“I ain’t gonna make it, son,” the old man croaked.
“Sure ya will,” I said, opening the first-aid kit. “You Conchs are too ornery to die.”
The kit was supplied with the items a fisherman might need to remove a fish hook from his finger. I pulled out a roll of gauze and tape, and stripped off some of each. Wadding the gauze, I pressed it over the bullet wound. It was saturated and leaking before I could put the tape in place.
“No, son,” Montrose said softly. “I ain’t. And that’s okay. You know who I am?”
I pressed my hand to the wound, trying to stop the blood flow by will alone. I looked around quickly. Another boat was coming to help. I waved my free arm at them in a distress sign, then looked back down at the old man.
“You’re a Soldier,” I replied, my hand pressed firmly to his chest to keep the life-blood in his body.
Montrose looked at my forearm, staring at my Force Recon tattoo.
“Where’d ya serve?” he asked.
“Lebanon, Panama, Kuwait, and Somalia,” I replied, “You?”
Looking at the amount of blood sloshing around on the deck, I realized that he was right. He was losing blood too fast. The bullet must have nicked one of the main arteries to the heart. He was dying, and I was helpless to stop it. All I could do was try to make him comfortable. I’d noticed a half-full bottle in the console with the first-aid kit, and now I reached back to grab it.
“I jumped into Sicily,” he replied, wheezing. “Under General Ridgeway. Then we went on to Anzio.”
As happens so often when old warriors meet, we formed an instant bond, a tether that bound us through blood and sweat. Though separated not just by decades, but by generations, we were brothers.
Holding the bottle up in front of him, I saw his eyes light up. He cackled a little, then coughed up some blood. His eyes sparkled as though he were in on his own joke. “Have a drink with an old soldier, there, Gyrene?”
I pulled the cork from the bottle with my teeth, spat it on the deck and held the bottle to his lips. He drank slowly, enjoying the burn of the rum. We both knew it would be his last taste.
As I tilted the bottle to my own lips, he said in a quiet, halting voice, as if already recounting his life to Saint Peter, “I survived the Great Depression, son. Lived through the Labor Day Hurricane of thirty-five, the war, and some dumbass punk sticking a knife in me, thinking letter carriers had cash on ’em. Only to get killed in my own damned boat.”
“Anything I can do for you?” I asked.
“Tell my granddaughter, Denny, that everything’s hers. She don’t have to come back down here to look after me when I get old, and she don’t have to keep the house. Tell her she can sell it and spend it, whatever she wants. She’s my only kin. Will you tell her that?”
“Yeah,” I said, fighting back tears. “I’ll tell her.”
This old man had fought and worked all his life, only to die alone with a stranger, and only one person in the world that he could call family.
He coughed blood again, foamy and pink around his mouth, as he looked up at a battery of clouds, burnished by the sun now setting beyond the gap in the old bridge. Staring the angel of death in the face one more time, he began to quietly sing the refrain of Blood on The Risers in a cracked and wheezing voice.
Gory, gory, what a helluva way to die.
Gory, gory, what a helluva way to die.
Gory, gory, what a helluva way to die.
I ain’t gonna jump no more.
The old man coughed once more, and as I held my hand firmly against his chest I felt the pulsing pressure slow and then stop, as his last breath rattled from his lungs. Those clear blue eyes turned dull and lifeless, as the other boat bumped us. I heard voices shouting.
“Semper Fi, Mac,” I whispered softly, gently closing the fallen hero’s eyes.
Kevin Montrose’s funeral was held three days later, on a Tuesday. His wish was to be cremated and his ashes released in his beloved back country.
Devon went with me. There were few in attendance, mostly very old and seeming to count the days until it was their turn. The funeral was held outside, in Kevin’s own backyard. I’d learned that sixty years ago he’d cleared the land and built the house himself. His old boat had been pulled up onto a trailer, and at the helm was the urn with his ashes and a folded American flag. Devon and I sat in the back, both of us wearing ball caps to shade our faces from the bright sunlight.
“That must be the granddaughter,” Devon whispered, nodding toward the back door of the house. A priest in a robe with a sash across his shoulders led a young woman to the front of the small gathering, where she sat down.
Even from twenty feet behind her, I could see that she was crying, her shoulders quaking. The preacher walked over to Kevin’s boat and cleared his throat. He looked to be nearly as old as Kevin, probably in his late seventies. He had a full head of thick white hair and walked with a cane, favoring his right leg. When everyone quieted, he began the eulogy.
“I’ve known Kevin Montrose probably longer than anyone here,” he said. “Knew him before he got married, knew both his sons, and even married the one. I was there when his granddaughter Denise was born. She’s here with us today.
“Kevin and I jumped into Sicily together in forty-three. I didn’t know him then; we met for the first time when we landed on the beaches of Anzio, almost nine months later. It was in Anzio that I got this.” He rapped the side of his leg with the cane, creating a hollow metallic ring.
“First time I met Kevin was when he picked most of me up and carried me to the rear on his shoulder. I saw him again an hour later and was able to thank him, when he carried another man back to the rear. We shared a smoke and learned that we were both from the Keys, so we exchanged information to stay in touch once we got back home.
“Kevin was an honest, hard-working man, who never asked for anything nor took a handout. He’d give you the shirt right off his back, if he knew you needed it. I’ve seen him do it. The world’s gotten a lot poorer in the last few days, with one less man of Kevin’s caliber in it. I’m gonna turn things over to the Army now. These soldiers flew all the way down here from Fort Bragg to bid farewell to our brother.”
The preacher turned and placed one hand on the urn, then whispered softly, “Airborne leads the way.”
From the long driveway, beside the house, I heard the familiar sound of marching feet. A detail of seven riflemen appeared, all of them NCOs. They were led by a crusty-looking sergeant major, with a chest full of decorations and too many service stripes on his sleeves to count. All of them wore the maroon beret and shoulder patch of the 82nd Airborne Division.
Marching alongside the detail was a bugler, who wore sergeant’s stripes, and a full-bird colonel. This got my attention. Just who the hell was Kevin Montrose?
The Colonel stepped up to the front of the group assembled in the yard and cleared his throat to speak. From a pocket inside his uniform blouse, he removed a folded sheet of paper.
“I will now read the Silver Star citation awarded to Staff Sergeant Kevin Montrose.
“The President of the United States takes pleasure in presenting the Silver Star Medal to Kevin Lewis Montrose, Staff Sergeant, United States Army, for gallantry in action against the enemy while serving with Company H, Third Battalion, Five-Hundred-Fourth Parachute Regiment, Eighty-Second Airborne Division, in Anzio, Italy on four March nineteen-forty-four. Throughout the entire battle, Staff Sergeant Montrose’s outstanding leadership and heroic devotion to duty was an inspiration to all who witnessed it. When several infantrymen were injured by artillery explosions, he went in search of aid. He provided the medical personnel covering fire. He personally aided in the evacuation of the wounded. He charged the enemy, attacking relentlessly. He moved his men strategically to counter every push by the enemy. His actions are in keeping with the highest traditions of the Armed Forces of the United States.”
Refolding the paper, the colonel put it back into hi
s uniform pocket. Reaching into the boat, he reverently picked up the folded flag and, clutching it to his chest, strode toward Kevin’s granddaughter, where he knelt and presented it to her. He spoke quietly to her for more than a minute, much longer than the standard “On behalf of the president and a grateful nation” speech, which I had given way too many times.
The colonel straightened, turned, and marched off to the side, away from the rifle squad. On the first command from the sergeant major, Devon and I both stood and rendered a salute, as the riflemen snapped off three quick volleys, the noise sounding as if it were one rifle instead of seven. The bugler blew that forlorn melody that always causes a lump in my throat.
When it was over, Devon and I walked up to the front to pay our respects. I introduced Devon and myself to Kevin’s granddaughter. She was about Kim’s age, maybe a year or two older.
“You’re the one that was with Gramps when he passed?” Denise Montrose asked. Her eyes were red and puffy.
“Yeah, I was there with him,” I replied. “He told me it was okay; he was ready to go be with your grandmother. He also gave me a message to give to you.”
“Did he suffer?”
“Not for long,” I replied honestly. “But he met what was coming like a true warrior. Never complained once. He told me to tell you that everything was yours and you don’t have to come back here if you don’t want to.”
She sniffed, and a tear streaked down her face. “I always hated these islands. I couldn’t wait until I was old enough to leave.”
“He said for you to sell everything and spend it how you want, if that’s what you wanted to do,” I hesitated a moment.
She must have sensed there was more, and asked me to continue.
“I didn’t know your grandfather. I’d seen his boat around a few times and we probably bumped elbows in a bar a time or two. But in his last minutes, I could tell that he felt a great deal of love for you. It wasn’t so much what he said, but the glint in his eyes when he said it. He was very proud of you.”
“Thanks,” she said, sniffing. “I never really realized how much I owed him. He was always a strict man, always pushing me to try harder. When I went off to college up in Gainesville, I was told to expect it to be very difficult, but it wasn’t. Thanks to his pushing me.”
“My daughter goes to UF,” I said.
“Is her name Kim? I recognized your last name.”
“You know her?”
“We had some classes together,” she said. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to locate a boat to take Gramps’s ashes out to the back country.”
“Why not use his?”
“I don’t know if I could find my way back,” she replied.
“I’ve got a boat,” I offered without thinking. “And I live in the back country.”
“You’d do that?”
“It’d be an honor,” I replied. “Tomorrow?”
“I have to get back to school. But I’ll be back the weekend after next. Can you do it then? I’ll be happy to pay.”
“Kim will be back home that weekend, too,” I said. “We’ll do it on Saturday.”
Getting the Hopper back to the Anchor, and Billy back home, was delayed a few days. Billy expedited the release of Lawrence’s cash savings from police evidence and I convinced him to keep it in a bank. “If for no other reason,” I told him, “than the next time you’re wrongly accused, it won’t end up in police evidence.”
Billy didn’t have any problem staying over a few more days. It made me wonder if there was trouble at home with his wife. I decided that he’d tell me if he wanted me to know, and if he didn’t then it was none of my business. Billy’s now on retainer to Deuce’s new company for legal advice and other things that might suit his talents. He left me his old Noserider, which I’ve decided to name Fidelis Bellator, or Faithful Warrior. Maybe I’ll take the Revenge up the coast in search of the perfect wave. Or use the Noserider for a coffee table.
Over the following week, I learned that Delgado, the cocaine kingpin of Monroe County, had been charged with trafficking and being complicit to kidnap, rape, and assault, among a bunch of lesser charges. The DA was confident that he’d win, and the minimum mandatory sentence for trafficking cocaine was life in prison. At Delgado’s age, that wouldn’t be very long.
The shootout that took place at the pier, while Kevin lay dying beside me on the deck of his boat, left Duke Rafferty injured. He survived, but he’d been hit twice in the melee and one of the bullets nicked his spinal cord, leaving him paralyzed from the chest down. Even though he was unable to move his legs, it still took all three men to take him into custody. He’d ranted and screamed, wanting to know why he was being arrested. He said he was only doing what his brother told him to do. By the time they loaded him into the ambulance, he was blubbering like a baby.
I’d asked Travis why he hadn’t put a bullet in his head, and he’d told me there were just too many people watching, but he had a better plan anyway. It was uncovered that Duke was abusing steroids, which was pretty obvious based on his size and insane activities.
Duke was later convicted of the three murders; though permanently paralyzed, he was put in with the general population up in Raiford. A rumor quickly spread among the inmates that he’d sexually abused children. Travis said he had nothing to do with either event.
The Cigarette was demolished. The one engine had thrown a rod and was of little more use than a mooring anchor. I’d had the boat removed from the rocks and taken to a boatyard on Stock Island, where it was stripped of the one good engine, the transmissions, and anything useful. I told the yard owner to sell the engine and anything else to cover the recovery. If there was anything left over, I told him to donate it to Kevin’s granddaughter. He said he would, that another marina owner had already started a GoFundMe to help her. I had Chyrel explain to me what that was, and then anonymously donated enough to get her through at least a year.
The Friday after Kevin’s funeral, I met with Deuce and the other members of his new security company. I’d already spoken to my son-in-law, and he and his father readily agreed to help. I told Deuce straight up what I wanted to do. If I was going to foot the bill, it would be with the stipulation that we take occasional pro bono cases for folks who couldn’t otherwise afford security or a private investigator, people like Kevin and Denise. We’d also help people who were swindled, to get back what was rightfully theirs.
Andrew grinned, if you could call it that. His mouth is usually hidden behind his bushy mustache. “You mean like Travis McGee?”
“Except we don’t keep half,” I replied, grinning also.
Everyone agreed.
Lawrence told me that he was desperate to tell the detectives something useful, but he’d made so many mistakes he didn’t know where to start. Leaving his cash box in the car was bad enough, but leaving the gun and his handheld GPS in the box was worse. All the locations he’d searched were on the GPS, along with the spot where James and Jennifer had been killed. So he couldn’t even tell them where to look for the evidence that might have convicted him.
Over the next week, we brought our resources to bear on finding Vince and Lawrence’s missing plane. It didn’t take long. We put things together, comparing the stories from the two old guys, Rusty’s knowledge of the water, and researching the type of plane and how far it might have glided. We soon came up with a pretty good idea of where to search. Lawrence had been close; James and Jenny hadn’t been far from it. The twin-engine Cessna was in sixty feet of water, about a thousand feet north and slightly east of where they’d been looking. It was heavily encrusted with coral, and sand covered most of both wings. It was also completely empty. So, the mystery of the casino heist is still a mystery.
For now.
Devon and I met for dinner in Key West the Friday before Kevin’s daughter and Kim came back down. This time, she did invite me in. And she lived up to her promise of turning me inside out—but I never begged for mercy. The following day, she came b
ack to the island and stayed with Carl and Charlie while Kim and I took Denise out on Raccoon Flats to spread her grandfather’s ashes.
I wish I’d taken the time to get to know that old man. He lived a simple life and worked hard. His sons learned by his example that serving others was an honor, whether it was on the beach at Anzio, the jungles of Vietnam, or delivering the mail in a tropical storm.
There had been more than a few whispers at the funeral from people who’d never known about his Army service. I found this typical of most men who fought in that war.
For that one day, on the beaches of Anzio, Kevin Montrose rose above his humble beginnings. And because of his actions that day, many men lived who might have perished. Many of those men went on to have children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, some of whom might never have been born were it not for that one man on that one day. One man, who was a hero when a hero was needed, who then returned home to a humble life, never to speak to anyone of the horrors he’d seen.
Yeah, a lot like Pap.
A lot like many of the men of The Greatest Generation.
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The Charity Styles Caribbean Thriller Series
Merciless Charity
Ruthless Charity
Heartless Charity (Winter, 2017)
The Jesse McDermitt Caribbean Adventure Series
Fallen Out
Fallen Palm
Fallen Hunter
Fallen Pride
Fallen Mangrove
Fallen King
Fallen Honor
Fallen Tide
Fallen Angel
Fallen Hero
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Fallen Hero: A Jesse McDermitt Novel (Caribbean Adventure Series Book 10) Page 29