by Tripp Ellis
At least I knew I had found the right boat.
I squeezed in through the window and tumbled inside.
The thump of the helicopter above rumbled through the bulkheads, and music from the band filtered through the boat.
I advanced through the salon, clearing the main deck, then descended the steps cautiously. I swung the barrel of my pistol down the companionway and cleared the corridor.
My surprised eyes took in the sight of a blood-soaked body.
Owen lay face-down in the passageway. Crimson sludge pooled on the deck around him, seeping from gunshot wounds in his chest and head.
My face twisted with a mix of confusion and concern.
I crept forward, knelt beside the body and felt for a pulse. He was long since departed, and his body was cold. I stepped over him and advanced toward the master suite. I pushed into the compartment, and my eyes widened with horror.
The full beam master was filled with blue plastic shipping barrels. Wires snaked their way around the barrels, connecting the containers. The wires were soldered to a relay which was connected to a battery and a cell phone.
I drew closer, holstered my pistol, and surveyed the IED.
The cell phone was counting down a timer. Seconds evaporated before my eyes. 2 minutes 52 seconds…
51...
50…
49...
I didn’t want to touch the phone, but we were running out of time. I tapped the screen, and it prompted me to enter a passcode. There was no way I could access the device to cancel the timer. It just kept counting down.
The bomb appeared to be a relatively simple device made with common electronic components. The cell phone’s vibrate function put out 4.2 volts—enough to trip the relay which would allow the battery to trigger the blasting caps which would detonate the primary charge. The primary charge would detonate the secondary charge—which was the main explosive material. There was enough here to cause catastrophic damage.
The crude, but effective IED was made with readily available materials and information easily found on the Internet. The items were probably stockpiled over time so as not to arouse suspicion. If paid for with cash, it would be untraceable and probably wouldn’t have showed up on anyone’s radar.
Programs like Total Information Awareness had been suspended due to privacy fears and lack of oversight. But they still existed in less obvious forms. The goal was to know everything about everyone and develop profiles, then use those profiles combined with sophisticated predictive modeling algorithms to determine who were likely troublemakers. It all reeked of Orwellian type big brother pre-crime thought police. But it didn’t matter how sophisticated the intelligence gathering on American citizens had become. A motivated individual could always find ways to beat the system. To go unnoticed. To wreak havoc.
No amount of laws or predictive modeling could stop the savvy, determined criminal.
I had received plenty of EOD training over the years. I knew my way around IEDs fairly well.
The primary charge of the IED was likely the highly unstable hexemethylene-triperoxide-diamine. The explosive compound was relatively easy to make with an aqueous solution of hydrogen peroxide and hexamine, mixed with an acidic catalyst such as citric acid—a common ingredient in soda. The compound could be detonated by shock, friction, and even static electricity. Due to the volatility, it was probably compounded on site as to avoid any accidental detonations.
The secondary charge was much more stable, making it safer to transport in bulk. It was a binary mixture of fuel and an oxidizer. Dark flake aluminum powder combined with ammonium nitrate—a common ingredient in fertilizer.
The seconds continued to evaporate from the timer.
The boat swayed gently with the swells. It was hot in the master suite, and a thin mist of sweat formed on my skin. A slight, nervous tingle ran through my veins as I surveyed the IED, formulating a game plan. There was no time to call the Explosive Ordnance Disposal unit. Hell, the FBI hadn't even arrived yet.
I was on my own.
From what I could tell, if I could access the device, I could just stop the timer on the phone.
But that wasn’t an option. I didn’t have the passcode.
As it stood, I would have to detach the leads from the battery, and separate the cell phone from the relay. Though, one stray spark could spell doom.
The cell phone alone probably didn’t provide enough power to detonate the primary charge, but one could never be too careful with this sort of thing. If I made a mistake, I wouldn't know about it.
It would be all over.
What happened to me was the least of my concerns. It was the thousands of other people that would suffer.
I hovered over the relay and the battery, watching the seconds drift away. I was about to disconnect one of the leads from the battery when a voice shouted at me. “Don't fucking touch it!"
I craned my neck over my shoulder to see Isaac standing by the hatch with a pistol aimed at me. The barrel trembled in his hand, and sweat sprouted on his skin. He held a cell phone in his left hand, and his finger hovered over the send button.
His wide eyes glared at me. "I swear to God, I’ll detonate it right now if you don't move away."
I turned around and raised my hands in the air and said. "What's the difference between now and two minutes? We're all going to die either way."
36
"You don't understand, man!" Isaac whined. "Nobody understands."
"You're right. I don't understand. Why don't we pause this whole operation and you can help me understand? You want people to know why you're doing this, don't you?"
"Change has to happen. This injustice has to end."
"And you think killing thousands of innocent people is a positive way to affect change?"
"Violence is the only thing that people listen to anymore."
"What happened to Owen? I guess he didn't listen to you?"
Isaac’s face twisted, and a mix of sorrow and rage boiled under his skin. "He started having second thoughts. He wasn't committed. I couldn't let him derail our plans just because he got weak at the last minute. We worked too hard and too long for this."
"That's why you killed Grace."
"It's all for a higher purpose, man!"
"Right," I said, my voice thick with disdain and sarcasm.
The music from the band stopped abruptly.
The crowd booed.
A moment later, a woman's voice filtered through the speakers. "I'm sorry, there has been a technical issue. We will have to postpone the rest of the show. There will be no more acts today. Chloe-C will not be playing. We ask that you all leave in an orderly fashion, thank you."
The crowd roared with boos and hisses.
Isaac's eyes rounded with concern. "What's going on?"
"The FBI, the ATF, the Coast Guard... That's what's going on."
The muscles in his jaw flexed. "Well they're all going to die, too," he growled.
He pressed the send button on his phone, sending a text to the mobile device that was connected to the bomb.
It would detonate the device.
But the text didn't go through.
The cell service out here was spotty at best.
Panic washed over his face. Isaac looked down at his phone and attempted to send the text again.
I took the opportunity to draw my pistol and fire two shots into his chest.
Blood erupted from the wounds, spinning him around. The cell phone clattered to the deck, and Isaac managed to squeeze off a shot before he fell.
The bullet snapped through the air, narrowly missing one of the barrels, lodging into the fiberglass hull.
Adrenaline spiked through my veins.
I raced across the stateroom and dragged Isaac's lifeless body to the IED, leaving a trail of blood across the deck. I hoisted him up, and placed his face within range of the face ID scanner on the phone. The screen unlocked and I was able to access the timer.
6 se
conds…
5 seconds…
4 seconds…
I hit the cancel button as the timer reached 3 seconds.
I breathed a sigh of relief and let the scumbag's body fall to the deck.
I set the phone down, then tapped my pistol to discharge any static electricity that may have built up on my hands. Then I disconnected the leads from the battery and separated the phone from the relay.
I wouldn't exactly say that the IED was rendered safe, but as long as there weren't any sharp impacts, electrical discharges, or flammable incidents, we were out of immediate danger.
I left Isaac’s corpse in the stateroom and stepped over Owen's body in the companionway, then climbed the stairs to the salon. After disconnecting the tripwire at the aft hatch, and rendering the small IED safe, I pushed into the cockpit and gave the thumbs-up signal to Jack in the helicopter.
By that point in time, multiple helicopters hovered in the air, and I saw a Coast Guard cutter on the horizon.
I pulled out my cell phone, but I couldn't get a signal. It was the first time in my life I was thankful for shitty cell service.
37
Jack dropped the black rope down, and I climbed my way back up to the helicopter. I stepped on the skids, pulled myself inside, then pulled up the rope. We left the Feds and the EOD unit to handle it from here.
The EOD unit arrived and boarded the boat. They decided it would be best to tow the boat out of the area, then detonate the explosives once the boat was isolated at sea.
Honestly, I think they just wanted to see how big of an explosion the IED would make.
This was a fireworks show that nobody in law enforcement wanted to miss.
We followed the boat out to sea and hovered in the air at a safe distance with several other helicopters. The area was secured, and the Coast Guard kept traffic from entering the blast zone.
When the device was detonated, the explosion rocked the sea. A massive fireball rolled into the sky, debris spidered in all directions, and a giant geyser of white water caused a small tsunami. It reminded me of the archival footage of atomic weapons tests in the bikini atolls in the 1950s.
The sound rumbled through the air, echoing across the water.
When the plume of smoke dissipated, the helicopter pilot flew us back to Coconut Key. We landed at the station and filled out after-action reports.
Daniels poked his head into the conference room as we pushed pens across paper. "Seems like you boys earned your paychecks today."
"Does that mean we get a raise?" JD asked.
“Tell you what," Daniels said. "I'll double your salary."
“Two times nothing is nothing," I said.
Daniels grinned. "The satisfaction of knowing you saved countless lives should be reward enough. The concert has resumed, and thousands of people will go about their spring break, practically oblivious to the danger." He paused. "There's one slight problem. Isaac killed Grace Livingston. But who killed Reese Jordan and Lauren James?"
JD and I exchanged a curious glance, then shrugged.
"We’ve still got a serial rapist and murderer out there. So don't break your arms patting yourselves on the back just yet."
Daniels always knew just what to say to bring us back down to earth.
We left the station and caught a cab back to Pirates’ Cove to pick up JD's car. I got a call from Finley along the way.
"What happened at Barracuda Key island? I've been trying to get hold of you all day. Chloe-C’s concert got postponed. First it was canceled. Now it seems like she's playing this evening."
I told Finley what happened.
"Are you serious? You could have been killed!"
"Yeah, well, I'm still here," I said, modestly.
"Well, I think we should celebrate your continued existence. Do you still want to see her show? Or have you had enough excitement for one afternoon?"
"I'm kind of spent. I'm sort of in the mood for a quiet evening."
"I think you deserve a back rub and some quality cuddling."
"That sounds like a good idea. Know any good massage therapists?" I asked, taunting her.
"I do, actually,” Finley boasted.
"We're on the way back to the marina now," I said.
"How about I swing by in an hour?”
"I'll see you then."
I hung up the phone and slipped it into my pocket.
We pulled into the parking lot at Diver Down, and I hopped out of the car. I told JD I would catch up with him later and strolled down the dock to the Vivere.
Buddy was more than ready to escape when I entered the salon. He barked and bounced and wagged his tail. I knelt down and petted him, and he soaked up the attention.
My phone buzzed again. I pulled out the device. The call was from an unknown caller. I swiped the screen and answered. "Hello?"
"Tyson Wild?"
"Who's asking?"
"Check the evidence file for Ray Jackson. I think you’ll find something interesting."
"Who is this?"
The line went dead.
My face twisted with confusion. Was this in reference to the Colt Steel case?
38
Finley came over and demonstrated that she was, indeed, a talented masseuse. We frolicked around the Vivere and found creative uses for hard surfaces. We did our best to break the mattress in the master suite, but despite our efforts, it still retained its shape.
In the morning, I woke up with dread. Today was the day. By 5 o'clock, I was pretty sure the property would be under contract to Finley. There was nothing I could do.
I had put in a call to Joel yesterday, but I didn't hear back from him. Madison's asking price was more than I could round up. What the hell did I know about business plans, or putting together revenue projections? Nobody was going to loan me the money.
I didn't have experience with this type of thing.
Paperwork, taxes, accounting—all those things made my head spin. At heart, I was a simple kind of guy. Show me the target—I'll obliterate it. Simple.
Finley didn't say a word about it as we ate breakfast. After spending a few days with her, I came to realize that she wasn't this evil real estate mogul. She was a driven, confident woman with a vision, and a head for business. I couldn't begrudge her that. I hoped that she had spent enough time in the marina to see its charm, but this wasn't about charm—this was about making money.
After breakfast she went her way, and I went mine. The evidence room at the Sheriff’s Department called my name. The anonymous phone call I had received the day before hung in my mind, occupying most of my thoughts.
There were banker boxes stacked from floor to ceiling on rows and rows of shelves. Most of them were covered with years of dust. They were meticulously organized according to the incident number and placed for easy retrieval.
I searched through the evidence room and found box EE-33. The computer had listed this box as containing evidence in the Ray Jackson case. It was on the shelf right next to EE-32—the box that was listed as containing evidence for Colt Steel’s case.
I pulled it from the shelf, and a plume of dust billowed into the air.
I sneezed as I flipped through several manila folders that were labeled Ray Jackson, along with the incident number, date, and chain of custody.
Inside the envelopes were several plastic bags of evidence that were also labeled with the case number, date, and chain of custody. I looked through all the items, searching for something irregular.
I had no idea what I was looking for.
Then I found something that didn't belong. A folder with a different case number.
The incident number matched that of Colt Steel’s.
Someone had placed the wrong evidence in the box. Perhaps by accident? Perhaps on purpose?
Within the folder, there was an evidence bag containing a single latex glove. I also found black-and-white photographs of footprint patterns in carpet that were also from Colt’s case, misplaced in Ray Jackso
n's section.
This was no accident.
I called Colt’s attorney, Felicity, and informed her of the mixup. She said she would arrange to have the evidence independently examined.
Whoever the anonymous tipster was had led us to something that hadn't been disclosed to the defense team during discovery. If that had been done intentionally, it was a serious offense, and certainly grounds for an appeal.
Prosecutors are required by law to inform defense counsels of all evidence that comes to light in the case, even evidence that proves the defendant's innocence. But sometimes overzealous prosecutors aren’t as forthcoming as they should be.
I left the station and headed back to the marina. Colleges across the country staggered their spring breaks—one crop of revelers left town and another flooded in. The island would continue to be a madhouse for a few more weeks. I parked the bike and made my way to the Vivere.
I got a call from my agent, Joel. "Sorry I didn’t get back with you right away. But I've got good news."
"Lay it on me."
“The rewrite is finalized for the Bree Taylor project. Well, as final as any script can be. The original director left the project when all the drama went down, but now that the project is back on the table, I’ve got great news. David Cameron just signed on to direct, and he plans to go into production after Ultra Mega 2. When that happens, you'll get the backend payout. $2 million."
I said nothing while I processed the math in my brain.
"Usually people are excited when I tell them they have a $2 million paycheck coming."
"That's months away. And it's not enough."
"It's what you contractually agreed to. I think it's a pretty good payout, if I do say so myself." He paused. "Especially for a first-time screenwriter, who really didn’t write anything. Ahem.” Joel cleared his throat, mockingly, for added emphasis.
"No, I mean, it's not enough for my current situation."
"What is your current situation?"
"Long story."
"I hope you're not in some kind of trouble?"
