Wood's Harbor

by Steven Becker

  ***

  “Open the door.” Norm pounded again. He was covered in sweat and breathing heavily after running to the house. “I’ll have your ass deported!” He moved to the living room window to see if anyone was there. There was a car in the driveway, the same as last night, and he wished he had his gun. Whatever was behind the door, he would have to face it to get his credentials back.

  The window opened and he faced the barrel of a gun. “Quiet, CIA man,” a voice called through the screen.

  “Keep the cash, OK. I just need my credit card and credentials.” He lowered his voice and searched for a solution to the standoff.

  “You promised me a green card if I helped you. Now you leave without even a word,” the girl spat back.

  “Let me in. We can talk about this,” he pleaded. Without his credentials and credit card, he was powerless. It would take too long to get replacements and explaining to the local office that he’d lost them would be a bad idea.

  “What? You going to promise me something again?”

  “I can still get you a green card. You just have to trust me.” He had no other cards to play.

  The door cracked open and she motioned him inside. They stood in the living room, her hair unkempt as if he had just woken her. The shotgun covered him. He hated the scatter effect of shotguns. Rifles and handguns were so much cleaner. Her black rimmed eyes stared at him. You could tell after enough people pointed guns at you whether they had the nerve or experience to pull the trigger, and from the look on her face, she had both. He raised his hands, trying to buy some time.

  She made a gesture with the barrel towards the couch. He sat and removed his phone, still unsure what to do. Just as he started to scroll through his contacts, the phone vibrated. He looked at her and she nodded.

  “Travis.” The number for the phone he had given him appeared on the screen. “You have the package?”

  “Yeah. I want my boat back.” The connection was filled with static.

  “Where are you? I’ll arrange transportation,” he said.

  “Key Largo,” the voice came back. “What about my boat?”

  Norm ran the numbers in his head. There was not enough time to get the boat, meet the men and get them into Cuba before the General’s threat reached reality. “No time. I’m flying to meet you. I’ll call for a location before we take off.”

  “And I’m supposed to trust you?”

  Despite the gun pointed at him, he smiled. “Your girlfriend will die if we don’t get this done. Surely her life is more valuable than a boat.”

  The line was static for a long minute. “Call me,” Travis said.

  Norm looked at the girl. “How about we go for a plane ride? I’ll make the calls on the way.”

  TWENTY ONE

  They had arrived in Key Largo about an hour ago, tied up to an empty dock and walked to the first food they could find. Tired and hungry, their last sustenance twenty-four hours ago, the waitress at the Waffle House had looked on in amazement as Trufante and Armando consumed plate after plate of food, eating at least two meals each. The restaurant had a WIFI connection and Mac watched Alicia stare at some of the other customers on their tablets and smartphones. She was powerless without her tablet and squirmed in her seat, barely touching her food.

  Mac knew he should be starving and tired, but he sat there grinding his jaw, his stomach fluttering and pulse pounding. He had felt weird on the boat ride but had written it off as adrenaline and stared at his picked-at plate of food wondering how long it would be until the drug wore off. At least the others had gotten a meal, he thought. The phone vibrated on the table and he jumped. He answered the call, talked for a minute and disconnected. “Half an hour; we got to move.” He looked at Trufante to pay the check, hoping the rednecks hadn’t searched him, but the Cajun laid the cash on the table. They left the restaurant and jogged to the boat.

  Twenty minutes later they were drifting with the current a quarter-mile from shore when Mac saw the opening and directed Trufante into Little Buttonwood Sound. The sun blazed high in the sky and he felt like they were baking in the uncovered metal boat. Sweat dripped from him and he ground his jaw as they waited, wondering if he could survive another minute. After years in the Keys, he was used to the heat, but the drug was taking its toll on him. Alicia had tried to comfort him, but his mind was numb, focused only on Mel. He looked towards Marathon as if he could commune with her, then felt the acidic taste return to his saliva and readied himself for another rush.

  Finally he heard the drone of an engine and saw a dot in the sky. The plane came into view and banked sharply. Trufante stood and waved his hands over his head to give the pilot a target, smiling when the plane wiggled its wings and approached. They watched the pontoons skid into the water and the plane landed a few hundred yards away. They waited for it to taxi towards them.

  The pilot cut the port engine and stayed a safe distance from the boat until the propeller spun down. It stopped and the door opened.

  Mac saw Norm duck through the opening and look towards them. “Bring it over,” he called.

  Trufante started the engine and idled towards the plane. They tied off and sat with several feet of water between them, staring at each other.

  “You and Armando,” Norm called to Mac, and then said something to Armando in Spanish.

  Mac looked behind him and saw the barrel of a shotgun pointing at them. “You heard him,” the girl said.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Norm turned towards her.

  “Just thought you could use some help,” she said.

  Mac stared back at Norm. “What’s this all about? First you promise my boat for him.” He looked at Armando. “Now there’s a gun pointed at us.”

  “I’ll take care of her,” Norm said, turned his back to them and said something to the girl, who lowered the weapon.

  “Come on, Travis. You want to save your girlfriend, let’s go.”

  Mac pulled the line connecting them. The skiff brushed against the float of the plane and he held the strut while Armando got out. He followed, ducking and entered the small passenger compartment. He looked back at the boat and saw Alicia rise to board.

  “Sorry, honey. That’s all the room we have. You did good,” Norm said to the analyst.

  “But you promised me that I could be a field agent.”

  “Look at you. Go home; take a long bath and the rest of the day off. Heck! Take off tomorrow too.”

  She sat back down and clutched her arms around her chest, accepting the orders from her superior.

  “What about me?” Trufante asked. “Always wanted to ride in one of those.”

  Norm ignored him, closed the door and turned to the pilot, who revved the starboard engine and used its power to taxi away from the skiff.

  ***

  “Can you believe that shit?” Trufante yelled at the plane, watching it turn into the wind and pick up speed. Seconds later it was in the air and he swore he could see Norm leering at him through a window.

  “I really wanted to see this through in the field,” Alicia whined, feeling scorned and now embarrassed, wrapping her arms around the torn and burned life jacket.

  “Well, I ain’t happy about this turn of events either. My boy Mac needs me.”

  They stared at the plane until it disappeared into the clouds. Once it was gone they sat in silence for several minutes.

  “We got to help them. I don’t trust that CIA dude,” Trufante said.

  Alicia felt like crying. Maybe a long bath would be a good idea. She looked at the Cajun, dirty and worn out from the escape. If he looked like that, she wondered what she looked like. “I have to follow orders or I’ll get fired.”

  “Sweetheart, you want to be a field agent, just follow my lead.” He grinned at her, trying to lighten the mood. “I’ll teach you some secret agent shit.”

  She felt a tear roll down her cheek and hoped he hadn’t noticed. “I can’t afford to lose my job.”

  “Honey, you
come out guns blazing and save the day, you’ll get promoted.” He looked at her. “Hey, no tears, ya hear.”

  She clenched her jaw and fought back the moisture building in her eyes. This feeling was foreign to her. Used to sitting in a comfortable office, drinking lattes and analyzing data, she had never experienced the rush of field work, nor knew how to process it. The thought of failure was foreign to her.

  “What I could really use is a drink,” she said, regretting it almost immediately when she saw his face light up.

  “Now you’re talking,” he said and started the engine.

  Thankfully it started on the first pull and she could avoid his looks and conversation. She felt an emptiness deep inside her and for the first time in as long as she could remember, she felt sorry for herself. The last fifteen years of her life, and probably before that, had been a push to reach the top. Valedictorian at her private high school in the competitive Bay area of California, she went directly to Stanford, graduating in three years before heading east to do her graduate work at MIT and then multiple job offers in Silicon Valley. She had thought she wanted the riches and status of her classmates, but preferred the challenge and anonymity of the Agency. Where her peers were stressing about creating the next big thing, she was working to keep America safe to allow it to happen. Even her Dragon Mom couldn’t stop her from joining.

  The boat coasted to a stop and she went to wipe her eyes, but the sea breeze had already dried them. She rubbed the crust from her face and sat, glued to her seat, clinging to the life vest like it was her last friend, feeling worthless and weak as she watched Trufante jump onto the dock to tie the boat off, wishing she could do that. He extended a long arm to help her out of the boat, but she gritted her teeth and rose on her own, fighting the fear of tripping as she hopped onto the dock. One step at a time, she thought.

  She flinched when he reached for her as they stood on the dock and she realized she was wobbling.

  “Easy, girl. Maybe a cocktail’ll help settle you.”

  “Thanks. Let’s get that drink - on me.”

  “Now you’re talking, little girl.” He started walking towards the road.

  She hurried after him, having to take two steps for each of his. There was an element of cool he carried that she needed to learn, but she suspected it came from not caring about too many outcomes, and that was foreign to her. She followed him to the street and waited while he appeared to sniff the air.

  “Been a while - got to get my bearings,” he said.

  Across the street was a large group of buildings with signs for a marina, hotel and tiki bar. “There’s a place,” she said.

  “That’s a big-time tourista joint, but what the heck?” He walked carelessly across the road.

  She stopped at the curb, paused, and looked both ways before crossing. They entered the complex and saw the bar off to the right, half-full in the early afternoon. Trufante strode directly to the tiled counter and ordered two drinks she had never heard of.

  They sat and she looked around, feeling dirty and grimy, sure the yuppies hanging around the pool were all staring at her. Somehow, though, she felt tough, as if she had really done something. She looked again at the pool. How good would that feel, she thought as she put the straw to her lips and pulled hard on the colorful drink. While Trufante made mindless small talk she finished the drink and pushed it towards the bartender.

  “What was that?” she asked.

  “Painkiller; you should be feeling no pain soon.” He took the empty glass off the bar and replaced it with a full one.

  Not a drinker, she wasn’t sure what he meant as she sipped the new drink.

  “Slow down there, little girl,” Trufante said and started on his fresh drink. “Shit’ll creep up on you.”

  “That pool looks really good.” She looked down at herself. The silk shirt was dirty and torn. White stains radiated from her armpits which she didn’t dare to smell. She took another sip, the lure of the water enticing her. “I’m going in,” she said, feeling no pain.

  “Darn. Sounds good to me,” he said, took a pull on his drink, walked to the edge of the pool, kicked off his flip flops and dove into the water, emerging on the other side, a huge smile on his face.

  “But…” she hesitated, looking down at herself.

  “Shit, girl; it’s the Keys. Those Vegas dudes stole that whatever happens here, stays here shit from us.”

  She walked tentatively to the coping, feeling the eyes on her, not sure if she could follow through. Jumping into a bar pool in her clothes was not something Alicia Phon would do, but thinking back on the last day, and with the false courage brought by the drinks, she took a breath, held her nose and jumped in. It wasn’t the same old Alicia Phon anymore.

  The dirt and sweat washed off her and she looked around self-consciously to see if there was a dark cloud in the water, but the over-chlorinated pool was clear. She dunked under the water again and ran her hands through her hair, then surfaced and swam to the edge of the pool.

  She pulled herself onto the lip, resting her elbows on the side allowing her body to float in the tepid water. Trufante was across the way, chatting with the other group of tourists. She glanced towards the bar, her eye catching the big screen TV. The familiar faces of the analysts caught her eye. She racked her brain, knowing the location in the background, but unable to place it.

  The dull feeling left her and she sprung up from the edge of the pool and went to the bar, where she ignored the water dripping from her and stared at the screen. A knot grew in her stomach as she recognized the landscape. Fully alert, she turned to the pool.

  “We have to go!” she yelled at Trufante.

  TWENTY TWO

  Mac stared out the window as the plane flew a course due west, parallel to the chain of islands. He glanced over the head rest at the control panel, both curious and unable to quell his captain’s habit of checking things. They were flying at three thousand feet at a ground speed of 175 knots. In all his years in the Keys, after hitchhiking here twenty odd years ago, he had only taken a handful of plane trips, and even if he had flown every day, the view would never get old. Water was everywhere, its color ranging from translucent green to deep blue where the shallows blended into the Gulf. He imagined the sharks and rays cruising the flats. The white vees left by the wakes of the cruising boats were visible and he guessed where each was going. Close to Marathon, he started to pick out landmarks, pausing to think about Mel when he recognized the helipad at Fishermans Hospital. The pilot veered further to the west over open water, quickly approaching the small islands of the back country. Even from this altitude, he saw what he thought was Wood’s Island off the tip of Big Pine Key, the burned house a black smudge on the landscape. He looked over at Armando across the narrow aisle of the small plane, staring out the window as well.

  He switched his gaze to Norm, engrossed in his phone, oblivious to the damage he had caused below. Whatever happened in the next few days, Mac would find a way to bring him to justice. He had no choice but to cooperate for the time being. Mel’s life depended on it. The unmistakable grid of Key West came into view and the pilot circled the island before cutting speed for his approach. In minutes, they were on the ground.

  The pilot opened the hatch and exited the plane. He descended the small ladder and waited on the tarmac for the passengers to disembark. The group deplaned and the pilot led them to the terminal building where Norm marched the girl up to the counter and glared at her as she withdrew a credit card - his credit card - and paid the bill. Mac wondered what the deal was between the pair. She apparently held some kind of leverage over him and he wondered if it was something that could be used as a tool against the CIA man.

  The glass of the terminal building vibrated from the loud boom of a bass woofer. The cab, the source of the noise, pulled up to the curb and Norm went out first. The music faded when he approached the driver. A minute later, he opened the back door for the trio to enter. He gave the driver an address and the c
ab pulled away from the curb. The driver, his head bopping to the silent beat, turned right on the South Roosevelt, drove past several resorts and made another right on First. As they crossed the island, Mac wondered where they were headed and almost spoke, but felt the acrid taste bleed from his glands again, and stayed quiet, not trusting his voice. The driver stayed straight, entered the causeway over Garrison Bight and continued on Palm, finally taking several quick turns and ending up at the harbor.

  The streets were lined with news vans and onlookers forcing them to double park. They exited the cab and Norm pushed the girl to the driver’s window. She pulled a large wad of cash from her bra, slowly pulled a bill off the roll as if it hurt her, and replaced the cash. Mac tried to figure out why they were here, but was distracted by Norm and the girl arguing. She was yelling, her Russian accent getting thicker as she argued, until Norm made a gesture towards one of the many ICE agents. A bitter scorn crossed her face as she withdrew a wallet from her back pocket and handed it to him. The ICE agent was forcing a path through the crowd when she looked away, defeat on her face, and ran.

  Norm led them through the crowd at the ferry building, an open billfold, which Mac suspected were his credentials, held out in front of him. Reporters and cameramen were clustered in front of the building, grabbing people for short interviews when they tried to enter the terminal. There were women crying tears of joy, anxious children fidgeting, and men looking proud.

  More ICE agents were checking papers inside the door at a brand new security kiosk and Mac had a brief, anxious moment thinking they were here for him, but relaxed when Norm said a few words, handed one of the agents his credentials and they were allowed inside.

  Straight ahead, a red ribbon blocked the walkway separating the seawall and the ship; the chasm decorated with American and Cuban flags.