Wood's Betrayal Read online

  Wood's Betrayal

  A Mac Travis Adventure

  Steven Becker

  The White Marlin Press

  Copyright © 2017 by Steven Becker

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Epilogue

  Thanks for Reading

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  Also by Steven Becker

  1

  Mac was suspicious when Trufante said the mahi were running, but not wary enough to stop him from loading the boat with bait and ice to give it a shot. Trufante had come out in a small skiff this morning with the news and now waited for him on the trawler. His mate had several talents. Finding fish was one, getting in trouble was another. Mac knew it was early in the season, and with the strong cold front that had come through last week, he suspected the fish were either far offshore or still southwest of the waters near Marathon, making it an expensive proposition to go after them. The better plan would be to wait patiently for the Gulf Stream to bring them to his door. But inactivity was not something Mac did well, and Trufante’s prediction swayed him. He also knew from his three decades roaming the waters of the Florida Keys that fish seldom did what they were supposed to.

  Surviving on the small chain of islands was tough, and though known as a laid-back, “mind-your-own-business” kind of guy, Mac stayed busy by diversifying. Weather was always a factor here, and without a plan B, too many folks had nothing better to do than head to the bar when the wind blew. Besides being sought after for the more difficult salvage work that no one else would touch, he ran traps for lobster and stone crab, as well as fished whatever was in season.

  He’d seen the look on Mel’s face when he’d told her his plans. But there was something about Trufante that was like honey to a bear with him. Of course, she was right. He had pointed out that it was just a fishing trip, but her cynical view of the Cajun was unwavering. Sometimes he knew it was better to walk away, and he went down the stairs of the stilt house that Mel’s father, Wood, had originally built and Mac had recently reconstructed. He left the small clearing, just large enough for the house and a storage shed, and walked down the brush-lined path to the water. Wading into the warm Gulf that was his backyard, he released the line from the lone pile guarding the unmarked cut to the island. Using the dive ladder, he climbed aboard the forty-two-foot custom trawler and glanced across the port rail, hoping Mel had come to say goodbye, but the small beach was empty. Resolving to check in later, he moved his focus to the water in front of him.

  The back side of the Florida Keys was like a puzzle. Navigating the shallow, shoal-ridden waters dotted with mostly uninhabited mangrove islands was a challenge, even to the experienced boater. The shallow Gulf waters running adjacent to the northern side of the chain of islands were known by most as the backcountry. The reef, just a few miles off the southern shores, made famous for its snorkeling, scuba diving, fishing, and treasure, usually occupied the spotlight, but it was the backcountry where other kinds of action took place. Smugglers and pirates had used these waters to hide since the Spanish explorers had started shipping gold back to Europe. There were no precious metals to be found here, just the Gulf Stream, which early navigators had used as a highway, known then as the Spanish Main, to ship their riches home. Running just offshore of the island chain, the strong northeasterly current had aided the ships in their journey. But the deadly reef was also close enough that even a small storm could blow an entire convoy onto the treacherous coral heads. The 1733 fleet was the most famous, but many ships laden with treasure had been lost in calm seas as well. Both wreckers and pirates had flourished in these waters.

  Mac reversed out of the channel that Wood had dredged years ago. It seemed counterintuitive, but the only way to get to Marathon from the island was to first head away from it. Spinning the wheel to port, he pushed down the throttle and the boat moved to the north. The markers for Harbor Key Bank were still in the distance when he made a hard turn to starboard and used an unmarked cut to gain the deeper waters of Spanish Channel. Now with the island on his starboard side, he looked across at the refuge, first built by Mel’s father, Wood.

  The old man had been Mac’s mentor, and the two had worked together since Mel was in high school. There were some good times and some hard times, but they had remained close throughout. Wood had originally built his simple conch-style house, using wooden piles to keep it above both the mosquitos and the storm surges brought by the tropical storms and hurricanes which struck this area more than most wanted. Mac had rebuilt it last year after a rogue CIA agent had burnt the original structure to the ground.

  As he watched the island disappear behind them, he looked over at Trufante, napping in the chair to his left, hoping he was right and they would be back with a hold full of fish. At least the weather was cooperating. It was that once-a-week kind of day, with barely enough wind to put a ripple on the surface of the turquoise water, and at least so far, there was no sign of the black cloud that generally followed the Cajun.

  Mac followed the channel, staying straight where he would have veered to port if he were going to Marathon. Instead he headed toward the Bahia Honda Bridge. Lining up the bow with the missing section of the old railroad trestle bridge, he headed toward the deeper waters of the Atlantic Ocean. After navigating the churning water between the bridge piers, he accelerated on a heading of two hundred ten degrees. The fastest course to deeper water would have been due south, but he made the thirty-degree correction to account for the distance he expected the Gulf Stream current to take them over the next few hours.

  Five miles later, they crossed the reef line and he watched the depth finder plunge from twenty to two hundred feet over the next half mile. The water changed with the depth, from a light turquoise, clear enough to see the coral heads that had taken so many unsuspecting ships over the years, to a deep blue indigo. Though it was dark, the water was deceptively clear, and the sunlight danced over particles suspended in the water column, making the ocean seem alive.

  Once they passed four hundred feet, Mac could see the outline of several freighters running southwest on the horizon. Their location showed him where the inside edge of the Gulf Stream was running. The current ran like a river through the Atlantic, starting to the west of Cuba and following the coast of Florida before veering east toward Bermuda. It was this current that had been used to move millions of dollars of gold from the New World to Europe. Today freighters and container ships took advantage of the free six knots to save fu
el as they moved up the coast. Nowhere did it run closer to land than it did as it passed the hundred-twenty-mile chain of islands, and a slight navigation error or storm could easily lay a keel open on the shallow reef they had just passed.

  “I got birds ahead,” Trufante called out.

  Mac hadn’t even seen him wake up, but the Cajun’s instincts were uncanny. Squinting into the glare, Mac turned toward a dark cloud hovering over the surface. “They’re just tuna birds,” Mac said. The gulls danced on the surface, darting here and there and occasionally grabbing a small baitfish. He knew the birds were moving too quickly to be on mahi.

  Trufante was at the transom with two lines already out. “Blackfin’d be good eatin’, and a skipjack or bonito’d make a nice bait.” Just as he said it, the clicker on one of the rods went off. Trufante grabbed the rod and waited for several seconds, making sure the fish was hooked before he started to reel it in. Turning to Mac, he showed his famous thousand-dollar Cadillac grille. “You gonna slow down and help me out here?”

  Mac shook his head. He only slowed for a big fish. It was all good to take your time if you had the family out, but fishing was part of his livelihood, and time wasted was money lost. “You’re on your own,” he called back.

  Trufante tightened the drag and horsed the fish to the boat. A few minutes later, he swung the football-shaped black carcass over the transom. Mac saw the stripes running vertically down its belly and knew he had made the right call. “Told you they was tuna birds. Just a skipjack, all they’re good for is bait. And don’t bloody the deck with it.” He adjusted the course back to two hundred ten degrees and watched Trufante pull the hook and toss the fish in the box.

  Another hour later, he checked the chart plotter and saw they were almost fifteen miles off the reef. The GPS told them they were making no headway, and he knew they were in the Gulf Stream. Trolling against the current at six knots left them standing still. “Where’s the fish?” Mac asked.

  “Maybe they’s not this far yet. Try heading west some.”

  Mac spun the wheel to starboard, making a long, easy turn so the lines didn’t cross and tangle. “You know that or you guessing?” he asked. For better or worse, Trufante knew every captain up and down the chain of islands, and for whatever reason, primed by the ever-present alcohol in those circles, he had the type of personality they talked around. Many, including Mel, had a low opinion of him, but Mac knew the difference between being a fool and acting foolish.

  “Heard it was hot down off Key West a few days ago, thought they’d be up here by now.”

  That made sense, except for the cold front that would have stalled them. Mac had a decision to make now. Either pull the plug and head back, wasting a hundred dollars in gas and bait, or pick up the baits and run. He chose the latter and called back to Trufante to reel the lines in.

  Subtle changes became visible as they cruised at twenty knots toward the waters offshore of Key West. The water temperature had increased two degrees and Mac was seeing more sargassum weeds in the water—both good signs. They would need a few days of southeast winds until they built into the huge weed lines that blanketed the ocean, but looking down at the small patches, he could see they held bait. As if on cue, he saw a pair of frigate birds circling ahead.

  “Put ’em out,” he called back. After setting the autopilot, he moved to the cockpit of the trawler he had customized to his needs and helped Trufante. After they had set five rods out, he returned to the wheel, hit the standby button on the autopilot and steered toward the birds.

  The hit came quickly, and he could see Trufante’s smile as two rods buzzed. A hundred yards behind the boat, he saw two splashes and knew they were onto some full-size fish, and hopefully a school. Dropping the RPMs to eleven hundred, just enough to hold course, he set the autopilot again and grabbed one of the rods. The fish had hit the shorter outside rods, and he decided to leave the longer lines out in case something bigger was lurking.

  They fought the fish simultaneously, having to switch places several times before they were ready to be landed. Though a nice size, neither required the gaff, and when the sixty-pound leader hit the swivel, they swung the fish over the gunwale. Mac immediately checked the other rods and the water, but these fish were loners. There was no school.

  Together, they reset the lines and Mac looked over at Trufante. “Seems like the action’s to the west. What do you think about staying in Key West tonight, getting some provisions and chasing them out of the Marquesas for a couple of days?”

  “Shoot. I ain’t gonna say no to that action.”

  “What about Pamela? She gonna get freaked out if you’re gone a couple of nights?”

  Trufante pulled back on one of the rods to shake the weeds off the skirted ballyhoo. “Ain’t a thing. She’ll be okay.”

  Mac knew better. Pamela had been around for over a year now, easily a record for the carefree Cajun, but there were questions surrounding her that no one could answer. Mel had even tried to run a background check on her, but it had come up empty. There was money, but how much and where it came from remained a mystery. “Your call.”

  “Could ask you the same about Mel,” Trufante said.

  Mac knew he was right, but there was trust in their relationship, and as long as he came back with a hold full of fish, she understood. It was the company he kept that bothered her.

  “She’s got no use for me right now. Just got some satellite Internet thing hooked up on the island. She’s got her nose in some legal action about the Everglades trust she set up last year. We’ll call them as soon as we cross the reef and get reception.”

  They picked up another half dozen fish before the sun started to sink, but it was far from a full hold. To make the trip profitable, they would have to bring back a hundred good-sized fish. The signs were all there, and that gave him some reassurance after the mediocre day. Plotting the hits in his head, he guessed the waters off the Marquesas, a small atoll of islands about twenty miles past Key West, would make the trip profitable.

  “Pull ’em up. Let’s head in and get some food. If what I’m seeing holds, a good day off the Marquesas will put some cash in our pockets.”

  Trufante hesitated. “We still stayin’ in Key West tonight?”

  Mac knew the draw the town had on his mate and had already thought it out. “I’ll let you out of your cage for a few hours, but you’re not going out of my sight, or staying. With the wind down, we can anchor up off Sand Key and get an early start tomorrow.” He had thought about running at night, but they did need provisions, and allowing the Cajun a few drinks would improve morale.

  “Deal, then.”

  With the lines in, Mac went back to the wheel, turned to starboard and set the GPS for the capital of weird.

  2

  Mac eased the trawler against the fuel dock, cut the engine, and cringed at the price of diesel posted on the board. A fistful of bills later, his tanks were full, and Trufante had shoveled the two gratis baskets of ice into the hold.

  “Got any open slips?” he asked the attendant.

  “Full up. Got some kind of freak show in town again,” the man said. Mac eyed him as he replaced the nozzle. If his pink socks and toothless grin lent a definition to freak, then this was not a night he wanted to be around. Looking over at Trufante, who was talking on his cell phone, he wondered if it might be better to leave the boat here for an hour, get some provisions and head out tonight. If nothing else, he’d get a better night’s sleep and save a few bucks.

  Trufante was still on the phone, which should have been his first clue that trouble was brewing. Rarely did he call Pamela, and with good reason. Her unusual habit of mixing song lyrics into her conversations was tedious, and he also knew his mate. Trufante would generally text women and call men. From his own experience, Mac couldn’t fault that logic.

  “Hey, what do you think about grabbing some provisions and hauling ass?”

  “Shoot, man, got my boy Billy comin’ by for a beer.”

/>   “Billy Bones?” Mac cringed at the moniker the ex-Jersey pseudo-gangster had claimed for himself.

  “I’m going to the store. You do what you want, but this boat’s pulling out at ten with or without you.” Mac gave the ultimatum and climbed to the dock. After handing a twenty to the attendant, he helped Mac pull the trawler to the end of the dock with his promise he would watch it.

  Mac looked at the crowded boardwalk running the length of the marina. Tourists, mostly holding red Solo cups or bottles of beer, were gawking at each other, and several groups were crowded around the charter boats where the mates were filleting their catches. Walking up to one of the boats he knew, Mac saw the mahi on deck and smiled. He worked his way around the audience, stepped down to the cockpit, and climbed the stainless-steel ladder to the flybridge. From ten feet above, he looked down at the crowd, now pointing to the hundred-pound tarpon schooling around the pier, fighting each other for the skin the mate had tossed.

  “Hey, Rupert,” Mac said, extending his hand.

  The captain grasped it and laughed. “Mac freakin’ Travis. In Key West. Wood’s daughter get sick of you and toss your ass?”

  “Naw,” Mac said, looking down to the deck. “Nice catch. I was hopin’ to get into some tomorrow.”

  “If you want to spend the gas, you’ll get past the schoolies off the Marquesas,” Rupert said.