Chrissy gasped when the overhead lights went out, replaced with low-level red lighting. I left the autopilot on, which would take us to a waypoint half a mile from the first set of markers.
The wind began to build and the rain fell in torrents. I adjusted the spotlight so that little of the light spilled onto the foredeck. Pointed above the horizon, it wouldn’t help us to see our way, but it would allow anyone else crazy enough to be out in the storm to see us. The reduced glare from the foredeck allowed me to search for the flashing lights of the channel markers. Just a few degrees off the port bow, I saw the first red and green markers, indicating the entrance to the shipping channel.
The Revenge doesn’t need deep water, at least not as deep as the main channel, where it’s more than twenty-five feet deep. She only draws four feet, but the rollers rising up on the ten to twenty feet of water outside the channel would cause the waves to slow and build in height. I remembered fishing near the mouth of the sound, with waves breaking along the shallows on the north side of the channel, but only a slight swell where we were anchored.
Within minutes, we were in the full fury of the storm, and I brought the throttles back to thirty knots as we approached the waypoint. Sighting the second set of markers a mile north of the first, I switched off the autopilot and lined them up, aiming the bow between them. The seas grew, the waves rising above the shallower bottom now. Fortunately, the seas were directly astern, so we crested each one perpendicularly before diving deep into the trough.
Andrew calmly read out the forward depth readings, his voice at a constant soothing tone and pace. I made minor corrections, trying to follow the deepest water in the channel and thus the smaller waves.
We passed the first set of markers just as the third came into sight. Without a seat, Tony stood alongside the forward bench, holding the grab rail with one hand, his legs slightly bent to absorb the sudden changes in the pitching deck. We began to encounter choppy waves seeming to come from all points of the compass, and I did my best to keep the Revenge aimed at the openings between the markers. Tony resembled a bull rider, hanging on with one hand and using the other to maintain his balance.
It was a heart-pounding twenty-minute ride, but we eventually sighted lights to the west, early risers on Hilton Head preparing for another day. Slowly, the wave action decreased as we entered the mouth of Port Royal Sound. A few miles later, I followed the channel markers, steering the Revenge into Beaufort River, the southern tip of Parris Island appearing as a dark outline to port in the gathering gray light of dawn.
I slowed to twenty-five knots as we passed the old Spanish-American War fort on the starboard side, the beach and sandbar just past it appearing as a low fog on the water.
“Oh my God!” Chrissy yelled from the forward bench, getting everyone’s attention. She was grinning. “That was off the hook! It was like a twenty-minute roller-coaster ride in the dark.”
I glanced at Andrew next to me. He was grinning at Chrissy’s first display of any emotion other than hurt and anger. He looked at me and nodded, saying in a quiet voice that only I could hear, “I think she’s gonna be alright now.”
As we rounded a wide bend in the river, I spotted marker forty-one and steered toward it. Further up the river, the high bridge connecting Port Royal and Lady’s Island could be seen, the lights of several cars moving both ways on it. I slowly brought the Revenge down off plane, turning left toward Battery Creek.
“Downtown is that way,” Pat said, turning in her seat and pointing to the bridge.
“We’re staying at a friend’s place on Battery Creek,” I said.
“You’re taking this boat up a creek?” Chyrel asked.
“The terms creek and river are a misnomer here in the Lowcountry,” Pat said. “It’s all salt water, and the Sea Islands are surrounded by it. With a smaller boat, you could travel all the way around many of the islands, moving from one river to another. It’s more like a large bay, with hundreds of small islands and marshes.”
Entering the mouth of Battery Creek, we slowly idled past Sands Beach, a popular hangout when I was stationed here. We then moved on past the commercial docks, where several shrimp boats were tied up. As we passed under a bridge, the creek narrowed. There were a number of homes set high on the bluff to our left, with floating docks and elegant yachts behind each one. Beyond these homes, the marsh stretched out on both sides.
“How deep is it here?” Tony asked, looking down into the brown water.
“The chart plotter shows more than twenty feet,” I replied, turning the wheel to take the right fork of the creek as it split around a low marsh-covered island. “But the tide’s high right now, and sonar is showing more than thirty.”
“That’s a lot of swing between low and high water,” Andrew said, looking out over the marsh to starboard.
“There’s a submerged island to port,” I said. “At low tide, it’s almost as big as my island. But now, most of it is five feet underwater. Tide swings here are anywhere from six to eight feet, sometimes greater than that.”
More homes appeared just ahead of us as we rounded another bend, the creek widening out to over two hundred feet wide. More than enough room to turn the Revenge around.
“Just ahead,” I said to Tony. “Two hundred yards. See that empty dock with the hoisted flats boat? That’s home until tomorrow. A friend lives there, but he’s out of town right now. Said we were welcome to use the dock, house, and even his car, if we need to go anywhere. I’ll turn the boat so she’s facing back the way we came.”
Tony nodded, then he and Art climbed down, just as the rain increased. The trailing edge of the storm was now on us. In seconds, the rain stopped as the two men put fenders over the port side and positioned themselves fore and aft, boat hooks in hand.
I reversed the starboard engine, and the Revenge slowly spun to the right as we drifted past the dock. Using the transmissions, I maneuvered the Revenge in sort of a crablike diagonal course, finally stopping just off the dock. I shut the engines down as Tony and Art used the boat hooks to pull us closer before stepping down to the floating dock and tying the Revenge off.
“Chyrel, you’re with me,” I said, climbing down the ladder. “Everyone else, grab your gear and head up to the house. There’s a key above the window to the right of the back door. We’ll be up in a minute.”
Chyrel and I sat down at the settee, and she powered up my laptop computer. The others came in, quickly gathered what they needed and left. A moment later, Deuce’s face appeared on the screen, with Travis Stockwell sitting next to him.
“Good morning, Jesse,” Travis said. “I trust the storm didn’t delay you.”
“We’re at a friend’s house now, Colonel. Near Port Royal. Deuce, what have you come up with for a crew?”
Last night, while leaving Port Canaveral, I’d realized that Cross would be expecting Whyte to arrive by boat for the meet. Only Tony fit the bill to play a Jamaican, and then only barely. So, before I’d turned in, I’d called Deuce on the sat phone.
“I have two men, undercover DEA guys, who will be there this afternoon. Cross’s flight arrives at seventeen hundred.”
Flipping through my journal, I read Deuce the address where we were staying. “It’s owned by a retired general. He’s currently on the Mississippi River and won’t be back until fall. These DEA guys—you know them personally?”
“No,” Deuce replied. “They work out of Miami. Best I can do on short notice.”
“Their backgrounds are clean,” Travis added, knowing I disliked working with people I didn’t know. “Several commendations each. They were recommended by Acting Administrator Leonhart herself.”
“If they fit the bill physically,” I said, “they’ll have to do.” Deuce’s eyes looked down, and I knew there was something more. “What is it, Deuce?”
“Cross is dirty,” Travis said. “Still, he’s an elected congressman and you’re on his turf there.”
“So?”
“You w
on’t be on the takedown team, Jesse,” Deuce said, bluntly.
“I wasn’t planning to be,” I replied, noting the surprised look on both their faces. “Look, I just drive you guys around in my boat. Sure, in the past, I’ve done a little more than that. But this guy’s got more money than God. Me being there would just give his attorneys ammo to attack the credibility of the arrest, right?”
“That’s pretty much what we were thinking,” Travis replied.
“Besides,” I said, with a grin, “I have something else to do.”
“What’s that?” both men asked at the same time.
“I’m meeting a lady who wants to give me her dog.” Just saying it out loud made me feel better about taking on the responsibility. “So, what’d you guys come up with for a plan?”
“Tony will play the part of Whyte,” Deuce said. “And the DEA agents will be two of his crew. Both men have strong backgrounds in small-craft operation and very much look the part, as they’ve been working undercover for years.”
“Andrew and Art?”
“They’ll head the takedown team,” Deuce said. “They’ll be backed up by two FBI agents out of the Atlanta field office. The two Feebs got there last night and set up surveillance at Cross’s home. A regular surveillance team is scheduled to relieve them about now. I’ll relay where you are, and you can expect them to come straight to you from there.”
“And I suppose these two FBI guys were recommended by their top boss as well?”
“No,” Deuce replied with a grin. “One of them is an old friend of Sherri’s.” Sherri Fallon is one of Deuce’s operatives. She had been an armorer with Miami/Dade Police and had been recruited for her weapons knowledge. She was also the person responsible for the team members’ role-playing skills, being a stage actress on the side.
“One of the FBI agents is a former Miami/Dade cop,” Deuce continued. “Now FBI Special Agent Sheena Mason. I requested her and she requested her partner, Craig Allen.”
“Chain of command?” I asked.
“Andrew is in charge, overall,” Travis replied. “Art will lead the takedown, with the two FBI agents as backup. Tony’s in charge of the boat, with backup from DEA. Like I said, you’re in Cross’s backyard. His family has lived in the area for several generations. He probably knows it like the back of his hand, on shore and on the water. He’s easily recognizable there and has a lot of supporters. South Carolina law requires us to inform the sheriff, and we will. Just an hour before the takedown, with no more details than that a federal arrest is going to take place at Waterfront Park, and a request to have all uniformed officers out of sight, but keep a couple within a block or two, as redundant backup.”
Just then, my sat phone chirped and I looked at the text message from Andrew. “The FBI is already here,” I said.
“Good,” Travis said. “You and Andrew sit down with them and go over the takedown. They already know you’re acting in an advisory capacity. Call me or Deuce if you need anything.”
“Um,” Chyrel started to say.
“Yes, Miss Koshinski?”
“I was just wondering what kind of surveillance equipment the regular team might have with them. We could use some things that I just don’t have with me and might be hard to find in a small town like this.”
“Relay your request through the FBI agents.”
“Yes sir,” she replied and the screen went blank.
I closed the laptop and stood up. “Guess we should go meet them. What kind of equipment are you needing?”
“Cameras,” Chyrel replied as we stepped out into the cockpit. The sun was fully up and the only sign of the recent storm was the humidity in the air and the clouds moving quickly off to the north. Looking south, down the length of Battery Creek, the sky above was a deep cobalt blue, the storm scrubbing every bit of moisture from the upper atmosphere.
I stepped over the gunwale and helped Chyrel to the dock. “What kind of cameras?”
“High-speed high-res video cameras,” she replied. “Really, really small ones.”
Just then, a deafening roar came from the front of the house and a pair of F-18 Super Hornets thundered overhead in close formation, less than a thousand feet off the deck.
“Holy shit!” Chyrel shouted, ducking instinctively. “What the hell was that noise?”
“The sound of freedom,” I replied, watching the two Marine fighter jets turn and climb, already out over the ocean. “Think a combat camera from one of those would work? I think they’re pretty small.”
Entering through the back door, I heard voices coming from the front part of the house. Following the sound, Chyrel and I entered the living room. Tony and Andrew sat in two overstuffed chairs across a small glass table from a couch, on which a man and woman sat. Neither of them looked like FBI agents, more like a thirty-something married couple.
Tony rose from his chair and came toward us. “Jesse, this is Sheena Mason and Craig Allen, with the FBI.” Then, turning to the two FBI agents, he said, “And this is Jesse McDermitt, owner and captain of Gaspar’s Revenge.”
The woman stepped out around the low table and extended her hand. She had thick blond hair, past her shoulders, pulled back in a ponytail. She appeared fit and athletic, but it was her eyes that really caught my attention. They were pale blue, like sea ice, and sparkled with an intensity bordering on magic.
“Pleased to meet you, Agent Mason,” I said, taking her hand.
“Special Agent Mason,” she said, smiling warmly. “I hope you’ll just call me Sheena, though.”
“And just Craig’s fine,” the other agent said, rising and coming around the table. “The word we got was that you’re a private contractor. Is that right?”
“Something like that,” I replied, shaking Craig’s hand. Then, turning to Chyrel, I said, “This is our IT pro, Chyrel Koshinski.”
The three exchanged handshakes and greetings, and I turned to Andrew. “Where is everyone?”
“Showers,” he replied. “There’s three in this house.”
“Five if you count the Revenge,” I said.
“That’s where I’m heading then,” Chyrel said. “Be back in a few minutes.”
I’d noticed that outside of our little group, Chyrel never seemed to interact socially with many people. This always surprised me, as she usually seemed more outgoing than a lot of people.
Sheena sat back down and crossed her legs, her skirt riding up just a little. “I understand that your role in this arrest is strictly advisory?”
“Yeah,” I replied. “And even that’s gonna be limited. I have a few errands to run and will likely just sit right here, while you guys go make the bust.”
“What errands?” Tony asked.
I sat down in another chair, stretching my legs out. “Chyrel said she needs some video cameras. Thought I’d drive over to the air station and see if there are any spare aircraft combat cameras laying around.”
“Just like that?” Sheena asked.
“I know some people,” I offered. “First, I need to go over to Lady’s Island and see someone about a dog.”
“A dog?” Craig asked. “What do we need a dog for?”
“Not for the mission. A friend of a friend has a pup that she needs to find a home for.”
“Mind if I tag along?” Sheena asked. “Craig’s the planner. He can go over the details with Andrew while we’re gone. Our mobile surveillance van has just about any kind of video equipment your IT person might need.”
I shrugged and stood up. “Fine by me. It’ll save me a trip to the air station. Give me ten minutes and I’ll be ready. Come on down to the dock in a few minutes, we’ll take the boat. I need to refuel and it’ll be faster.”
Leaving them, I went back outside and through the large backyard to where the Revenge was tied off, beyond the fence. Chyrel was just coming out of the salon as I stepped down into the cockpit.
“Pretty lady,” she said.
“I guess so,” I lied. “Didn’t really notic
e.” The truth is, I did notice. She was very attractive. However, my track record with women hasn’t been one that could be called stellar.
“Sure you didn’t,” Chyrel said, grinning and stepping over to the dock.
Ten minutes later, wearing my last pair of clean cargo shorts and a clean but faded, Rusty Anchor Bar and Grill tee shirt, I stepped out of my stateroom. Still rubbing my hair with a towel, I made my way aft and up into the salon.
“You don’t look as dangerous as your bio indicates,” Sheena said, lounging on the couch at the aft end of the salon. She had one arm up on the back of the couch and her jacket was open, revealing a well-concealed shoulder holster. The top two buttons of her blouse were also open, revealing well-concealed cleavage as well. My eyes were drawn lower. She wore hard-soled shoes.
“I’m not, I’m just a boat bum,” I replied, then maybe a bit too gruffly, I added, “Unless someone messes up my deck. Take your shoes off.”
Without waiting for a reply, I tossed the towel on the counter and went out the hatch. Climbing quickly up to the bridge, I started both engines. I was about to climb down when Sheena started up the ladder.
“Do you know anything at all about boats?” I asked, stepping back to give her room.
“Sorry about the shoes,” she said. “I didn’t know.” Standing next to me in bare feet, she was half a head shorter than my six-three. “No, I don’t know much at all about boats. Why?”
“I may need help docking when we get to where we’re going.”
“Just tell me what to do,” Sheena said. “I’m a fast and eager learner. Where are we going, anyway?”
Glancing down at the water, I could tell the tide was already falling. The wind was coming out of the east, so the current and wind would move the Revenge away from the dock as soon as I tossed off the lines.
“A boat dealership a few miles up Beaufort River,” I replied, starting down the ladder. “Take the seat next to the helm and don’t touch anything.”
Fallen Angel: A Jesse McDermitt Novel (Caribbean Adventure Series Book 9) Page 9