The Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Series Boxset

by David F. Berens

  Suddenly, a figure crashed through the waves a few feet away from him. Troy had his arms tight around Megan’s waist. She was out cold from what looked like a violent blow to her temple. Blood streamed down from her matted hair.

  “Oh my God,” R.B. shouted and swam toward them. “What happened?”

  Troy grabbed the first large piece of debris near him and shifted Megan over to his back. He gasped for breath.

  R.B. could tell Troy was banged up a bit but saw no blood. All the blood was coming from Megan’s forehead.

  “We went down inside the cabin and when the blast blew out the windows, she got hit,” Troy said, “piece of wood or something.”

  R.B. nodded. “Natasha?”

  Troy shook his head.

  “Never even saw her.”

  R.B. paddled away from them and began shouting into the storm. “Natasha!!”

  He went on for a few minutes, but got no response. After a few minutes, he swam back to join Troy and Megan. The waves had gotten so violent that it was hard to hang on to the—

  R.B. looked down; it was the basket with the pieces of ship wreck. The buoy he’d tied to it when they first saw Natasha was keeping them afloat. He almost smiled at the irony.

  “The only ship that stayed afloat is the one that’s been wrecked for a few hundred years.”

  Even Troy smirked darkly at this. R.B. looked around. Waves were now violently tossing them up and down. In the dark dawn, he couldn’t tell which direction they were drifting. He could only pray that the hurricane would rush past them and not carry them along, swallowing them up as they went.

  R.B. looked back at Troy, who was staring down into the basket. Even in the driving rain, he saw tears rolling from his eyes. Natasha would never come back from this trip. Troy’s hand rubbed along the frame of the basket and he had a strange, faraway look in his eyes. A shiver went up R.B.’s spine; he couldn’t help but picture Captain Ahab tangled up in ropes astride the back of the slain Moby Dick.

  Somewhere at the bottom of the gulf, a cellphone flashed to life in muted green monotone. A startled school of fish darted away from it. The message clicked up on the screen:

  -REPORT

  23

  Cover That Up

  Joe Bond rubbed his lower back. The pain was intensified with the quickly degenerating weather. Julie Matthews, Channel 7 news anchorwoman, was prattling away on his television about Hurricane Daniel. Though the coming storm was very dangerous, it had been declining in strength and was now being categorized as a Class Two hurricane; big enough to trash the island, but small enough to require emergency personnel to stay put.

  He clicked off the television and walked over to his window. Heavy rain pelted the street outside and the wind sent the trees thrashing from side to side. He turned the crank beside the window that lowered the hurricane shutter into place. Several minutes later he closed the last shield and darkness drowned the small house. He made his way into the kitchen and found his flashlight before the power blinked and then went out.

  He plopped down on his brand new micro suede recliner he’d treated himself to after his last raise and clicked open his cellphone. Two bars of service blinked on the screen. Probably not enough, he thought. He pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket and dialed the number Ashleigh had given him.

  “Hello?” Her voice was quiet.

  “Ashleigh, it’s me, Joe.”

  “Okay, give me ten minutes,” she whispered, “I’ll call you back.”

  “Sure.”

  He closed his phone and closed his eyes. He couldn’t sleep with the throbbing pain in his back so he just lay there and mulled over the past few days. His instincts told him something bigger than just a murder was going on here, but he didn’t have enough information to put the puzzle together. He wondered why the C.I.A. had this guy covered up. He had a stray thought that maybe he should just let this go, as he didn’t want the clandestine government agency on his case.

  Ten minutes later, on the dot, his cellphone beeped. The caller ID was a blocked number.

  “Hello.”

  “Hey, Joe, it’s me.” Ashleigh sounded a little more like herself. “I had to call you from outside the building, as everything’s wired in there.”

  “I understand.”

  “Okay, your guy is a man named Hector Martinez.”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “Well, he has a few charges related to drug running out of Cuba into Florida.”

  Joe sat up. That explained a lot. The Johnson boys probably stumbled onto Hector and his thugs making a run to the Keys and he had killed them. But that still didn’t explain the mysterious disappearance of the G.P.S. unit. Maybe Hector had some sort of system of dumping the drugs into the ocean and a contact in the Keys picked it up. That had a nice ring to it. The boys had found it, bragged about it at the bar, and Hector had waited for them to come back to bring it up and murdered them. Then needing to secure the location, he took the G.P.S. and left the boat to drift away.

  “Okay, thanks, Ashleigh,” he said, “that helps a lot. I think we can—”

  “Wait,” she interrupted him, “there’s more.”

  Joe sat up. A sharp pain stabbed him in the back. He grunted heavily.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah, just a little arthritis.”

  “You’re getting old,” she said, and laughed.

  “Tell me about it.” He eased back into the chair. “Anyway, what else have you got.”

  “Well, first of all, this guy is classified up to level two clearance.”

  “Okay,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “That means only the Director of the C.I.A. and the President have access to this file.”

  He sat up again, more carefully this time. “And you got it how?”

  She was quiet for a minute. “Best you don’t know that.”

  “Okay.” Joe felt his eyebrows rise. “So, what’s so special about this guy?”

  “He’s working for us.”

  Joe sat stunned, unable to speak.

  “Get this,” —Ashleigh sounded as if she was reading from a file— “Hector has been feeding us information from inside Cuba for about a year now. He makes contact somewhere in the gulf with an operative stationed in Florida.”

  “Who’s the operative?”

  “Just says the operative is code name: Stingray.”

  “Stingray,” Joe repeated, “doesn’t mean anything to me.”

  “Whoever it is would have to be close, maybe someone who has moved there within the last couple of years.”

  “I’ll check it out.”

  “Anyway,” she continue, “In exchange for his cooperation, our patrols avert their eyes when he’s making runs of his own.”

  “So, the C.I.A. is now in the drug-running business?”

  She stopped for a minute. Ouch, he wished he hadn’t put that so harshly.

  “I only meant that—”

  “No, no,” she interrupted him again, “that’s exactly what it looks like.”

  It was her turn to be stunned and silent. Suddenly, another thought came to him. “So, maybe the Johnson boys stumbled into Hector while he was making the drop and the agent had something to do with…” He trailed off.

  “Well, it is possible, but that seems too messy for a C.I.A. cover-up. More likely, they would’ve made the whole thing—the boys, the boat and the G.P.S.—disappear.”

  “Yeah, that’s true.”

  He ran over all the pieces of this ever-deepening mystery. “So, what I’ve got so far is two dead boys, a drug runner from Cuba, a dirty C.I.A. operative and a cover-up that runs all the way up to the Director of the C.I.A.”

  “Yeah, that’s about all I have here.” Ashleigh sounded baffled by everything in the file. “What I can’t figure out, is why this is so classified. I mean, the C.I.A. has performed much harsher ops to accomplish far simpler objectives, and my clearance is usually plenty high enough to open those files. This just seem
s like trading drugs for info.”

  Joe nodded to himself. “I know, and it’s info that doesn’t seem all that relevant or sensitive. I mean, Cuba isn’t exactly the hotbed of action against the U.S. like it used to be.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I still think it has something to do with this particular location in the gulf,” he said, urging himself to stand up from his chair. “It all started with the G.P.S. and I think that’s what ties this together.”

  He walked into the kitchen, opened a drawer, and cracked open a bottle of Tylenol. He poured four of them into his palm, pulled a diet coke out of the fridge, and washed down the pills.

  “I need to find this guy, Hector,” he said. “Any info on where this guy is in Cuba?”

  “Well,” —he could hear her shuffling papers around in the file— “I think I can do better than that. As an informant with a somewhat shady history, we probably tagged him with a locator.”

  “Okay, what does that mean?”

  “Well, it means you can track him, if you have the right locator program.”

  “Ah, of course I don’t have that program.” He shuffled his way back into the living room. “Can you tell me where he is?”

  “Are you on a smart phone?”

  “Yup.”

  “Give me ten minutes and I’ll upload the program, so you should be able to track him through your phone.”

  “Nice,” he said, sitting down heavily in the recliner, “that would be excellent.”

  “Joe,” she said quietly.

  “Yes?”

  “You know that none of this information I’ve given you can ever be linked to me.”

  “Trust me, I won’t get you fired,” he said.

  “I’m not worried about getting fired.”

  Joe’s mouth opened but nothing came out.

  “It’s okay,” Ashleigh reassured him, “just keep this between you and me.”

  “Of course.”

  “Goodbye, Joe.”

  “Bye.”

  He clicked the phone shut. Two minutes later his phone beeped, it was the download from Ashleigh. He installed the program and within a half hour had located Hector Martinez.

  He dialed his partner. “Steve, gear up,” he said. “We’re going to South Beach.”

  “Sweet!” Steve’s voice was lively on the other end.

  “On business, Steve.”

  “Awwww, damn.”

  “Just meet me at the station in twenty minutes.”

  “You got it.”

  24

  A Blaze Of Glory

  The figure in the soaked poncho didn’t bother to slow his approach up onto the sandy beach. His boat crunched to a halt and he killed the engine. He shivered as he shouldered a rifle and fought the deafening wind to exit the boat. Dim lights lined a walkway up from the sand through the stinging rain into the arched opening in the high brick walls. He gripped the pathway railing tightly and pulled himself onward. With his head buried in his hood, he never noticed the second boat resting on the far side of the beach.

  “Home, sweet home,” the figure said to himself as he nearly dove through the door and out of the weather.

  James Howard shook the rain from his shoulders, rumpled the poncho into a heap by the door, and headed down the long hallway toward his quarters. He felt safe from the storm sheltered by Fort Jefferson’s thick stone tunnels. His footsteps echoed as he hurried back to his room.

  He finally shuffled through his door and slammed it behind him. He let his back thump against it and closed his eyes. He was glad to have that little piece of business behind him.

  The computer on his desk was the only softly glowing light in his room and he could see the screensaver flickering back and forth. He moved to the desk and propped the rifle against the side as he slumped down into his chair. He inhaled a deep breath and wiggled the mouse to bring the computer to life.

  While he waited for the screen to pop up, he pulled his cellphone from his pocket. He scrolled up to the number he had listed as Big Brother, his own private jab at his present superior. He composed a carefully coded text message to convey that his latest mission had been carried out successfully. He pushed the send button and was startled when from a dark corner of the room came the familiar chirp of a received message.

  “What the—”

  He was interrupted by a shrill whoosh of air and a sharp sting in his neck. Fear raced through his veins and he tried to stand up, but the fluid rushing into his jugular vein was icy and had him paralyzed in seconds.

  His eyes flicked to the barrel of his rifle leaning against his desk, but his hands were powerless to reach for it. He could hear something move in the darkness beyond his desk. He watched in horror as a figure emerged in the glow of a newly opened cellphone.

  James’ vision began to waiver and his fear began edging into terror. His forehead trickled with sweat and his pulse began to race. He couldn’t recognize the face of his intruder in the dim light.

  “Who the hell is there?” he demanded with a heavy tongue.

  The man tapped a few buttons on his cellphone and clicked it shut to disappear back into the darkness.

  “You sure you got ‘em all?” the voice asked.

  James’ lips began to feel thick and he slurred slightly.

  “Yeshh,” he said, concentrating. “Yess, they were all there.”

  “You done good,” the man said.

  Suddenly, a small flame flared into view illuminating the man’s face as he lit a cigar.

  “You done real good,” Vince Pinzioni said as the embers of his smoke smoldered between his leather-gloved thumb and fingers.

  “Why?” James pleaded, sinking down into what seemed like a deep dark staircase. “What have you… done to me?”

  Vince stepped over and clicked on a small lamp that rested on the corner of James’ desk. He sat down on one corner of the desk and plucked the dart from the park ranger’s neck.

  “My own special concoction,” he said and twisted the long dart in his fingers, “induces complete paralysis, then makes a person’s blood work look as though he’s been on a drinking binge with a healthy dose of PCP.”

  James moaned; he knew what was happening. A loose end was being tied up.

  “By the time da police get here,” Vince explained matter-of-factly, “it’ll look like you got stoned to da bejesus and shot yourself.”

  James’ eyes went wide. His body was now completely heavy and limp. His glance flitted to the rifle again.

  “Yeah, ain’t that a bitch.” Vince followed his gaze. “If only, eh? Fughedaboutit.”

  James could feel tears trickling down his cheeks. “But, I killed zhaa man who ssshhhot the plane down,” he protested, “And zhen I went to the shhhpot… got all the others on the boat too. I did what you…”

  “Now, now, no reason to get all mushy on me,” Vince mocked, wiping the moisture from James’ face. “You done real good, but you know we can’t have any loose ends hangin’ about.”

  With a supreme effort, James quickly turned his head and bit down hard on Vince’s fingers. Until his jaw went numb again, he clamped down as tightly as he could. He tasted blood as Vince yelped.

  “Sonofa…” the Italian smashed his fist into the side of James’ head again and again and finally the ranger’s jaw went limp.

  He pulled his hand from his leather glove and could see the deep punctures in his fingers. Blood trickled down and spattered on the desk.

  James smiled weakly. Vince punched him again, but the drugs were now coursing through his veins so thickly that the ranger felt nothing.

  Vince pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped up the blood he could see on the desk and computer keyboard. He wrapped the cloth around his bleeding fingers and gingerly pulled his glove back over them.

  He shoved James’ chair back from the desk and opened the center drawer. The ranger’s heavily lidded eyes followed the Italian man’s hand. It reached for the Government Issue Glock that James
had never fired.

  Vince checked to see if it was loaded and slid the clip back into the pistol’s handle. He turned toward the computer and had a moment of inspiration. He opened a word processing program and tapped out what he thought was a brilliant letter of sorrow and loneliness. He wrote a goodbye letter expressing a struggle with isolation and drug use that were sure to fit the scene of this soon to be suicide. He clicked save, but left the note open on the screen.

  With that, he wrapped James’ hand around the gun’s grip and fired it once into the big man’s throat. Gore and blood splattered the wall behind.

  Vince let the gun fall to the floor near the dead park ranger. He clicked open his cellphone and dialed.

  “Yeah, it’s done.”

  He laughed and read part of his suicide note to the person on the line. Apparently, the voice on the other end did not think this was funny at all. Vince deleted the note and turned off the computer.

  “Yeah, yeah, I deleted it.”

  He listened for a minute more and hung up the phone. His hand ached as he walked out of the fort and onto the windswept beach. The wind, now ferociously strong, pushed him down once. He propped himself up on the walkway railing and waited for a lull in the storm. When it finally came, he ran to his own boat and shoved hard until it released into the stormy water. His engine roared to life and he rode as fast as the waves would allow back toward Key West.

  25

  This Too Shall Pass

  The wind around the drifting survivors whipped stinging rain into their faces. Surges at least ten feet high lifted and dropped them over and over. R.B. got sick and heaved until his stomach held no more. Troy drifted on the edge of consciousness, aware that passing out meant certain death for him and, more importantly, for Megan. He willed himself to hang on to the floating basket of shipwreck rubble even as the hurricane tried to rip him from it.

  Megan’s head lolled from side to side; the bleeding had slowed, but she had not awoken. A cloudy, blotted night sky left them stranded and beaten in total darkness. Troy wondered how long it would be before they just gave up and sank to the bottom, back to his shipwreck yet again. He thought it appropriate that his final resting place would be among the less fortunate travelers aboard the sunken Señora de la Muerta.