R.B. must’ve seen the resignation on his face and called out to him.
“We’re gonna make it,” he yelled over the violent surges. “The storm won’t last for more than a few hours.”
Troy nodded and wondered how long his grip would hold out. He thought idly about trying to swim away from the storm’s heading but then realized he had no way of knowing what direction that was; best just to hold on and hope the storm wasn’t carrying them along with it.
Megan’s head suddenly jerked up and she screamed. She looked around wildly clearly terrified by their deadly surroundings. Troy shook her until she finally came to her senses.
“Where? How?” she finally asked in a painful groan.
“Somewhere above the shipwreck.” Troy nodded to the basket that was keeping them afloat.
She said nothing. A few moments later it dawned on her that they were one short.
“Natasha?”
Troy just shook his head. “I dunno. She hasn’t come up.”
A new round of whipping wind grabbed them and slammed Megan into Troy’s back.
“Sorry,” she moaned.
She stretched her arms out and pulled herself off his back over to the basket. She wrapped her arms into one of the ropes holding them afloat. Troy sighed with relief. Her dead weight had been straining his own arms more than he had realized.
With amazing suddenness, the wind stopped. The surges continued, but not nearly as violent or high.
“Thank God!” R.B. yelled.
“It’s not over yet,” Megan said, and looked around them. “We’re most likely in the eye of the storm.”
Troy laid his head down on the basket between them. “Save your strength,” he mumbled and drifted off to sleep.
Amazingly, he dreamt of gold and treasure, but as bright and shining and close as it seemed, it slowly dimmed and fell away. It looked like it was falling into the deepest, darkest well.
Troy awoke suddenly to a new wave crashing over them and threatening to flip them into the white-capped water. Megan was unconscious again and R.B.’s eyes were opening and closing. His grip was loose and this new wave jerked him away from the basket.
“Dammit!” Troy yelled “R.B., wake up!”
Nothing, no response. He frantically ripped his belt off and began strapping it under Megan’s lifeless arms and through the mesh of the basket. R.B.’s head dipped below the water.
“NO!”
He clasped his belt and dove into the surging water after R.B. In the darkness he could see nothing, and icy terror stung its way into his lungs. He rose and took a deep breath and dove again. He thrashed his arms wildly and kicked his legs hard to dive deeper. He knew he could easily get lost in the rolling water and never find his way back to the basket. Hell, I might not even find the surface again. He strained to see in the dark water, the salt burning his eyes. Nothing.
Then, miraculously, he felt R.B. slide past him. He grabbed his shirt and tugged as hard as he could. They broke the surface only to be met with more pounding waves. Troy looked around. The sun was beginning to shine a gray light through the sheets of rain. He caught a glimpse of the basket and the limp body strapped to it. It looked like it was already miles away and moving further away from them every second.
He rolled R.B. over onto his back and swam as hard as he could. His legs and arms were already burning, and it seemed that every breath he took was half air and half salt water.
What seemed like hours later, Troy latched his numb fingers to the basket. Megan was still strapped safely to the side. He checked R.B. and by yet another miracle he was breathing. Out like a light, but breathing. He didn’t know if the waves had crushed the water out of his lungs or if he’d simply coughed it up on his own, but he was safe for the time being. He ripped his shirt off and wound it under R.B.’s arms and strapped him to the flailing basket as well.
He knew then that their survival depended on him staying awake and afloat. He held on for dear life. For what seemed like days the water stung his eyes and his exposed back. He couldn’t feel his fingers and his arms and shoulders ached and burned; he resigned himself to the fact that his strength would probably give out and he would let go and drift away. At least he had given his friends a chance of surviving.
And that was when it finally stopped.
Troy watched as the waves moved away from them and the darkest skies left them behind. It was still rough at times, but nothing like the past few hours. He checked his friends. Megan was breathing and her cut had stopped bleeding. R.B. was also breathing, though somewhat labored. Troy laid his head down on the basket.
Distractedly, he worried about how he would get them back to shore. But he would think about that later. He had gotten them this far; he’d figure out how to get them the rest of the way home later.
As they drifted, he felt his eyes getting heavier, but he couldn’t sleep. No. No sleep. The storm still thrashed violently and loudly away from them. But in his delirium, between surge splashes and wind whips, he almost thought he could make out the distant buzzing of a motor. He jerked his head up and scanned the churning gulf water. A couple of feet away from their makeshift life raft, he saw an Outback Tea Stained straw cowboy hat bobbing on the surface. He groaned as he realized the peacock feather was gone. Like a scene in a movie, the hat slowly floated back toward him. When it touched his arm, he picked it out of the water and shook it off.
“Welcome back, old friend,” he said as he perched it on top of his head.
Shielding his eyes, he scanned the horizon. Nothing. Just his imagination. Idly, he wondered how long they would last exposed to the harsh elements. He wondered how long it would take before the sharks made their way back into these waters.
26
Can You Hear Me Now?
The flight aboard Gidget, Troy’s small seaplane, was rough, and that was putting it mildly. George Wyatt and Bill Bane were scanning the waves below them for any sign of the oil rig’s tanker, the Wy Knott. So far, they hadn’t seen anything. No boat, no debris, no people. Nothing.
“Boss, we’ve been out here for three hours flying over this spot,” Bill said over the rushing wind. “They ain’t here.”
Wyatt studied the water. “But this is where the beacon stopped sending a signal. They have to be here.”
And then it dawned on him; a boat without power does not sit still in moving water.
“That’s it,” he said and pointed toward the dark violent sky, “the hurricane has dragged them.”
Bill was shaking his head vigorously. “Don’t even think about it. We ain’t goin’ in there.”
“But they’re in there,” he said, already turning the plane toward the storm, “my boat is in there!”
Bill didn’t reply, he just pointed his finger at the fuel gauge. They had enough to keep flying, but not enough to search and then make the flight back.
“Dammit!”
“We have to go back, boss,” Bill said quietly. “We’ll refuel and come back for another round.”
Wyatt knew he was right. He stared into the distance. He knew they were out there. “Damn,” he said again.
“If they made it through the night,” Bill said, “they’ll still be there when we get back. If they didn’t, we’ll know that too.”
With that, George Wyatt turned the plane back toward the Wyatt 1.
He picked up the CB. “Wyatt ,1 this is the Gidget, you got any word on that storm.”
Gene’s voice cracked over the static. “Yep, it’s headed for land, but not even at level two anymore.”
Wyatt looked at Bill and nodded. Maybe they actually did have a chance of surviving.
“We’re gonna need some more fuel, so can you have it ready when we get there?”
“You got it. Over.”
Gene clicked off his CB radio and headed out to the fuel station aboard the oil rig, Wyatt 1. The rain had finally stopped and the first rays of sunlight were straining through the clouds.
He turned on t
he fuel pump’s generator and began filling a fifty-gallon drum. He whistled for a minute and pulled out his cellphone. He flipped through the latest messages and clicked to reply to a few random notes from his mother. He closed the cellphone and wiped away a stray drop of rain from the outside cover.
He stared hard at the phone and suddenly had a thought. He squeezed the pump, willing it to go faster. Finally, the pump clicked off and he jammed it back onto the machine. He turned off the generator and ran toward his command room.
He picked up the CB radio and almost yelled. “George, I got it!
For a long second, he heard nothing. Panic crept into his mind. Oh, my God, did something happen to them, did they run out of gas?
“Whaddaya got, Gene?” Wyatt’s voice finally crackled through the speakers.
“Geezus,” Gene said and slumped down in his chair. “What took so long?”
“Well, I am flying a plane out of a hurricane here.”
“Okay, okay, sorry, just a little stressed out here.”
“No problemo, Gene, you got my attention. Now what have you got?”
“Cellphones, was anyone carrying their cellphone?”
“I can’t imagine they wouldn’t be, why do you ask?”
“All phones newer than two or three years old have a G.P.S. chip in them. If I can get that signal, we can track to someone’s cellphone.”
“Sounds good, Gene. The question is, will that work if they’re in the water.”
Gene had to catch his breath. He hadn’t really considered that possibility.
“Oh, um…” he shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“Well, get on that. It’s all we have at this point.”
George turned to Bill. “Well, it isn’t much.”
“Better than nothin’, boss.”
A jolt shook them both harshly. The seaplane’s engine popped loudly and sputtered. And then was quiet.
“Holy Crap!” Wyatt yelled, “what just happened?”
Bill tapped the gas gauge. Empty.
Wyatt peered in front of them as the plane glided along no more than a hundred feet above the water.
“Look!” he said and pointed out the windshield.
The towering shape of the Wyatt 1 was hazily coming into view.
“We gonna make it?” Bill asked nervously.
“It’s a long way.”
Wind still buffeted the plane and they were quickly losing airspeed. They dropped lower and lower. Wyatt fought the stick to keep them airborne.
“Come on, baby,” he said as they plunged dangerously close to the water.
The pontoons skimmed the surface but then a gust of wind miraculously lifted them back to about ten feet above the water. Sweat was beading on Bill’s forehead.
“It’s okay, Bill,” he reassured the man, “we can take it down and swim if we have to; we’re okay.”
“You know I can’t swim,” Bill said, his breath shallow, “and how we gonna get the plane back to the rig?”
Wyatt just shook his head. “We’re not gonna make it.”
“Damn,” Bill said.
The plane drifted close to the surface again and Wyatt put it down fairly well for his first ever water landing. They were still about forty yards from the rig—not far at all—but too far to drag the plane by hand.
Wyatt took off his headphones and handed them to Bill.
“Wait here. I’ll swim over, get a line and attach it to the winch, and Gene will pull us in.”
Bill said nothing, and just nodded.
Half an hour later Wyatt was flat on his back breathing heavily with Gene standing over him.
“Decided to go for a swim?” Gene asked, grinning.
“Yeah.” Wyatt looked back toward the plane.
It looked amazingly far away.
“I’m gonna need a minute before I head out.”
“Well, I have great news,” Gene said as he clapped his shoulder. “While you were out joyriding, I got a rep from Troy’s cell company to give me the G.P.S. frequency from his phone.”
“And?” Wyatt sat up.
“I got em.”
Wyatt sighed heavily. They must be alright.
“They’re about twelve miles north of where we got our last signal before they lost power. C’mon, I’ll show you.”
Several minutes later Gene was circling a dot on a map. “Right here is the last beacon signal before the lightning or… whatever hit ‘em.” He took his pen and drew a line north. “And this is where Troy is now.”
“Or at least that’s where his cellphone is,” Wyatt mumbled.
Gene looked up at him. “They’re okay, George. You know how Troy is, he never gives up.”
“Anyway, we better get to them before they drift away again.”
The CB radio crackled to life.
“Speakin’ of driftin’,” Bill’s voice came over the speaker, “when they hell y’all gonna come get me?”
27
Shot Through The Heart
Joe Bond and Steve Haney followed Hector Martinez’s trail—thanks to Ashleigh’s help with the implanted tracking device—all the way to South Beach.
“He’s somewhere in there,” Joe said, looking up from his smart phone and pointing at the beachside hotel.
“The Clevelander, eh?” Steve said with a shrug. “Ballsy, not exactly an out of the way hidden retreat.”
“C’mon, let’s go.” Joe opened the cruiser’s door and headed into the hotel.
At the front desk, they flashed their badges and asked to see a list of guests at the hotel. Out of the fifty-four cable television equipped rooms, there were only twenty guests registered. All of them had checked in more than two days ago and had subsequently been evacuated by the storm. All that is, except for one. A Henry Miller was checked into a room on the third floor.
“Bingo, that was easy,” Joe said. “Steve, stay here, and find out how he paid for that room. Trace it.”
“You got it.”
“I’m just going to scope things out,” he said, pointing to the stairs, “so when you’re through here, come on up.”
Steve gave him a thumbs up and started clicking into the hotel registration files.
They were both in plainclothes, but Joe still thought he should take the stairs up, just in case Hector got spooked when he saw a strange man coming down his hallway.
Joe pulled his gun and slowly opened the door to the third floor. Nothing. No one was in the hallway. He gingerly closed the stairway door and quietly made his way to the room where Henry Miller was staying. He listened at the door. He could hear the television was on, but didn’t hear anyone moving around in the room. Probably lying on the bed watching a movie. Joe pictured the room in his mind; two double beds, table between them, armoire with the television directly in front of the beds, bathroom to the right.
He figured the best thing here might be to speak to Hector from behind the door. Try to get him to come out on his own. The show on the television blared louder. Gunshots startled Joe for a second but he realized it was only the movie. A second later a chainsaw roared, followed by a lot of yelling and screaming.
Joe moved away from the door and had to smile at the irony. Hector was watching Scarface. Well, he sure wasn’t going to let this meeting with a drug-runner go down like that one scene in the movie. The elevator down the hall let out an impossibly loud ring and the doors slid open. Steve came strolling out.
“What the hell?” Joe hissed.
“What? What?” Steve shrugged.
Joe gave him a harsh look and put his index finger on his lip to silence his partner. Steve saw that Joe had his gun drawn and pulled out his own from his shoulder holster.
Suddenly, Hector’s door whooshed open. He poked his head out into the hallway, the sounds of Scarface blaring behind him. His wife-beater tank was yellowed with sweat, his boxers were tattered and dirty, and his feet were bare.
“Shit!” he yelled and slammed the door shut.
“Hector w
ait,’ Joe yelled at the door, “we just want to talk to you.”
“I knew you would be coming,” he shouted back, “but you will never catch me, cabron.”
Knew we’d be coming? Steve mouthed the words to Joe.
Joe just shrugged his shoulders and shook his head.
“Hector, we just need to ask you some questions about a boating accident that happened just off Key West.” Joe hoped he could trick Hector into thinking he wasn’t a suspect.
Scarface still sputtered through the door. Joe stood up and walked across the hallway. He nodded to Steve that he was going to kick the door in. He took two steps and kicked hard. Sharp pain shot up from his leg into his back.
“Agh, sonofa—”
Steve pushed him out of the way and did the same, and this time the door flew open to reveal an empty room, the window open.
“Shit!” Steve ran across to the window.
Joe limped in, agony manifested in beading sweat droplets on his forehead. Three stories down, sloshing to the edge of the Clevelander’s world-famous pool, was Hector.
“Dammit!” Joe said. “Go after him, I can’t.”
Steve ran out of the room and disappeared down the hall.
When Joe finally caught his breath and the pain in his back numbed a little, he stood up and looked around the room. There was no luggage, no clothing, just a rumpled paper bag sitting on the bedside table. He limped over to the bag, plopped down on the bed, and laid his pistol on the table.
He opened the bag and emptied the contents onto the bed beside him. A small key on a ring with a bobber, a small dirty piece of paper with some scribbling on it, and a bottle of Patron tequila.
Steve Haney ran as fast as his thick linebacker legs would carry him. Hector was a hundred yards in front of him. His lungs were burning and he didn’t know how much further he could go, when suddenly Hector turned and ducked into a nearby restaurant.
The Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Series Boxset Page 33
