To Honor We Call You: A Florida Action Adventure Novel (Scott Jarvis Private Investigator Book 9)

by Scott Cook

  I laughed, “I know, that’s what makes them so funny. You’d think so too, but you’re probably just on the rag.”

  She growled.

  I squeezed her hand, “I truly do understand how you feel, Lisa. I’m sure that if our positions were reversed, I’d feel just as you do. But you and I both know that whatever our personal feelings on the matter, what’s at stake here is bigger than either of us. I have to do this.”

  She squeezed my hand back and with surprising strength, “Damn you… I know that! I know that there’s probably nobody better for this… but call me selfish, I love you and don’t want to lose you. I’m mad because I’m… afraid.”

  “I know,” I soothed. “This is just something we have to learn to deal with, sweetie. This is who I am… and hell… you’re becoming more and more like me all the time. The day we met, I had no idea that the strikingly beautiful UCF student I started working for would turn out to be an action hero in her own right.”

  “It’s all your fault,” She said, but with a hint of teasing.

  “Most things are,” I rejoined. “I’m a man.”

  “That’s right, and don’t you forget it.”

  We were silent for a long while as we headed down US-1 through the upper Keys. There was little to see at night, but even in the dark, the frequent crossing of bridges between islands broke up the monotony.

  “I’m sorry you’re angry and scared,” I said softly after a while.

  She heaved a heavy sigh, “You don’t have to apologize, baby. You didn’t’ do anything wrong… I’m just venting. I do appreciate it, though.”

  “I’m still sorry.”

  She smiled at me, “I love you, you know that? Like… crazy hard. You’re an amazing man and I feel privileged to be with you.”

  I grinned, “I understand completely. That’s how I feel about you.”

  As we got onto the Seven Mile Bridge, the cloud cover Kelly had talked about was almost total. It made the darkness over the water nearly complete as well. Beyond the lights of the headlights and taillights on the bridge and the bridge’s own lights, the vast expanse of the Gulf to our right and the Atlantic to our left was just one unbroken sphere of blackness. I suddenly experienced a very uncomfortable wave of foreboding.

  We arrived on Key West at a little after ten p.m. Early for the city’s partiers, even if the numbers were reduced due to the lingering effects of the COVID. People were going out and yet the world wasn’t quite back to one hundred percent. Duval Street was jumping, as one might expect, and yet the Key West Conch Harbor region was already beginning to wind down.

  It seemed to me a strange juxtaposition. Just a few blocks away from Duval, the restaurants and bars that ringed the harbor tended to shut down by eleven or midnight in a few cases. However, at just after ten on this Monday evening, the Conch Republic, Alonzo’s, Edith Raw and Dante’s among others were still going strong.

  That included Schooner Wharf, a small outdoor bar and restaurant that was as much frequented by locals as visitors. The joint was still fairly well occupied when I walked in, yet there were several empty tables to choose from.

  Lisa had dropped me off at the corner of Fleming and Elizabeth, in front of the Key West public library. This way I could walk to Schooner’s without drawing any attention to who had driven me down.

  She’d parked on Elizabeth and crawled over the console and into my lap and started to cry. I held her close for a long moment, trying to soothe her fears and my own trepidation as well. It was an all-too-brief moment of closeness.

  “I wish we had time,” Lisa whispered into my ear as we held each other tightly.

  “Time?”

  She chuckled, “Don’t be dense. Time to make love… even a quickie would be awesome… if you’re going to head off into danger, I want you to go off with a fresh memory of us.”

  “Me too,” I said tenderly.

  There was a pause and then she said with mischief in her tone: “Of course… it’s you who needs time. I can finish in like two minutes, easy.”

  I laughed, “I’m not sure if that’s a credit to my abilities or your own sex drive.”

  “Pretty much all me,” Lisa replied, her body shivering a little with her laughter. “You’re just a tool… a means to an end. All I really need you for is to save me money on batteries.”

  “Jesus…” I chuckled. “You’re so good for my ego.”

  She looked up at me, her large sea-blue eyes moist with the remnants of her tears, “you know I’m kidding, baby.”

  I kissed her deeply and then reluctantly pulled away, “It’s time. You gonna be okay?”

  She made her way back into the driver’s seat, “Yeah, just ducky. Nothing like a two plus hour ride alone at night with nothing to do but worry… or should I stay in town in case you need a ride back?”

  I drew in a breath and heaved it out, “I think we both know that’s not necessary.”

  She nodded and I could see her fighting back more tears. In a small voice she said: “Be careful… and come back to me.”

  “I will,” I said, opening the door. “I’m highly motivated.”

  I sat at my table and sipped my rum runner. There was a woman playing guitar and doing a great rendition of Seashores of Old Mexico by George Strait. I can never remember her name, yet she’s a Key West staple. A very talented guitarist and singer who had a unique talent. She could switch from her regular voice to that of a gruff sounding dude and sing that way. It was so convincing that unless you looked to confirm it, you’d swear it was a man up on stage.

  I kept one eye on the entertainment and one on the entrance. After about fifteen minutes, a lanky long-haired dude ambled in, looked around for a while and then came over to me with an uncertain look on his face.

  “Hey man…” he said in a casual stoner sort of voice. “Is your name Jarvis?”

  “What’s it to ya’?” I asked, sipping my drink.

  “This dude over at the city dock paid me fifty bucks to come over here and deliver a message to a guy named Jarvis,” The man said nonchalantly.

  “All right,” I replied. “My name’s Jarvis. What’s the message?”

  “It was a Hispanic dude, man,” the guy began. “Said that you should walk over to the dock. He wants you to meet him there at his boat, man.”

  “Am I supposed to know this guy or his boat?” I queried.

  The messenger shrugged, “He said you’d know him, man. Said his boat was the same one you seen in Cuba… you been to Cuba, man? Always wanted to check that scene out. Heard they got some hot women and a good time is pretty cheap there. What’d you think of it?”

  I sighed and waved my server over, “No idea. I was only in Havana harbor for an hour.”

  “Bummer man,” The guy empathized. “Well, okay … there’s your message. Take it easy, dude.”

  “Thanks,” I said, handing the waitress a twenty for the drink and tip.

  The guy ambled out and I followed, carrying what was left of my drink. Hey, for ten bucks, you don’t just toss it away. My messenger walked out onto William Street and turned left toward Caroline Street and I turned right to head over toward the closest harbor access.

  I walked up onto the boardwalk and made my way over to the day docks. There were seemingly hundreds of dinghies there and when I got to the end of the main pier, I saw a single large center console tied up alongside the dock, her lights off.

  “Here we go…” I muttered as I strolled up to the boat. Even though the sky was darker than a coal miner’s nose, there was plenty of light from the dock lamps to see that three men lounged aboard. One man sat at the bench behind the wheel, another was stretched out on the big casting deck forward and a lean man of medium height sat along the starboard gunwale.

  “Dr. Livingston, I presume.”

  Manuel Garcia glanced up at me negligently, as if he hadn’t been waiting for me to bring the final linchpin for his and his brother’s scheme for world domination or whatever the hell it was. />
  “Buenos noches,” Garcia said casually. “Did you bring the item?”

  “Where’s your brother, Manny?” I asked, standing off a few paces.

  “He’s otherwise occupied, amigo,” Garcia said. “You wish to speak with him?”

  “Not really,” I said. “I brought your damned necklace. I’ve got to say, Garcia, it takes juevos for you and Antonio to waltz right into the country unannounced.”

  Garcia shrugged, “It’s easier than you’d think.”

  “Obviously.”

  “Well?” He inquired.

  I pulled the medallion out from under my red Aloha shirt and over my neck. I held it out so that the gold glittered in the lamplight, “So I just hand this over and go home with your promise that you won’t launch a bio-weapon attack on some innocents, huh?”

  “I don’t see that you have much choice,” Garcia stated.

  “Oh, no?” I asked. “For instance… you don’t see that I could have a sniper posted? And that if I make a certain signal, he puts a thirty-caliber round in your head? You don’t see that I could have a boat waiting just outside the bite to open fire on you should you attempt to leave the harbor?”

  There were groans of discomfort from Garcia’s men. They obviously spoke English. He only laughed, however.

  “Okay, then, Jarvis! Make your signal.”

  Of course I didn’t have any of that in play. I couldn’t, really, because while I could’ve taken out Garcia, that would no doubt precipitate Bolivar’s plans. Garcia knew that, of course.

  I sighed and stepped closer, “Well… I don’t have any of that in play. I’m just saying that I could is all. Here’s your damned medallion. I’ve got a suggestion as to where you can stow it, if you’re interested.”

  Garcia laughed, “In spite of everything, Jarvis… I like you, amigo. I really do. It’ll be enjoyable to spend some time together.”

  “Not this guy,” I said. “I’ll be GD’ed I’m gonna put myself into your power and head out to sea at night. Fudge that S.”

  “I’m not offering you a choice,” Garcia said. “You’re coming with me now or many innocent people will suffer.”

  “Uh-huh,” I scoffed, “I doubt that, Garcia. My presence isn’t going to make any difference. Either you and your damned brother are going to launch your attack regardless, once you have the item… or there is no biological attack planned and it’s just a lie to get that medallion. Either way, there’s nothing in it for me to let you take me out to sea and kill me. You want me dead, then shoot me now.”

  The other men laughed along with Garcia. He turned to them, “Mucho bravado, huh? Cajones grande!”

  I waited. I wondered if even after all this time Garcia knew that I spoke Spanish.

  “Jarvis,” He said when he’d had his laugh out. “Antonio gave you his word that we weren’t going to kill you. That would not be… what is the expression…? Ah, that would not be enough icing for our cake. Come, time is short and the weather is getting foul.”

  I knew this would happen, of course. I didn’t really expect to simply walk away from that dock. I couldn’t, really.

  So, with Garcia’s oh so comforting reassurance, I stepped down into the boat and we headed out of the protected harbor and into a night that promised to be dirty in more ways than one.

  36

  Although the night sky was an unbroken blanket of low-hanging clouds, a true storm hadn’t yet developed. The wind was relatively light at about ten knots out of the east northeast. The water was nearly flat calm, at least until we cleared the Northwest Passage. Once we’d cleared the outer markers, and more importantly, the large shallow Shoals that bordered the passage, the sea state began to build. It was only about three feet, and the big heavy center console rode atop the waves with remarkable smoothness, even when the driver opened the throttles up and we must’ve been doing forty knots or more.

  As the night wore on, though, the squalls began to build in earnest. The sea state was getting up and even the well-found center console was making heavy work of the now four to six footers. Still, our speed hadn’t diminished much. The smooth ride became more bouncy and harder, and the two Vicodin that I’d taken with my rum runner were beginning to wear off. In spite of the pitching, I chose to stand behind the helm bench as sitting was becoming a little uncomfortable.

  It was probably close to one a.m. when we first caught sight of lights on the horizon. Although we’d passed through several rain squalls, they weren’t brutal and the fresh rainwater helped to wash away the spray. Also, the more westerly we drove, the lower the sea became so that by the time we spotted the distant lights, the boat was riding more easily over three to four footers.

  I was surprised to see that in addition to the superyacht we were approaching, there was a modest sized freighter hove up next to her. The contrast between the white hull and the dark squarish utilitarian hull of the cargo vessel was stark even in the near blackness.

  The cargo ship appeared to be about the size of Tavares’ own… yet I was thankful to see that she wasn’t the Theresa Maxwell. This as-yet unknown ship was running at about four knots to the southwest. This had the advantage of keeping the yacht in her lee. That meant that the yacht ran smoothly alongside the freighter. Very close, which at first confused me until we drew near and I saw the hose.

  The yacht was taking on fuel. Probably necessary after all the traveling she’d done over the last few days. I couldn’t be sure, but I assumed that a two-hundred foot superyacht, hell maybe mega yacht, had a range of five or six thousand miles. Although that would be at something like ten or twelve knots. If she really could do twenty or more, then the steel-hulled beast had probably guzzled a considerable percentage of her fuel oil over the last few days.

  Even so… it was only about a thousand miles or a little more back to Columbia. Even less to Panama from our position. Surely the yacht had enough fuel to make it back to her home port?

  The big boat was impressive, I had to say. Probably five decks, two in the hull and three above as part of the superstructure. A large open platform aft sat only a few feet above the waterline and had an assortment of water toys on it and could easily accommodate a helicopter. There was a large open area at the after end of the main deck which was probably the swimming pool. As we moved along the side of the yacht, I could see that a crane and cradle were already prepared to hoist us onto the bow and even when the tender was stored on its rack, the foredeck would still have plenty of room to hang out.

  “Must be nice,” I remarked.

  Garcia grinned, “One day soon, we will be able to commission a private yacht that puts this one to shame, Jarvis… and my brother and I have you to thank for it.”

  I chuffed, “Don’t remind me.”

  Crewmembers attached the cradle to the center console and we were lifted up and over the starboard railing and set onto a rack custom made to fit the smaller boat. The crew members secured us and the crane folded itself into a compact structure that was stored behind the tender’s two outboards.

  “Shall we go inside and get warm?” Garcia asked me, as if he was a gracious host. “It’s been a long and wet trip.”

  Garcia and I walked along the starboard deck with his two goons in tow. I was surprised when we walked past several doors that led into the saloons and instead around the after end of the structure and onto the pool deck. We continued past the pool, lounging and dining area and the tiki bar all the way to the other side of the ship. A narrow cargo net was fastened to the railing and angled upward another fifteen feet or so to the freighter’s main deck.

  “Be my guest,” Garcia said, waving at the makeshift rope ladder.

  I looked at him in bewilderment, “We’re not staying aboard the yacht?”

  He grinned, “Far too conspicuous, Jarvis. Far too obvious as well. No, we’re headed in another direction entirely. Vamos! Rapido.”

  I sighed and began to climb the swaying and writhing netting. The working of two ships moving on a sea
not quite in unison as well as the shooting pains in my fundament made the climb a bit more challenging than I’d have thought. However, once I reached the wide-open deck of the freighter, the motion of the sea was hardly noticeable. Also, the throbbing of what felt like the world’s most persistent hemorrhoid eased slightly from a demonic shriek to a dull roar.

  That would’ve been a good time for me to run and attempt to do something destructive. There was no one on deck, with the exception of two crew members apparently tending to the fuel line. However, I could see that up on the super structure, on the starboard bridge wing, two more men stood in the shadows. Something told me at least one of them probably had a scoped long gun pointed in my direction.

  I still thought about it, but in the next second, Garcia and then his men came aboard and the moment was lost. I was hustled aft toward the three story super structure and just before mounting a metal companion I heard Spanish voices at the hose station say that fueling was complete and that the yacht should disconnect. We’d be parting ways shortly, it seemed.

  As we mounted up to the bridge deck, the highest level, I was met by the man who’d just over twenty-four hours earlier introduced himself as Martin Cruz. I was right, too. There was a man with a rifle beside him.

  “Welcome aboard, senor,” Antonio Bolivar said with a grin. “I assume that since you’re here alive, you have indeed handed over the necklace to my brother?”

  Garcia appeared next to me and handed the medallion over, “He gave us no trouble, hermano.”

  “Excellent,” Bolivar said. “Have you searched him?”

  “I patted him down myself,” Garcia replied. “No weapons, no communication devices… nothing.”

  Bolivar nodded again, “Again, excellent… however, I think we should be a bit more thorough. Aside from the fact that you all should get out of your wet clothing, I think we should search him completely, no?”

  Garcia shrugged, “Es Bueno.”

  “Afterward,” Bolivar went on. “Why don’t you both join me on the bridge. We’ll have a chat before getting some rest.”