied her off to the south dock and killed the engine.