The Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Series Boxset

by David F. Berens

  “Mmhmm,” she said, sniffing again.

  “Don’t worry, Megan,” —his head throbbed, but he was beginning to feel human again— “I’ll get us out of here.”

  Then footsteps, running, reverberated down the stone hallway.

  “Omigod, omigod,” Megan cried frantically, “he’s coming back!”

  The footfalls stopped.

  “Shhhhh,” R.B. said and strained to listen.

  “Helloooo?” a voice echoed in the darkness.

  R.B. saw a flashlight beam sweep back and forth.

  “R.B.?” the voice called. “Are you down here?”

  He knew his head was not right yet, but he could swear it was Natasha’s voice. But she’d drowned in the boat explosion.

  “Helloooo?” Her voice was more insistent.

  It was definitely her.

  “Natasha?” he croaked.

  “Yes, it’s me.”

  The beam of light got stronger and suddenly washed into their cells. The light was blinding and he closed his eyes.

  “Thank, God. Oh, thank God,” he heard Megan crying out.

  “Hold on a second.” Natasha covered the light with her hand to ease the brightness. “Let me cut you loose.”

  She pulled a knife from her belt and made quick work of the duct tape. R.B. eased himself to his feet. Megan jumped up and hugged Natasha with both arms around her neck.

  “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

  “Natasha, it’s good to see you made it,” R.B. said as he rubbed his raw wrists, “but how in the world…”

  “Long story. I’ll tell you over a beer sometime.”

  Suddenly, Megan was running down the corridor.

  “Megan!” R.B. yelled after her, “where’re you going?”

  “Chelsea,” her voice rang out, “he’s going after Chelsea.”

  She disappeared down the hallway.

  “R.B.,” Natasha said and turned, “do you want to break the bad news to her, or should I?”

  “Huh?” he aksed, “what bad news?”

  “I swam to the island,” she said, walking, “we don’t have a boat.”

  “Oh,” he said, “that bad news.”

  They walked at a fast clip back toward her office.

  “Phone?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Power’s still off from the storm. And I have no idea where my cell is… probably at the bottom of the ocean.”

  “Okay, fantastic,” R.B. said and clapped his hands together, “looks like we’re gonna need an old-fashioned bonfire.”

  “Smoke signals?” she asked.

  “Yup.”

  41

  Motion Sickness

  Gidget, the seaplane of the Tortuga Adventures ferry service from Key West to Fort Jefferson, rushed into the air. Troy Bodean was piloting and Joe Bond was sitting in the first passenger seat looking incredibly green. The detective had admitted to Troy that he hated flying and within minutes of taking off, he’d stuck his head in a bag and lost his lunch.

  “You gonna be alright, Joe?”

  Joe’s muffled reply, followed by the retching sounds of dry heaving, answered that question pretty quickly. Troy decided to leave the fact that they were burning fuel too quickly left unsaid. He knew they would make it out to the fort, but wasn’t sure about the trip back. Gidget is a thirsty girl.

  After the sick detective had filled the last barf bag, his stomach finally settled enough that he could carry on a conversation.

  “Troy,” he started, “I just want you to consider the possibility that we will find something… bad… when we get there.”

  Troy had already considered that. It could be that Pinzioni had killed them. But it didn’t seem to fit. Why bother to haul them out to Fort Jefferson if you were just going to kill them. And since reconnecting with his brother, that weird sibling bond had come back. He knew R.B. was okay, even if he couldn’t explain how he knew. But he was still concerned.

  “Nah,” he said, “I think they’re gonna be just fine.”

  He wasn’t sure how much he really believed that, but he said it just the same.

  “Well, it looks like the C.I.A. is going to claim jurisdiction over your find.”

  “Yeah,” —Troy sucked air over his teeth— “looks that way, don’t it?”

  “That’s gotta hurt.”

  “Won’t be the first time I’ve lost it all.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah,” Troy said. “After the war, I thought I lost my brother and then there was that craziness back in South Carolina.”

  “You lived in South Carolina?”

  “Yup, out on Pawleys Island,” he said and nodded, adjusting his Outback Tea Stained Straw cowboy hat, “but that’s a long story.”

  “Arrogantly shabby, eh?” Joe smiled.

  “That’s what they say,” Troy said.

  He wondered idly what Karah was up to these days. He’d gone out of his way not to make contact and dredge up things that were better left… un-dredged. Every now and then, he drank a Corona and thought about what might have been.

  “There she is,” Joe said and pointed a finger out a nearby window.

  The sight of Fort Jefferson from the air is truly breathtaking. The walls of the fort are two-tiered casemates in a hexagon shape, with two of the walls measuring three-hundred twenty-five feet, and the other four measuring four hundred seventy-seven feet. Large corner bastions, designed to allow defensive fire along the faces of the walls they joined, contained gunrooms, gunpowder magazines and a granite spiral staircase. Each tier of the casemates contained one hundred and fifty guns, and another one hundred and fifty were placed on top of the fort itself. The heavy guns were mounted inside the walls in a string of open casemates, or gunrooms, facing outward toward the sea through large openings called embrasures.

  Inside the walls is a thirteen-acre parade ground that contained additional powder magazines, headquarters, a hospital, officer quarters and three large barracks. A modern light tower replaced the old Garden Key lighthouse—the first structure built on the island.

  “Incredible,” Joe said.

  “Mmhmm,” Troy said, nodding, “takes my breath away every time I see it.”

  “Looks like someone’s having a fire.”

  Troy banked the plane and looked out the side window. A plume of smoke was drifting up from the center of the parade grounds. He smiled to himself. “Looks like R.B. set a signal fire,” he said. “I knew he’d be—”

  Troy was interrupted by a loud sputtering sound coming from the engine. The fuel gauge sat on empty… dead empty. And just like in the movies, he tapped it with a finger, hoping that it would magically snap up to a full tank.

  “Dangit!”

  “What?” Joe asked, a touch of hysteria slipping into his voice. “What’s that sound? What’s going on? Are we going down?”

  “Don’t worry, Joe,” —Troy looked back up toward the fort— “We’re gonna land just fine.”

  “Okay, good,” Joe said, sweat beads forming on his forehead. “That’s good, right?”

  “Yup, I ain’t worried about the landing at all.” Troy sniffed. “It’s the takin’ off again that might be a problem.”

  That’s when Detective Joe Bond barfed again… without a bag… all over himself.

  R.B. spotted the plane a few miles out and began to jump around and yell. “Hot damn,” he yelled, “he did it! My bro figured it out! We’re getting’ outta here!”

  After the harsh swim Natasha had been through and Megan’s kidnapping experience, they couldn’t help but join in. Like a group of natives in a tribal ritual, they circled the fire, dancing and whooping.

  And that’s when R.B. heard the sputtering sound he knew all too well. He stopped dancing and looked up toward the plane. Shielding his eyes, he peered at it closely. The propeller had stopped moving. His elation became immediate sorrow, then his sorrow became anger.

  “Tell me he didn’t,” he groaned.

  Natasha
and Megan slowly realized that R.B. wasn’t happy anymore and they stopped their celebratory dancing as well.

  “What do you mean?” Megan asked. “What’s wrong?”

  “He’s out of fuel.”

  “Wait, what?” Natasha asked, “he’s out of fuel… as in… no gas?”

  “Yeah,” R.B. inhaled. “He’s out of gas.”

  “So, what does that mean?” Megan asked.

  “It means that we’all are stranded out here now.”

  “Yeah, but he can radio or call the shore, right?” Natasha asked.

  R.B. thought about it. “Yes, he can, but that still means another two to three hours, probably more like four or five, before we get out of here.”

  “But that’s not quick enough!” Megan cried. “He’s going after Chelsea.”

  “Going after Chelsea?” R.B. turned to her. “Why?”

  “Because she has the artifacts from the wreck,” she said, “and he wants them bad. I have no idea why, but he was going to kill me. I had to tell him where they were.”

  “Okay, okay,” R.B. said, holding his hands out, “we’ll just call the police inland and have them head up there. She’ll be fine.”

  Megan had tears in her eyes. “Are you sure?”

  “It’ll be fine,” R.B. said, completely sure that it wouldn’t be fine, “I promise.”

  They watched as Troy brought the plane down, gliding it in expertly. The landing looked perfect, even if it was on an empty tank. The fire had mostly burned out, so they decided it was safe to leave it. They had intentionally built it in the center of the parade ground with nothing nearby.

  Jogging down to the beach ahead of the girls, R.B. watched as Troy sloshed through the surf, pulling the seaplane behind him with a tow line. He struggled some, but the surf helped him push the plan toward the island. When he got close enough, R.B. waded out to help. A few minutes later, when the plane was safely secured, R.B. punched Troy hard on the shoulder.

  “Are you kidding me?” he demanded. “You didn’t check the fuel?”

  Troy rubbed his shoulder. “Bro, I was in a hurry! I thought you were dead.”

  R.B. grabbed him and hugged him tight. He noticed a figure sitting in the plane. The man looked ill.

  “Who’s that?” he said, pointing at him.

  “A detective. He knows who’s been trying to kill us and get my treasure,” Troy said.

  “Good.” R.B. started wading out toward the plane. “We need him to call the shore. Chelsea’s in danger.”

  “Chelsea?” Troy asked, following him out.

  “She works with Megan,” R.B. said, “and she’s got the artifacts at the dolphin center on Islamorada and Vince is on his way there now.”

  “Dangit,” Troy grunted. “Dang Pinzons and Columbuses… why can’t everyone just leave my shipwreck alone.”

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” R.B. said, “but let’s get in there and radio the Coast Guard.”

  Troy nodded.

  “They’ll call the police and get them on their way,” R.B. said as they reached the plane, “and then we can get them to send someone out here with fuel… or a boat to take us back.”

  “I got that covered,” Troy said as they climbed aboard Gidget, “so after you call the police, I’ll call George.”

  “Who?” R.B. slumped into the pilot’s seat and clicked on the radio. “George Wyatt? Why?”

  “Long story,” Troy said as Joe stood up and leaned into the cockpit. “Joe, meet my brother, R.B.”

  The detective reached out a hand and threw up on R.B.

  42

  History

  Chris Collins got the call and drove as fast as the two-lane road up from Key West would allow. Grassy Key is 59 miles up the chain of islands known as the Florida Keys and the average speed limit is below thirty miles-per-hour. Chris’s black Mercedes was traveling at about ninety-five. Fortunately there was just his and three other cars going north. None going south. He passed them easily without slowing down. On the way, he dialed into the secure line at the C.I.A. and re-routed all incoming personnel to Grassy Key, but he knew it would take too long for them to back him up. He was on his own for this operation.

  He pulled in to the Dolphin Research Center about a half hour later. It looked to be deserted. He approached the rear door cautiously and noticed it was slightly ajar. A keypad lock was buzzing, apparently to notify the occupant that the door wasn’t closed properly. Pulling his Glock from his shoulder holster, he eased the door open so he could slip inside.

  His shoes clacked loudly as he walked the halls. If Pinzioni was here, he would certainly know he was coming. He tipped open door after door and found no sign of Vince. He found the saltwater tanks that R.B. had told him the artifacts had been soaking in… empty. And maybe more disturbing was that there was no sign of the girl, Chelsea, either.

  Dammit, I’m too late. Pinzioni had probably high-tailed it out of here with the girl and the artifacts a long time ago. He clicked open his phone to see how long a satellite image would take when something began to tickle at the back of his mind. Vince wouldn’t go north. His history, his ancestors, his legacy… it was all south of here in the Gulf of Mexico. But Chris hadn’t passed anyone going south… not one single car.

  “He’s on a boat,” Chris suddenly said to himself.

  This whole story was about a boat, the Santa Maria, and the unfortunate events that were still up for debate today. Vince Pinzioni would’ve come up here by boat and that’s how he would return. Chris squealed his car out of the parking lot, taking a left and then immediately another left into the Grassy Key Marina.

  He caught sight of a man shoving a girl in front of him out onto the dock. He was also dragging a large, army-style duffel bag that looked to be heavy. Beside the dock was his boat, The Ocean Blue.

  Of course, thought Chris as he jumped from his car and ran toward them. In fourteen-hundred and ninety-two, Columbus sailed the ocean blue. Vince either wasn’t paying attention, or didn’t expect anyone to be there, but he never saw Chris coming up behind them.

  He dumped the bag into his boat and started to shove the girl in after it.

  “Pinzon!” Chris yelled, leveling his gun at him.

  Vince froze. He turned slowly and looked back at the Deputy Director of the C.I.A. Chris saw the pistol tucked in Vince’s waistband.

  “Well, well, well,” he said, smiling, “if it ain’t the golden boy, Chris Columbus.”

  “It’s Collins now.”

  “Same difference.”

  “Let the girl go, Pinzon.”

  “It’s Pinzioni now,” Vince said through a sneer.

  “Same difference.”

  “Touché.”

  “Let her go,” —Chris holstered his own gun and held up his hands— “and I let you get in that boat and sail off into the sunset.”

  Vince Pinzioni tilted his head back and laughed. “Yeah, right. Like you ain’t got the whole agency bearin’ down on us right now.”

  Chris nodded. “It’s true.”

  He glanced at his watch and shook it toward Vince. “But they’re probably still a good two hours away. Plenty of time for you to disappear.”

  “Ha! Disappear from the C.I.A.?” Vince said sarcastically. “I know the end of that scenario. I’ll be disappeared all right. Up to Siberia, or wherever it is you guys are keeping people now.”

  “Guantanamo,” Chris said, “they’d take you to Guantanamo. But I can call them off if you let her go right now. Start a new life, find a new place. We won’t bother you anymore.”

  Vince’s face faltered for just a second. “That ain’t happenin’, Chris. You know that.”

  “Then I guess I’ll have to take you out, Vince,” —Chris drew his gun— “I don’t have any choice.”

  “It ain’t true, ya know?” Vince said suddenly.

  “Excuse me?”

  “The stories.” Vince jerked his head toward the water. “The Pinzons didn’t do what you
think they did. It’s all gotten changed and rearranged and the real history is anybody’s guess.”

  “I think those things you have in that bag might tell a different story.” Chris pointed his left hand toward the boat and eased the gun up to point at him.

  “This junk?” Vince laughed. “Ain’t nothin’ but a bell and some pots. Nothin’ more.”

  “Then you can keep them,” —Chris had a solid grip on his gun— “just let me have the girl.”

  “Nah, sorry. No can do,” Vince said as he shook his head.

  Chelsea, who had been watching this exchange in silence, apparently wondering at the alternate history being debated in front of her, suddenly snapped into motion. Her hands were duct-taped together, but Vince was holding her by the elbow. Her interlaced, bound hands became a sledge-hammer. In a flash, she swung up hard, slamming them into Vince’s chin. He was lifted off the ground as his head snapped backward. He lost his balance and tumbled into the water beside his boat.

  Chelsea ran toward Chris. He grabbed her and ducked behind another boat moored nearby. Vincent was struggling to climb onto the dock.

  “Vince,” Chris called out, “if you start that boat, I’m going to have to shoot you.”

  “You ain’t gonna do shit,” he heard Vince yell, “or I’m gonna slice that kid R.B. and his girl to pieces and mail them to you.”

  Dammit. He’d forgotten about them. He knew that Joe and Troy were searching for them, but as long as they were still missing, he couldn’t shoot Vince.

  “Okay, okay.” Chris’s mind raced trying to come up with a solution. “You have your artifacts, I have the girl. I’ll call off the C.I.A. dogs if you’ll let those people go. Otherwise, I’ll have them hunt you down.”

  “Eat shit, Collins,” he said as his boat rumbled to life.

  It turned away from the dock and jumped up on its wake, speeding away from the marina. Chris raised his gun and aimed at the back of the boat.

  “No!” Chelsea yelled. “If you shoot him, we’ll never find Megan or R.B.!”

  “Dammit!” Chris holstered his gun and watched as the boat disappeared into the distance.