Wood's Wreck Page 19

  “Where are they?” Mac asked, ready to take action. He looked around the kitchen and living room, his eyes stopping on the body at the top of the stairs. “What about the others?”

  “One’s in my SUV downstairs. The other is in the bushes. We moved him out of sight,” Jules said.

  “Tru’s out back. We’ll toss both bodies in the canal.” Mac started out of the room with Mel and Jules behind him.

  “Wait,” Jules called, the receiver still in her hand. “You can’t be here, Mac. You’ve got to run. You’re lucky it’s my day off and the station doesn’t know where I am. I’ve gone as far off the reservation as I can without risking my job. I’m sorry.”

  Mac knew she was right. With a court date looming and the water muddied further by the dead bodies at his house, he had no chance with the law. Time was the only thing that was going to clean this mess up.

  “No worries. You’ve done more than I could have expected.” He went to her and gave a quick hug, then turned and left the room with Mel following behind him. Once down the stairs, he headed toward the boat, wondering how much fuel it had.

  Mel followed. “I want to talk to the Cuban. He’s a victim here. We can’t abandon him,” she said and climbed onto the boat.

  Jules called from the driveway before he could ask what she intended.

  “Help me out here.”

  He left Mel and Armando on the boat and went down the side of the house, with Trufante close behind. They went to the car and pulled the body out. He glanced at Mel and Armando, in an animated conversation on the dock, and hoped that Mel could help the guy figure out what to do. Then they hauled the dead man to the seawall, dumped him, and returned to the bushes, where Jules stood over the body.

  “It’s that punk Commando,” Mac said.

  “Yeah, I know. No loss there. I’ll see if I can buy you some time.” She went for her SUV, started the engine and pulled out of the driveway.

  They hauled Commando along the same route as the other man. Before they were able to reach the water, a phone rang. They stopped and dropped the man, looking around for the source of the sound. It rang again and Mac looked at the dead body, then reached into a pocket and grabbed the phone. Mel and Armando must have heard it as well, and ran up to them.

  With nothing to lose, Mac hit accept and then pressed the speaker button. They gathered around him. A voice called out in Spanish and they looked at each other, heads shaking and looks blank. Mel was about to speak, but Mac put a finger to her mouth as Armando stepped forward.

  “Bueno,” he said.

  The voice on the other end unleashed a tirade.

  Mel grabbed the phone, disconnected the call and went to the settings screen. “Location services are on. If they’re CIA, they can track where we are.” She turned toward the water and threw the phone in. “We don’t have much time.”

  “Get the boat ready. I’m going to grab some gear.” Mac went for the downstairs door. “Tru, check the gas. We’ve got to figure out where to go.”

  Before anyone could answer, they heard a boat in the canal. Mac cursed and ran to the dock. The rental boat sat in the mouth of the canal, its bow wave just lifting it as it settled to an idle and started to approach.

  “It’s them!” he yelled.

  “What now?” Mel asked, fear evident in her voice.,

  “I’ve got an idea.” Mac looked back and forth between the boat across the canal and Commando’s tattooed legs in the driveway. Any way this went, he was either dead or in jail.

  His thought was interrupted by the sound of a whistle getting louder as if coming towards them and he looked up as something passed over their heads. Shock came over him as he followed the projectile and stood motionless as it smashed into the upstairs window.

  The back half of the house erupted in flames as the missile exploded. Anger burned through him, but he forced himself to calm down enough to evaluate the situation. With the well-armed men sitting in the canal, just waiting for a chance to take them out, and the police sure to pull into the driveway at any minute, they were cornered. The plan to take the boat would be suicide with the CIA men sitting in the canal.

  He looked around for a way out and saw the sailboat at his neighbor’s dock. “We’ve been needing to make a change for a while. Maybe this is our opportunity,” he said to Mel, who was staring at the house.

  Mel followed his gaze to the boat. “As long as we help Armando, I’m game. Guess he’s not too impressed with what he’s seen of America. I tried to explain that he could request political asylum, but he wants no part of it.” she said.

  Mac wasted no time now that they had a plan—if you could call stealing a sailboat and returning a refugee to Cuba a plan. He looked at the dock and the three outboards on the boat.

  “You ready to redeem yourself?” he asked Trufante.

  “What up?”

  “Take the boat and blaze out of here. Keep going until you hit the Bahamas or whatever. Just draw them off us and give us some time to get out of here.”

  “What am I supposed to do then?”

  “You’ve got the numbers for my traps. Keep the boat. Why not? That’ll keep you in beers ‘till we get this sorted out.” Mac didn’t wait for an answer. He gave Trufante a quick nod and ran to the back door, avoiding the falling pieces from the burning deck.

  “Grab the passports and whatever we can hock,” he yelled back to Mel, who was following him. He looked back at Trufante who was on his belly, working toward the dock and handed the shotgun to Armando, hoping he would know what to do.

  He went to the house without waiting for an answer, entered the workshop downstairs, and started piling gear on the floor. A timber crashed by his head and he moved faster. If he could make one more dive and recover his cache, he could wire his neighbor money to pay for the boat and they could live large in the Caribbean until they figured things out. Maybe they’d be back soon … maybe not.

  A motor started and two more followed in quick succession, and he knew Trufante was about to pull out. A shot fired and he heard the shotgun chamber another round and fire again. Armando must be covering Trufante’s escape. Then a burst from a machine gun fired and he heard an engine accelerate. They must have taken the bait and followed.

  With a tank in one hand, a bag with his dive gear in the other and a pole spear wedged under his arm, he went back outside, giving a quick glance backwards. The fire was through the roof now and he knew it was the last time he would see his house. Mel was already at the dock next door, Armando by her side. Sirens were audible in the background now. Mac heaved the tank over the chasm separating the boat from the dock and dropped it onto the deck. He followed and waited for Armando to hand him the gear. At the helm he pushed the start button and, without waiting for the engine to warm, set it into reverse and pulled backwards from the seawall. He could hear the roar of the triple outboards in the distance and smiled. Trufante would do as he had asked.

  “Ready?” He looked at Mel.

  “Yeah,” she answered with a determined look.

  Mac pushed the throttle to forward and turned the wheel hard to port. The boat followed his commands slowly, the engine not nearly as powerful as the outboard though it turned. As soon as the boat was positioned correctly, he headed toward the harbor. He couldn’t help but smile as he pushed the throttle forward and motored toward open water.

  Chapter 28

  Norm turned the wheel over to Jay and climbed the stainless steel structure supporting the T-top. The faster boat was nowhere in sight, and his only hope of finding them was to get a better vantage point. His shins crashed against the piping as he reached for the fiberglass roof, blindly looking for a handhold to haul himself up with. The boat hit another wave, the action accentuated by his height, and he reached for anything to keep him from falling.

  His hand hit the base of an antenna and he hauled himself onto the roof. The top was unfinished and the rough surface scraped his skin as he crawled onto his belly, and then his knees. He
dared not go to his feet without something to support him, but even on his knees his vantage point allowed him to see the water beyond the light. There was only a sailboat out past the tower. The boat they were chasing was no where in site. Another wave battered the small boat and he grabbed for the antenna mount and missed. Instead of the base, his hand grabbed the fiberglass whip, which splintered in his hands. The next wave put him back on his belly and he climbed down to the cockpit and stood next to Jay.

  “I lost them. Pretty sure I saw a sailboat out past the light,” he said, pointing where he thought he had seen the mast tip. “Can’t see anything, and with these conditions we can’t outrun them. Maybe keep pace, but we won’t catch them. As soon as it’s dark, any course change and they would easily escape.”

  He looked at Jay, his jaw clenched and eyes fixed on the light, and knew he had lost them. Time to cut his losses and start cleaning up this mess. His long-time accomplice was now the weakest link in the chain. Norm had been trained to put his emotions on hold when action needed to be taken, and went to the place in his mind where he could operate without thinking.

  He raised the gun but decided against using it. If a wave hit, his aim would be compromised and he could damage the craft. He needed another weapon, and looked around the boat for anything he could use.

  Suddenly he saw the eight-foot antenna he had tossed from the T-top lying near the bow. Holding the stainless steel railing he went forward, ducking as each wave crashed over the bow and soaked him, to retrieve it. Looking back at the helm, he saw Jay’s gaze still focused on the waves in front of them. They were so big you had to drive through almost every one, planning the best angle to assault them. It would keep the other man busy for as long as he needed.

  He picked up the antenna and made his way back to the shelter of the cockpit, where he took a position behind Jay. The thin fiberglass snapped easily in his hand as he broke it roughly in half, discarding the thinner end. With the base in hand, he stood back and braced himself, timing the waves to assist him, then lunged forward, slamming the ragged end into Jay’s back.

  He crumbled to the deck, blood pooling around him. Norm pulled the spear from his body and hauled his inert form to the transom, where he pushed him overboard. Discarding both halves of the antenna, he caught the wheel as the boat spun and changed course toward the towers marking the entrance to Sister Creek. He could use one of the remote channels off Boot Key to clean up the boat and figure out his next move.

  It was a bad result for the Nationals, but for him personally, he knew he would survive. There might be another opportunity though, as The White House had just announced the resumption of diplomatic relations with Cuba and he suspected it wouldn’t be long before the trade embargo was lifted. He had a plan to turn the Guantanamo Bay base into a Vegas type strip. This might be the right time to get out of the smuggling business.

  ***

  Mac dared a glance behind them as he steered toward the coordinates he had entered in the GPS. He hoped his memory had served him. The two - seven digit numbers were deceiving. The first four were easy. The entire area was around the 24 degree latitude and, depending how far west you went, either 80 or 81 degrees longitude. It was the final three numbers that identified the spot, and he had long ago committed this site to memory. He looked around, but they were alone in a sea full of whitecaps. It looked like Trufante had succeeded, and he silently wished him luck.

  He scanned the horizon again and still saw only whitecaps. There was no pursuit, the CIA men having followed the power boat. He turned to Mel.

  “Take the wheel,” he said, and pointed to the waypoint on the screen. She knew what to do from there, and he went to the cabin and pulled out the dive gear.

  He bounced around the cockpit as he tried to strap the BC and tank to his back. The seas were coming in fast and hard, throwing him off balance every time he tried to lift the weight of the tank off the floor.

  “Where do you want to drop anchor?” Mel yelled over the roar of the wind and noise of the waves smashing the boat.

  Mac had her stay close to the waypoint, using the chart-plotter to stay close to the spot. “We can’t anchor in this. You’re just going to have to keep circling. I’ll take a bag down and inflate it when I’m ready to surface. Then you can motor over and pick me up.” He finally managed to close the velcro waistband and buckle the strap.

  Armando came over and helped him adjust the tank on his back.

  He slid across the wet deck to the transom—the only place on the boat he could exit without the coated wire guardrails interfering. His body jammed in the corner to remain stable, he put on his fins and mask and grabbed the spear. With his right arm he swept behind him to find the regulator, which he put in his mouth, and, in one movement, he rose and fell over backwards to enter the water. Immediately his body stung from his blistered hands and the scratches on his legs, but he fought through his injuries and started his descent. It was like a different world the minute he was under water. The turbulence above ceased to exist, the angry seas replaced by tranquil water. He warmed as he descended slowly, the eighty-degree water like a hot tub after the wind-blown spray they’d endured on the way out. Clearing his ears every few seconds, he dropped through the water column, trying to even out his breath from the excitement of the chase and exertion of getting in the water.

  He reached the bottom and checked his gauges. Calculating fifty minutes at the seventy-five-foot depth, he went to work. In his previous efforts to find his stash, he had followed a grid using standard search procedures. But this was his last shot, and he had to think outside the box.

  He adjusted his BC and floated several feet off the bottom, picturing in his mind how the site had looked before the anchor had torn it apart, and imposed that image over what he now saw. He had assumed before that the anchor had dropped the coral heads where they were, not thinking they could have been dragged across the bottom. This area of the reef had no defined walls or ledges with which to orient yourself. It was a forest of coral heads, sponges, and hard bottom; one area was almost indistinguishable from another. The three corral heads had been his landmark, so he had naturally gone to them.

  Now he thought he might have been wrong. The two heads remained where he had last seen them, leaning next to a third. But what if the third structure was not part of the original cluster? He looked around and saw similar lone corals scattered over the bottom. He checked his watch and air, then looked at his compass and followed a westerly course, thinking that the predominant sea conditions were from the southeast, and that a boat with a stuck anchor would have backed down in that direction to free itself. Slowly he started swimming a search grid, staying ten feet off the bottom in sixty-five feet of water to aid his air consumption and add to his bottom time.

  He checked every coral head as he circled the area, but their bases were all undisturbed. The incident had happened within the last six months, and he expected some growth, but the craters where the two heads had been should still be visible.

  A line became visible above the sand, moving slowly towards a coral head, and he couldn’t help but follow the black grouper, finning closer for a better look; as intent on finding his stash as he was, it was hard to ignore a large fish. He had brought the spear more out of habit and to use as a pry bar than to hunt, but he couldn’t resist the challenge. And he wasn’t sure how the boat was provisioned; they might need the meat.

  If he had just been hunting, the fish would have been on his stringer by now, but in the time wasted thinking about it, the grouper sensed him and all he could do was watch it tense, and with two sweeps of its tail fin, speed away.

  Just as he was about to look away and resume his search pattern, a lone coral head in the path of the fish caught his eye. It was not where he thought, but the ocean bottom often appeared to shift depending on current and visibility; the bottom could look one way on a Monday and completely different on Tuesday.

  Perhaps he’d been seeing it wrong the entire time.
Invigorated, he quickly swam into the current toward the coral head. He was using more air than he had wanted, but the excitement of possibly finding his cache overruled his better judgement.

  A long few minutes later he arrived at the coral head, out of breath, and checked his gauges. The hard swim had cost him, and the needle kissed the red zone, showing five hundred psi of air left. Not a lot at this depth, and he would need a reserve to ascend and wait for Mel to find him. With no time to lose, he held the inflator hose over his head with his left hand, released air from his BC, and descended to the bottom.

  He knew he was on the right spot as soon as his eyes came level with the lone coral head. Beside it, he could see where the other heads had been. The boater must have dragged them to where they now lay.

  He was down to two hundred psi now—minutes from running out of air—as he stuck his hand under the coral head. Something was different, and the space felt smaller than before. Frantic to recover anything, he took off the BC and let it rest on the ground. Without the bulk of the vest and tank, he jammed himself as deep as he could into the opening and moved his hand back and forth in the small cavern.

  He was about to give up, when his hand brushed against what he thought was a rock. But it moved too easily, and he grabbed it. Without the time to look, he stuck the object in his BC pocket, slid back into the vest, and inflated the BC. Working with both hands, one to secure the vest and the other to add some air to the BC, he started a fast but not dangerous ascent.