Eye for Eye

by J K Franko

  “I’ll get you another towel and some dry clothes,” Susie said.

  By the time she came back, Roy was naked.

  She smiled. “Did the wetsuit not help?” she asked, looking down between his legs.

  Roy followed her gaze and laughed. “Not very sexy, huh? You’d never have married me if you’d seen him this tiny, right?”

  She handed him sweatpants and kissed his wet hair.

  “No. The gear was all good. Wetsuit was fine. I was actually a bit warm. Though, I wasn’t out there very long—about an hour in the actual Straits. I did feel my body temp dropping, so I think that for a longer trip the wetsuit will be a lifesaver—literally.

  “GPS was good. Hard to see it through the goggles. But the spray was an issue mainly because of the waves. I think that if it’s calmer tomorrow, I may not have to use them the whole time. All said, it comes down to the waves. Just too choppy.”

  “Well, let’s get some sleep,” Susie said. “You need to rest and reset. Hopefully, conditions will be better tomorrow.”

  They went to bed and Roy put his arm around her, pressing his body against her back. It wasn’t long before he warmed up. The blood returned to his loins and Susie could feel him gently rubbing against her, hinting. She pretended not to notice, and went to sleep thinking of Deb.

  * * *

  Susie and Roy woke late the next day. They had slept a good nine hours. The sun was already streaking in through the portholes in the stateroom.

  Susie made eggs and toast and served them with ham slices. Roy made coffee and sliced grapefruit.

  While they ate, Roy tuned the VHF to the weather channel. Per NOAA, the seas were at two feet with a southwesterly wind at five knots.

  After breakfast, they headed topside. It was a sunny, clear day with virtually no wind, and it was hot.

  They boarded the golf cart and took a tour of the west side of the island. The seas towards the west and Miami looked extremely calm.

  “If this holds up, we’re golden, Suze.”

  “Fingers crossed,” she responded.

  They spent the rest of the day around the marina, being seen. In accordance with the plan, Roy went into the hotel gift shop, bought some sunscreen, and stopped just short of smiling for the security camera.

  They lounged in the pool by the Mega-Yacht Marina and drank a couple of mojitos at the swim-up bar before visiting the sushi bar at the Hilton.

  Roy switched things up this time to ensure that they were noticed by eating a few pieces of sushi and then sending the rest back claiming that it tasted odd.

  Back on the boat, they waited for things to quiet down before Roy donned his wetsuit and took to the water once more. He slowly made his way out of the marina at just past midnight.

  DAY FIVE

  Wednesday, May 2, 2018

  Roy made his way down the channel without incident. The channel is large, and he stayed on the Atlantic edge, far from shore. He kept the speed low, trying to be discreet.

  He reached the end of the channel and made the turn, comfortable that he hadn’t drawn attention to himself.

  He turned west again, as he had roughly twenty-two hours earlier. There was quite a bit of chop where the channel and the ocean met, but it was nowhere near as bad as the night before. He chugged away from Bimini toward the Straits at ten knots. Then, he checked his GPS heading and aimed himself toward home.

  He was gradually able to increase his speed and, at twenty minutes into the journey, the sea suddenly flattened out. To his relief, he made it past the turbulence kicked up by the islands and shallows of the Bahama Banks. Per his GPS data, the depth was 2,292 feet.

  He was over the Straits.

  Squeezing the throttle, he took the jet ski up to forty knots. He was skimming over the water now with virtually no resistance, which meant that the spray was minimal, so he pulled the goggles from his eyes and let them hang around his neck. He could choose between protecting his eyes from spray or some tiny bug that might be in the air versus better visibility. He chose the latter. His biggest worry was running into a cargo ship or freighter.

  Roy tried to stay alert, fighting tunnel vision and scanning in front and to the sides for red, white, or green lights that would indicate another vessel. And, sure enough, at about the halfway point, he spotted some lights to the north—red to the left, green to the right. Whatever it was, the positioning of the lights told Roy the vessel was heading away from him. Just to be sure, he slowed to a stop.

  He took the opportunity to move about on the jet ski. The tension was making his neck tight and his butt numb. He stretched. He even stood up a few times—carefully, of course. The last thing he wanted to do was fall overboard out there. Alone.

  He drank some water. Shook his head a few times.

  The GPS told him that he was sitting 2,769 feet above the ocean floor. The only thing standing between him and a half-mile fall was a shitload of seawater. Something splashed nearby as if to remind him of that. From the sound, it was most likely just a small fish. Above him, the moon, which was just past full, had skidded to a new position in the sky.

  He breathed deep and took in the beauty and peacefulness of the moment.

  One more swig of water.

  Then, he stowed the bottle, settled back into the seat of the jet ski, checked his position and heading, and hit the throttle hard. Homeward bound.

  * * *

  Susie woke with a start. It was 3:00 a.m.

  She switched on the bedside lamp and looked at the notes she and Roy had put together just hours before. Based on his new departure time, assuming good conditions and an average forty-knot speed, he should be home by now. She knew this. She had made the crossing with him numerous times, both on the Sunseeker and the Yellowfin.

  It was beautiful if you crossed in the right conditions, but in bad weather it was a completely different story.

  They had only been caught out in a storm once on the way back from Bimini. They’d just finished a week-long trip all the way down to the Exumas and were heading home. There’d been a large system up in the Tampa area, crossing over the peninsula toward them.

  They’d decided to try and beat the storm. And they had, too—pulling into Biscayne Bay just as the rain started. But they’d made the second half of the trip battling four- to six-foot waves. Camilla got seasick. Susie played nurse while Roy captained from the flybridge. It had been a nasty trip that she didn’t care to repeat.

  Still, that had been on a fifty-five-foot yacht. When Roy had told her that he planned to make the crossing on a jet ski, she’d told him he was crazy, and she’d meant it until she’d realized that was the point. Who in their right mind would cross the Florida Straits alone, at night, on a jet ski?

  Assuming everything went as planned, she’d meet him at 4:30 a.m. She checked her alarm, again, and tried to go to sleep, but no luck. Whatever had startled her awake had pumped enough adrenaline into her bloodstream that she knew she wasn’t going to sleep anytime soon.

  So, she got up, fixed herself some coffee, and went back to the book she was reading, but not before making sure that her phone was on and the alarm set.

  * * *

  Roy arrived home at 2:50 a.m. He put the jet ski up on its floating dock and went aboard the Yellowfin.

  There was no need to go into the house. Not that anyone would see him. They’d given the help the week off. But, to go in, he’d have to turn off the alarm, which would create a record with the alarm company that someone had been at the house.

  Everything he needed was already on the fishing boat. He changed out of his wetsuit into dark blue shorts and a black UV-rated boat shirt. By day, his attire didn’t scream “covert operation,” but it was dark enough to make him less visible at night. He took some time out to stretch in a dark part of the yard, as he was sore from the journey over.

  Then, h
e dealt with the jet ski. He opened the bungs to drain water from the hull, and then he started the engine and ran fresh water through it to flush the cooling system. Finally, he refueled, filling the tank to the top. He needed it ready for the trip back. He’d felt that the risk of waking someone through all this action was low and was far outweighed by the risk of the jet ski not working for the return trip.

  Tasks complete, he started the engines on the Yellowfin and cast off.

  As he headed down the channel toward the bay, he scanned the neighboring houses. No lights on. No flickering TV lights. No one seemed to be awake. At 3:12 a.m. on a Wednesday morning, it was to be expected.

  As he puttered out of the channel and into the bay, the speckled lights of downtown Miami slowly came into view. Many office and condo lights were out. It was nonetheless a breathtaking sight that made Roy sigh. He never tired of this view.

  He cranked the throttle up to about twenty-five knots. It was a good speed. It would get him to Bimini in two hours, and it was an economical speed at which to run the boat.

  Roy knew that the Yellowfin carried just over 475 gallons of fuel. At between twenty-five to thirty knots, he figured he could run about 600 nautical miles. That was more than enough distance to allow them to execute their plan and still leave plenty of fuel in the tank. There would be no need to refuel anywhere and attract attention, create a traceable purchase transaction, or leave behind any witnesses.

  As he cruised through the middle of Biscayne Bay and headed for the channel, he was suddenly filled with a sense of awe and accomplishment at what he’d just done.

  Crossing the fucking Straits alone at night on a jet ski!

  He got goosebumps all over his body. And there was that primordial feeling again, welling up through his gut and bursting out all over him.

  He was out in the bay now, far from land. No one near.

  He screamed at the top of his lungs, “Hell yeah, motherfucker!”

  * * *

  At 4:00 a.m., Susie left the Sunseeker, locking the door behind her. As agreed, she left the lights on in the stateroom and the galley before checking to see if anybody was up and watching.

  She saw no one. No lights or activity.

  If she’d been paying closer attention, she would have smelled cigarette smoke in the air.

  She gingerly stepped onto the dock from the swim platform and headed out of the marina.

  She was carrying a small waterproof backpack and was wearing flip-flops, shorts, and a sweatshirt over her swimsuit. She walked north. Her pace was brisk, purposeful. To anyone passing by, she would look like a late-night reveler heading home, or possibly an early morning fisherman heading out to meet a group for a charter.

  Susie walked until the she reached Bimini’s Luna Beach. She took off her flip-flops and walked along the sand, away from the buildings, staying close to the water. She walked until she reached the stretch of beach where she and Roy had stopped on their walk the first day. She checked her bearings using Navionics to determine that she was at the spot that they had marked previously for the rendezvous.

  She was standing on the beach at the end of a small sand road that led across the island to a large building they’d been told was part of Resort World. When they’d checked on her phone, Google had said it was Villa 210. That didn’t seem right, but it didn’t matter. This was where they’d agreed to meet. The coordinates were correct per the Navionics app. And the surroundings indicated that she was in the right place, as well.

  One of the first lessons Susie had learned about boating from Roy was LOTFW. When running a boat, you have a number of instruments at your disposal. Charting systems provide position and course information. Radar indicates possible vessels, obstacles, and weather systems. Sonar can tell you the approximate depth of the water you are in. Even the radio provides information about the weather and sea conditions.

  The Navionics app she was using there, on the beach, provided her detailed coordinates indicating that she was in the place they had agreed upon. But to be safe, Roy had reminded her she should always LOTFW—Look Out The Fucking Window. She confirmed that the landmarks they’d identified were all in the right places. It was important to look carefully. Because, as we know, landmarks change in the darkness.

  She opened the backpack, laid a towel out on the sand, and sat down. She took out the handheld VHF radio, turned it on, and set it to Channel 68. She placed another towel like a blanket over her legs for warmth.

  The time was 4:52 a.m.

  She had been waiting forty minutes when she saw boat lights approaching from far offshore. She checked the radio volume to make sure it was on and on the right channel as the lights drew closer. She could just about discern the shape of a boat by moonlight. It looked like the Yellowfin.

  She clung to the VHF, her heart quickening. This was all very cloak-and-dagger, and when the radio crackled to life, she actually felt giddy with excitement. It felt as if she had a bunch of minnows swimming around in her belly.

  “Radio check, radio check, radio check, come back.”

  Holy shit! He’s fucking done it...

  She held the VHF near her mouth and replied, “Go to ten, go to ten, go to ten, over.”

  The Yellowfin’s searchlight flashed briefly.

  She took a quick look around to make sure no one was around. Then she jumped to her feet, picked up the towels, and stripped off her sweatshirt and shorts. She pushed everything into the backpack, sealed it, and headed into the water, where she slung the bag over one shoulder and slowly swam out to rendezvous with her husband.

  The boat was about one hundred yards offshore. When she approached, Roy used a telescoping boat hook to bring up the backpack. Susie followed, climbing up the portable swim ladder. Once she was safely aboard, Roy piloted the Yellowfin around the north side of the island and onto the shallower Banks, where there would be less boat traffic, and dropped anchor.

  Once the engines were shut down, Susie hugged her man before asking, “How bad was it?”

  “Not very, actually. The water was fairly calm. I got a little bit of chop leaving Bimini and then at the other end, entering Biscayne Channel—abrupt depth changes and landmass wave bounce, I imagine—but other than that, incredibly smooth.

  “I saw one tanker, but it was heading away from me. I have to admit, there was a point about three-quarters in where I started to fall asleep. But just the thought scared the shit out of me. Woke me right up.

  “Neighborhood was quiet. No lights. I think odds are good no one saw me come in—small craft, hardly noticeable. And heading out, we’ve been out on the Yellowfin so much lately that, if anyone saw, they wouldn’t look twice.”

  Part of the reason they’d been spending so much time out on the Yellowfin had been for their neighbors to get used to seeing it moving again. In the event that someone noticed it missing that day, it would likely just be chalked up as another day that the boat was being used. Hopefully, it wouldn’t stick in anyone’s memory.

  Susie smiled at Roy, with admiration. “So, now comes the waiting,” she said, putting a hand on her hip.

  The first part of their plan was in place. Their alibi. They were in Bimini. They had passed through customs. They were officially, documentably, outside the United States. The Sunseeker would stay in the marina as a witness to their presence in the Bahamas. Silently testifying: We are here.

  Meanwhile, the Yellowfin gave them mobility.

  The next step in the plan didn’t come until that evening. They had gone back and forth over what to do while they waited. They could leave the Yellowfin anchored and swim ashore. But leaving the boat alone meant that they would not know who might pass by, see it, and perhaps even recognize it. Any number of things could happen that would result in there being witnesses to the boat being in the Bahamas, and they needed to know if that happened.

  So, they concluded that t
he safest place to be was with the boat, anchored far from prying eyes or where anyone was likely to pass.

  They put up a sun cover for shade. The plan now was for Roy to sleep and Susie to keep watch. He needed to rest, recover from the night before, and gather strength for what remained.

  According to their plan, in about twelve hours, they would kill Joe Harlan Jr.

  * * *

  At 6:15 a.m., Joe Harlan Jr. parked at Austin Bergstrom International Airport. His flight was at 9:29 a.m.

  While Joe was careless about a lot of things, he hated the stress of running for a flight. He’d much rather be early and people-watch—girl-watch, really—until flight time. Truth be told, the boy hated flying. The idea of being in a metal tube 30,000 feet above ground made his balls shrivel. If he didn’t think too much about it, he was okay. But if he dwelt on it, he got very uneasy.

  He’d been awake since about 4:00 a.m., excited about the possibilities that his meeting with David Kim could open for him. And he was a bit nervous about the flying. He was unsure which of the two had kept him from getting a better night’s sleep.

  As he headed for his gate, he stopped at Ruta Maya for a decaf coffee and lemon pound cake. He flirted with the barista. Although she was a bit on the chunky side and had crooked teeth, he wouldn’t have thrown her out of bed.

  As he paid for his coffee, he saw that she lingered a bit on his credit card.

  A quickie in the back room before the flight?

  He had time, and it had been a couple of days.

  A fuck and fly—like a rock star.

  It’d be a great story to tell Frank.

  He put on his most appealing smile.

  She was smiling back at first. But then it happened, again—what he’d seen a lot of since the whole “Kristy thing.” The cashier’s face changed as she registered why his name sounded familiar. She handed back the card. Smile gone.

  Fucking Kristy bullshit... That one piece of ass has cost me more pussy than if I had AIDS.

  He went to the gate and ate breakfast. As he waited, he considered the trip ahead. If this worked out, his luck would finally have changed. At a bare minimum, the life he’d had before the “Kristy thing” happened would be restored.