Fallen Angel: A Jesse McDermitt Novel (Caribbean Adventure Series Book 9)

by Wayne Stinnett

  Swimp lifted the older woman onto his shoulder and climbed the ladder ahead of his wife. “What you gonna do with them women?” she asked.

  “Prolly gonna screw ’em to death,” Swimp replied. “And ole Damien prolly won’t even stop then.”

  “Man, can’t you let that go?” Damien whined.

  “What the fuck do you care?” Swimp asked his wife. “You just do as you’re told. Go ahead of us and get some food on. It’s gonna be a long night.”

  As the procession moved toward the foot of the long pier, several more cousins came out of the darkness to greet them. More hands grabbed at the two younger women, and they both screamed in terror.

  “This un’s first, boys,” Swimp shouted as his wife ran ahead, pushing through the crowd of men. “Take them two over by the fire, where they can have a front-row seat. Nobody touch that blonde, though. She’s mine.”

  Tossing the older woman onto an old smelly sofa that had been dragged out of the house a year ago, Swimp lit a joint. “She ain’t a whole lot to look at,” he said, inhaling the smoke deep into his lungs. “But, soon as she wakes up, you’ll see we got us a wildcat here tonight.”

  “I want the little one,” one of the men said, moving toward the dark-haired girl.

  “I said this one’s first, Bobby!” Swimp roared. “You just set that little one down in a chair so she can watch.”

  Bobby Ross looked at Swimp through dark, hooded eyes, his stringy black hair hanging down across his face. “Who the fuck made you king?” he snarled.

  Swimp took one quick stride, leaving his right hand behind him. When he brought it forward in a powerful swing, he caught his cousin flush in the side of the head with his open hand. The Rosses had a rule. No closed fists when fighting kin. The resounding smack could probably be heard half a mile away, and the smaller man went down sideways, knocked out before he even knew what happened.

  “Anyone else wanna challenge me?” Swimp bellowed.

  “Damn, cuz,” Damien said, bending over and lifting one of Bobby’s hands and releasing it. The hand fell right back to the ground. “You knocked ole Bobby out with a single slap. Guess he ain’t gonna partake of any a the festivities.”

  Swimp sat down in an old torn-up leather Barcalounger that had been brought outside about the same time as the sofa. “Bring Blondie over here to me,” he said, taking another long hit from the joint. “Me and her gonna party while you boys enjoy yourselves. Damien, you sit over here with the little one. Now, you girls watch careful now, see how a real woman does it.”

  “Don’t you touch me!” the blonde woman screamed as rough hands dragged her to where Swimp was sitting. She hadn’t said much of anything since Swimp kicked the door down at the house. She had a Southern accent, but not from around here.

  Swimp grabbed her wrist as two of his cousins pulled her closer. “So, you a Southern gal, huh? Well, why don’t y’all just set yer pretty little ass down here on old Swimp’s lap and we can talk about the first thing that pops up.”

  Damien grabbed the dark-haired girl around the waist and pulled her onto his lap in another chair, without resistance. “This one don’t seem to have a lot of fire in her.”

  “Should suit you about right,” Swimp said, laughing as the blonde squirmed on his lap, trying to get free. Several others joined in the laughter at Damien’s expense.

  “Somebody go get a bucket a water,” one of the men said, shoving his hand down the older woman’s blouse. “She ain’t gonna be no fun asleep.”

  Another man stood and picked up the overturned bucket he’d been sitting on and headed toward the pier. A cooler was dragged out of the back of one of the pickups parked in the backyard, and cold beers were passed around.

  Suddenly a roaring sound could be heard down near the pier. “What the hell was that?” someone shouted.

  “Prolly just one a those rich assholes running aground,” Swimp said, looking back through the darkness toward where the sound had come from. “Happens all the time.”

  The roar was followed by another as the boat’s operator tried to get off the bank, then it went quiet and excited voices could be heard arguing.

  “See there,” Swimp said. “Another rich asshole stuck in the mud.” Then, over his shoulder, he shouted, “Hurry up with that water.”

  Seeing the marsh that went back between the trees, I waited until the Revenge was almost on it, then shifted the port engine to reverse and the starboard to neutral.

  “Give me a depth reading astern,” I whispered to Manny as the Revenge slowly turned her bow toward shore, slowing in the current.

  He quickly switched the sonar to aft scan. “Plenty deep for about thirty feet,” he said.

  When the Revenge was perpendicular to the creek, I reversed the starboard engine and slowly backed the boat toward the opposite shore. I was familiar enough with the pluff mud to know there wasn’t much chance of damage to the props, and I needed a good running start. The mud was deep and very soft. I’d seen boats power straight through it on more than one occasion.

  I shifted both engines to neutral and waited, watching the bank ahead, as the current slowly carried us past the marsh. When we were in the right spot, I checked to make sure the rudders were amidships and shoved both throttles forward halfway. The bow rose sharply as the Revenge lunged forward, pushing tons of water up onto the mud flat behind us.

  At the last second, I brought both engines to idle for a second. The bow came down hard, creating a huge wave that moved toward shore. I shoved the throttles again and accelerated, lifting the bow up on top of the wave and climbing it as the wave began to break on the mud flat in front of us.

  When I felt the keel begin to ride up on the mud, I shoved both throttles to the stops. The engines roared in defiance, lifting the bow higher and pushing the Revenge deep into the mud flat. Just as she was coming to a stop, I throttled back and killed the engines. The Revenge settled, leaning to port about fifteen degrees.

  “Go, Manny,” I whispered. Then shouting toward the men on the rail, I said, “What the hell did you do, Jimmy?”

  Tony was quick to catch on and responded, “What did I do? You’re the one supposed to be watching, Earl!”

  I grabbed my rifle and quickly went to the narrow ladder that went up to the roof. “Good job, Jesse,” I heard Andrew whisper. “The pulpit is over dry ground, but you’re not going anywhere anytime soon.”

  “I have line of sight,” Manny whispered.

  Handing my rifle up to him, I started up the ladder. My shin still throbbed every time I put weight on it. Once on the roof, I crawled past the radar dome to where Manny lay prone at the leading edge.

  “Wind’s calm,” he said, looking through his spotting scope. “Range to the group is just over two hundred yards.”

  I quickly removed the front and rear lens covers and brought the rifle to bear in the direction Manny indicated. Sighting through the scope while wearing night vision goggles wasn’t easy, but it was something we’d trained to do in the Corps.

  “Looks like a target-rich environment,” Manny said, quoting one of his favorite movie lines. Hearing footsteps on the pier, he turned his scope that way.

  “One man at the foot of the pier with a bucket,” Manny said.

  “I’ll get him,” Art said.

  I turned and watched as Art stealthily approached the foot of the pier, Tony following ten feet behind him. Scanning to the left, I found Andrew, quietly picking his way through some kind of crops, all arranged in straight rows. I wasn’t sure what they were growing out here. It looked like some kind of small tree or bush. They used to grow some of the best cotton the world had ever known on these islands before the Civil War. Maybe they were trying to make a comeback.

  A moment later, I heard a cracking sound and looked back to where Art was dragging the man off the pier. Tony quickly bound his hands and feet with zip ties as Art picked up the bucket and climbed up onto the pier.

  With Art walking slowly but loudly on the wood
en planks, Tony crossed under the pier and angled away to the east. I turned my attention back to the group around the fire. I could see Pat clearly, sitting back on an old couch, apparently unconscious. At least I hoped so.

  Scanning the group, I found Chrissy. She was sitting on the lap of the same guy that I’d kicked out of the boat. She had her head down, hair covering her face. Next to them was a big leather recliner. A giant of a man sat on it, Chyrel on his lap, struggling to get free.

  “I’m in position,” Andrew said. “I have the whole group covered and away from the ones in the chairs holding Chrissy and Chyrel. If need be, I can cut them all down at once.”

  Travis’s voice came over the comm. “Andrew, do not fire unless fired upon. Identify yourself first.”

  “I’m in position on the other side,” Tony whispered. “At a forty-five-degree angle from Andrew and the group.”

  The classic pincer attack. With Andrew and Tony on opposite sides, safely out of one another’s line of fire, the group of men caught in the middle had no chance.

  “The big guy, Manny,” I said.

  “Air still calm,” he replied. “Range two hundred and six yards, declination ten feet.”

  I adjusted the crosshairs to compensate for the drop in elevation, the rifle already zeroed for two hundred yards, I put the crosshairs on the big man’s neck. It was a really easy shot, so long as Chyrel didn’t move behind the guy’s head. At this range, his skull would barely slow the bullet down.

  “Art is at the foot of the pier,” Manny said.

  “This is the police!” Andrew shouted, his booming voice carrying easily to the group.

  “You’re surrounded!” Tony shouted. “Place your hands on your head and do not move!”

  Chaos seemed to overtake the group. Several men ran toward a group of pickups parked behind them. Two men pulled handguns from under their shirts, waving them wildly, as a woman came out of the house carrying a rifle.

  A shot rang out from the group around the fire, followed by automatic weapons fire from both Tony and Andrew’s position. Beyond the big guy, several men went down as most of the others ran toward the group of pickups.

  The big man and the guy from the boat stood up quickly, holding Chyrel and Chrissy in front of them as shields, and the big guy they called Swimp pulled a gun out and pointed it at Chyrel’s head.

  “Don’t come any closer,” he yelled. “I’ll kill this bitch.”

  I had a shot, but his face was dangerously close to Chyrel’s. The guy from the boat didn’t have a weapon, but was shielding himself with Chrissy.

  “You do that and I guarantee you’ll die,” Art said, striding toward the group, the ugly machine pistol up and pointed ahead of him.

  “I swear, I’m gonna put a bullet in her pretty little head,” Swimp shouted.

  “No, Swimp!” the woman with the rifle shouted. “This ain’t gonna keep going on! Let her go!”

  I swung my scope to the woman for just an instant. She had the rifle up and leveled at Swimp, finger on the trigger and tears running down her face.

  “What the hell you think you’re doin’, bitch?” Swimp yelled at her. I brought the scope back to the big man. It was over, but he didn’t know it yet.

  “You let that woman go, or I swear I’ll kill you myself!” I heard the woman shout.

  I slowly began to apply pressure against the trigger spring. He moved slightly and I followed.

  “Dammit, Angel!” Swimp shouted and pointed his gun at the woman.

  Just as I squeezed the last of the slack out of the trigger, Swimp’s head seemed to explode in a gray-green mist through my night vision optics. At the same instant, he fired at her. My mind registered the sound of the two shots almost simultaneously, and I realized that I hadn’t fired. Swimp’s body collapsed to the ground, like a puppet with its strings severed.

  Suddenly, Tony, Art, and Andrew charged forward, taking the guy from the boat down hard. The roar of several engines racing as the others tried to get away was drowned out by the sound of police sirens coming down the long dead-end road.

  We got a late start the next morning, with little talk about the night before. Pat had a bruise on the side of her chin, but was otherwise unhurt. Chrissy was upset and crying when Andrew had reached her. Then in a fit of rage, she began kicking Damien Ross as he lay on the ground, bound hand and foot. Nobody stopped her until she’d gotten it all out of her system.

  The police had arrived just in time, blocking the only escape route for the men who tried to flee. Besides Swimp and his wife, two other Rosses were dead and five injured.

  It was nearly midnight before everything was sorted out and the tide had risen enough to get the Revenge off the mud. As it turned out, the plants that I’d thought were Sea Island cotton were actually marijuana. Ten acres of it. A deputy told me that it probably had a street value of two million dollars.

  Swimp was very dead. The bullet from his wife’s rifle had entered the middle of his forehead and exited the back, taking most of his skull with it. He’d shot her in the chest and she’d fallen near her husband’s body. She died a few minutes after we got to her. Coughing pink foam as I knelt where she’d fallen, Angel Ross had told me that Swimp had murdered his first wife and she was worried that he was going to kill her as well.

  I’d sent Manny back to the boat, before the cops got there and told him to stay inside with Finn. Being an active-duty Marine, it wouldn’t look good for him to be involved in a civilian shooting, even if he was assisting law enforcement.

  Originally, I’d planned to take a leisurely trip back to Henry’s place on Andros, leaving early. But the events at the Ross house and the late start meant another high-speed crossing, stopping in Jacksonville for fuel. The seas after that had been pretty big, but well-spaced. The combination of wind and the powerful Gulf Stream current slowed us to only forty-two knots at wide-open throttle. Still, the Revenge was more than up for the challenge.

  We made Henry’s place by noon, but we didn’t stick around long. The fake IDs and passports Chyrel had made for Pat and Chrissy worked fine on entry into the Bahamas. We had lunch, refueled, and said our goodbyes.

  Henry had told me that Rene Cook disappeared the night after we left. His sailboat was gone. Apparently, he didn’t believe me that his secret was safe. I wondered what it was he was running from. He and Angelique weren’t legally married, only living together. She was brokenhearted, but would be okay, Henry had told me.

  Pat and Henry seemed to have formed some kind of bond while we were there the first time. She wasn’t a fishing guide, but knew boats pretty well and agreed to help him run the place, in exchange for a place for her and Chrissy to live.

  We had less than two days to get home before the big party Rusty was going to throw to celebrate Independence Day. So we left at full throttle and steered a rhumb line for Marathon, never letting up straight through a second night. The Revenge performed flawlessly as always.

  Along the way, while I had watch on the bridge, Chyrel had come up to join me. She’d nodded and sat down beside me in the second seat. She fidgeted with the sonar and radar controls, zoomed the chart plotter way out and back in again.

  Knowing that she’d had something on her mind, I’d just let her have her time. Finally, she’d said, “I knew you guys would come, Jesse. I was never worried. But, dammit, you sure took your sweet time about getting there.”

  “You gonna be okay?” I’d asked her.

  “Finer than frog’s hair sifted twice,” she’d replied, grinning.

  Tony came up to the bridge late the next morning. We were only fifty miles from the entrance to Rusty’s canal. He called his girlfriend and told her that he’d be at the Rusty Anchor and she should meet him there after she finished work.

  After a moment he said, “No, everything went fine. It’s good to be home, though. I’ll tell you everything when you get there.”

  I didn’t intend to listen in to the one-sided conversation, but the bridge was the
only place he could get a cell signal this far from shore. Finally, he ended the call and turned to me.

  “I’m gonna tell her everything,” Tony said. “The director and Deuce gave me the okay. And I also decided to stick it out with the Navy for another hitch. Hell, I might make master chief yet.”

  “Good to hear,” I said. “No doubt you will. And I’m sure she’ll understand.”

  An hour later, with the others coming up to the bridge, I brought the throttles back and we slowly idled up the canal. It seemed like a month ago that we’d left home, but it had only been six days.

  Rusty came out to the dock as I spun the Revenge around in the turning basin. “Where the hell you been?” he yelled up as Tony tossed him a line.

  “Just a little fishing trip,” I replied as the crew tied us off.

  “Holy hell,” Rusty said, seeing Andrew. “Did you get the tag number of the truck that hit you?”

  We stepped over to the dock, all of us exhausted. “We’ll tell you all about it over a couple of beers,” I told my old friend.

  Finn jumped over the gunwale and went straight to the first tree, hiking his leg. Then he ran around the yard sniffing at everything before finally returning to the dock.

  “Where’d you get the pup?” Rusty asked as we walked toward the bar.

  “A friend of Celia Minnich needed a new home for him,” I explained. “We picked him up in Beaufort.”

  “South Cackalacky? Damn, bro, you been all over the place.”

  Rusty brought out the good stuff and joined us at a table in the corner. Before we raised the first glass to a successful mission, Deuce and Julie came through the door.

  Rusty rose quickly, much faster than the man’s size would dictate. He made it to the door before the couple had taken two steps, taking his daughter up in his arms for a big hug. Then he did the same with Deuce. Rusty’s a hugger.

  Once everyone was seated, Rusty raised his glass of rum. “To reunions,” he said.

  We all clinked our glasses and tossed down the rum, even Chyrel. “So that’s what you guys call the jazz?” she asked.