Doans was in the middle of processing a large piece of the burger. “Oh, come on. You’ve got nothing to hold me on.”
“Maybe I’ll cut this food fest short and release you then, but I’m keeping the money for evidence. What’s to say the story you gave me is true? Could be your friends paid you the $25,000 for telling them where the bomb is. They could be on their way out there to recover it right now, while you’re sitting in here stuffing you face. Maybe they’re wondering where the gringo with their money went, and are looking for you. Who knows?”
Doans finished chewing the burger and jammed a handful of fries in his mouth. “I’d never betray my country like that. You can’t keep my money.”
“We’ll see about that. Get up. You’re released.”
He hesitated. "What about the rest of my stuff?”
“The deputy will turn over everything but the cash on your way out.”
***
She called for a deputy to escort Doans out of the interrogation room and release him. He made a desperate grab for the rest of the food, but the deputy smiled as he yanked him away. Heather came in from the observation room.
“You turn the recorder off?” Jules asked.
“Yeah. Why release him, though? We’ve got plenty to hold him for a while.”
“I’ve dealt with a ton of guys like this. They’ll sit here and eat your food.” She glanced at the half-consumed meal on the table. “But you never really know if they’re telling the truth or not. They all think they’re smarter than you. They’ve always got some kind of an angle figured out.”
“But still, why let him go?”
“There could be a bomb down here, in our home. No one in D.C. has expressed even the slightest curiosity. The only way to figure this thing out is to let him go and follow him. Get out there and see what he does. Don’t do anything but observe. Keep me posted.”
“But I’m not a deputy.”
“Exactly. He’ll never suspect you. Don’t worry. Just keep an eye on him.”
***
Doans was out the door and into the morning heat a little lighter than when he came in — by about a half a pound. He opened the paper envelope the deputy had handed him and took out the handheld GPS. The screen was broken, but otherwise the unit was intact. He took out the other possessions and tossed the envelope to the ground. Conflicted he was glad to be free, but the money was gone. He kicked a can on the sidewalk. All the money gone. What was he going to do now? Never even thinking that he’d overplayed his hand and the sheriff had outwitted him, he needed a new plan. His car was back at the bar, his cash in the sheriff’s office. He started walking south on US1 toward the bar. A few blocks down, he saw a sign for a boat ramp. On a whim, he crossed the street and headed toward it. He was drenched in sweat when he reached the ramp. Depressed, he sat down on the curb to think, wondering where his karma would lead him now.
He watched the stream of traffic at the ramp. Most of the boats were putting in for the day; the only vessels pulling out were commercial boats who started early and had finished their day’s work.
He quickly got over his depression, an idea creeping into his mind as he watched the show. Everyone had their own technique — some pros, others not so much. He was watching one couple in particular. They were yelling back and forth. Sun reflected off the man’s head as he stood at the helm of the boat, signaling and yelling for his wife to back up the truck, to drop the boat in the water. She would go no farther than wetting the bottom of the trailer tires in the water. He was clearly agonizing over her trepidation.
Ever the Good Samaritan, Doans walked over and offered help.
“She won’t drop it back far enough,” the man said.
“I can see that. Tell you what. Why don’t you hop down from there and back her up? I’ll take the boat off for you.”
“You’d really do that?”
“For sure. I’ve been where you are before. Nothing worse than a boat ramp fight.”
The man, log rolled his bulk over the side, cautiously putting one foot on the bumper guard. He hopped off and opened the car door for his wife, who was happy to comply.
Doans hopped over the gunwale and took control of the helm. He signaled that he was ready and the man backed down the ramp, his wife looking on in horror as the trailer’s wheels went into the water. The boat started to slide off, and Doans smiled as the engine started on the first try. Feeling as good as he had in two days, he cut the wheel to the left and pulled back on the throttle. The boat responded and moved backward away from the ramp, bow pointing toward the inlet.
The man pulled the trailer out and was quickly around the bend, looking for a parking spot. His wife was playing on her phone, probably texting her friends what a jerk her husband was.
No one was looking as the boat's bow rose, throttle pushed forward. The engine buried deep, churning the water. After a long pause the boat leveled out and accelerated out towards the gulf.
***
Heather had circled back and was parked on the street under a shade tree just out of sight of the ramp. She could just see the boat start to plane out as it picked up speed. She hadn’t seen it coming — there were always people helping out at boat ramps. It often took a half-dozen guys standing on a tailgate to get enough traction to pull a heavy boat. But this was different. She got on the radio to the sheriff and started toward the ramp at a quick jog.
The man was standing over his wife yelling at her for whatever part of this he could blame on her when Heather reached them.
“You folks OK?”
“No, we are not OK. He won’t stop yelling at me. Can’t you lock him up until he cools down?”
“That son of a bitch took my boat! He offered to help me because she’s so damned worthless, and he took the boat. I want to file a report. This is going to ruin my vacation.”
“Let me see the registration for the boat. I’ll do the paperwork and call it in right now. Unless he knows where he’s going and is heading into the back country, we’ll find him pretty quick. Maybe get the chopper up.”
Heather watched them walk away as she called in a description of the boat. The wife trailed behind, appearing happy with the outcome, imagining an afternoon or two drinking Mai Tais by the hotel pool or shopping in Key West. Anywhere but that damned boat.
Chapter 37
Gillum was feeling euphoric. He’d always heard about the mythical rush felt before a mission. Now he was experiencing it firsthand. No cloak and dagger this time. He had direct orders from the Vice President to obtain the bomb and bring it to Homestead. Now that was authority, he thought. He sat in the front passenger seat of a black Suburban, Mac wedged between two crewmen in the back. The rear seat was folded down. Dive tanks rattled, gear was jammed in every possible space. He’d picked the two crewman for their reputations. These guys were special forces. They wouldn’t question his orders.
There was a yellow VW bug in the drive when they pulled up to Mac’s. “I may have company. Why don’t you let me go in and see what’s going on here? I don’t know that car.”
“I’ll go with him. The rest of you go around the side and load the boat,” Gillum said.
Gillum followed Mac, crushed corral from the path crunching under his boots. Mac opened the door. They looked around checking his office first, and saw the medical supplies scattered on his desk. Upstairs was evidence of breakfast scattered everywhere.
“The boat’s gone.” The crewman burst through the front door.
Gillum was starting to put the pieces of the puzzle together. “Looks like at least Wood and and the girl were here. But there’s too much food for just those two. Who drives that?” He pointed at the VW visible through the window.
“No idea,” Mac said.
Gillum’s frustration was written all over his face as he paced the workshop floor. “Never mind them. We need to get out there. You’ve got to know someone around here that’s got a boat we can use. Let me remind you that your ass is on the line,” he
added.
“I’ve got the only one I know with the size hoist we need to get the bomb in there. All the other salvage boats draw too much water. Besides, anyone else you’d have to hire, and I don’t think you want more folks involved in this.”
They were in Mac’s office. Gillum sat at the desk, scrolling through the recently opened files. He noticed a GPS program had recently updated and clicked on the icon. A list of waypoints displayed in spreadsheet form. Columns showed latitude, longitude, description and date. He hit the ‘date’ button on top of the column and scanned the display as the waypoints were automatically sorted in chronological order. The top date was only two days ago. That had to be the bomb, he thought. He copied the numbers onto a piece of paper and sat up satisfied.
He pulled out his cell phone, went to his contacts, and hit a number. “Sheriff, Captain Jim Gillum here, Commander Naval Air Station Key West.” He threw in all his titles. The conversation went back and forth for a minute as they exchanged pleasantries. They obviously knew each other. Gillum got to the point. “I need a favor. We need a boat. You got a recovery vessel in your fleet?”
“Just a couple of outboards, nothing that big. You’ve got the whole Navy at your back. Why ask me for a boat?”
“I’m in Marathon. There’s a national security issue I’m trying to deal with. I don’t have time to call for a boat up here. It’s either you or the Coast Guard, and I can’t stand the Commandant. Prick wishes he was in the Navy.”
“Has this got something to do with a terrorist threat?”
“No, just a recovery of some old bombs.” He had no reason to lie.
“I’ve got bad news for you. You’re not the only one after a bomb. I just released a guy and we’re following him right now. He’s trying to sell it to a couple of terrorists. Thats a pretty big coincidence here. I’ve lived here all my life and this is the first bomb I ever heard of. Now two at one time - I don’t think so.”
He thought for a minute, ignoring Mac and the crewman staring at him. If she was right and it was the same bomb, this made things interesting. He took his time thinking through how this bomb could affect his career. Adding terrorists to the equation made the job a little harder, but the reward much greater. Gillum pictured himself showing up in Homestead a hero. “What about D.C.?”
“I’ve been in touch with them. Reported it all, just as they tell us to, but no one has called back. They must all be out playing golf, Saturday morning and all.”
“The bomb’s real. I can confirm that. Don’t know about the terrorists, though. First I’ve heard of it. Tell you what, I’m up here with a team and a local that knows where the bomb is. How about teaming up on this?”
“That’ll help me out. The guy I released just stole a boat and is probably heading there now. I don’t have time to put together a team. Where are you?”
“We’re with this guy named Travis, at his place. We were going to use his boat, but it’s gone.”
“I know him. I’ll bet I know who’s got his boat. We better move, there’s bound to be trouble. Meet me across at the 33rd Street boat ramp. I can be there in ten minutes.”
***
“Pack it up boys, we’re moving out. Not you,Travis. You’re done. Sheriff’s going to help us out from here.”
Mac was packing his dive gear. “You can’t find the spot without me.”
Gillum held up the piece of paper with the waypoints. “Negative. Tie him up.” He motioned one of his men toward a chair. “Put him in the chair and bind his hands and feet. Might as well gag him too.”
The crewman drew his gun, motioning Mac toward the chair. He handed the gun to Gillum and duct taped Mac’s hands to each other behind his back and his feet to the chair. Now restrained, he couldn’t resist as the man took a six inch piece off the roll and placed it over his mouth.
“Now, you be good and sit right here. I promise once the bomb is secure, we’ll be back and let you go. Let’s go. Pull down that door so no one sees him.” Gillum had no intention of letting Mac go. Alone in the workshop, he scanned the shelves of the shop area. He noticed a couple of large gas cans. He dumped the contents of one into a large oil pan and set it on the floor below the workbench. A bottle of bleach sat on a shelf nearby. He opened the top, stuck a rag in, and laid the bottle down on the bench so that the rag would drip into the gasoline. The deadly fumes emitted from the mixture would remove Travis from the equation.
Chapter 38
Mac stared at the pan as the bleach slowly dripped into the gas. Smoke was starting to rise off the liquid. He didn’t have much time before the fumes and smoke reached him or the unstable mix exploded, whichever happened first. He started to rock the chair in the direction of the back door. Getting outside was top priority, then he could figure out his next step. The chair tipped, but he recovered as he moved toward the door. It was slow going, but he was making progress. He focused on the door as the smoke slowly filled the space. Sweat dripped into his eyes, adding to the burn from the smoke. The fumes had just started to envelope him when he reached the door. Once outside he sat in the chair gulping air. Several deep breaths later he was ready to get out of the restraints.
He eyed the waist belt PFD he used for paddling, a multi-tool hanging from a carabiner on its belt. It was only a few feet inside. Reluctant to go back in, he looked around but saw no other option. Gas and vapor filled the space now, the wind acting as a fan to keep the fumes in the building. He took several deep breaths, totally emptying his lungs with each effort. He held the last breath and repeated the process of tipping the chair back and forth, walking it forward with each effort. He moved the back of the chair to the belt and grabbed at it with his index fingers. His lungs burned from holding his breath as he rushed to get out of the door. The chair tipped over, dumping him onto the floor. The good air left his lungs upon impact, then he automatically grabbed for air. Fumes filled his lungs. Coughing, he rolled the chair towards the door, trying to get outside and escape the fumes.
He made it and once in the fresh air, his head cleared. The tool had a serrated blade, which made short work of the duct tape. Free from his restraints, he took a deep breath and ran into the house. He righted the bleach bottle, stopping the drip. Out of air, he tried to breathe and gagged, almost throwing up. The mixture had stopped smoking now, but he had no idea how stable it was. He ran back outside to refresh his burning lungs and breathed deeply again. A few deep breaths, the last one held, and he was back inside. He grabbed the pan from the floor and moved as fast as he could without spilling the volatile liquid. Once clear of the building, he poured the contents slowly onto the gravel drive. Better a little gas in the earth than an explosion. The immediate danger over, he planned his next move.
***
He grabbed his BC and regulator. His mask and fins were on the boat, but he quickly found an extra set. Reviewing the mental checklist in his head, he moved toward his office. The gun safe was in the back of the closet, and he removed the pistol and placed it in his waistband. At the desk, he keyed the mike on the VHF radio, already on channel 16. He hailed his boat several times with no response. That didn’t surprise him; if Trufante or Wood had anything to do with this, you could count on the radio being off.
The computer was still on, though, with Mel’s email screen open. He closed the window and clicked an icon on his desktop. Although he wasn’t generally paranoid, a window opening required a password. He entered his and the file opened. All the GPS numbers he had accumulated over the years appeared in a spreadsheet. Several columns of numbers came up, meaningless to anyone not familiar with longitude and latitude. The numbers were listed in ascending order, making it easier for him to place them in his head. Novices needed to plot the numbers either manually on a chart with a lat/lon grid, or by using a computer program. Mac had worked with these numbers for years, though, and visualized the location of each. The third column contained the waypoint number in his GPS.
His cell phone sat on the desk, undisturbed since yeste
rday. He grabbed it, hoping there was enough battery. He was sure Mel would be attached to her phone. He tried to call, but it went to voice mail. His next attempt was through a text message. He texted her the waypoint number and lat/lon coordinates, laboring over the numbers, triple checking that he’d got them right. The last line of the text asked her to meet him there. His lungs still burned with every breath as he made the decision to go after Gillum.
***
Gillum was pacing outside the SUV as the sheriff's truck and trailer pulled up to the ramp. The deputy already on site began directing the busy boat traffic to clear a path as Jules started backing the triple-axle trailer toward the ramp. There was room for half a dozen boats to put in, and despite the wind, all the spaces were occupied, with several boaters impatiently waiting. He stopped a truck that was just about to back in and directed it to move out of the way. The driver shot a look but obeyed. Once clear he motioned for Jules to back into the space.
The SUV dropped back, the trailers wheels submerging in the water. The deputy at the cockpit held up a fist, signaling for her to stop. He checked that the motor was down and fired it up. The 27-foot Contender slipped off the trailer, the deputy guiding it into a space at the adjacent dock. The Navy crewmen quickly loaded the boat and started stowing gear, while the Sheriff got out of the truck.
“Someone better stay on land and coordinate this thing. I’m gonna try and track down the two terrorists here. My deputy will take you.” She turned to the deputy. “Keep me posted. Whatever the Captain says goes.”
The boat moved toward the no wake buoy, turned, and accelerated. The twin 275 hp engines had the boat on plane in a few seconds and it moved out of sight around the corner. She parked and went to the deputy's car, still under the shade tree. Once inside, air conditioning running, she got on the radio and put out a BOLO for the two suspected terrorists. There were too many people involved in this now to play it low key.
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