by K D McNiven
“Like what?” Karina leaned forward with keen interest, resting her elbows on the table and cupped her chin.
“I don’t know. But I found this envelope laying on the floor of his office with my name on it.”
“Well open it! Maybe we’ll get some answers.” Callie urged him.
Decker tore the end open and pulled out a folded sheet of white paper. He opened it up and looked it over, his brows dipping into a frown. “It’s a man’s name and an address. Nothing more.”
“That’s odd,” Callie said. “Do you recognize the name?”
“Nope. However, I want us to pack our bags.”
Callie looked confused. “Why?”
“We’re heading to New Orleans.”
“New Orleans?”
“The address is in New Orleans. Also, Dax is in New Orleans. And we need to get away from those black suits who are haunting us.”
“How do you intend to do that, Decker?”
“I rented a car. It’s parked over by the market. If we dim a couple of lights, they will think we’ve gone to bed for the evening which will give us plenty of time to distance ourselves from them. So long as they see our car, they won’t know we’ve dodged them.”
Callie smiled. “Hope you’re right. I’ll take extra clothes for you, Kat—assuming you’re coming with us?”
“Thanks, Callie. And yes. With everything going on, I wouldn’t feel safe staying here.”
Decker snagged his holstered Sig Sauer he’d laid on the table upon entering the apartment and headed for the bedroom where he tossed a couple of changes of clothes into a backpack, along with some bathroom amenities, and waited for Callie to collect her belongings. When they had what they needed to see them through for a couple of days, they sneaked down the back staircase and hurried along the path to the rental car.
“This is crazy,” Callie said, turning her head to glimpse Karina, shuffling along behind. “Are you doing okay? Sorry to have dragged you into this mess. Though I’m unable to tell you what this mess is.”
Karina laughed softly. “I’ve started to get used to this kind of thing since meeting Dax and the both of you.”
Now it was Decker’s turn to laugh. “It’s not as if we create it. It seems to happen all on its own.”
“Dax will be in for a surprise, won’t he?” Karina told them.
“Hopefully, he won’t toss us out on our ear,” Decker replied. “He’s actually been relatively quiet lately. I thought I would have heard something from him by now. Hopefully, circumstances haven’t taken a turn for the worse with his salvage venture.”
***
Once they had arrived, Decker drove straight to the port of New Orleans. In the distance, he spotted the Shark Eater gently rocking in the muddied waters offshore.
“I’m going to drop the two of you off and head out to see if I can locate Paul Cummings,” he explained. “Derrick must have thought this Paul guy has some crucial information to hand over to me. My priority at the moment is to find out exactly what that is. Why don’t you and Kat hire someone on the docks to give you a ride out to Shark Eater? You can fill Dax in on what’s been going on. I’ll be back once I’ve spoken to Mr. Cummings.”
. “Be careful, Decker. You have no idea what you might be walking into,” Callie said, worry lines creasing her brow.
“Don’t worry. I plan on looking over my shoulder every step of the way.”
“I hope this Mr. Cummings guy has information about why the two black suits have been tailing us.”
Decker lifted his palms and gave a shrug. “Anybody’s guess right now, Callie. It might be as menial as Mr. Cummings has diving equipment for eighty percent off and wants to pass it on to me, far as I know.”
“You’re sure you don’t want us coming along in case there’s a ruckus?” Karina tossed in, worry creasing her brow.
“I’m sure,” he insisted. “You two head on over to the ship. I’ll try not to be too long.”
Callie didn’t look too happy about the whole thing, but Decker was determined to find out who murdered Derrick and why the government agents had been watching them. She also figured Decker was trying to protect Karina, as she had inadvertently gotten involved. At this point, they had no way of knowing how dangerous this encounter would be. Especially considering Derrick’s murder.
Decker took out his handheld GPS and tapped in the coordinates. Paul Cumming’s house happened to be only a half hour drive from the docks. Familiar with New Orleans, he had a rough idea where Paul’s house was located. He drove along Pontchartrain Expressway, exiting onto South Claiborne. After a short distance, he made his way onto Jackson Street as directed by his GPS.
It was steamy. Decker could feel his shirt sticking to his back and beads of sweat dotted his forehead and trickled down his face. He turned up the air conditioner and rolled up his window. The grey clouds overhead threatened to downpour at any moment.
To the right was a narrow, cobbled driveway tucked back into a copse of trees. Decker steered the rental vehicle into the drive, pulling up beside a two-story, white home with the standard New Orleans charm.
In quickened strides, Decker bounded up the front steps, the scent of jasmine filling his nose. He rapped on the door, surprised when it cracked open on its own. He knocked again, more soundly this time. No answer. Taking the liberty, Decker poked his head inside and called out Paul’s name. He wondered if he might be in the back yard so he walked around the side of the house to take a look. A white-picket gate with blistered paint creaked soundly as Decker opened it and stepped through on slabs of granite. He scanned the perimeter but didn’t see anyone.
Climbing four wooden steps at the backdoor entrance, he knocked once more. Except for the trill of a few birds splashing happily in a decorative cement fountain located in the small garden behind him, and an occasional car speeding by, it was relatively quiet. Too quiet.
Decker tried the doorknob and it gave way freely. He called out once more. Met with silence, he withdrew his handgun from its holster and warily, stepped inside the brightly painted kitchen. He continued his path through another door that led into a hallway. From where he stood, he could see the living room. Deserted, he inched his way forward, his senses razor-sharp. With extreme caution, he moved in and out of the rooms. When he found nothing, he proceeded up the milled cherry wood staircase, the floorboards creaking with each footfall.
Decker steadied his gun with both hands close to his face, his eyes shifting side to side. Even his breath seemed loud in his ears as he continued his climb. Slowly, he cracked the first door in the hall with his foot, nudging it wide open. Guarded, he pushed his way inside, holding his gun at ready, his eyes panning the room. Nothing.
Nerves prickling, he crept back into the hallway, vigilantly moving on to the next door. In slow deliberation he turned the knob and rushed in, sweeping his gun from left to right. It took only a second before he stopped dead in his tracks, his breath catching in his throat. Dangling from a hemp rope, fastened to the ceiling fan, was whom he believed to be Paul Cummings.
Decker stepped vigilantly one foot in front of another and touched Paul’s wrist. Cold. Obviously, he had been dead for hours. Decker stood stiffly, his mind reeling as he determined what to do next. If he called the police, they would haul him in for questioning and detain him for hours. Presently, he had no inkling what he’d gotten himself involved in or who he was able to trust. But with yet another dead body, he figured he’d somehow jumped smack-dab into the middle of a sinister plot.
Careful not to touch anything, he went back down the stairs. Donning his black leather gloves, he walked into Paul’s library and began to search the room, not having any idea what he was even looking for. After shuffling through the desk, he walked over to a shoulder-high file box where he thumbed through hundreds of files, trying to locate something that might make sense.
In the far recesses of the cabinet, Decker spied a file that had slipped two inches lower than the rest. He withdrew
it from the metal file box. On the front, in bold letters scrawled in black ink read, Bermuda Conspiracy Report. His brows hiked, taken by surprise as he fumbled with the clip on the back of the manila envelope. Bewilderment surged through him as he peeked inside and discovered a few peculiar items. One being a Central Intelligence Agency badge with Paul’s name engraved in it and a weathered photo of what looked to be Paul in his earlier years, alongside two other men. Could one of the other men possibly be Derrick? He strained to make out the features, not with any luck. The photo had succumbed to a bit of damage with its creases and worn areas. The height and physique looked close to Derrick’s; the face impossible to make any conclusion.
“CIA?” Decker said aloud. He withdrew a folded piece of paper looking as though it had been ripped out of a journal and began to read the contents.
December 5th, 1954
I sense I am being followed. I can only assume it is Russian Counter Intelligence. I’m sure they are doing what they can to cover up the whole Bermuda Conspiracy incident to avoid a major war between Russia and the U.S.
It’s possible my life is in danger—though Central Intelligence assures me they have my back. I wish I could be confident about that. Oh well, I guess I knew what I was getting into when I signed on. I never expected it to go this far.
I will be making way for Tucker Island in the next few days. I will have to go through extensive training before I join the team. In the event I don’t make it back, please make sure this documentation gets placed into the proper hands.
Perplexed, Decker slipped the journal note back inside the envelope and tucked it under his arm, taking a little more time to brush over the remaining files. He found nothing more than receipts and various other papers with no significance. At least none he could determine. When he glanced at his watch, he realized he had been inside much too long and didn’t want anyone to identify his vehicle. In haste, he rushed out of the room and downstairs, wiping down the two doorknobs and anything else he might have touched on entering the house, and headed for his car.
As he drove back, he took various routes to ensure he wasn’t being followed. It appeared whatever he’d gotten mixed up with was turning into a deadly mess. Two bodies down. He had to wonder if he was next in line? His head was spinning with questions. The only thing Decker was able to piece together was the fact they had been in the Bermuda Triangle. There was no other logical explanation.
Chapter 8
⁂
The Mississippi River
Dax’s team spent hours scouring the bottom where the tug had sunk. They had found little more metal pieces lodged in the mud. As yet, he had not found a gun. Making his way on board the Shark Eater, disappointment washed over him. Anything to help detective Brock find the people behind the terrorist act would be gratifying.
“Manny, I plan to take the team back down in a few hours,” Dax informed the captain. “I’m hoping we can turn up evidence which might shine a light on whoever is responsible for this heinous act of violence.”
“You can only do what you can do, Dax,” Manny said. “But I hope you find something too. This would have been catastrophic had the oil leaked out into the Mississippi.”
“Thankfully, that isn’t the case, Captain. What’s heart-wrenching is that seven men lost their lives.”
Dax removed his tank and flippers and pulled his arms out of his wet suit. He had slicked back his wet black hair and bound it with a hairband, his face downcast. He would not soon forget the disturbing scene they had discovered on their first dive.
“Why don’t you go down with the others in the mess hall and grab something to eat,” Manny urged him.
“Roger that, Captain.” Dax saluted him with two fingers on his forehead and managed a grin.
Once he had eaten, Dax and the team returned to the dive deck, where preparations were being made for their descent. They gathered their depth gauges, compasses, timing devices, full face masks, and fins, and proceeded to inflate their buoyancy compensators. Dax, who was the assigned divemaster, had since checked out their equipment. They couldn’t afford any accidents.
They were all tired from their earlier dive, though they were more than ready to wrap things up. Blackwater diving was taxing, much like someone looking for a needle in total darkness. The Mississippi’s visibility happened to be next to zero; thus, finding items on the muddy floor had to be done by touch only. Because of these types of conditions, divers were susceptible to cutting themselves on sharp objects lying below the muddy bottom or becoming entangled in old fishing nets. And then there were those who had panic attacks,
Two mooring lines split off in two directions in advance of their dive. One angled to the river’s floor, the other taking the divers to where they had floated several marker buoys to identify where they had located evidence on their first initial dive.
Dax lowered himself first. It was never comfortable going down into black water. It was reminiscent of walking into a pitch-black room without being familiar with the surroundings. Dax had witnessed men and women alike thrown into a panic under these conditions creating even more danger for the other divers. It was why only certified divers were allowed on board with him in these types of salvage endeavors.
“Down Captain. Can you read me?” Dax said, his voice reminiscent of Darth Vader, the rush of bubbles encasing his head as he breathed through the regulator.
“Copy that,” came Captain Manny’s voice. He would be monitoring their every move and communicate with them using their surface unit sonar.
They had decided to do a half-circle sweep of the area to determine if there was any debris left from the tug that might be used as evidence. Dax’s gloved hands dug down into the thick muddy floor, filtering objects through his fingers. Unfortunately, after an hour of scouring the area, all he had come up with was a glass bottle, a plastic container of some sort and a few chunks of deteriorating wood. Nothing that would have any bearing on the investigation, he mused. When he looked at the gauges and saw it was close to the time for them to ascend, he urged his team to head for the mooring line.
At that moment, Dax felt a tug on his arm. Chase placed a large metal item in his hand. It didn’t take but a moment for Dax to discover what he held was a gun. He felt a rush of excitement knowing they would have something to show for their allotted time in the darkness. Whether it was the gun used in the assassinations, he couldn’t be sure. At any rate, it lent a glimmer of expectation racing along his spine.
Once they surfaced and climbed back on-board the Shark Eater, Dax bagged the gun. The first thing on his agenda…call Detective Scanlin and fill him in on what they had found.
***
“I’ll be there straight away,” Brock told Dax, anticipation skirting his voice.
“Meet me on the docks…give me thirty minutes.”
Detective Scanlin was punctual. He had been hoping for a break in the case. If the bullets in the gun matched the bullets they had pulled out of the dead men, and if they were able to get a lead on where the gun had come from, he might have something solid to work with.
Dax shook Brock’s hand and handed over the package. “This may be nothing,” Dax said.
“Or it may be the evidence we’re looking for,” smiled Brock. “Can’t thank you enough, Dax.”
Dax slapped his shoulder. “No need for thanks. Just did what I needed to do. I hope you catch and prosecute the buggar who exacted this appalling crime.”
“In good time,” Brock replied. “They don’t call me Bulldog at the precinct for nothing. I won’t stop until I find those responsible.”
Dax chuckled. “Well, mate, it was good to make your acquaintance, though it would have been much preferable under different circumstances.”
“I hear you, Dax. My pleasure.”
***
Rafiq Naifeh was bent over searching frantically for his cell phone. It had slipped out of his pocket a couple of days earlier when he had boarded the tug and the last thing he needed wa
s for the authorities to discover the phone before he did. He had heard the clunk while running from the scene after the explosion but was unable to stop and retrieve it because there had been two men on the docks close by. The last thing he needed was to be identified.
Rafiq panned the back lot where the garbage disposal containers were located, a distance from the water. He knew he had to be within feet of where it had landed. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed activity going on in the Mississippi where a salvage ship had anchored. It wouldn’t be too much longer before the tug would be raised up out of the miry depths.
The area had been roped off by yellow plastic strips, warning people to stay out of the area. Rafiq knew to return was a risky endeavor, on the other hand, if the police took possession of his phone, they would be able to extract information from it and ultimately expose his terrorist activities
He had spotted one of the men from the salvage ship he’d been closely watching slide up to the dock and moor his dinghy. Rafiq surveyed the tall, strapping man who hurried over to another gentleman dressed in a brown suit. Rafiq immediate recognized the man as one of the detectives he’d seen updating the community of the bombing on television. The two of them were walking slowly in his direction, deep in conversation. He knew he had little time to locate his phone and get out of there.
Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of the sun’s rays glinting off the face of his cell phone. It had slid beneath the edge of one of the trash bins. Thankfully not too far back, he mused. Bent on one knee, he stretched his arm under the lip, relief filling him as his fingers curled around it. Getting back onto his feet, he tucked the phone into his pocket.