Logan was standing, feet planted wide apart, riding with the movement of the boat. He had the RPG launcher on his shoulder, his eye to the optical sight, the breech pointing overboard. He pulled the trigger, and the rocket shot from the barrel, the back-blast rolling harmlessly across the water.
The lead boat exploded. In the bright light of the blast, I could see shards of fiberglass shooting like flaming arrows into the dark water. The boat was gone in an instant, and a burning patch of gasoline was already dying out.
Logan let out a howl of elation. "Bring it on!" he shouted, shaking his fist at the scene of carnage.
The other go-fast made a wide arcing turn at high speed, bouncing in its own wake. I could hear the roar of its engines as it sped back the way it had come, tracers from Jock's M60 chasing it.
"Should we look for survivors?" I asked.
"There won't be any," said Logan. "Let's find out what Simmermon has to tell us."
I eased the throttles back to neutral. We drifted on the dark Gulf waters. No other boats were in sight, and my radar screen was empty. The quiet of the night was broken only by the slap of small swells hitting the side of the boat.
Logan pulled Simmermon up by his shirtfront and sat him against the bulkhead. He removed his gag and said, "You want to tell me who you're going to blow up?"
"The world."
"When?"
"It's started already. You can't stop it."
"Can't stop what?" Logan asked.
"The bombers. Some have already left the island, and the others are leaving today."
"What are the targets?"
"The ones God picks."
"You can do better than that, Rev," said Logan.
"God talks to me, you know. He tells me what to do. I am his earthly right arm."
Peggy had come up on deck. "I think he's schizophrenic," she said. "Once, when he had me in his room, he got quiet, and then started talking. It was like he was having a conversation, but I could only hear his side of it. He told me it was God talking to him."
"Voices," said Jock. "He's crazy as a loon."
Logan kicked Simmermon in the hip. "I want to know what you're going to blow up," he said.
"It's not what, it's who," Simmermon said. "You'll see. God is going to cleanse the world of heathens."
"How?"
"Suicide bombers," said Simmermon, a look of pleasure crossing his face. "We're going to set the world right."
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Jock was talking into his satellite phone, facing astern, nodding his head, writing on a piece of notepaper he'd pulled from his pocket.
He closed the phone and turned to me. "We need to meet a Coast Guard boat. They'll take Simmermon off our hands." He read the coordinates off his notes.
I dialed them into my GPS. "We're only about ten minutes from the rendezvous point," I said. "Did they give you a time to meet?"
"A forty-one footer is on its way now."
I flipped on my running lights and brought the boat up on plane, turning onto a course that would take us to the Coast Guard boat. Logan was squatting on the deck, still talking to Simmermon. I couldn't hear them over the roar of the engines. Jock stood on the deck holding the stock of the M60, still on its tripod.
As we approached the rendezvous point, I slowed the boat. My radio came alive.
"Recess, Recess, this is the United States Coast Guard. Request that you turn your running lights off and then on."
"This is Recess. Wilco," I mumbled into the mic as I flipped the lights off and then on.
A spotlight hit us, its beam piercing the dark and pinning us to the black water. "Recess, this is the Coast Guard. We have you in sight. I'll approach from your port. Don't shoot."
"Coast Guard, this is Recess. I copy. I have you in sight. We're standing down."
The white boat with the red striping and the Coast Guard emblem appeared out of the darkness. Its spotlight was trained on an area off my bow, not blinding us now.
The Coastie coxswain eased his boat alongside us. A woman in blue fatigues threw fenders over the side, and a young man in the same uniform threw me a line. Jock went to the bow to catch another line, and we secured the boats together.
One of the Coasties said, "Permission to come aboard?"
"Come ahead," I said. "We're glad to see you guys."
A uniformed man, who looked to be in his mid-twenties, climbed aboard Recess. "I'm Petty Officer Bob Postel," he said. "I was told to meet you and take charge of a prisoner. Which one of you is Mr. Houston?"
Jock stepped down into the cockpit and said, "That would be me."
The Coastie threw a sloppy salute. "I was told to meet you, sir, and put myself and my boat under your command."
"That won't be necessary," said Jock. "I do need you to take charge of a prisoner and keep him incommunicado at your station until I get there."
"I understand, sir. I'll need to put a lifejacket on him. Can I untie his hands for that?"
"No problem."
"Sir, just so you'll know, we've thrown a cordon around Blood Island. I don't know what's up, but I was told to let you know that."
"Thank you, Petty Officer. Would you ask the commander on the scene to contact me on the VHF?"
The Coastie untied Simmermon's hands, put a life jacket on him, and then used handcuffs to restrain his arms behind him. He and another man helped the Rev onto the Coast Guard boat, and they were gone into the night, their stern light receding into the darkness.
"Mr. Houston?" I asked.
"One of many names," Jock said, and grinned.
"What now?"
"We're going to meet the Coast Guard commander. We may need to get back on the island, and then we need to talk to Simmermon and the people you've got stashed."
The radio beeped, and then a voice came over it. "Recess, Recess, this is the Coast Guard cutter Intrepid."
"This is Recess, Intrepid."
"I'm in command of the operation at Blood Island." He gave his coordinates, and said, "Can you come to me?"
I looked at Jock who nodded his head. "Roger that," I said. "We're on our way."
I dialed in the new coordinates and we headed west.
The Intrepid was a 210-foot Reliance-class cutter, carrying a crew of seventy-five and sporting a 25-millimeter chain gun and two 50-caliber machine guns. These guys were serious. The chain gun could fire two hundred rounds per minute and was accurate to a distance exceeding one mile. It would blow anything less than a warship out of the water.
The cutter was lit up like a downtown square. Deck lights bathed the white ship in a brightness that would let anyone within miles know she was there. She was hove to about a mile from Blood Island, staying to the deep water of Boca Grande Channel. I could see the running lights of other smaller Coast Guard vessels hovering on all sides of the island.
I radioed the cutter as we approached, identified myself, and was told to come alongside. Lines were thrown down from the deck along with a rope ladder.
Jock grabbed the ladder and told me he'd be right back. Logan and I let go the lines, and I backed Recess off several yards.
In a few minutes, a Coastie on the cutter's deck waved me back in. Jock came aboard, and I backed off again.
"We're going in,"Jock said.
"In where?" I asked.
"Back to Key West, to the Coast Guard station. A Delta Force team out of the Hurlburt Field in the panhandle is going to drop on Blood Island in about an hour. In the meantime, the Coasties have the place bottled up tight. Nobody's going to be leaving."
Logan said, "From what the Rev just told me, I think he's planning to hit some mosques. Called it divine retribution for what's going on in Israel."
"He could start a war," Jock said.
"I think that's his intention," Logan said.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
It would be daylight soon, and we were all tired. We still had a lot to do, and we had to make arrangements for Peggy. She was sitting next to me a
t the helm. "Peggy, you need to call your dad," I said. "And I'd like to talk to him too."
I handed her my cell phone and she dialed the number. In a moment I heard her say, "Daddy, I'm with Matt. I'm okay."
They talked for a minute, and she handed the phone to me. She was crying loudly, sobbing, her head buried in her hands. Logan came to the helm and put a hand on her shoulder, just letting her know he was there.
"Matt," Jeff said, "how can I ever thank you?"
"Don't worry about it, Jeff. We're practically family. We're on our way to the Coast Guard station, and I'm sure the local cops will want to talk to Peggy. They'll be in touch and arrange to get her home. What's going on with Laura?"
His voice was low, strained, flooded with emotion. "It's not good," he said. His voice caught, a sob stifled. "She's very sick. Some sort of virulent form of leukemia. She's been aware of it for some time, but she didn't tell anybody. Didn't want to worry us."
"Prognosis?"
"Terrible. She's close to death. I think she's been holding on to see Peggy. I'm not sure how I'll live without her."
Pain ripped through my soul; shock and despair gnawed at my brain. No. Not possible. Laura was dying. That just couldn't be. She had been awake and lucid just a few hours ago. She was going to be fine. I had banished my fear with the relief that came with that knowledge.
I knew we'd never have a life together, but as long as she was alive, there was always that glimmer of hope. When she'd needed help finding Peggy, she called me. And I knew that if I needed her badly enough, I could just go to Atlanta to see her. The despair I'd felt during the dream of her funeral bore down on me, dark and hopeless. My mind could not comprehend a world without Laura. Darkness was closing in, shutting down my emotions, drawing me into a pit from which I would not emerge. But Peggy needed me, and Laura needed Peggy. I willed the cloying dread back into its rotten corner, back there where the memories of dead soldiers hide in the shadows and lurch occasionally into my nightmares.
I choked back my emotion. "How long, Jeff?"
"Today, tomorrow, a couple more days at the most."
"I'm sorry, my friend, so goddamned sorry."
"I know. Me too. Thanks for finding my little girl. I'm sure you know how much this means to Laura. She'll go peacefully, now." I heard a sob as he hung up the phone.
I turned to Peggy. "He told you about Laura?"
"Yes. Oh, Matt, I've got to get home."
"We're on our way, honey," I said, and pushed the throttles all the way forward.
I hailed the Coast Guard station on my radio as we approached their docks. Two men came to meet us, took our lines, and pointed us to the building housing the administrative staff.
On the way in, I'd told Jock and Logan about Laura's condition. Logan stood next to Peggy during the entire trip, his arm around her shoulder, cradling her head in the crook of his elbow, giving support to a young lady who was losing a mother for the second time in her short life. A somber air hovered over our little group as we climbed out of the boat onto the cement piers.
Peggy was quiet, her face showing no expression. She was still dressed in the white gown, now streaked with dirt. Her flip-flops slapped the pavement as we walked. She was holding Logan's hand.
"What about Peggy?" I asked.
"She'll come with me," Jock said. "We'll get her some clothes and send her home to Atlanta. I think the local cops will want to talk to her first."
"Call Detective Paul Galls at the sheriff's office. He's aware of the situation."
At the door to the station jock stopped. "Can you get to those people you've got under lock and key? We need to squeeze them for any information about suicide bombers."
"I think so. Let me make a call."
I dialed Mendosa's number and identified myself to the answering machine. A moment later, my cell phone rang.
"This is Matt Royal. I'd like to meet with the people you're holding for me."
"Hold, please," the voice said.
He came back on the line. "Where are you?"
"I'm at the Coast Guard station on Trumbo Road."
"Stand out front. A car will be there in five minutes."
"I have a friend with me."
"Hold, please."
Then, "Mr. Mendosa says if you vouch for him, bring him along." He hung up.
"They'll be here in a couple of minutes," I said.
Jock nodded. "I'll leave it to you then. I have some talking to do to the Reverend Simmermon." He walked into the building, leading Peggy by the hand.
"Who are the people on the phone?" Logan said.
"They're friends of Cracker Dix's."
Logan laughed. "That doesn't sound good."
"They're solid people, and they owe Cracker. He called in part of the debt to help me."
"Good of Cracker," said Logan, a wry grin softening his face.
The sun was trying to rise out of the Atlantic. The sky was brightening over the little city, the harbinger of the sun's rays, signaling another day for the revelers who come to Key West to drink and party. I thought it was going to be a beautiful morning. I wondered what was happening on Blood Island. I hoped it wasn't going to be a blood bath.
The black Lincoln Town Car glided to a stop in front of us. The same driver who'd met me on Roosevelt Avenue was behind the wheel. He got out and said, "Good to see you, Mr. Royal."
"Good to see you again. This is Logan Hamilton. Also a friend of Cracker's."
They shook hands, and Logan and I got in the backseat. We headed northeast, out of the city. We came to a sign announcing that we were on Big Coppitt Key. We turned off U.S. 1 onto a residential street. We stopped in front of a large house at the end of the street. A garage door opened and the Lincoln eased into the space and stopped.
"We're here," said the driver.
We got out and followed him into the house, through a large kitchen and into the living room. One wall was mostly windows, giving a view through a stand of trees down to Florida Bay.
The house sat on a large lot, much larger than you would expect to find in the Keys. The trees all around gave it a sense of seclusion.
Mendosa was sitting in an easy chair sipping coffee, the morning paper on his lap. He rose as we entered the room. I introduced Logan, and said, "I need to talk to your guests. It's very important."
"Certainly. I'll take you to them, but they may not be in a mood to talk. Perhaps we should have a plan in case they won't cooperate."
"Aren't you interested in why we're here?"
"Of course I am, but it'd be rude to ask. I don't need to know. Probably don't want to know." He grinned.
I nodded. "You're probably right."
We talked for a few more minutes, and then Mendosa led Logan and me down a hallway to a bedroom. The room was bare except for a bed. A large window looked out over the backyard. I could see beyond the trees to the bay, shimmering in the early light. The backyard was a study in shadows cast by the rising sun. Michelle was lying on the bed, fully clothed and wide-awake.
"Good morning, sunshine," I said.
She looked at me, hate darting from her eyes like lightning. "Asshole," she said through clenched teeth. "You broke my jaw"
"Sorry. I'd like you to meet my friend Logan."
"Another asshole."
Logan smiled. "Nice to meet you too, ma'am."
"I've got a few questions," I said.
Michelle turned her head away from me. "I've got nothing to say."
I looked at Mendosa. "Would you be kind enough to ask Mr. Calhoun to join us?"
He left and returned with one of his men holding Charlie Calhoun by the arm, his hands cuffed behind his back.
I said, "Good morning, Mr. Calhoun. I'd offer to shake hands, but you seem a little distracted."
He stared straight ahead. "Fuck you, Royal."
"Charlie," I said, "I'm going to ask you some questions. You get one try at answering truthfully. If you don't, you pay the consequences."
Mic
helle mumbled through her clenched jaw. "Don't say a word, Charlie."
I looked at Charlie. "You've got one chance. Don't blow it."
"Fuck you, Royal."
I smiled at him. "You've got a limited vocabulary. Tell me what the Rev is going to blow up."
A look of puzzlement, or maybe just stupidity, crossed his face. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Charlie, don't be stupid. If you help me, you'll be helping yourself."
"Go to hell, Royal."
I turned to Mendosa. "Would you be kind enough to take this cretin out back and have him shot?"
"Certainly," said Mendosa, and nodded to the man who'd brought Charlie to us.
Charlie looked at me with a knowing grin. He didn't think we'd do it. People who lurk on the edges of civilization know that their greatest protection from the wrath of society is the unwillingness of good people to do bad things. Sometimes, the lurkers misjudge.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Logan followed Charlie and his keeper out of the room. They reappeared on the lawn outside the window. Mendosa's man moved out of my line of sight, leaving Charlie and Logan standing alone on the grass.
"You might want to watch this," I said to Michelle.
Logan was standing behind the handcuffed Charlie. He raised a pistol to the back of Charlie's neck. The sound of a gunshot rattled the glass in the window. Charlie dropped loosely to the ground, like a bag ofpota- toes. Logan turned and walked out of our view.
Michelle screamed as the gunshot sounded. "My God! You shot Charlie."
"You're next, Michelle," I said. "I'm tired of fooling around. Tell me what I want to know and you live. Lie to me, you die. It's that simple."
She was sitting on the side of the bed, hands in her lap. They were shaking. Her face was twisted in a rictus of fear. Tears were sliding down her cheeks. Reality had come home to Michelle, and she didn't like it.
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