He dropped the pistol when hit by Dan's return fire. In the next moment, he turned, bolted down the walkway toward the rear deck. There, he dove head first into the marina’s oil-sheened water.
Dan was after him in a second. On the water, he saw the splash, the water beginning to settle where the man had jumped in. He didn’t expect the shot he made to be mortal. Between the zip-tied hands and the wound, maybe this swim would be his final, fatal act. He watched for several seconds but didn't see the man resurface. Light bouncing off the water was full of brighter and darker areas. It made clear sight into the water impossible. Between the boats, floating docks and pilings, if this guy were to come up, he might come up in any direction. Enough of that.
Dan reached down and picked up his bag, turned and set it on the deck table. He pulled out his camera and from an inner pouch, the USB thumb drive copy of his drone’s flight. A quick search of one of the storage bins produced a pad of paper, a pen. His note on the top sheet was brief. He set the pad on the table, the USB drive on top, tossed the pen into his bag.
Next, he picked up his camera and took a few pictures of the cockpit’s view down into the galley. He made sure to get one of the twenty-five semi-auto that had landed on the deck, left it there. He came back to the bag, stowed the camera, then pulled the magazine from his pistol, cleared the breech, dropped all into the bag. He pulled his jacket out and shrugged it over his shoulders.
Opening the side pocket of the bag, he extracted a clean cell phone, stepped onto the float.
69. ANOTHER 9-1-1 CALL
Dan moved from the float toward the dock, pressed 9-1-1. His call connected moments after he turned onto the dock itself.
“What's your emergency?”
He paused long enough for the operator to repeat the question while he passed a mariner pushing a gear cart.
“There's a dead man, I repeat, a dead man on a Beneteau boat, MV Mantis, slip number A-six-fifteen, in the Santa Barbara Yacht Club marina. There's a flammable liquid sprayed across the deck. Another man with a bullet wound to his left shoulder, somewhere nearby. Last seen, his hands were at his back, secured with zip ties.”
As the operator was beginning to ask for his name, Dan ended the call. He increased his speed a bit, continued walking toward land. The cell vibrated in his hand. He accepted the call but didn't allow the caller to begin a conversation.
“I made the 9-1-1 call. This is not a prank. Police and fire should get there in a hurry.” He ended the call, trotting in the general direction of his parked car. He veered off to drop the phone, now battery and sim card free, into a trash bin outside of the Coast Guard station across from Merritt Bartlett Marine.
When he got to the car, he opened the hatchback. A bag stored there contained first aid supplies. He removed an abdominal pad dressing, a roll of tape and an ace wrap. He tore long strips of tape, stuck them to the underside of the hatch, and opened the dressing package. Clamping his jaws, he shrugged off his jacket, removed his t-shirt. He folded the pad into quarters, stuck a strip of tape to it and pushed it to his deltoid. Running fingers along the tape, he pressed across his breast, then around his shoulder toward the scapula. He stuck the other pieces of tape, repeated the process. The ace wrap was used as a binder. Around the joint, under the arm a couple times. He brought it around the far side of his neck to help it stay up. It was restrictive, but the end product was a pressure dressing that would slow bleeding. It'd be okay for a while.
God-damnit! I'm fuckin' slippin'! He thought about the second man he'd killed at the dump site, after he'd pulled a back-up pistol. Here again, failing to check the guy's pants pocket had almost done him in. Get it together, dipshit!
Those thoughts bounced around as he shrugged the jacket back into place, slipping arms into sleeves. Uhh, that doesn't feel good! He dropped the hatch, got into the driver’s seat, tossing his primary bag onto the passenger seat. Better not drive home… hope Tony's around... he can patch this up! He dug into his bag, retrieved a different phone. Dialed a number by heart.
"What?"
"Boomer, need to come by. You home?"
70. NO SPRING CHICKEN
Lyle knew he'd be fucked if he didn’t re-gain the upper hand. Yesterday's disastrous chain of events was bad enough. This guy had gotten the drop on them. Mike must be dead. He was either about to be killed, or handed over to the police in connection with the missing Senator.
Lyle reached the conclusion years earlier that the probability of capture could be high at times. If it happened, he couldn't talk about what he did for a living. He could talk, but the penalty for the truth would be far worse than sitting in a cell. There was no such a thing as protective custody. Unless he got dropped into a glacier’s cold storage, someone would find him. The result of that—a caustic gargle, shiv to his liver, or other method to stop his course.
While left lying on the deck, this cowboy had stepped away, down into the galley. Lyle rolled to his side, got to his feet, forced his right hand into his back pocket. His left hand dragged along as far as needed in order to grasp at the twenty-five auto secreted there.
Come out of there. He pinched hard at the grip, managed to slip the pistol out enough that he could take it into his right hand.
Sidling over to increase his view of the steps, his body turned to look over his left shoulder, aim with his right hand. His grip on the diminutive gun was firm. Aiming was not easy. He guessed at the muzzle’s aim, the bullet’s path. He tried to aim at a point below the neck, between the shoulders. That feels about right. He squeezed the trigger.
As his focus shifted from aiming to squeezing the trigger, the man below had turned. He'd pointed his gun, fired off a round. Lyle was sure his shot hit, but he felt the white hot, hard punch as his left deltoid exploded in pain. The pistol dropped from his hand and he had one option. He turned to run, knowing that trying to exit the boat onto the float would require him to slow and turn. He dove head first, jettisoned off the rear deck, into the water below.
As he hit the surface, he kicked to get some depth. About eight feet down in a half spiral, momentum bubbled away. When he stopped, he exhaled air through pursed lips, dispelled enough to help him stay down longer. Alright, PUSH! Jaws clenched, he forced his bound wrists down passed his ass, while in tandem, driving his knees up toward his chest. Bolts of pain coming along for the ride. At his arm’s extreme stretch, his leg's extreme compression, he passed his manacled wrists across his shoes.
Pained insult upon insult was his shoulder’s scream. He peered up through complaining eyes, toward the brighter water above, the sky's blue undulating. He turned his head furtively, looking at features of the underside of the marina. His best option was underneath the main dock. In-between a boat and float would be closer, but riskier. He extended his arms in the dock’s direction, causing more pain. He kicked his legs, muscles calling for oxygen.
Eyes on fire!... fuel, oil, other shit in the water, getting worse... He kept them open as he ascended. The water teemed with flotsam and jetsam, hovering in this relatively stable, if not quite stagnant swamp. He had to avoid contact with the mish-mash of ugly-looking, quietly dangerous crap—rusted cables, fishing gear detritus.
As he made the cover of the dock, he came up in a controlled rise that felt out of control. Arm pain, eyes burning and diaphragm spasms. All wanted attention. He needed a breath but had to fight not to burst up gasping, even though his lungs called for it.
When his diaphragm chilled out, lungs filled a couple times and breathing had eased, he strained to listen past his own airway sounds. Nothing other than foot traffic above on the dock. Lyle kicked over to a nearby piling that looked promising. He located one of the unemployed rusty bolts extending out from the creosoted post. Raising his hands over it, began working his wrists back and forth along the bolt's shaft.
It didn’t take long to wear through the zip-tie, even with his shoulder’s protests, scrapes to his wrists, and his hands were free. He swam back out from under the do
ck to the far side, came up between the hull of a sailboat and the float. He kicked over to get to the back of the boat, held onto it, waited there, watching, listening. Could get out here, but too close to that boat… Can I get to that dock over there? It was a swim, but he decided it was worth doing, if he could get something to help him. There was an orange life ring hanging right above him. He grabbed it from its hook.
Lyle looked for boat traffic, nothing coming. He pushed away, going for it, kicking across toward the other dock. The swim wasn’t on his mind. Mother fucker! He killed Mike… Mike’s gone! He saw a low-profile boat, aimed for it. Once there, he climbed up the short stern ladder, hopped over onto the slip. Turning up the dock, he walked toward the marina's center, water splooging out from his jeans.
A couple coming in the opposite direction stopped as he got closer. They were staring at him, at his shoulder. He looked down at it, saw the steady flow of bright crimson. He hurried past.
"Are you alright?" The woman had stopped, asked.
“Snagged my arm on something.” He growled over his shoulder, kept moving.
Once off the dock, Lyle hustled into the restroom at the Waterfront Grill, stepped into one of the stalls, locked the door. He peeled his long sleeve shirt back and away from his messy shoulder. This was his first opportunity to get a look at the damage. Mother fuck!
To Lyle’s good luck and the laws of physics, the path of least resistance proved true. When the bullet hit his shoulder, it tore through skin, fat, and muscle. Sparing his shoulder blade and much of the rotator cuff, it removed a big chunk of the soft tissue that had defined the back portion. A large, macerated cup oozed a steady flow.
He removed his shirt and ripped the lower half off, wadded it into a ball. He stuffed the ball into the hole, leaned against the wall to keep it in place. He took the rest of his shirt and twisted it into a length. With that, he clumsily wrapped around his arm and shoulder to hold the wad in place. With his right fingers and teeth, tied the ends. It wasn't the best dressing he'd ever created, but it would serve for the moment.
Lyle readied himself for a fast exit. He needed to get out of the restaurant, back to the van. He still had the keys jammed into a front pocket, so he wouldn't need to steal a car from the lot.
With a deep breath, exhaled slowly, then another, he opened the stall. He glanced at a man standing at the row of sinks. Lyle walked out of the restroom.
The man would later report a shirtless guy, some kind of wound on his left arm, wrapped with a bloody piece of cloth.
As Lyle emerged, he took a side door exit and hustled toward overnight parking. He pulled the keys as he approached the van, got in, started it. He pulled out of the lot, out onto Harbor Way, then onto Shoreline Drive. As he drove away, two police cruisers were coming in the opposite direction, lights and sirens.
PART FIVE
71. DROPPING BY FOR A VISIT
During early years of his military experience, on a covert mission, Dan's team included an Army Ranger named Anthony 'Boomer' Rodgers. Tony liked blowing things up. The army liked the way he blew things up. His assignment—provide demolition support on an operation Dan spearheaded. The two men hit it off and worked together several times over the course of the following years. Both were, on the record, retired now. They still kept in touch, had occasional beer and barbeque events. A card to a post office box, a message like “Hey, Bud, How's it? Come on by when you’re in the neighborhood.”, and the other would show up within a week or two. Neither required regular confirmation of their comradery.
As Dan drove away from the marina that day, he called Tony’s private cell, and after four rings, he heard, short and sweet—
"What?"
"Boomer, need to come by. You home? What’s cookin’?"
“Hey, Shark Man! Burgers and beer, if you know what’s good for ya.”
They exchanged a bit of telephonic shootin' the shit.
"Tony," Dan got back to business, “you got your hands full right now?”
“No, Brother. I’m just working the yard. I’ve got some veggies growing... been thinking it'd be easier to eat the weeds and weed out the squash, know what I’m sayin’?”
"Roger that... So Tone," Dan continued, "I've got a little personal problem. Thinking you'd help me get it patched up.”
Tony knew immediately that Dan had sustained injury.
“Can you get here, or should I come find you?”
"Naw, I'm good. Maybe twenty, thirty minutes..."
"Alright. It'll be good to get eyes on ya."
◆◆◆
The Outback reached the fringe of city proper, starting the climb into the coastal range. Winding his way up into the hills was a tease of sorts, shadows of another joie de vivre for Dan. If he couldn’t be in the ocean, he'd choose the woodlands, with their sun-drenched hills and sprawling oaks. Mostly a memory now, for the look had changed. Fires had destroyed the old oaks and what sprawled in their places were large, private estates and ranches. One might be hard-pressed to find typical ranch animals—cattle, sheep, horses. This transformation occurred over decades. Of course, driving through wasn't much different than flying over—both shit compared to being on foot, smelling the earth.
He drove up San Marcos Pass Road, pulled off near San Antonio Creek Road. A few turns later, he eased onto a graveled turn-out that rode a crest. On the edge, a gentle cutback dropped over, onto a driveway that scooted between the trees. Emerging from them thirty yards down the slope, the car entered a clearing. As it did, at the far side, Tony stood up from his garden, wiping dirt from his hands. He skirted a mound, came out through the gate, closing it behind. Dan pulled close, shut off the car and stepped out, where Tony met him. The start of a bear hug was interrupted by Dan’s grunt.
◆◆◆
“Whatcha got?”
“I caught one in the shoulder.”
“Let’s go inside.” Tony turned, leading Dan to the house.
A little over an hour later, Dan was holding a misshapen twenty-five caliber bullet in one hand, half of a tall bourbon on the rocks in the other. He sported a brand new, professional dressing where his field dressing had been. He'd provided Tony the Reader’s Digest version of what had happened over the last days and hours. Tony could tell his friend was spent. A little pain and a whole lot of excitement could keep someone going for a while, but everyone's juices ran low.
"Kick back, Danny. I'll grab a blanket and pillow. You can chill out, charge up."
"Thanks, Boom. I do feel beat." He kicked off his shoes, sat back on the couch.
Tony walked off, and less than a couple minutes later, returned with supplies in hand.
"Take this Dan, and drink all that. That'll get ya started." He handed Dan a large tablet and a glass of water. Dan swallowed it all down.
"You couch surfin', right?" Tony asked, though he wouldn't take a No, as he dropped a pillow and blanket in the sofa's corner. Dan nodded. They both knew he'd be safe here.
No more bourbon tonight, thought Tony. Just that earlier edge -remover.
"I'm gonna go fix chow. You relax. Let me know if you need anything. I got this shit, so stay outta my kitchen!" Tony grinned.
"What we eatin', Boom?"
"On the menu—fresh grilled zuke, stuffed with chopped onion, mushroom, smoked cheddar. Next to it, a couple of thick, lean burgers. Will that be to your likin', Sir?" The question's mocking tone was accompanied by a friendly bird flown his way as Tony disappeared around the kitchen doorway.
Dan smiled, sat back, closed his eyes.
After eating, Tony turned on the TV, tuning to the local KCOY news broadcast.
The feature story centered on a local crime scene. An unidentified man found dead on board a boat in the Santa Barbara Yacht Club Marina. Police and fire departments responded. In typical news team cheer, no other injuries or property damage were reported. The fire department conducted a fuel spill clean-up. The Coast Guard expressed interest, stating that crimes appeared to have taken place on
a registered vessel.
"In a related story", a reporter interviewed a guy from L.A. who was in Santa Barbara for a fishing charter. He described a shirtless man who emerged from a restroom stall with a bloodied arm, wrapped in some kind of dressing. He'd been looking at the guy's arm, didn't get a good look at the face. Never the less, he tried to describe what he saw to one of the police officers who arrived at the scene. A still photo showed some crime scene tape. The PD gave a vague description of a ‘person of interest’ and the screen flashed a black and white drawing, also vague.
As the news segment ended, Tony looked over at Dan, thinking about the cluster that had landed on his head and shoulders. He would have said something to that effect, but Dan was out, oblivious to the beating of the band.
72. MURDER AND MISSING PERSONS
Homicides, and crimes less violent are not uncommon in the city, but today's discovery didn't look like it would fit the typical homicide profile.
The call came to the cell phone of Detective Alex Simmons. The day wasn't over yet, in what had already been a long week. It's only Wednesday, for fuck sake!
Simmons had been on the force twelve years, got his shield two years ago, and had worked homicides ever since. When the cell phone rang, his desk already carried a pile of case files—six separate cases he'd been tasked with, was in the middle of working. If this is a new case, maybe Robert's will take it... That thought hovered in his mind when the call came in from a patrolman he knew.
As the patrolman added interesting points, Simmons decided it'd be better if he did take it. If it went well, it'd put another notch on his professional career climb to the top.
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