Mike continued folding the rest, heading back toward the galley, stepping over the second leg where it rested. As he moved through the cockpit and down the stairway, Lyle heard the rough, crumpling sound of the tarp. That noise changed in Lyle’s ears to a faint buzzing sound. It took a moment for his shift in focus to zero in, find where the sound was coming from, and he looked up into the sky.
As he listened, he searched with eyes that strained against the brightness above. He found a dark clump against the blue, almost straight above them. He turned, shouted to Mike to bring the rifle, and a half minute later, Mike emerged from under the canopy. He was holding the take-down weapon, looking at Lyle.
◆◆◆
When Mike saw Lyle pointing, he looked up, searched, saw the drone. He switched on the laser sight and scoped immediately onto it. It tipped a fraction, then returned to level and a half second later, Mike pulled the trigger. He hit it, saw a piece break off, and the drone angled, wobbled. He watched it tumble, enter the water.
He glanced over at Lyle, then using the scope of the rifle, looked north, toward the shoreline's beach. Lyle was looking toward areas of the shore, too.
“There!”
Mike looked to see where Lyle was pointing. He could make out a figure way over on the top of the tallest dune near where the shore's rocks thinned out. He brought up the rifle and through the scope, could see a man standing there, looked like binoculars in hand.
Mike fired once, then again. From this distance, and the bob of the boat on the water, he couldn’t tell where he was hitting. It must have been close, if he didn't hit him. The guy dropped to the surface, disappeared.
“Let’s get moving,” Lyle directed, “there's a pail in the shitter. Rinse down along there." He pointed at obvious blood smears that wouldn't be good for anybody's eyes.
Mike retrieved the leg from the walkway, picking it up by the ankle with his free hand, brought it aft, dropped it overboard.
Lyle manned the hose, sweeping a slurried tide of bloody water down, off the deck. Another flash of movement caught his eye.
The clear image of a large shark emerged from the right, crossed next to another from the left, right off the deck. They submerged as fast as they appeared, in a swirl past each other with forceful thrusts of their tails.
65. ROCKING THE CRADLE
Lyle toggled the switch to raise the anchor. The electric motor strained as it worked, pulling the boat toward the drop site. Lyle had an ah-ha moment—starting the engines brought some reduction to the electric motor's whine. The waves continued pushing hard against the Mantis, and when Lyle eased the throttle controls forward, the sound improved. The anchor was soon jangling, up against the bow and he released the switch. He hurried forward, pulled the anchor up onto the deck.
The cabin walkway was clean enough, but they'd never fix the galley. Lyle struggled with this turn of events, concluding that they'd have to torch the boat after all. He seethed. Mike's torturous mess of things, the drone, shooting at someone on shore. Fucking hell!
He'd complimented Mike on that ‘shot out of the air’, but he wasn't happy about how it all went down. One would not, could not survive in this business if things got sloppy.
This operation had started nice, stayed pretty clean all the way through to the disposal phase. ...doesn't matter how much you prepare, plans can go to shit! An uninvited set of eyeballs might have seen, probably saw something. Best-case scenario, the drone operator was some kid who shit his pants, raced home with an unbelievable story. Worst-case scenario, the drone had a camera, the operator might have video to back up his story. Fuck!
Lyle considered sinking the Mantis, but he didn't even know how to do that. It also brought more complications, including an unplanned swim to shore, and neither of them were good swimmers.
Lyle’s brain rolled these around as he turned the boat south. It was getting later in the day than he liked. The sun hadn't set, but it reached closer to the horizon. Can I get us back before dark? Coming into the harbor after that'd be another clusterfuck! He decided they'd shelter for the night, get back in the morning.
A few minutes later he spotted that same protected area with a pier that he had noticed before. That'll work.
He steered in that direction, sighing with relief as the boat's movement became smoother. The boat fought less against the waves, riding with them in surges forward. As the Mantis came into the bay, he backed off the throttle too much and it settled down into the water. He pushed forward again, speeding it up, then realized he was coming in too fast. Afraid he'd have issues with other boats around the bay, had to throttle back again.
Finally, deep enough into the bay, he decided he could stop. He throttled back to idle, killed the engine, dropped the anchor.
Lyle went below, looked at his partner sitting on the bench seat.
"We're gonna stay here tonight, Mike. I don't want to continue after dark. We'll sleep on the boat, get back to Santa Barbara in the morning, 'kay?"
Mike looked at him, at least in his direction, nodding, but Lyle couldn't see anything of the old Mike in the face looking back.
66. SANTA BARBARA BOUND
Searching for a particular boat paralleling shore was a longshot, but once in a while, longshots paid off. Dan's eyes focused on the highway ahead, with glances stolen to the west, snatching through the afternoon sunlight at what the horizon presented along the way. The afternoon light would soon cool to a darkening, blue shadow. Dan had to accept that if the Mantis made it back to Santa Barbara, he'd be out of luck in facing the men onboard.
He followed a hunch and detoured to San Luis Obispo. There were a few places he knew where a boat might lay low, worth a look. In the Avila beach area, he walked out on a pier and looked around. Part way out, the skipper of a sloop finished tying a stern line and was positioning a fender as Dan neared.
“Hey!” He nodded, smiling as the man stood up, done. “Rough out there today. You just getting in?"
The guy nodded.
"Maybe you could help me. Did you see any fancy powerboats come into the bay this afternoon? Maybe with a skipper that, I dunno…, didn't really fit?" The sailor looked up at Dan again, studying him. He saw a man roughly his age, physically fit, capable.
“Might of. What exactly you looking for?”
"Well, I saw a couple guys on a boat up north a few hours ago. They had me worried... couldn't get on step, not looking very safe... maybe dangerous for other boaters."
“I probably saw the same boat. Was it a Beneteau? The boat I saw was strictly weekenders.”
“Oh, yeah?" Could it be them? Why's that?”
“Well, like you said," he offered, "the guy's running his throttle all over the place... not a good idea with other vessels around. He didn't know what he was doing.” The sailor squatted, coiling line by the tiller.
“Yup. Sounds like him. He keep heading south?”
He paused, looking up. "Actually, I think he anchored over there closer to Port San Luis Pier." He indicated with a nod to the west.
“Oh, hey, okay. Thanks! Well, I better get going, but I appreciate your time. Take it easy out there."
He turned around, walked off the pier. Back in the car, he drove further along the bay. There were many boats anchored out there. He thought one or two might be the Mantis, but his view through binoculars was blocked by other vessels. He parked in the boatyard, determined to keep a watch, and settled in.
The next morning, Dan was watching the boats in the bay as the sun came up. One of the large sports boats he had spotted fired up a half hour later, pulled away from other boats around it. He was able to pick out "Mantis" on the stern.
Presuming it would return to its home berth, he swigged some water, splashed a bit on his face and started the car. Driving back to the highway, he turned south. He had to get there first. This was going to be necessary if he had any chance of locating where the Mantis berthed.
◆◆◆
When Dan arrived in Santa Barbar
a, he was lucky, hit the jackpot right away. There were a small number of boat harbors to choose from. His first pick, the Santa Barbara Yacht Club Marina, turned out to be the right one. He found a public parking spot along Harbor Drive. It was close enough to the Harbor Master’s office, so he walked to the building.
“Can I help you, sir?”
“Well yes, Ma'am, thank you." He gave his best, casual reply. "I was chatting with someone on the dock here the other day and we were talking boats. When I mentioned a Beneteau, he said there was a nice one that berthed here. I was hoping I could find out where it tied up so I could check it out.”
The woman behind the desk confirmed that there were at least few Beneteau models there. As far as she knew, none of them were for sale.
“Oh, I’m not looking to buy one. Hells bells, I doubt I could ever afford one of them,” and he chuckled, kept looking at her, smiling.
“You know you can’t go onto the boats without permission, right?”
“Oh yes, Ma'am. I only want to look at them from the outside.”
She said okay and wrote down three slip numbers on a post-it, underlining one of them, and handed it to him.
“That one,” she pointed to the underline, “is one of the best-looking boats here.”
He took a shot, asking, “Can you tell me who owns it?”
She shook her head No, but replied in a low whisper, “Senator Turner.”
"Well, thank you, Ma'am. Have a great day!"
Dan hustled back to the Subaru, collected his small satchel. He returned to the marina and walked out onto the primary dock. Soon he had located the premiere slip that the clerk had indicated belonged to ‘the Senator’. It was currently empty, at mid-morning. He decided to settle in, be patient, wait to see what happened next.
Hanging out in a boat harbor was nearly the best thing Dan could do, second only to being under water. He never tired of the sights, sounds, smells. Boats bobbing, masts waving on the current, flags fluttering. Gulls screeching above, jockeying for position to swoop. Ship bells, and the clank of hardware on masts. The rich aroma of the ocean—-a blend of briny-fresh and rotting detritus.
Dan spent a couple hours wandering along the slips, but always keeping an eye out for boats coming in. Finally, he settled onto a bench that provided a view of traffic entering the harbor, and a bit of a view of the empty slip. About an hour later, he spotted the boat he'd seen earlier that morning. It motored around the breakwater and entered the harbor.
67. MEETING THE MANTIS
His stomach flip-flopped. It didn't make a difference what prep work, what sort of mental exercise took place. Dan took a few deep breaths and eased the sensation, then picked up his bag. He started up the dock, looking out over the area in broad, sweeping glances. He avoided more than what his eyes could take while turning his face, passing across the boat, on to other views. He didn't want to be seen looking at it, as it approached the slip.
He moved one slip away, turned onto the far float that served the boat there. He pretended to check lines in preparation to board it. Critical here, he could have the cover of the boat to sneak peeks at the arrival as the Beneteau tied up. There were a few people visible out on this long dock. They worked among the floating slip arms, loading and unloading gear, doing chores. Everyone seemed well occupied with their own agendas.
Dan squatted down as the boat approached the mouth of the slip, coming in too fast. He felt the bump as it contacted one side of the slip’s decking and could hear a voice call out.
“Grab the front rope!”
Any mariner worth his salt would have said “secure the bow line” or something similar. Maybe Dan was being critical of someone already guilty as charged. He stood close to the boat in front of him, peeking over to watch, as a man clambered up onto the bow. He picked up the line, then jumped off the bow to land on the dock. He wrapped the line around the cleat in naïve, circular loops. Another demonstration that he was no seaman.
Dan's switch went from orange to red. The first mate returned to enter the cabin. Dan could hear them moving about. He'd need to have eyes on both men. Bending down, placing his duffel on the deck, he opened it, grabbed several zip-ties which he stuffed into his back pocket. Next, he removed his suppressed .22 pistol. He chambered a round, flipped off the safety. He closed the bag, picked it up in his left, held his pistol in his right. His trigger finger, lightly on the guard. He stood, holding the pistol low, against the back of his thigh, and with a glance to make certain nobody was approaching on the dock, he moved off the float, turned toward the Mantis.
He moved down the dock rapidly, stepped onto float that served the Beneteau. Lowering his profile as much as he could, he crept forward. Halfway to the boat’s aft deck, he could see one man's back, shoulders as he bent down near the captain’s seat. The second man was below, out of sight. Dan could only hope he wasn't spotted through the vessel's galley window. He passed the window, scurried to the aft deck. Squatted, waiting.
After a few moments, the man below returned topside. Dan heard him finish a sentence...
“...got the lighter fluid.”
68. SURPRISE PARTY
Dan squatted at the starboard stern. From there, he peeked over the edge. Both men were in sight. One sat in the captain's chair, fiddling with controls. The other stood at the top of the steps, looking toward the galley. He squirted a spaghetti-noodle stream of clear fluid from a yellow bottle. As Dan watched, he lowered his arm, walking the stream up the steps toward his feet. Got to get him first… gotta end it now! Dan tucked his bag into a corner on the aft deck. He raised up, whisper-quiet, pistol aimed at a point, back of the head where it met the neck.
“Don't move!" His command was firm, but ineffective. Both heads swiveled, startled faces. Dan’s eyes shifted between the two. The next second, the man who'd been below, tossed the fuel can toward Dan, turned to run down the steps. His left foot landed on the first step. Before it came up, his lights went out. The .22 hollow point entered behind his right ear. The mushrooming clump puréed a widening track of gray matter inside his skull.
Dan eyes drilled into the other’s face. Impressive! Pretty fucking calm, with what just happened. The orbits looking back were ice cold, zeroed in, calculating. Dan imagined the brain behind those eyeballs thinking, Any fast move, a last move. If so, he'd be right.
“Keep those hands on that wheel."
The lighter fluid’s pungent aroma was working, even in this open-air cockpit. It smelled like white gas, but oily, too. A small track of it had dribbled out as the bottle came flying at Dan and he could see where it'd splashed across the deck. His eyes turned back to the man at the chair. He hadn't moved, silent, eyes locked. Dan knew the guy below was dead, but a second look would confirm it. His rapid response pistol control served him many times, under adverse conditions. Another part of his brain whispered... like riding a bicycle.
He came forward, tipped left enough to see down the steps, feet and legs, no movement. Dan turned his head.
“Who are you?” He stared hard at the man seated. He received the same blank look. Dan remained intent, watching for tells. Bits of information coming in. This guy's calm as ice. He suspected that the dead man was apprentice in all this. The man sitting here looked like he'd just ordered pizza.
Dan did a quick set of snapshot glances around, always returning to his companion for sign of changes. The cockpit looked orderly. The control panel still powered up, engine idling. This fume-heavy lighter fluid wasn’t pleasant. It reminded him of kerosene, ready to burn. Another quick glance down the steps. Legs of prone number two, bisecting a strawberries and cream splashed palette of color beyond.
“Who are you?” Twice as much heat on the words, still no response. He moved two steps toward the captain's chair. “Stand up, keep hands on the wheel.” The man stood, facing forward. In a split second, the muzzle of his pistol pressed to the man’s neck at the jaw. “Twitch, you're dead.” This, in an icy tone. It wasn’t meant for effect. Simp
ly stating a fact.
“Very slowly now, hands behind your back, lace your fingers tight.”
As soon as that happened, Dan pushed him roughly, forcing him hard against the wheel. "Don't move." He put his left hand on top, laced his own fingers into the others, squeezed them hard, locking the man’s hands together. Now, pulling up on those arms, he commanded, “Turn to your left, drop to your knees!” Dan followed him down, forced him to lay on his belly. “I’m going to let go of your hands. Keep those fingers laced.”
Dan tucked his pistol into his waistband, pulled a zip-tie from his back pocket and secured it around one wrist, then repeated the action for the other wrist, this time looping into the first tie, zipping it tight.
"Stay there."
Dan stood, returned to the top of the steps, descended to the galley, stepping over, around the legs taking up space on the stairway. He could see dried blood residue fountains in many directions. No longer shiny bright—they reflected back darkly on the scene. The large, dried mud-looking puddle on the floor told where most of the blood-letting occurred. Sprays, splotches and smears across the entire area of the floor. Up and away, the cabinets and granite countertops displayed a sprayed, dark brick-red contrast.
As Dan turned to come back up the stairs, a gun fired, a bullet striking his deltoid. In Pavlovian response, he returned fire. The bullet hitting Dan tracked through connective tissue around the neck of the humerus. It glanced off, came to a stop. Bulged in a yellowish-pinkish blob above his armpit.
The shot he made also connected. It went left of center, hit the man in his left shoulder. He stood at the top of the steps, turned sideways, his hands still secured low, behind his back. He'd fired a small pistol from that position, in his right hand, aimed up from his lumbar region. Dan’s luck had saved his life. The tight zip-tie binding he'd applied forced the man to work his hands hard to get the pistol aimed even near target.
Predators and Drones Page 15