Fallen King: A Jesse McDermitt Novel (Caribbean Adventure Series Book 6) (23 page)

Kim and Linda stepped aboard the
Revenge
and made their way quickly to the forward stateroom. Kim unlocked and raised the bunk. “What are you comfortable with?”

Under the bunk, Linda saw only rod and reel cases from several different manufacturers. “An assault rifle would be perfect, but whatever he has that’s longer than my arm.”

Kim grabbed one of the cases and pulled it out. Opening it, she handed Linda an M16A1, perfectly cleaned and oiled, with two loaded magazines taped together. In a reel case, she took out two more boxes of ammo, twenty rounds in each box, and handed them to her. Linda stuffed the extra ammunition in her pants pockets and Kim started to reach for another long case. Linda stopped her. “I said you’re not going.”

As Kim started to protest, they heard the engines of the go-fast boat start up and Linda said forcefully, “No!”

Returning quickly through the salon to the cockpit, Linda stepped easily over the other boat as the door slowly swung open. As Art cast off the lines and Tony engaged the engines, Linda turned to Kim and said, “We’ll be coming back with your dad before lunch. You have my word on that, Kim.”

The sleek racing boat idled out of the short channel from Jesse’s house and turned left into the main channel. Art climbed into the other molded front seat and buckled in, while Linda and Paul did the same in the rear of the boat in the two seats amidships.

Art quickly fired up the GPS and radar, while Tony stood up, steering the boat. With the moon at his back, he aimed the boat toward the flashing light three miles ahead. The sky to the east was just beginning to change the low faraway clouds from gray to a burnt orange.

“Red sky at morn,” Tony said.

“Sailor be warned,” both Linda and Art said simultaneously.

“That supposed to mean something?” Paul asked Linda.

“Might be some bad weather moving in,” she replied.

“Radar’s clear!” Art said. “GPS and plotter are active!”

“Clear and active,” Tony responded as he sat down and quickly buckled in. “Tighten your straps!”

Tony pushed both throttles slowly forward, but only halfway, not wanting the engines to cavitate and over-rev. The two big racing engines roared as the boat accelerated, planing within seconds. Relying on the navigation system like an airline pilot at night, Tony looked more at the radar and plotter, only occasionally glancing at the water ahead for anything floating. It was an incoming tide and the water should be clean and clear. Several previous trips through the narrow Harbor Channel remained on the plotter as thin blue lines. He had only to keep the boat within the lines to avoid the shallows.

“Approaching Harbor Key Bank!” Tony shouted over the halfhearted roar of the engines.

Linda leaned forward against the restraints, looking for the knotmeter among all the gauges. She assumed it’d be the largest, but those were oil pressure and engine temperature. She found it, not a knotmeter, but a speedometer, just like a car. It showed their speed at sixty miles per hour. She’d never gone this fast on the water before. The long, sleek hull and the two men at the controls made it look effortless.

“Is this as fast as it goes?” Linda shouted from the back.

Tony and Art looked back in unison for only a second, before returning their attention to the screens and instruments.

“No, it’s not,” Art said, without taking his eyes off the many instruments on his side of the console.

Tony looked back quickly once more, yelling, “Hang on!”

The light tower flashed past on the left and Tony pushed the throttles all the way to the stops. They were in thirty feet of water and had nothing ahead of them but deeper water. The boat rocketed forward, nearly pinning all three to their seats.

When the force of the acceleration subsided, the boat flying at top speed across the flat water, Linda was able to lean forward again. They were going over a hundred miles per hour. She’d never gone this fast anywhere but an airplane. Although she hadn’t been to Mass in nearly a decade, she quickly crossed herself and asked God to deliver them in time.

“You had to ask,” Paul mumbled.

Five miles behind the Cigarette,
Gaspar’s Revenge
slowly came up on plane.

Seeing the star I’d been aiming at pulse five times, I was dumbstruck, but knew immediately that I’d gotten through. The laser sight emits a narrow, focused beam of intense light that is invisible until it hits something. Up close, like a hundred yards away, the red dot is a tiny pinpoint. At a thousand yards, moisture in the air disturbs the narrow beam, refracting it so that the dot is slightly larger than the size of a BB, but it’s still very intense. Pilots have been momentarily blinded by idiots shining laser pointers at airliners from a mile or more away, not realizing that it’s a violation of federal law.

The satellite was fifteen thousand miles away. I figured by then, the beam would be a lot wider, but hopefully intense enough to be seen. That is, if anyone knew I was missing, if they were looking and if the camera was looking at a wide enough area to see my signal. A lot of ifs.

Once I’d arrived at the bare outcrop, I’d lain still for ten minutes, staring straight up. The only star in the sky that doesn’t move is Polaris. Any star directly overhead will slowly move toward the western horizon. With the sun still below the eastern horizon, I was counting on it illuminating the satellite enough to be seen. Finally, I noticed one star that was slowly being chased down by another and passed by a third. A stationary star, directly overhead.

Though it doesn’t have sights like a rifle, the bore sight is long and narrow, made to slide into a rifle barrel, so I aimed along its length and began tapping the power switch.

Was it the right satellite? Was anyone even looking? These and a dozen other questions went through my head as I tapped the same message, over and over. Just five letters, the first three were easily recognizable, even for people who didn’t know Morse code. SOS, followed by JM.

Seeing the satellite pulse, I stopped and waited. After a moment, it began pulsing again. Not much of a pulse, but as clear as the early morning air is, I could make out the rhythmic changes in intensity. “How many?”

Aiming the bore sight once more, I began tapping. Finishing the message, I could hear shouts from the refugee camp. They’d discovered that I had escaped.

The sky was getting lighter, meaning the satellite would be invisible in just a matter of minutes. I could barely make out the pulse now. “Two by air, seven by sea.”

My friends were on the way. I aimed again. Time was short. The satellite was nearly invisible in the quickly lightening sky and I could hear someone coming. Halfway through the message, I heard a yell from just forty or fifty feet away.

I stuck the bore sight in my pocket and scrambled for the far side of the clearing, away from the camp. I wasn’t even sure I was aiming at the right spot in the sky, anyway.

A shot rang out and sand kicked up from the ground just ahead of me as I charged through saw palmetto and scrub oak. More shouts as I twisted and turned, altering my course several times. The forest was thick and I made my way north to the far end of the small island. If I could get to the water, the rising tide would help carry me inland, among the many tidal islands that make up the Ten Thousand Islands area.

The problem with that was that it was a maze of tiny mangrove islands, with narrow cuts between them, deep enough in some places for a small boat to navigate. The twice-daily rise and fall of the tides brought clean oxygenated water in and took dirty, nutrient-rich water out. A lot of people had become lost out there.

A better idea would be to stay on Panther Key, where my friends could find me. It’d also be the less likely of the two options that the gang would think I’d do, so that’s the one I chose.

Crashing through the brush, I could hear them behind me. My arms and legs were cut and bleeding in dozens of places. They don’t call it saw palmetto because you can see it. They grow close to the ground, the trunks sometimes running for twenty feet, snaking in and around each other, no more than a couple feet off the ground. The fronds grow to ten feet in places, the branches flat, with jagged thorns that resemble saw teeth along the edges. They can slice through clothes and skin alike. I finally descended the north end of the limestone outcropping, sliding down a short cliff to the water.

Some geological event way before the time of the Tequesta Indians’ arrival here had pushed the limestone up, exposing it to the elements. Over time, the water had worn it down. These outcroppings could still be found in many places around Florida. More in the northern and central parts of the states, but a few are still visible in what’s left of the Glades. No Name Key is one such outcropping, as is Panther Key.

Finding a suitably sized hunk of limestone, I raised it over my head, waiting. I wanted to make sure my pursuers were close enough to hear it, but far enough away that they’d not expect to see me after jumping in. When I judged they were close enough, I heaved the rock as high and far as I could. It splashed into the water with a loud, satisfying plunk.

Turning quickly, I made my way along the mangrove bank, moving west, away from the spot I’d slid down the cliff. I wanted to work my way around the mangrove-lined shoreline to where the boat had arrived on the southern end of the small island. My plan was simple. Get a gun from one of these punks and use it.

I froze when I heard the pursuers at the top of the small cliff, a few loose rocks tumbling down to the water. From there, it was only fifty feet across the quickly moving water to the next, much smaller island. I hunkered down in the water and pressed myself into the mangrove roots and watched.

At one point, one of the two men, the one whose foot I’d stomped on, looked directly at me. I was deep in the shadows of the mangroves and though the sun was coming up and it was plenty light, he apparently didn’t see me. I realized that my face and hair were probably streaked with black soot, making me nearly invisible among the dense roots in the gathering light.

The two men turned and went away. I knew they’d keep looking, probably send a couple of men to the next island. I had to move. My friends wouldn’t be here for at least an hour, if I guessed right. Seven by sea could mean one of two things. The Cigarette could only hold six, so they were either coming in two boats or all of them aboard the
Revenge
. Hopefully, they already had a boat out looking and would rendezvous with
Fire in the Hull
, which would be leaving now. With no place to land, two by air must have meant choppers providing cover. More than enough to take these idiots down.

Behind me, on the narrow beach, I heard a twig snap.

Charity ordered the fuel guy away from the chopper as she started the engine. He’d only filled the tanks a little more than halfway. Being only ninety miles to where they were going and another seventy-five to Homestead, it would have to be enough.

Lifting off, she ignored the rules to follow the taxiway and runway, pushing the cyclic forward and making a beeline for the coordinates Stockwell had given her. In the back of her mind was the file he’d handed her and how that was going to impact her life. She pushed those thoughts from her mind, concentrating on the mission at hand.

Bourke and Hinkle were making themselves ready for the transfer, Hinkle breaking his rifle down and packing it in the shockproof case he carried it in. They’d made transfers from chopper to boat many times and even though this one would be at a much higher speed, they felt confident in their ability, as well as the abilities of their teammates.

“I have the Cigarette on radar,” Charity said over the intercom. “ETA is twenty minutes.”

Bourke replied in his usual calm, deep voice. “If I don’t get the chance to say it later, thanks for getting us on board safely.”

Charity looked at the big man in the copilot’s seat and nodded. She liked his easygoing way. Ten years older than her, in many ways he was like her older brother, steadfast and wise. Always the calm voice in any situation. His instruction during small boat boarding training had always soothed any anxiety she felt, like now. Hovering over a boat and dropping people into it was one thing, but doing it while underway took a lot of composure.

They’d never done it at speeds above forty knots, though. She was glad that it was Tony at the helm, knowing he’d be talking constantly when they came over the boat. Her job was to match their speed and let Art guide her with hand signals. Tony would be talking more to Bourke and Hinkle, giving a running report on water conditions ahead of him in a way the two men on the chopper could relate, to time their leap into the Cigarette’s cockpit perfectly.

She was flying low, only a hundred feet off the water. The images on her radar scope were headed back toward shore, so picking out the superfast boat heading away was easy. Only one other boat was heading north, about ten miles behind Tony and on the same course. A moment later, it came into view a few miles ahead.

“Is that—” Bourke began to say.

Charity finished his question. “Jesse’s boat?” The chopper closed on the
Revenge
, going more than seventy knots faster, then flashed on past. “Sure is.”

“That was his daughter at the helm!” Bourke exclaimed, reaching for the radio.

Charity put her hand on his and glanced over. “What are you going to do? Order her to go back? Something tells me she’s already been told that. Forget it, this thing will be over before she gets there and she’s not going to listen to reason.”

Bourke didn’t know much about teen girls. He had a son once and had moved so fast through his own adolescence, he couldn’t remember. He looked at Charity and she grinned. Something he didn’t see often. “You know I’m right, big guy.”

Bourke nodded, unbuckled his harness, and climbed past her to the rear compartment of the Huey. They’d be over the boat in just a few more minutes.

Charity turned on her earwig. “Tony, can you hear me?”

“Weak and broken,” came the static-filled reply. They were still almost five miles away, which was the outside, unobstructed range of the devices.

“Five miles out. Rate of closure is forty-five knots.”

“Roger, Charity,” Tony replied, much clearer now. “Slowing to seventy knots. Damned sea is flat as glass. Never seen it so calm. We’ll have to get Jesse to bring us all out here tomorrow and catch some fish.”

Charity knew he was trying to diffuse the situation Jesse was in, not just for her, but everyone else. Tony was like that, but he didn’t have to. Jesse had been captured on the island and brought out here against his will. The fact that he’d been able to signal Stockwell meant he was somehow free. Her only concern was if he’d leave anyone alive. She’d seen firsthand how quickly he could react against anyone that crossed him. No threats, no intimidating tactics, no attempt at mediation. Just swift but calculated action.

Charity pulled back slightly on the cyclic while decreasing the collective, causing the chopper’s nose to come up slightly, bleeding off airspeed as it descended. She looked back at Bourke and nodded.

Unlatching the port side door, Bourke slid it open, the roar of the air swirling in around the two men as the bird slowed. He and Hinkle both had their equipment tightly secured to their bodies and were ready. Being the biggest, Bourke would go first, so he sat down and slid his legs out the door. The wind caught his pant legs and the snapping sound of the loose clothing added to the cacophony inside the helicopter.

She slowed more, putting the bird into a crablike angle with the nose pointing slightly to the right of their direction of flight. She heard Tony talking to Bourke, but was concentrating more on Art’s hand signals.

“Over the boat in ten seconds,” Charity said over the intercom.

“Roger that, mate,” came Hinkle’s reply as he and Bourke unplugged the comm link cables from their helmets.

Hinkle sat down right behind Bourke, helping the larger man steady himself as he slid further out the door and put his feet on the left skid.

No longer even looking where she was going, Charity followed Art’s signals. He was standing in front of the left seat, with Agent Rosales between the seats and Bender strapped in on the port side.

The cockpit looked a lot bigger when she’d been on the boat itself. Now it appeared much too small. Art continued to signal her forward with his left hand, the other palm out, toward Bourke. When he clenched his left fist, she held the controls steady, flying at seventy knots just five feet above the boat.

Though she couldn’t see him, she heard the light thud as he dropped almost eight feet to the deck of the boat and she felt the bird lighten and she moved slightly off target. Art patiently guided her back to the right spot over the boat and gave the second signal. A second later, Art gave her a thumbs up and she peeled off, setting a course for Homestead.