Unlawful Chase

by C J Schnier

  I was considering abandoning the hunt when my prey stopped and turned sideways as if to look at me, giving me the perfect shot. The speargun jerked in my hand when I pulled the trigger, and in nearly the same instant I saw the fish convulse and spasm for the briefest of moments before going still and sinking towards the coral. I wasted no time in ascending, hauling the fish up behind me as I went.

  I kept my movements relaxed and efficient, streamlining my body as much as possible and allowing the powerful long freediving fins to propel me upwards towards the dark shadow of the boat above. My mind and lungs urged me to ascend faster, but I knew better than to give in to their impulses. From these depths I could rise at about a meter a second while using the least amount of energy, and the least amount of oxygen. Any more effort than what I was using, and I risked blacking out before reaching the surface. I would have to endure thirty more seconds before I could finally take a much needed breath.

  Halfway up, I looked down at the little patch reef. Despite the crystalline waters of the Florida Keys, the reef was beginning to disappear into a blue haze. I could see the large mangrove snapper I had shot being towed upwards as it dangled from the line attached to the speargun.

  Jeff dove from the surface and met me halfway. He paused until I swam past him, turned, and ascended with me, staying below me in the water column. For the entire time, he kept eye contact with me as we both completed the last several meters to the surface together.

  This was a standard safety measure for freedivers, whose biggest risk was blacking out in the last thirty feet. That close to the surface, a diver's body went through several significant changes. It was here when the lungs once again expanded to their full size, and in doing so, they drew oxygen away from the brain. Having a trained buddy diver was the only relatively safe way to free dive.

  As soon as my head broke the surface, I exhaled before taking my first breath of sweet air in what felt like a lifetime. After two more quick breaths, I let go of my speargun, letting it float beside me, and finished retrieving the snapper. Jeff broke the surface next to me, smiling from ear to ear as I grabbed the fish by the spear and hoisted it over the transom of the boat.

  "Damn, Chase! That's a monster mangrove you've got there."

  "Thanks, but I didn't think it would ever give me a chance at a shot. I was about to give up when it finally turned."

  "For a moment I thought you were trying to beat my record for bottom time," he said.

  Wondering exactly how long I had stayed down, I looked at my Mares Apnea dive watch and was surprised at the numbers. "Three minutes, thirty-five seconds. Not quite as long as your four-ten, but I'm catching up!"

  "Well, your record attempt will have to wait for another day, it's getting late. Why don't we pack it in and head back?"

  I glanced up at the sun, which was already past its zenith and dropping towards the western horizon. We were underway a few minutes after pulling ourselves out of the water. Jeff's compact fishing boat was stout and dependable, but it was not fast, and we made slow but steady progress back to Marathon.

  I took advantage of the warm afternoon sun and stripped from my wetsuit to change into dry street clothes. The wetsuit was a specialized one-piece suit designed for free divers and spearfishermen. It was done in a mosaic pattern that attempted to perform as underwater camouflage. I wasn't sure if the pattern helped much, but the design of the suit kept me warm and streamlined in the water.

  Jeff also changed into dry clothes on the way in. Afterwards, he pointed me towards two large white coolers mounted on the stern of the boat, "Grab yourself a beer, Chase. Get me one too. We had a good day of fishing."

  I opened the first cooler, but instead of beer it contained the various fish we had killed. Shutting the lid, I opened the other and withdrew two beers from the surprisingly fresh ice. Handing one can to Jeff, I popped the top of the other, lifted it to my lips, and felt my face turn green the instant I smelled it.

  "Damn dude, you must have had a rough night," he joked, noticing my discomfort. "Did it have anything to do with that girl who was on your boat when I picked you up?"

  "I'm sure it did. Honestly, I don't remember. I woke up this morning with her lying naked next to me and I didn't know how she got there, much less what her name was."

  "That doesn't sound like you, man. I mean, she was a pretty damn good looking vixen, but she can't fill the void you're feeling."

  "I'm aware," I said meekly, knowing he was right. "It was purely physical. It's not like I'm looking for love," I lied. "There was something about her. She reminded me of Kelly. I mean, she was younger and had red hair instead of brown, but she had Kelly's green-gold eyes. I knew it wasn't her, but I had to go down that rabbit hole anyway."

  "Chase, you won't find love in a hole, man. You know me, I'm all for getting a little action, just don't go crazy and be sure to treat it as what it is. When you're ready, you'll find someone, but you're not there, yet. Where did you pick her up at anyway?" he asked.

  I took a huge gulp of beer, forcing it down my protesting gullet. "I wish I could tell you. Maybe at the Brass Monkey. There was a receipt in my pocket from there. It looks like we closed the place down last night. By the way, that reminds me, do you have any work I could get in on soon? My little bender last night broke the bank."

  Jeff looked at me, frowned, and shook his head. "No, bro. Work is scarce right now. Do you have enough to pay your rent at least?"

  "Oh, yeah, of course," I lied again and took a few more giant gulps of beer, killing it. I had less than $100 left to my name. "It'll be tight for a while. I'll be living off this fish we caught until I can wrangle up some cash. In the meantime, I think I'll have another beer."

  "Just be careful. I heard the marina was talking about kicking you out of the mooring field."

  "Let me deal with the marina. They're more bark than bite."

  "Your funeral, dude," he replied.

  Jeff and I rode out the rest of the trip back in relative silence, choosing the brilliance of the sun on the sparkling blue water over the tedium of conversation. Jeff dodged a few tourist sailboats and then motored through the entrance to Boot Key Harbor. To the north, the famous Seven Mile Bridge stretched off to the west, disappearing over the horizon.

  "I'm going to stop and grab fuel at the Marathon Marina, then I'll drop you back off on your boat, ok?"

  "Yeah, no problem," I said. "Port side tie off?"

  Jeff nodded at me and I stood by with a line as he pulled up to the dock. The marina was right at the entrance to the harbor and was a convenient spot to top off the fuel tanks. Jeff expertly maneuvered his boat and laid her gently against the wooden fenders. As soon as we had two lines attached to the dock, a man with a surgically sharp part in his hair strode down the dock, heading straight for us.

  "Chase Hawkins?" The man called out, his tone all business.

  "Who wants to know?" I asked, trying to remember if I had ever seen him before. I was pretty sure I'd have remembered his horrendous haircut if I had.

  "I need you to come with me. Now!" the man demanded in a husky Russian accent. "My employer would like to speak with you. He is not the sort of man you refuse."

  I looked over at Jeff, who shrugged. "What the hell kind of trouble did you get into last night, Chase?"

  CHAPTER TWO

  "Who the hell are you and how the hell did you know to find me here, of all places?" I asked. The man dressed well. He wore a tailored polo shirt tucked into casual, if too short, shorts. He could have been any of the thousands of rich tourists who found their way into the Keys every week. But my money was on Miami. That city had a style of its own, and living down here I saw enough of it to recognize it when I saw it.

  "Who I am is unimportant," the man said, puffing out his chest. "What is important is we don't keep my employer waiting. So, if you would be so kind, I have helicopter standing by at airport."

  His jaw was square and razor sharp, but his tongue stumbled over his words. He wasn't s
truggling with the language, his grasp of English was good. It seemed he was simply unaccustomed to speaking.

  "What makes you think I'd go with you. You've got bad news written all over you. You're wearing the wrong clothes and you've definitely got the wrong attitude for the Keys. Besides, my mother always told me not to get in helicopters with strangers. Why don't you go down to Key Weird, loosen up a little, and try me again tomorrow? I've had a hell of a morning."

  The man looked at me, flabbergasted someone had the audacity to refuse him. This was a man accustomed to a certain level of power. I took his moment of shock to study his face closer, watching his craggy jaw change from confusion to what seemed to be pity. His eyes, however, remained an empty cold blue, completely devoid of the emotion his face betrayed.

  "My employer wants to hire you for job. He is rich man, but time is short and he needs to hire someone today. You come highly recommended and are at top of his list."

  I hadn't expected that. Recommended for what? Everyone in Marathon knew me as a drunk who filled in as captain on tour boats when their normal captains were too hungover to come to work. Once upon a time I worked for myself, making a living as a delivery captain. I moved boats from one place to another for clients too rich or too busy to do it themselves. It had been a glorious life until, through some serious misadventures, I had ended up as the captain of a drug smuggling boat.

  Nobody down here knew about my past. I'd kept it secret for over a year, and there was no way I would allow myself to end up back in that trade. Whatever this guy was proposing felt a little less than legal. If it hadn't been for my rumbling stomach, I would have walked away. As it was, I knew I needed some money.

  "What kind of job does your boss want me for? Sending his lackey to pluck me off the docks seems extreme."

  "I would prefer to let him answer that question. He told me to come to Marathon and find you. I ask around. You're well known. Someone mentioned you were out spearfishing with friend. You can't spearfish without going a long way by boat. Fuel dock seemed best place to find you," he said.

  "That is some impressive deductive logic, Sherlock, but I'm gonna go back home. Thanks for the offer, but this sounds sketchy, and I've had enough shady dealings for one lifetime."

  A hand landed on my shoulder and I jumped, snapping my head around to see Jeff looking at me. I hadn't noticed him get off the boat. He motioned for me to lean in closer, and when I did, he whispered in my ear.

  "It might be worth going with this guy, Chase. I know it's weird and all, but you said it yourself. You need money. It's probably some big delivery job. You know, take this guy's rich Russian boss and his mistress down island or something like that. Go find out, if it's not something you like, you can always walk away."

  I couldn't believe my ears. We knew nothing about this guy or his employer, yet he wanted me to get in a helicopter with him. "Are you sure, man?"

  "Of course. If you get in trouble, call me," he said with a disarming smile.

  "You know I don't have a phone," I reminded him.

  "In that case, I recommend staying out of trouble. But go check this out. It can't hurt."

  "What about my gear? And how am I supposed to get back to Paramour whenever this dude brings me back here?" I asked my friend.

  "I'll bring your equipment over to your boat and leave you a fish on ice. Tomorrow, I'll bring the rest by when you're home. No point in letting it spoil."

  "Alright, but will you do me one last favor and drop my dinghy off at the city dock for me? At least then I'll have a way to get back out to Paramour when I get back."

  "You got it, Chase. No problem."

  A slew of excuses popped in my head, but Jeff was right. I needed the money and if this was a legitimate job, I couldn't afford to turn it down.

  "Alright, Lurch, I don't like the secrecy, but I'll go."

  "Lurch?" he asked.

  "Yeah, you know, the butler from The Addams Family? Dumb. Looks like Frankenstein? Does his master's bidding? Lurch."

  The large man scowled at me for a moment, jerked his head towards shore, and said, "Let's go, smartass," before heading off down the docks.

  I kept pace a few steps behind him, and heard Jeff call out, "Good luck." The whole situation was bizarre. How had this guy known where to find me? This wasn't the only fuel dock in town. None of it made sense, but I followed anyway.

  A few moments later the docks gave way to a crushed shell parking lot where a black SUV sat idling. Lurch opened the rear door and waited for me to get in.

  "My chariot awaits," I muttered as I climbed into the vehicle. He shut the door behind me and let himself into the front passenger seat. A silent five-minute drive later, and we were pulling into the Marathon International Airport. It was a prestigious sounding name for such a tiny airport. It was little more than a building with a handful of rental car places on one end, and a tiny customs office on the other. Private planes dotted the sides of the single runway, but no jumbo jets ever landed there.

  We headed through the lobby and straight out onto the tarmac, unchallenged by the lone security guard who did little more than look up from the magazine he was reading. Off to the side, there was a single unmarked black helicopter with its rotors already spinning. It didn't look overly expensive, but helicopters weren't my expertise. I preferred more aquatic forms of travel.

  Lurch ushered me under the whirring blades and directed me to a seat. Despite the utilitarian looking exterior, the inside was fitted out in tan leather and polished brass. Once seated, the big goon forced himself into an empty seat across from me. The leather squeaked in protest, loud enough to cut through the noise of the rotors. Lurch ignored the sound and slid the door shut with a resounding thud.

  The cabin was much more spacious than it looked from the outside. It could seat eight people in relative luxury. Still, Lurch had to fold himself into his seat. His long legs making him appear to be a mythical giant crammed into a seat designed for children. I chuckled at his discomfort until the rotors spooled up and lifted us off the ground. The pilot climbed a few hundred feet straight up and I watched the land shrink away. Off to the south was the mooring field and the hundreds of boats that called Marathon home. Beyond it was Vaca Key and Hawks Channel.

  The pilot spun the helicopter and headed in the opposite direction, flying over the shallow waters on the gulf side of the Keys. Mesmerizing hues of blue spread out below us, broken by the vibrant shock of green and white where islands broke the surface. I did my best to keep track of where we were heading, but after several banks over wild expanses of alternating wetlands and urban sprawl, I was truly disoriented. I knew South Florida well and could draw a chart of most of it by memory. But seeing it on paper and seeing it from the sky are two very different ways of looking at the world. Even more confusing, I realized the pilot was altering his course on purpose. He would fly in one direction, then change vectors and fly back the other. My potential employer apparently had trust issues.

  "Where are we going?" I asked, but Lurch ignored me. "Yeah, there is no way this job is legal," I thought as we changed directions again.

  ◆◆◆

  The ride lasted only a short while before we were touching down on a concrete pad with a giant white "H" stenciled on it. Nearby, a path led through a copse of red hibiscus and azalea flowers, winding its way towards a house. No, house was the wrong word. The building looked more like a museum than a residence.

  Statues of various beasts and gods, some of which were familiar, others that were totally alien to me, surrounded a wide flagstone courtyard. The house surrounded the courtyard on three sides, forming an elongated horseshoe shape. Extending from one wing to the other, a large pool bisected the entire stone patio as if someone had torn a wall down and replaced with a luxurious moat of sparkling water. Two stone bridges crossed the pool, allowing access to the house proper. Beyond these were large stone arches set into the main walls of the building.

  Each of these stood open with a matching
arch on the far side of the building. The twin archways had the effect of creating an effective breezeway, and the fronds of the many tropical plants sprouting from their pots and planters scattered throughout the ground floor rustled audibly.

  "It's impressive isn't it?" Lurch said, pointing towards the house, "Mr. Pruitt will meet with you shortly. Please, make yourself at home while I tell him you are here."

  In awe of the place, I shuffled across the larger of the stone bridges, noticing the small army of gardeners working on the grounds and the less conspicuous armed guards watching from the crenulated second story roof. Whoever this Pruitt guy was, he was important. Or at least he thought he was. It was a lot of muscle for a private citizen. I'd seen foreign diplomats have weaker security.

  I poked my head in through an arch. The open ground floor housed several well furnished sitting areas, each with an expensive-looking rug and an assortment of artifacts or statues. In fact, every piece in the room seemed to be some sort of antique or rarity. Ivory elephant tusks, Egyptian god statues, a silk kimono draped over a mannequin, and a set of full plate armor were among the eclectic collection.

  A pair of flintlock pistols in a glass and ebony wood case caught my attention. The level of craftsmanship was unlike anything I had ever seen before. Intricate silver and gold adorned every surface, including the striker and the trigger. Several coats of arms stood out against the glossy dark wood, each with such fine detail even the greatest of jewelers would have a tough time replicating them.

  "They're quite the pair, aren't they?" A reedy voice exclaimed from behind my right shoulder. I spun around to see a flamboyantly dressed waif of a man walking towards me. "A man named Samuel Brunn made them, and they once belonged to the British Royal Family. How they came into my possession is quite the tale."

  "I've never seen anything so exquisite. They must have cost you a fortune. Mr. Pruitt, is it?" I asked.