Only one more thing. “Jacques!” he called to his brother. “Get some chain from the locker, will you? We’ll need it soon.”
Too bad about the kid, he thought, but he was beyond the point of really caring about it. Jacob Finley was just another problem to be dealt with.
Then, from far behind him, the distinct stutter of automatic weapons.
Oh fuck! he thought.
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On the Vigilant, the three men scampered on board the small boat and fired up the twin Yamahas. With a total of 180 horsepower, the little craft was seriously overpowered, not that Ensign Dunbar cared. Dunbar liked speed and he loved agility. The little boat offered plenty of both. He slipped on his radio headset and set the IFF transponder to “ON.” He had no desire to be mistaken for a bad guy this night, not with the Master Chief on the autocannon.
Meanwhile, Seaman Levine was double-checking the .30 cal while Seaman Jankowski was warming up the radar and making sure his M4 was loaded, all the while humming a really stupid pop song.
Captain O’Brien leaned over the rail, wearing a small headset. “Mr. Dunbar, ready?”
“Other than Jankowski’s really awful taste in music, we’re ready, Captain.”
“We all have our crosses to bear, Mr. Dunbar,” she said dryly. “Launch your boat. Keep your radio channel open. And Dunbar, remember: you are a scout, not Patton attacking across the Rhine.” Dunbar saluted smartly, turned the small boat away from Vigilant, and goosed the engines. Soon the boat was slamming through the waves and being pelted by wind-blown spray. Within five minutes all three of the young men were soaked and smiling and loving every minute of it, confirming the adage that you don’t have to be crazy to join the Coast Guard, but it certainly helps.
They sped into the inlet, wind at their backs…armed to the teeth and hunting for bear. What better way to spend a Thursday night?
Chapter 60
Fireworks
Marc LeBlanc guided the Rosie’s Pride down the channel into Elm Tree Cove without difficulty. His boat was a little shorter than his cousin’s and handled well. When he came to shallow water, the Cartel gunmen emerged from the woods and waved him over to the spot where the water was deeper and closer to shore. LeBlanc spun the wheel smartly and soon had the boat nosed into the soft mud bank.
“Good to see you,” Banderas said in accented English, his eyes scanning the crew members of the Rosie’s Pride for anything suspicious. “Let’s get the package off quickly.”
“Fine by me,” Marc LeBlanc said bluntly. He wanted to get out of the cramped Cove and into open water, the sooner the better. His crew was just in the process of dropping the fifty-pound package of heroin over the side when there was the crisp, unmistakable sound of gunfire from across the Cove.
Immediately, all of the gunmen pointed their rifles at the crew of the Rosie’s Pride.
“Bastardo!” Banderas glared at LeBlanc. He gestured to his men.
“No! No!” Marc LeBlanc screamed.
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Sometimes it is the littlest things. A cough on a quiet night, the unexpected sound of metal clinking against metal, an ill-thought cigarette in the dark…or an uncomfortable tree root.
DEA Agent Shawn Benson had been lying under a bushy pine tree for close to an hour, peering across Elm Tree Cove and trying to see something, anything. Visibility was tricky – one moment the rain was heavy, the clouds thick and the night black as a politician’s heart, but then the rain paused, the clouds opened and thin shafts of light dappled the ground.
That was all very nice, but Benson’s immediate problem was that a tree root was stabbing him painfully in the hip. The pain had slowly grown from being a minor annoyance to a sharp, throbbing agony. Although Finley had told them all to hunker down and not to move, the pain felt like he was lying on a fucking chisel and malicious little dwarfs were pounding the blade into his bones. Glancing about to make sure no one was looking at him, he shifted left, but there was another pine root that dug into his shin. No good. If he crawled back, there was another goddamned root, and if he crawled back even further, his view to the Cove was blocked.
“Well, shit,” he muttered. He decided to move forward. Getting awkwardly to his feet, he took one cautious step, then another, but on the third his foot caught on yet another root and he went sprawling. That wasn’t so bad in and of itself, but Agent Benson had been carrying his rifle with his finger on the trigger, a bad habit he had been unable to break and usually didn’t even think about. As he fell forward, he instinctively threw out his arms, and when he crashed into the ground, his trigger finger was jammed back against the trigger.
The rifle fired. Loudly. It was set to fire a three-round burst, and that is what it did.
On the other side of the Cove, all hell broke loose.
One of the Cartel gunmen had seen the flicker of light from the gunshots and turned his head. A sliver of starlight showed a dark form lying across some white, exposed rock. The Cartel gunman never hesitated. He lifted his rifle and shot a full magazine at the fallen figure.
“Game on,” said Josephs. He centered his scope on the gook who’d just shot, and fired his M-16 in three-round bursts. The man crumbled to the ground and Josephs moved left to his other prepared position.
The Cartel gunmen by the lobster boat did what they had been trained to do in the opening moment of any gunfight – they killed everyone near them who might pose a threat. The crew on the Rosie’s Pride were torn apart by the close-range fire of six AK-47s. Marc LeBlanc almost made it to the side rail on the far side of the boat, but four bullets took him in the back and blew out his chest. He died as he lived, sullen and resentful.
Two of the gunmen clambered on board to grab the package of heroin, then jumped back into the water and waded ashore.
Two more Cartel gunmen scrambled out of the trees, mistakenly thinking that one of the lobstermen had shot their comrade. They milled about, unsure of what to do.
Santana centered his scope on a man’s chest and opened fire, then shifted to the man standing next to him. Both men went down. “Jesus, they’re fighting dumb,” Santana said, then rolled to the right and settled into his backup firing position.
Now they had the Cartel gunmen’s attention, and the gunmen began to spray the northern bank of the Cove in earnest. Finley began firing his weapon, meanwhile shouting at his men. “Fire, for Christ’s sake! Fire!”
Banderas ordered his men back into the tree line, but in the confusion, the last bundle of heroin was abandoned on the beach. Realizing what had happened, and unwilling to leave it behind, Banderas berated his men to fight harder. “Find a muzzle flash and concentrate fire on it,” he yelled to them.
One of the DEA agents tried to move positions, was spotted and shot.
Josephs and Santana patiently waited for a clear shot, then picked off one gunman who rose to his knee and fired an entire magazine at them. Returning fire from the gunmen smacked into tree trunks all around them, and each man buried his face in the dirt.
On the south side of the Cove, Banderas grabbed two of his men. “Go through the woods to the bridge. Make sure no one is coming to flank us. If you don’t see anyone, get across any way you can and flank them.” He gave them a shove. “Go!”
In the woods behind the Cartel’s gunmen, Chief Corcoran and his men watched through low-light scopes. Corcoran saw the two men break off from the main group and run toward the road. He snapped his fingers to get the attention of Duffy and Higgins.
“You two go straight out to the road. There are two of the Cartel guys moving that way now. You’ll be behind them. As soon as you see them, take ‘em out and come back. Move!”
Without a word, Duffy and Higgins ran through the woods. Duffy was smiling.
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On the Celeste, Jean-Philippe LeBlanc blinked several times in rapid succession. What the hell happened? “Jacques! Guy!” he called for his brothers. “Go forward and aft and scan everything you can
see. I need to know if there is another boat out there!”
The brothers ran to comply, with Jacques standing just inches away from the equipment shed, binoculars to his eyes, oblivious of the two boys crouched down inside. In a minute the two LeBlanc brothers were back at the pilothouse.
“Nothing I could see, but visibility is for crap out there,” Guy reported. Jacques nodded in agreement.
They were in Southeast Harbor now, with deep water under the keel. To the left was the entrance to Brays Narrows, which would take them to Long Cove. There were places to hide in Long Cove, but there was no way out except back through Southeast Harbor and down the reach to Jericho Bay and then the open Atlantic. Jean-Philippe instinctively cringed at the idea of being trapped in Long Cove, with police boats and the Coast Guard coming in after him.
To the right, he’d have a straight run to open water, no more than a mile away. On a good day he could make that run in seven or eight minutes, and even with the storm and darkness he could do it in twenty, thirty at the very most. Twenty minutes to open water. He had an envelope with Three Hundred Thousand Dollars in it, plus the other money the Cartel had already paid him.
All he had to do is reach open water.
“Fuck it!” LeBlanc said. “We’re going for it. Break out the rifles, then stand watch fore and aft. Keep your eyes peeled. First sign of anything, you tell me quick. And nobody fires a shot until I tell you!”
Jacques gave a whoop and the men scattered to their tasks. Within a minute each man was armed with a pistol and an assault rifle. Jacques’ rifle had a 4X-8X scope on it and he held the rifle cradled in his arms. Guy and Doug Tynman, the sternsman, went up to the bow with binoculars and their rifles.
LeBlanc spun the wheel and the Celeste turned to the southeast. He pushed the throttle all the way forward and the propeller bit deeper into the water. He couldn’t see shit, but there wouldn’t be anybody else out on a night like this, except maybe the Coast Guard. There was deep water right up to the shore and the channel was about half a mile wide. There was a good chance he could sneak by the Coast Guard if they were there.
And if he couldn’t, well then he had Jacob Finley as his “Get Out of Jail Free” card.
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In Elm Tree Cove, the firefight was escalating.
One hundred feet behind the Dominican gunmen, Police Chief Corcoran watched with amusement. They sure were shooting the hell out of each other. He glanced at his watch – the shooting had been going on for almost ten minutes. He’d have to make his move soon, before the State Police showed up, but he really wanted to make sure Banderas was dead first. Nice if he could get Finley as well, but Banderas had to go.
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Josephs and Santana had drawn too much attention to their position, so they’d moved behind the boulder to get some protection.
“Those fuckers know how to shoot,” Santana said with a mix of admiration and disgust. At least two more DEA agents were down. Honeycutt was on the phone again, screaming for the helicopter, but the wind was still high and Santana wasn’t holding his breath. And all around them, bullets slapped into tree trunks, whined off the rock they were hiding behind and clipped enough branches to cause a steady rain of pine boughs.
“We need to find new shooting positions,” Josephs said. “They’ve got this one petty well zeroed in.”
“Fuckin’ right,” Santana agreed cheerfully. “How about we crawl back a bit, then hoof it up to the road? If we can get up to the bridge, we’d have a good angle on them. Might take out a couple before they wised up.”
“Sure,” Josephs said. “We’re not doin’ squat here.”
They crawled through the trees until they were behind Honeycutt and Finley. “Hey, Mr. Finley,” Santana called softly. Finley was behind a tree, which was being peppered with bullets from the far side of the Cove. He looked at them and half smiled, half grimaced. “You boys having a good time?” he asked.
Josephs snorted down a laugh. “Fucking great, Mr. Finley. Fresh air, a gentle sea breeze, a pack of wild-ass assholes with AK-47s. Doesn’t get better than this.”
Santana spoke up. “We’re going over to the road and see if we can’t get a better angle on them. Unless you object.”
“Go for it, but stay in touch,” Finley said.
“What are the casualties?” Josephs asked.
“Three dead, two wounded,” Finley answered grimly.
“Christ Jesus!” Santana muttered. “Is any help coming?”
“Well, some State cops are supposed to come, but they’re already late. I don’t know why the bad guys haven’t taken the drugs and already beat feet out of here, but if I were them, I’d be gone as soon as I could.” Finley paused for a moment, swung around the tree and fired off three quick shots, then hunkered down behind the tree again.
“You know,” Josephs said, “I think they dropped the last package on that little beach there, and they don’t want to leave until they get it.”
“Really?” Finley brightened. “I didn’t see that. Where is it, exactly?”
“’Bout ten feet to the right of the boat, and maybe five feet up from the water.”
“Well, let’s see if we can keep them from getting that, at least,” Finley said. “It’s been a piss-poor night so far.”
“Mr. Finley,” Santana said, examining the tree Finley was hiding behind. “You’re gonna get your ass shot off if you stay behind that tree. Way they’re shootin’ it, bullets gonna start going right through and hit you in another minute or so.”
Finley raised his eyebrows in alarm, then let his body slide down the tree. He rolled onto the ground, where he crawled over to a low rock and snuggled in behind it. “Thanks for the advice. You guys call me when you get to your new shooting position. I’ll flip on the searchlights when you’re ready. Might distract them a little, until they shoot them out.”
“Yes, sir,” Josephs said, and the two men crawled away from the water, deeper into the trees where they might get some cover. Five minutes later they were up and running.
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Banderas peered north across the Cove. So far, he’d lost four men, but the volume of fire from the Yankees had dropped considerably. It was time to get the last package off the beach and get out of there. He gestured to two of his men.
“Crawl down to the beach and grab the last package, then drag it back here. We’ll cover you.”
The two men exchanged a glance, but got on their bellies and slithered down to the beach, using the lobster boat for cover as much as they could. They got to the end of the boat; the third package of heroin was only a few steps away, but it weighed fifty pounds and it would take the two of them to move it quickly off the beach into the trees.
“Go!” Banderas snarled, then he and his men emptied their weapons at the north side of the Cove.
The two men darted from behind the boat and reached the package in six quick steps. Each man grabbed one of the rope loops and they lifted it off the beach with strength born of desperation.
Then, from across the Cove, two bright searchlights flared to life and lit up the beach like it was high noon.
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Chief Corcoran’s two men reached the road just south of the bridge. Duffy signaled to Higgins to work his way up the east side of the road while Duffy started to cross to the west, but in the middle of the road, he stopped. The two Cartel men were just reaching the far side of the bridge, moving slowly and cautiously, their backs to the cops.
Couldn’t ask for an easier shot.
Grinning, Duffy lowered himself to one knee, raised his rifle and shot a burst into the man on the left, then smoothly shifted to the man on the right and fired a second burst. Both men crumpled to the ground like sacks of potatoes. Duffy fired two more bursts into them just to make sure, then signaled to Higgins and they melted back into the woods.
One hundred yards away, Josephs and Santana hit the dirt. “What the fuck was that?” Josephs whispered.
“Somebody just got whacked,” Santana answered. “I think some of the drug guys were trying to cross the bridge and got caught in the open.”
“Yeah, ok, but caught by who?”
“I dunno, but that sure as shit sounded like an M16 to me. Three-round bursts.”
The two men cautiously crawled through the bushes to where the two bodies lay in pools of blood. Each man had an AK-47 beside him. They wore dark clothes and were dark complexioned.
“Assholes, all right,” Josephs said, picking up the rifles and slinging them over his shoulder. “But who the fuck shot them?”
“And why the fuck haven’t they shot the rest of them?” Santana wondered.
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“Shoot out the lights!” Banderas shouted, then emptied his magazine at one of them. There was the tinkle of glass and one light went dark. A fusillade of shots came back across the Cove, but within moments the other one was dark as well.
The two men on the beach bolted for the safety of the area behind the lobster boat, dragging the package with them.
“C’mon!” Banderas screamed. “Hurry!” The two men scrabbled up the sand and broken rock and reached the trees while bullets whistled around them. Banderas pushed one of them aside, took the rope handle and dragged the precious package deeper into the woods, the other gunmen following behind, all the while keeping up a steady fire against the DEA agents.
They reached the spot where the other two packages had been hidden. Everyone grabbed a handle and started half carrying, half dragging a package through the woods to their cars.
Banderas felt a flood of relief. It had been bloody, but they had done it!
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Police Chief Corcoran watched them come, five men carrying three packages worth more money than he had ever dreamed of in his life. They were less than a hundred feet away, barely visible in the gloom. But close enough.
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