by Tripp Ellis
"We kind of hooked up once," Jordyn said.
"When?" I asked.
"Maybe a month ago? He's got a really nice boat. Not as nice as yours. Yours is a little… bigger." Her pupils dilated. "Anyway, we went on a little booze cruise. He took me to this little island. It was a nice place. He said a friend of his owned it. Maybe that's where he is hiding out?"
"Do you remember where this island is?"
Jordyn shrugged. "I don't know. I was pretty wasted."
"How far away was it?"
Jordyn shrugged. "Maybe an hour? I don't know."
"Did you travel south, east, north?"
She looked at me flatly. "Sweetie, do I look like I would have any idea?"
“Grouper Key? Tarpon Key, Stone key?
"None of those." She frowned.
“Deadwood Key?"
Her eyes brightened. "Yeah. That's it."
"Are you sure?"
"Positive. Sort of. I don't know."
"You're not helping."
She shrugged. "I'm sorry. I'm trying. I'm not good with this kind of thing."
"Would you recognize the place if you saw it again?"
"Absolutely," Jordyn said.
"Then you're coming with me."
"What are you going to do?" Haley asked.
"We’re just going on an exploratory mission. We’ll visit the island and see if Gardner is there."
"And if he is?" Haley asked.
"We’ll notify the authorities," I said.
Haley gave me a skeptical glance.
"Trust me. I'm in enough trouble already."
"I'm going with you,” Haley said.
I sighed. "Okay. But both of you have to do exactly as I say. Stay on the boat at all times. And call for backup if there's any trouble."
"I'm going too,” Scarlett said.
My face crinkled at her. "No, you're not. Stay here with Jack."
"Tyson!" she protested.
“End of discussion."
She frowned at me and folded her arms, sitting back in the chair. "You're no fun."
We left the hospital and headed back to the marina. Jordyn sat in the backseat of the SUV and leaned forward between the two front seats with an excited grin on her face. "This is going to be so awesome. I feel like a spy or something."
I rolled my eyes. "You are not a spy. You're just going to identify the island and see if Gardner's boat is there."
"I know how to fire a gun," Jordyn said.
"Oh, really?" I asked, doubtful.
"I did this cheesy B-movie once, Bikini Beach Bimbos Save the World. We ran around the whole time with machine guns, fighting really bad CG dinosaurs."
I flashed her a doubtful glance. "That doesn't make you a weapons expert."
"There was some former military guy on set that taught us how to handle the weapons and shoot. They took us to the range and let us fire off a few rounds before filming."
"I didn't know you were into acting," I said.
"I'm not. They filmed it in Miami a couple years ago. A friend of mine was doing make up on set, and the director saw me and said that I had to be in the movie." Jordyn smiled. "It's really bad."
"I'm pretty good with a rifle myself,” Haley said. “You don't think a former Marine would let his granddaughter grow up without the ability to handle a firearm, do you?"
I grinned. "Good to know."
Haley pulled into the parking lot at Diver Down and parked the car. We jogged down the dock and boarded the Vivere. The girls played with Buddy as I prepped my gear. I press checked my pistol, gathered my assault rifle, extra magazines, night vision goggles, smoke grenades, and anything else I thought I might need for a tactical assault.
Jordyn looked on with wide eyes. "Holy shit! You’ve got a fucking arsenal. You could invade a small nation with this stuff."
"That's the idea," I said with a grin.
Haley and Jordyn disconnected shore power and water and cast off the lines. I idled the Vivere out of the marina and into the open water. Running full out, it took us about an hour to get to Deadwood Key.
I cut the lights and killed the engine and drifted about a 1/2 mile offshore. I dropped anchor, and the Vivere hovered in the inky blackness.
With a pair of binoculars, I scanned the island. It was a small key, maybe three quarters of a mile long and half a mile wide. There was an elevated home on the island, and I could see a few lights were on.
A channel had been dredged out to accommodate larger boats at the dock. The island was thick with mangrove trees and a few palms and high grass. It was a perfect secluded getaway.
A 45’ sport fish was docked at the pier.
"Do you recognize that boat?" I asked Jordyn.
She shook her head. "That's not Gardner's."
I frowned.
I donned my tactical vest and helmet and slung my rifle over my shoulder.
"Where are you going?" Haley asked.
“To find out if Gardner was here, and where he went."
"Don't you need a warrant for that kind of thing?" Haley asked.
"I'm just going to have a friendly conversation." I smiled.
Haley arched a doubtful eyebrow at me. "What do you want us to do?"
"Stay here." I handed her the binoculars. "Keep an eye out. If I get into trouble, call for help."
She swallowed hard. "What kind of trouble?"
"Don't worry. Everything is going to be fine."
I descended the aft steps, lowered the swim platform, and launched the tender. I cast off the lines and twisted the throttle on the electric barracuda motor. The rigid inflatable plowed toward the island.
The new Barracuda electric motor was more powerful than the old Barracuda we had in the previous tender, but it wasn't going to win any races.
I circled the boat around the island, scoping out the terrain, then I headed to shore. I hopped out in the shallows and pulled the boat up the beach to the tree line. From a pocket, I grabbed a black balaclava and pulled it over my head, obscuring my face. Then I put on my helmet and lowered my NODs (night optical device). Like a jungle cat, I advanced through the trees, weaving through the underbrush to the house.
A man and a woman were inside, drinking wine. The guy was early 40s. The girl looked to be late 20s. She was cute. The guy—not so much. But he had more than enough money and toys to entertain her.
The pretty brunette leaned over the counter and sniffed a white powdery substance through a straw. She had a nice lean. She wore a skintight black dress with a high hemline that accentuated her toned legs. Afterward, she stood up, flipped her hair back, sniffled, and wiped her nose.
She handed the straw to the man. He snorted another line.
Upon witnessing that, I didn't feel so bad about kicking down the door.
39
Wood splintered from the doorjamb as I kicked my way into the house. I entered with my weapon in the firing position amid shrieks and hollers. "Get down on the ground! Facedown!”
With terrified eyes, they complied.
"Please, don't hurt us!" the man said. "You can take anything you want."
I could only imagine what the man must have been feeling. To be completely wired when a home invader stormed in with an assault rifle, barking commands? That’s the stuff of nightmares.
He trembled on the floor.
"Where is Gardner?" I asked.
"Who?”
"Don't play games with me,” I growled. “Where is he?"
"I don't know."
“Bullshit.”
“I swear. I don’t know,” he stammered.
"Say I don't know one more time. I dare you."
"He's not here," the man said. "You're too late. He's already gone."
"Where?"
“Who are you?”
“A guy who’s going to put a bullet in your skull if you don’t start telling me what I want to know.”
"Man, I swore I wouldn't say anything."
"Looks like you’re about to br
eak your promise. Where is he?"
He was silent a moment. Sweat sprouted on his forehead. He finally blurted, "He took his boat to Cuba. That's all I know."
“Where in Cuba?”
He hesitated. “Havana.”
I nudged the barrel of my weapon closer.
“He’s at the Hotel Castillo,” the man said.
"If you're lying to me…"
"I swear to God, man. I'm telling you the truth. Gardner’s an old friend from high school. He needed a place to stay. I didn’t know what he was into. I don't have anything to do with his business."
"For your sake, I hope not." I paused. "If I find that you're lying to me, I'll be back. And you won't like it."
"I don't like it as it is."
I backed out of the kitchen, exited the house, and disappeared back into the underbrush. I raced through the trees to the tender, dragged it into the surf, and climbed aboard. I twisted the throttle, and the little electric outboard propelled me across the black water.
Jordyn and Haley waited on the aft deck. When I reached the swim platform, Haley engaged the hydraulic lift. I climbed out of the tender and secured it before ascending the steps to join them.
"Was Gardner there?” Haley asked.
I shook my head.
"Did you find out where he went?"
"Havana."
Haley's face tensed. "There's no extradition from Cuba. He's as good as gone."
A staggering number of criminals had fled to Cuba over the years and escaped prosecution in the United States. Cuba seemed to welcome anyone that pissed off the US government. Many fugitives lived the rest of their days, enjoying an unrestricted life. There were several fugitives in Cuba that had a high bounty on their heads. Some were worth upwards of $2 million. The idea flashed in my head that if my financial situation got really tight, maybe I’d get into the bounty hunter business?
Haley looked dejected. She exhaled, and her body slumped.
"Trust me. I'm not going to let that scumbag get away with this. I'll find him."
I moved to the helm, cranked up the engines, and headed us back to Coconut Key.
Jordyn slinked beside me at the helm. She looked up at me with big, apologetic eyes. She had an adorably pouty look on her face. "So, are we all square, daddy?"
"We’re square," I said.
"And you’re not still mad at me?"
"I'm not mad at you," I assured.
A bright smile curled on her full lips. "Yay!”
She gave me a big hug and squeezed tight. "This was fun. I want to do more spy shit. I could totally go undercover whenever you need me to." She arched a seductive eyebrow, and there was a hint of a double entendre in her words. "I think I'd be a good spy. I could totally infiltrate the enemy. Seduce the opposition. Expose their weaknesses."
"Maybe you missed your calling in life?" I joked.
"I'm young. And it's not too late."
I chuckled.
Haley watched the exchange and rolled her eyes.
I idled the boat into the marina, and we tied off and reconnected shore power and water. The night was still young, and Jordyn suggested we all go for a drink. She was in the mood to party.
I was in the mood to get to Havana.
40
"Gardner is definitely in Havana," Isabella said. "Looks like he's got a numbered offshore account in the Cayman Islands. He used a burner phone to access that account using the Wi-Fi at the Hotel Castillo less than an hour ago. He's got access to cash, and no extradition treaty. He could probably live the rest of his life in Havana like a king."
“I’ll make sure that doesn't happen,” I said.
"What's your plan?”
"I'm sure with your connections, you could pull some strings at the OFAC (Office of Foreign Asset Control) and get me a license.”
“Anything else?" she asked with a healthy dose of sarcasm.
“I’ll need a cover ID, a Go Fast boat, and a driver."
"Seriously?"
"I'll make it up to you. I promise."
She paused for a moment. "Are you going down there to bring him back? Or make him disappear?”
"I haven't decided yet."
"Customs will search the boat when you arrive. You won't be able to bring a weapon into the country."
"I'll improvise."
There was a long moment of silence.
"When do you want to do this?" Isabella asked.
"Yesterday."
"I'll make some phone calls and see what I can arrange." Isabella sighed. "You owe me, big time."
"Please, this is nothing for you."
"Say it."
I hesitated a moment, then exhaled, "I owe you big time. Oh, and by the way... can you give me a couple thousand in Canadian dollars? The government slaps on an extra 10% exchange fee with US dollars."
"Suck it up, buttercup. I'm not your bank."
"Okay. I see how it is."
Isabella scoffed and hung up.
I wasn't about to take the Vivere down to Cuba. It was probably fine, but in the event of an engine failure or other mechanical malfunction, it could end up being a long, expensive trip. Run afoul of the government, and the boat may be confiscated—neither of which I could afford.
Cobra Company had immense resources—Isabella could afford it.
She called me back a few moments later and said she’d have a boat pick me up at the marina at 6 AM. It was 90 miles to Cuba. Barring incident, I’d be there in time for breakfast.
I packed a small backpack with a change of clothes, some toiletries, baby wipes (because toilet paper is a rare find in a public restroom in Cuba), hand sanitizer, a few protein bars, and several thousand in cash. I took a small folding tactical knife with a spring assisted blade—titanium nitride coated stainless steel. It had a sleek, aggressive design, and was small enough not to raise the eyebrows of the Cuban Aduana (Customs).
Haley had listened to the call. "You're really going down there to get him?"
I nodded.
"I want to go with you."
"No, you don't. This could get ugly."
She looked at me curiously.
"If the Cuban government gets wind of the fact that I'm trying to extradite a fugitive back to the United States, I'll be arrested and thrown in jail—if I'm lucky. If I'm not lucky, I will cease to exist. And if you’re with me... you might suffer the same.“
Haley cringed.
In the morning, the Go-Fast boat Isabella sent burbled into the marina. It sounded like a caged lion. It was a 52‘ purebred racing boat with a 9’6” beam and a height of 8’. It had a deep V hull, a draft of 38”, and a fuel capacity of 300 gallons. The hull was designed using computational fluid dynamics, and the boat had an extremely low center of gravity. It was rock-solid at high-speed.
This thing was fast.
It comfortably seated six passengers with bolstered leather seats. There was a lot of carbon fiber. It was the ultimate performance boat. Powered by two Mercury racing 1550/1350QC4v dual calibration engines with dry sump. There were flush mounted display screens, a carbon fiber engine hatch and air intakes, and an anodized billet aluminum swim platform. It had a top speed of 145 MPH, when in sport engine mode.
I climbed into the sleek vessel and prepared for the ride of my life.
The driver wore mirrored shades and zinc oxide on his nose. He handed me a manilla envelope that contained a passport, a travel license, and Coast Guard Form 3300 (which usually took a few weeks to get).
The driver didn't say a word, and neither did I.
He idled the boat out of the marina, then throttled up and brought the beast on plane. We skimmed across the water, barely touching the surface. The engines howled, and the wind whipped around the aerodynamic design. The acceleration pinned me against the seat.
This was pure adrenaline.
Nothing on the water could touch us.
An hour later, we pulled into the Ernesto Marina, just a few miles west of Havana. It was composed of t
hree canals and could accommodate around 100 boats. We pulled alongside the concrete dock, and the driver finally spoke. "How long is your visit?"
I shrugged.
He gave me his cell phone number. “I’ll be at the hotel under the name Steve Cannon.”
The dockhands helped us tie off, and we were quickly greeted by the dock master and a doctor. They boarded the boat, searched below deck, then asked questions. The doctor took our temperature and asked if we had any diseases.
Once he was satisfied we weren't carrying Ebola, he allowed us to leave the boat. Everyone I had encountered spoke passable English. I tipped everyone $5 USD, for good measure. The dock master took our passports and escorted us to customs. I was traveling under an assumed name—John Anderson.
The marina wasn't the most well-maintained place in the world. There were cracks in the concrete walkway, and trash tumbled with the breeze. There was a hotel and several restaurants nearby. It was built in the ‘50s and was definitely showing its age. At one time, it had been the height of luxury. Now it was just a relic of a bygone era.
I bought a visa for $25 and filled out the green and yellow form. I also had to buy travelers health insurance. The cost was minimal. The place wasn't very busy, and the line was short. The customs officer greeted me with a stern face. "What is your business in Cuba?"
“I’m here to enjoy the food, drinks, and nightlife."
"Have you been to Cuba before?"
"No,” I lied.
I knew they had records of visitor travel, but this was a clean passport. John Anderson had never been to Cuba before.
The customs agent studied the passport, then studied my face. He scrutinized my features meticulously. Once he seemed satisfied, he granted me entry. I moved to the exchange kiosk and traded dollars for CUC's. Cuba has two types of currency—one for locals (Moneda Nacional), and one for tourists. The CUC's, or convertible pesos, were roughly on a 1:1 exchange rate with the dollar. The government took a hefty 10% exchange fee—just another subtle little jab at the United States for all the animosity over the years.
Steve Cannon cleared customs shortly after I did. We made it through in under an hour. Steve told me he would check into the hotel at the marina and wait for my call. He just drove the boat—the rest was up to me.
