Sunrise was hours away.
Jake Braddock handled the Infidel with practiced efficiency; cruising along at thirty knots, his sleek vessel skimmed across the surface. Overhead, the sun beamed down across the azure waters of the Atlantic, a sea of blue that seemed to go on forever. To his left, his tense-looking young deputy sat lost in thought, his youthful eyes squinting as he focused on the horizon.
Suddenly, something white and viscous plummeted toward them, splattering against the crown of Chris’s head. The teenager recoiled in surprise, reaching up and running one hand through his hair. It came back covered with coagulated seagull excrement. He smelled it and made a face, cursing and shaking his fist angrily at the hovering flock of birds that pursued them. He leaned over the side, soaked a clean rag in seawater, and then settled down, a dejected look on his face as he scraped and scrubbed at his soiled locks.
Jake turned away, clamping his jaw tightly to keep from laughing. He blew out an exhale, trying to focus on anything but his deputy.
He thought about the time one of the local dockworkers asked him if Chris Meyers was his adopted son. He shook his head and grinned. In many ways, and despite all his faults, the kid did, indeed, remind him of himself, albeit ten years earlier. Except Jake wasn’t a klutz with an annoying tendency of falling overboard, he was consistently punctual, and he didn’t have the self-destructive habit of dating the most manipulative women imaginable.
Jake glanced good-naturedly back at Chris. He’d finished cleaning himself up and was leaning back, his wet hair pressed down against his head and his lips tightly pursed. He interlocked his hands; the sound of him cracking his knuckles was audible even over the roar of the outboard.
“You really need to stop doing that, Chris,” Jake advised. “You’re going to give yourself arthritis, long before your time.”
“I know boss, you’ve told me a hundred times. But with all due respect – and please don’t take this the wrong way – I’m not sure I should be taking medical advice from someone whose mitts look like yours.”
His face an unreadable mask, Jake kept hold of the steering wheel with his right hand. He raised his left to the light and studied it. The skin was hard and quite calloused, particularly the knuckles, fingertips, and the blade edge of the palm. “Hardcore MMA isn’t for everyone, kid. But it keeps you in shape. And, sometimes it helps with the job.”
“Either way, looks pretty scary to me,” Chris said, turning back to gaze into the low-lying swells that rocketed towards them.
Jake’s attention shifted from the palm of his hand to the scuffed-up white gold band he wore on his ring finger. He absentmindedly rubbed the ring with a circular motion using the tip of his thumb. Sighing, he reached over and raised the volume on their marine radio, tuning it to a local station.
. . .with tonight’s low a balmy, eighty one degrees.
In international news, the official report from the Cuban government states that last week’s unexpected volcanic eruption of Diablo Caldera, a thought-to-be-extinct volcano some nine miles off the coast of Cuba, was caused by an undersea earthquake that measured 6.8 on the Richter scale. The eight mile-wide caldera broke apart and crumbled into the sea, wiping out thousands of fish, birds and marine mammals. Fears of a deadly tsunami resulting from the geothermal event were, fortunately, unfounded. As devastating as the eruption was, local marine biologists have stated that, in the long run, the resultant debris and lava released from the collapse of the bowl-shaped formation would serve to form the core of new reef systems which would one day become the home for countless fish and other assorted marine life.
The report also stated that, due to the maze of deadly reefs surrounding the volcano, the island has been classified off limits by the Cuban Department of Science for decades. Other than a portion of the region’s abundant sea lion population, there was no known loss of life . . .
Jake reached over and clicked off the radio.
“Okay, enough depressing news. Almost there, kid,” he said, nodding toward the bow. “What do you say we–”
His words were drowned out by the rotors of a large helicopter as it sped directly overhead. Distracted for a moment, Jake pulled back on the throttle as they began to cruise into Paradise Cove.
Soon, the familiar vastness of Harcourt Marina began to spread out before them, its maze of docks splaying forth like the arms of a gigantic octopus. The marina consisted of hundreds of slips that housed almost every type of boat imaginable, from well known deep sea charters to the dreaded Sea Tow.
Renamed in recent years, the antique harbor had been the South’s answer to Nantucket for decades, and was the economic hub of the tiny coastal town known as Paradise Cove. With Florida’s east coast winters as mild as they were, the place saw action year round. It was mid-June now, and the summer’s fishing and tourist season was in full swing.
Jake checked his watch. It was 9 a.m. and still fairly quiet. By noon, both the marina and the restaurants and shops that catered to it would be a veritable anthill of activity, crammed with the assorted whale watchers, charter fishermen, divers and weekend romantics whose tourist dollars were the lifeblood of the town. Despite its relatively small size, Paradise Cove was a goldmine.
“So, boss, what’s on our agenda for today?” Chris opened up.
“Let’s find out,” Jake said, trying to sound more energetic than he felt. He flipped open a small notepad he kept in his left shirt pocket. “Let’s see . . . we’ve got a complaint from Ben Stillman that someone’s been raiding his lobster traps again. Steve Barter at the ski shop is claiming that kids have been sneaking into his slip after dark and taking his rental Jet Skis out for late night jaunts, and the captain of Deep Trouble has reported some of their scuba gear’s been stolen . . .” Jake frowned. “We’ll stop in the marina first,” he said, shaking his head. “You get us gassed up while I go talk to Steve Barter. Then we’ll pull up next to Deep Trouble and see about their missing gear.” He drew a deep breath, letting it out slow before he continued. “We can check out Ben Stillman’s trap problem during our afternoon patrol sweep.”
“Sounds like a plan, boss,” Chris said with a thumbs up.
As he guided the Infidel into the main docking area, Jake studied the fleet of boats, lined up like soldiers at attention. He spotted a few newcomers here and there, noting their names as he went. Even when he was at his absolute worst, and he’d had some bad days over the last three years, he never got tired of reading the names of some of the vessels he watched over, or laughing at the ingenious language use their owners managed to come up with.
The boats of Harcourt Marina ranged in size from tiny pleasure crafts like the nineteen-foot Bluegill King and the Angry Badger – a Boston Whaler the owner named after his ex-wife – to huge fifty-five and sixty-foot deep sea fishing yachts like the Conquers All and the Marlin Brando, the latter’s primary target species being apparent.
Jake’s personal favorite was docked just off their port side. The Grisly Bare, a forty-foot Bertram, had an owner with a flagrantly antisocial sense of humor. A chubby stockbroker who bore a striking resemblance to a certain portly porno star, he never seemed to tire of treating other boaters to the sight of his furry self, lounging around on his boat nearly naked, clad only in a brightly colored thong. Today it was metallic fuchsia.
Averting his eyes and shuddering at the sight, the amused lawman chuckled as he piloted the Infidel up to the gas dock and tied her off.
“Hey boss, check it out!” Chris exclaimed suddenly, tapping Jake on the shoulder and pointing to a gray-colored ship docked just outside the inlet. “She’s the Harbinger,” the excited deputy read aloud, peering through their binoculars. “Wow, for these parts, that thing is huge! Say, what kind of boat is that?”
“I’m not sure, Chris,” Jake took the binoculars and studied the two-hundred foot craft with interest. “I saw her earlier, before we left the auxiliary dock. She looks like a whale killer, actually,” he remarked dryly, as he focused on wha
t appeared to be a harpoon cannon attached to the ship’s menacing looking forecastle. “Which is next to impossible; whaling’s been outlawed here for ages.”
“Maybe she’s Russian. I read online that they still hunt whales, and the Japanese do, too. Do you think she’s after our blues?”
“I certainly hope not.” Jake continued to eye the vessel. He turned to his deputy, reached for his wallet and handed him a debit card. “Here, Chris, why don’t you stay here and get us fueled up? Have Sal look over the outboard, and see what’s causing the problem. I’m going to go check out our mysterious visitor.”
“Uh, sure thing, boss.”
Jake stepped over the Infidel’s gunwales and onto the wooden dock. He checked the snap on his holster and then turned to go.
“Hey, Jake?”
“Yeah?”
Chris glanced nervously at the imposing form of the Harbinger. “Be careful.”
Jake gave him a reassuring grin, one thumb hooked in his gun belt, “Always am, kid.”
“Hmm, quaint little town,” Amara Takagi said, gathering her long hair and tying it back as she made her way gingerly down the Harbinger’s wooden gangplank. She removed her sunglasses, placing them on her head as she took in the marina as a whole.
“Wow, this is a pretty serious pier they’ve got here,” Amara said to Joe Calabrese. Turning her head from sea to shore, she took in the full length and breadth of the grayish concrete and steel construction they stood upon. It had a strong smell, a pungent mixture of sea salt and bird droppings, that invaded one’s nostrils. “It looks very old.” She gestured at the rusting wrought iron streetlamps that dotted its three hundred-foot length. “I wonder how far back it dates?”
“To the late-1800s, actually,” a voice announced, causing the two of them to jump.
“Whoa, take it easy sneaking up on people, buddy,” Joe said, his stocky frame wheeling in the direction of the newcomer.
“Sorry about that.” A surprisingly pale, ferret-faced man with thinning hair walked over to them. He extended a cadaverous hand. “The pier was originally built to accommodate old steamers, back in the days when Paradise Cove was little more than a shanty town, and coal was worth more than crude oil is today. I’m Stanley Berkowitz. I manage the marina for Mr. Harcourt. I believe we spoke on the radio a little while ago. Ms. Takagi, isn’t it?”
“Yes, we did . . .” Amara paused in mid-sentence as she noticed his eyes ogling her. Hers narrowed. “Ah, you’re Mr. Harcourt’s bill collector.”
“If you would prefer to see it that way, Ms. Takagi,” Stanley said, averting his gaze and shifting his weight nervously back and forth now.
“That’s Doctor Takagi, actually,” Amara remarked. She looked him up and down in turn. At five-foot-ten, she was taller than he was. “This is my chief engineer, Joe Calabrese.” She turned her attention away from the man and back toward the nearby wharf and its assorted buildings.
“As you wish, Doctor Takagi,” Stanley nodded. “At any rate, there is the matter of your extremely large vessel’s daily docking charge. How long will you be remaining in port?”
“Only today, Mr. Berkowitz. So sorry to disappoint you.”
“Now really, Ms . . . Doctor Takagi, I believe you will find our rates very reasonable.”
Joe cleared his throat. “That’s not what we’ve heard.”
Amara frowned, holding up a hand. “Whatever. My first mate is still aboard. He will be handling the necessary details, Mr. Berkowitz. Just go to the top of the gangplank and ask to speak with Willie.”
“Willie?” he echoed. “Should I–”
Amara had already turned and walked away. “Annoying little creep,” she muttered, her long legs picking up the pace.
Smirking at the incensed look on Stanley’s face, Joe rushed to keep up. “Yeah, but you do know the prick’s going to try to overcharge us now,” he said, walking faster and looking over his shoulder to make sure the agent actually knew what a gangplank was.
“Let him try. You’re forgetting he’s going to be dealing with Willie. And believe me, by the time they’re done negotiating, that guy’s going to have earned whatever he gets.”
“We’ll see,” Joe said. The sun glinted off his salt and pepper hair as he huffed and puffed, his short legs struggling to keep pace.
The wharf front of Harcourt Marina opened up before them, revealing a dozen intriguing antique shops, art galleries and restaurants, along with a plethora of souvenir stands. The stone and stucco buildings with their slate tiled roofs had an alluring, vintage look about them, giving the wharf an old world charm that was furthered by the town’s well-maintained cobblestone streets.
As they walked along, Amara noticed the marina was sparsely populated. It was still early. Many of those running around appeared related to the marina’s well developed fishing and whale watching industries. Faces set, they went about their routines, smiling and waving to each other as they carried buckets of bait or pushed wheel barrels filled with gear, rods, ice and refreshments to their assorted boats.
Amara stopped and looked around. “I like this place, Joe,” she said, stretching her arms and reveling in the breeze rolling in off the ocean. “It has a peaceful feel to it. And the people seem very nice.”
Suddenly, a barrage of curses interrupted her ponderings.
“Yeah, they’re real sweethearts,” Joe snickered, pointing down toward the nearest dock. A blonde-haired teenager was engaged in an argument with the incensed pilot of an idling flats boat.
“Hey, fuck you, Paul,” the well-tanned teen blurted out. He climbed off a black and yellow Jet Ski, beer in hand, and began to make his way up the dock, toward the landing where Amara and Joe stood waiting. Overhead, the sound of a passing helicopter temporarily drowned out the verbal dispute.
“–you gonna move that damn thing or not?” The boat owner repeated his request, his hands on his hips.
“Sure I am,” the teen said. He stripped off his t-shirt and tucked the end of it in the back pocket of his shorts. Then he hauled back and threw the half full beer back at the boater, just missing him. “When I’m good and ready, asshole! You got a problem with that; you know where to send the complaint!”
“You son of a . . .”
The muscular adolescent had just hit the landing when he caught sight of Amara in her cutoff shorts and t-shirt and stopped short. “Well, well, well! And what do we have here? A hot little China mama, eh?” he said. He reached down to adjust the crotch of his shorts, leering as he stepped boldly in her direction.
Amara’s blood started to boil. Her almond shaped eyes flashed angrily. “What did you just say?”
“C’mon baby, how about a little fucky-sucky? Me love you loooong time!”
Before she could respond, Joe was already in motion. With his big fists clenched, the retired ironworker took a quick step toward the drooling teen. “C’mere, you smart-ass prick. How’s about I love you long time with my foot up that wise ass of yours?”
“Hey, whoa there, New York!” The teen belched, backing away with his hands palms-out in a placating gesture. Still smirking, his eyes traveled from Joe to Amara, then back again. “Sorry man, I didn’t realize that was your piece. Nice work though!”
“Why you . . .”
“Stop it, Joe!” Amara grabbed at her companion’s tattooed arm. “Look, we don’t need a confrontation here. We’ve got work to do.”
“If you say so,” Joe said, still glaring after the rapidly retreating source of his ire. “Man, you should have let me kick his ass.”
“A problem we don’t need. Now come on, ‘New York,’ let’s go find what passes for law in this town.”
They’d traveled less than a dozen steps along the railing bordering the docks when Amara’s belt radio squawked something unintelligible. “This is Amara, please repeat.”
“Hey, it’s Lane. I think you guys should come back to the ship.”
“Why’s that?” Amara asked into the unit. “Is there a proble
m with the docking?”
“No, but there’s a delivery here for you.”
“A delivery? That’s strange. Is it the truck? Because it’s not due for five or six hours.”
There was a moment’s pause. “It’s not the flatbed. This delivery came via chopper.”
Amara exchanged perplexed glances with Joe, both recalling the helicopter that passed overhead mere moments before. “Okay . . . So, what is it?”
“I’m not sure. It’s a big wooden crate. It’s got your name on it. Not sure what’s in it, but it weighs a ton.”
“Who delivered it?”
“Some Japanese guys.”
Amara arched an eyebrow. “Japanese?”
“Yeah, at least I think so,” Lane said. “They didn’t say much. Just asked if this was the Harbinger, dropped it and took off.”
Amara fretted for a moment, her lips a taut line. “Alright Lane, I’m going to send Joe back to take a look at this mysterious crate. I have no idea what it is, but we’re not expecting anything. I’ll be back in a bit.”
“Okay, Lane out.”
“You’re not coming back to see what it is?” Joe asked.
“Not just yet,” Amara said, inclining her head forward and peering over her shades at the man striding in their direction. She focused hard. He was wide-shouldered and athletic looking, a fact that was evident from twenty yards away, and wore a badge and a gun. “I think I just found the law. Go see what’s in that crate while I talk to this policeman about our arrangements.”
“You got it, boss,” Joe said, grinning as he walked away. “I’ll call you if I need you.”
Amara watched as Joe disappeared into the crowd behind her. The officer had stopped and was speaking with one of the locals. She removed her hair clip and gave a quick headshake, her shimmering locks cascading down past well-toned shoulders. Fighting down her nervousness, she headed purposefully in the tall newcomer’s direction.
Jake barely made it from the gas dock to the wharf landing before someone called out his name and came huffing and puffing in his direction. He sighed. It’s going to be a long day.
KRONOS RISING: After 65 million years, the world's greatest predator is back. Page 5