The Distant Chase

by Cap Daniels

  A voice from the dock rang out, and I peered over the rail to see a man dressed like a copier repairman with a clip-on tie and short-sleeved shirt. He could’ve been Fred’s nerdy little brother.

  “Yes, I’m Chase,” I yelled down.

  “I have a delivery for you. Would you like for me to come up?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Come on up.”

  When he’d made his way awkwardly up the ladder, I pointed to a settee. “What have you brought me?”

  “It’s ketamine,” the man said. “How much does your patient weigh, Mr. Fulton?”

  “He’s about one-ninety,” I said, glancing at Penny for confirmation.

  She nodded.

  “Okay, in that case, ten to twelve milligrams injected in a large muscle will result in unconsciousness in twenty to thirty seconds. A tenth of a milligram per minute IV push will keep him quiet, but more than half a milligram per minute may stop his breathing.”

  I took the black leather bag from the man. “Thank you. Would you care for a cocktail before you go?”

  His eyes darted back and forth between me and the leather bag. “Uh, no, thank you. I fear cocktails with you might not be such a great idea.”

  Penny involuntarily chuckled, and our pharmacist scampered back down the ladder.

  She laughed and pointed at the bag. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to being with a man who can just order up tranquilizers at will and then set about using them on unsuspecting victims.”

  “He’s no victim,” I said. “He’s a pedophile. That means he volunteered for everything I’m going to do to him.”

  “I know,” she said, “but it feels a little vigilante to me.”

  “That’s how it should feel because that’s precisely what it is,” I admitted. “I don’t expect you to be involved if you don’t want to be. There’s a great bed-and-breakfast—”

  She placed her finger against my lips. “Shhh. In for a Penny, in for a pound…of ketamine. I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

  I kissed her. “In that case, let’s go house hunting.”

  “Can we have lunch at Cap’s while we’re out?”

  “Great idea,” I said. “Bring your camera.”

  We hailed a cab on Avenida de Menendez, headed north, and crossed the Usina Bridge onto A1A. The address O’Malley had given us for Salvatore D’Angelo put his house among the lavish beachfront homes lining the eastern side of A1A.

  We watched the numbers on the mailboxes until we were approaching the address.

  “Can you slow down a little?” Penny said. “We’re trying to spot the house our friends are planning to buy.”

  The driver obediently slowed the car.

  “There it is,” I said.

  Penny started snapping pictures and then sat back in her seat. “Thank you. That was it.”

  “Sure. No problem, ma’am.”

  We pulled into the parking lot of Cap’s on the Water, my favorite waterfront restaurant in St. Augustine, and possibly my favorite in the world. Lunch was perfect with only one minor exception—there were no pear ravioli.

  Back at the marina, I stopped by to see one of my favorite people, Earl from the end.

  “Hey there, Stud Muffin. I see Little Miss Hottie-Pants is still hanging on your arm.”

  “Hey, Sexy Momma,” I said. “She knows I can’t be trusted alone with you.”

  Earline laughed. “Piffle! Who could be trusted with all this sexy in one place?”

  Earl from the End was actually Earline, a sixty-something woman who looked more like a weeble—as in weebles wobble, but they don’t fall down—than a real person. She was about five feet tall and two hundred pounds, but she was the best diesel mechanic I’d ever met.

  “I need a boat, Earl.”

  “You’ve already got a boat, baby boy.”

  “Yeah, but I need a rigid hull inflatable boat to use as a dinghy. Do you know anyone who might have one for sale?”

  “Yeah, as a matter of fact, I do. There’s a sixteen-footer with a seventy horsepower Yamaha for sale, and I know the motor inside and out. I went through it and changed the impeller and fuel pump. It’s in great shape. I think the guy wants seventy-five hundred for it, but you could probably get it for closer to six if you haggle with him a little.”

  “I’ll make a deal with you, Earl,” I said. “I’ll give you seven grand, and you go get that RHIB for me. You can keep the difference between the seven thousand and whatever price you can haggle. Deal?”

  “You’ve got a deal, Stud Muffin. But there’s one little caveat.”

  “What’s that?” I asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.

  “I get a hug and a kiss, too,” she growled.

  I turned to Penny for permission.

  She said, “Fine, but no tongue. And keep your hands off his butt.”

  Earl didn’t hear a word after “fine.” I was both tongued and groped, but she showed up two hours later in my new boat. It looked practically brand-new.

  I lowered my dinghy from the davits and tied the painter line to Aegis’s stern cleat. The new RHIB was significantly heavier than my previous dinghy, but the electric davit winches made short work of hauling her out of the water.

  “Hey, Earl,” I said. “See if you can find someone who needs my old dinghy. There’s nothing wrong with it. I’ve just recently fallen in love with the rigid hull design. You can keep half of whatever you sell it for.”

  Earl eyed the dinghy and bit at her lip hesitantly.

  “What is it?” I asked. It was rare to see Earl uncomfortable.

  “It’s just that I could really use that dinghy. Mine has more patches than original tubes. But I can’t afford it, even at half price.”

  Penny jumped in. “Give her the boat, Chase. Surely she deserves it after that dose of lovin’ she gave you.”

  “No!” demanded Earl. “I ain’t no charity case.”

  “No way,” I said. “Those supermodel looks of yours don’t work on me, Earl, but you know I can’t resist those greasy fingernails.”

  Both Penny and Earl glared at me as if I were speaking in tongues.

  I said, “I’ll trade you the boat for twenty-five hours of mechanic work. How’s that sound?”

  Once again, I was tongued and groped, and Earl led her new dinghy away by its painter.

  Penny laughed. “That’s one strange woman.”

  “She’s a jewel, and she’s one hell of a mechanic.”

  Penny stared at Earl’s old boat. “What’s her story? Where’d she learn to work on engines?”

  “I have no idea,” I admitted. “I don’t know anything about her other than she’s a genius on diesels and absolutely insane.”

  “I definitely agree with the insane diagnosis. That was sweet of you to barter with her for the dinghy.”

  “She’s been good to me. I would’ve given it to her if I thought she would’ve let me, but I knew she’d pitch a fit if I tried.”

  “You’re a good man, Mr. Fulton.”

  I smiled. “How do you feel about a dinghy ride, Ms. Thomas?”

  “I’d love that,” she said. “Are we doing a little recon mission, as you and Clark would call it?”

  “We are.” I was pleased she was catching on.

  We lowered my new RHIB back into the water and Penny jumped behind the wheel.

  “Hey, Earl got to grab your butt and stick her tongue down your throat, so the least you can do is let me drive the new dinghy first.”

  I offered no argument and settled into the passenger seat. We motored from the marina at idle speed, abiding by the no-wake policy, but when we were clear of the marina, Penny wasted no time. She shoved the throttle to the stop, and the Yamaha engine purred, quickly lifting the boat out of the water and accelerating to fifty knots. Penny handled the RHIB just as expertly as she sailed Aegis. I was running out of reasons to believe she wasn’t perfect.

  I wonder if she can shoot.

  We turned east just south of the Usina B
ridge and headed through the pass into the Atlantic. The tide was coming in, and the wind was from the west, so the pass was a little rough, but that didn’t seem to faze Penny. She kept us at the perfect speed to stay on top of the chop, and I was impressed.

  Turning north, we ran parallel to the beach until Sal’s house came into sight. Penny slowed in front of the house about a quarter mile offshore.

  “What’s the depth?” I asked.

  She checked the small LED screen. “Eighteen feet.”

  “That’s perfect. Set a waypoint in the GPS, and head for the beach.”

  She did as I instructed, and we let the waves carry us toward the beach with just enough power from the engine to maintain steerage, and I watched the depth gauge count down. The bottom sloped gently and consistently toward the beach.

  “Keep taking us in until we’re in four feet of water, and then turn back to the north,” I said.

  She followed instructions and added power as we turned. “What now?”

  “There are two vacant lots side by side about a mile up the beach. Let’s practice a beaching up there.”

  “That sounds like fun!”

  She quickly had us doing forty knots. We found the vacant lots, and she turned to me for directions.

  “Hit the beach between seven and ten knots. Keep the engine running, but trim it up as far as you can to keep it out of the sand, and still have it in the water.”

  We hit the sand a little faster than I liked, but I leapt from the bow just before the boat stopped. I stumbled the first three strides, trying to compensate for the additional speed we’d carried into the beach, but I soon found my pace and ran to the dunes. I turned back to see Penny holding the boat almost motionless in the surf. I liked my new getaway driver.

  I ran back for the boat at a sprint and jumped aboard, simultaneously shoving the bow around and into the surf. Penny added power and lowered the motor as we picked up speed. In less than ten seconds after I’d leapt aboard, we were cutting across the tops of the waves and approaching thirty knots.

  “Let’s do it again,” I yelled over the noise of the wind, waves, and outboard engine.

  We practiced our drill three more times until our timing and execution were perfect.

  “This is going to be fun,” she said after the final attempt.

  “Yes, it is,” I agreed, “but we’ll have some added dead weight next time. The boat won’t accelerate as quickly, and the bow will submarine if we hit the surf before I can get him to the center of the boat.”

  “I think we can manage.”

  I kissed her forehead. “I’m starting to believe there isn’t much we can’t handle together, but it’s my turn to drive my new boat.”

  Chapter 5

  The Real Thing

  “Clark doesn’t know you’re doing this, does he?” With hands on hips, Penny watched me pore over the chart plotter.

  “No, but this doesn’t have anything to do with him. I got myself into this one, and you volunteered.”

  She frowned. “But he’s your partner. And what if something goes wrong? Don’t you think he needs to know what’s going on?”

  I sighed. “I’ve been thinking about that, and you’re right, but I don’t want to listen to his sermon on how wrong I am for getting involved.”

  “What if he did something like this without telling you?”

  I smiled, thankful to have Penny as my anchor to sanity, and pulled out my phone and dialed Clark.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Listen, I need to tell you what’s going on, and I know what you’re going to say, but please just listen, okay?”

  “I knew it,” Clark said. “You’re going after the guy who accosted the nun, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah, I am.”

  “I knew you would. Do you want my help?”

  That wasn’t the reaction I’d expected, and I immediately felt bad for thinking he was going to berate me with a speech on how stupid it would be to go after Salvatore.

  “No, we’re going to grab him off the beach at daybreak and run out into the Gulf Stream to get his attention.”

  “Sounds like fun, but who is we?”

  “Penny’s going to drive the boat, and I’ll handle the rest.”

  “I can be there in three hours.”

  “Thanks, but we’ll be fine. It’s just a simple snatch-and-scare.”

  “Nothing is simple,” he said. “Keep me posted, and let me know you’re all right. When’s this going down?”

  “In about eleven hours.”

  He sighed. “Okay. Just call me before and after, will you?”

  “Done,” I said, and hung up.

  Penny wound her arms around my neck and settled gently onto my lap. “See, that wasn’t so hard, now was it?”

  I kissed her. “I’d really like for you to stop being right all the time.”

  She smirked. “That’s probably not going to happen. Now pour us some wine, and let’s eat. The mahi-mahi is perfect, and the grilled vegetables are going to melt in your mouth.”

  * * *

  I expected to toss and turn, but sleep came quickly. At ten ’til five a.m., we motored out of the Municipal Marina and under the Bridge of Lions. Making the turn into the pass that would take us into the Atlantic, I was pleased to see the surf was light, and a gentle breeze caressed the coast from the southwest. That meant the Gulf Stream would be calm. When the wind blows from the north, the four-knot flow of the Gulf Stream from the southwest churns into a torrent of violent seas that no mariner wants to battle.

  About a quarter mile offshore from Salvatore D’Angelo’s beach house, we anchored Aegis at the coordinates we’d saved the day before and dropped the RHIB into the water just as the sun was peeking over the horizon. Penny and I scanned the beach with our binoculars, and I was pleased to see it almost empty. I didn’t want or need witnesses to what we were about to do. Kidnapping, after all, is a federal crime, and I suspected kidnapping and then leaving the country was even worse.

  “Got him!” she said, pointing toward the beach. “Right there, running south.”

  I trained my binoculars on the spot. “Yep! That’s him. Let’s go.”

  We climbed into the RHIB and headed for the beach. I had prepared two syringes with adequate doses of ketamine to guarantee Sal would gladly accept my invitation to go sailing.

  “If a dozen bullets will do, take two dozen,” had been the philosophy of every instructor at The Ranch; thus, the two syringes.

  Penny angled our boat to the north so we could turn and approach Sal from behind, and I took my position in the bow.

  The engine RPMs decreased, and the tilt motor whirred, raising the foot of the outboard engine away from the sandy bottom as the beach grew ever closer. Sal never turned to see us approaching, and finally, Penny passed him and turned immediately for the shore. I felt the hull brush the sand, and I leapt from the bow just as we’d practiced.

  I judged the speed perfectly as my boots hit the wet sand, and two strides later, I planted my shoulder solidly in the center of Salvatore D’Angelo’s chest. A breath left his body as he collided with the hard-packed sand and my weight came to a crashing stop on top of him. Wasting no time, I sank the needle into his thigh and forced the plunger home. As he gasped to regain the breath I’d shouldered from his lungs, a look of recognition came across his face. “You . . .” Then his eyelids resembled wet dishrags, and the muscles of his clenched jaw relaxed.

  I pressed two fingers to the side of his neck, making sure I hadn’t killed him, and felt a steady but weak pulse. I capped and pocketed the syringe and then hefted Sal over my shoulder. Accelerating through lengthening strides, I sprinted for the bow of the boat. I saw Penny’s hand ease the throttle into reverse just as my foot left the ground.

  Jumping into the boat the previous day without an unconscious man on my shoulder had been a piece of cake, but practice doesn’t always make perfect. The timing we’d worked out dictated that Penny would start adding power
the instant I leapt, resulting in the movement of the boat simultaneously with my landing in the bow. But my leap was weak, and her hand was quick.

  Instead of landing in the bow and letting Sal’s body tumble forward into the center of the boat, I landed on the bow with my head and shoulders barely inside and my boots dragging in the surf. The weight of Sal’s body over my shoulder sent my head crashing to the deck.

  The extra weight on the bow made the small RHIB ungainly, even in the light surf. I kicked at the water, trying to find purchase so I could thrust our bodies completely into the boat, but there was nothing solid to be found. We hit the first small wave with the bow still burdened under the extra weight, and took a wall of salt water into the boat. Realizing that either Sal or I was going into the water, I decided to let it be me. I shoved at his dead weight with all of my strength, getting as much of him inside the boat as possible while I slid off the bow.

  I’d expected to be in ten feet of water, but my expectation wasn’t even close. Instead of sinking, I landed on my knees with a thud and my chin barely above the surface. Fearing Penny might run over me and chop me into fish food with the propeller as I’d done to Suslik—the Russian assassin in Havana—I looked up to gauge the position of the RHIB. To my surprise, Penny was kneeling beside the console with her right arm extended over the starboard tube in a perfect hook. I locked arms with her, and the forward motion lifted me from the water and deposited me like a sandbag on the deck of the RHIB.

  I spat out a mouthful of salt water and caught my breath. “Where did you learn to do that?”

  She shoved the throttle to the stops. “I watch a lot of movies, and that’s how the Navy SEALs always do it.”

  Our guest was sleeping soundly on the deck, and we were on our way back to my beloved Aegis. The snatch portion of the operation hadn’t gone as we’d planned and practiced, but phase one had worked.

  Penny brought us astern of Aegis, alongside the boarding stairs, and I tied us off. She climbed aboard first, and I hefted Sal out of the RHIB. We dragged him through the cockpit and into the main salon where we’d hung an IV bag and built a nice, comfortable nest for our passenger. Penny disappeared back into the cockpit while I started the IV that would keep Sal in the clouds for a few hours while we put some distance between ourselves and the east coast of Florida.