Deep Six

by D P Lyle

  Regardless, it was a perfect evening. The sun was just settling on the water and we sat quietly until it dropped from sight, leaving behind an orange sky.

  Then Nicole got frisky. Or is it handsy? In public. People strolling by. Woman had no brakes.

  “Let’s go,” she said.

  “Where?”

  “My place.”

  “Why?” I asked, smiling.

  “Really?”

  “What if I want to stay here?”

  “You don’t.” She squeezed me through my jeans. “Or at least he doesn’t.”

  Hard to argue with her when she was right.

  She fired up the engine, spun backwards, and we were off. Soon we were cruising down Perdido Beach Boulevard toward Peppermill Road and The Point. The road, not exactly what you’d call a boulevard, was two lanes and fairly straight as it rose and fell with the rolling terrain. Clusters of houses here and there but mostly open and uninhabited, only sand dunes and sea oats on either side. I leaned back in the passenger seat, my head lolled against the headrest, and looked up into the darkening sky. A few stars had appeared, and as I watched, more popped into existence. I had a feeling tonight was going to be epic. Of course, every night with Nicole was epic. Everything was perfect.

  Then it wasn’t.

  It all happened so fast. As Pancake would say—as quick as a hiccup.

  To my right, an ominous shadow reared, followed by the roar of a large engine. My head whipped that direction just in time to see a black Lincoln SUV launch from behind a dune. More reflex than thought, I extended my arm to stop its progress, but in a split second reason prevailed, and I yanked it back.

  I was right about one thing: the night was epic. At least the impact was. The SUV T-boned the SL in an explosion of twisting, screeching metal. The door cracked into my ribs and my head actually bounced off the SUV’s oversized bumper. Not standard issue, the wide, deep slab of black metal had been designed for just this.

  My ears rang and more stars appeared. Not celestial ones but rather those little electrical flashes that often accompany concussions. My first thought was that this was all a horrible accident. Drunk teenagers out for an illegal romp over the sand dunes in daddy’s SUV. But just as quickly the thought that this was something way more sinister entered my mind. Borkov’s minions.

  But it wasn’t over. The SUV wasn’t ready to relent. Its tires chirped as it grabbed the pavement, driving the Mercedes sideways and into a four-foot-high sand dune.

  Then everything stopped. Or went into ultra slow motion. The SUV backed away a few feet, still blocking the road, still aimed directly at us. Helpless would be the word. I glanced at Nicole. She was wide-eyed but didn’t appear hurt. At least I didn’t see any blood or protruding bones.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  “I don’t know.” She looked confused. As was I.

  I expected the SUV to attack us again, but then the doors swung open and Zuma and Boyd stepped out. Suspicions confirmed.

  I tugged my cell from my pocket and thumbed in a quick text to Ray. One word: Borkov. As I pressed send, cold metal pressed against my cheek.

  “Drop the phone,” Zuma ordered.

  I did.

  “Get out.”

  Neither door would open. My side was trashed and the driver’s door was jammed against the dune. We climbed out over the doors.

  “What the hell is this?” I asked.

  “Shut up.” Zuma waved the gun. “Turn around.”

  “And if we don’t?” Nicole said.

  Did I say the woman had no brakes?

  Zuma smirked. “I’ll shoot you and we’ll just take Jake.”

  “Where?” I asked.

  “Mr. Borkov wants a word.”

  “He could’ve called.”

  Zuma stepped forward. He pressed the muzzle into my chest. “Don’t give me a reason. I don’t like you, anyway.”

  “But you aren’t going to shoot me,” I said.

  “Why not, smart-ass?”

  “Because Borkov wouldn’t get his chat. And the way I see it, you clowns aren’t allowed to think or act on your own.”

  That seemed to confuse him. Guess he didn’t expect any resistance. He quickly recovered. “We can always say you resisted.”

  “I’m sure that would play well with your boss.”

  Boyd eased up behind me. “Hands behind your back.”

  I hesitated so he twisted one arm behind me. Physical resistance crossed my mind. After all, it would be the manly thing to do. Not smart, but manly. But, not seeing any realistic way of challenging these two, I gave up and let him slip on plastic cuffs. He did the same to Nicole and we were shoved toward the SUV. Back seat. Boyd driving, Zuma riding shotgun, twisted in the seat so he could watch us. His gun rested on the edge of the seat, aimed directly at Nicole.

  The ringing in my ears settled into a raspy buzz, but the throbbing behind my eyes remained in full force. I looked at Nicole. Surprisingly, she didn’t appear all that scared. More pissed with her jaw set and her gaze stabbing at the back of Boyd’s head.

  Soon we were on the highway, heading toward Pensacola. Zuma punched a number into his cell and after a minute simply said, “It’s done. Be there shortly.” He disconnected the call, returning the phone to his pocket.

  “You don’t think you’ll get away with this, do you?” I asked.

  Boyd looked at me in the rearview mirror. “Looks like we already did, pretty boy.”

  “So far. But I suspect that’ll change.”

  “Not for you two,” Zuma said.

  “Look—” I began.

  “Shut up,” Zuma said.

  I did. I mean, he had the gun.

  Nicole on the other hand had different ideas.

  “I’ve got to pee,” she said.

  Zuma laughed. “Go ahead.”

  “What about your fancy leather interior?”

  Zuma shrugged. “Like I give a shit.”

  The glare she now aimed at him could have melted the fancy interior, but it had no effect on Zuma. He simply smiled and shook his head.

  “Speaking of pissing, if I was you, I’d be careful who I pissed off,” Zuma said. “The boss only needs Jake. You’re expendable. Truth is, he’ll probably leave it to Boyd and me how it all goes down. Easy or hard. Your choice.”

  “I’m not scared of you,” Nicole said.

  Woman had balls. Figuratively speaking, of course.

  Zuma’s smile thinned and his eyes narrowed. “You better be. We might decide to have a little fun with you before we take care of business.”

  Boyd laughed. “The boss gives us a lot of perks for a job well done.”

  “Is it?” I asked. “A well-done job?”

  Zuma twisted a bit more in his seat, now looking directly at me. “Seems that way from where I sit.”

  “Except I suspect with this little maneuver you’ve unleashed the dogs of war.”

  “Really?” Zuma said, a note of sarcasm in his voice.

  “You have no idea what Ray’s capable of,” I said.

  “We’ll deal with him later.”

  “Or he’ll deal with you.”

  “Remind me to be scared.”

  “I just did,” I said. “Whether you believe it or not is up to you.”

  Zuma let out a little snort and turned back toward the road.

  The traffic was light so thirty minutes later we arrived at the dock, Boyd sliding the SUV into a slot at the far end of the lot near the Sea Witch. Borkov greeted us at the top of the gangway.

  “Welcome,” he said. “Glad you could make it.”

  “Not much choice,” I said.

  We settled on the rear deck at the same table where we had had such a pleasant lunch. I was sure this sit-down would be less so. Where the hell was Ray? Did he even get my text? Did he understand it? I wished I’d had time to say more. Maybe something like, “We’re in deep shit. Come running.” But I was lucky to be able to fire off the single word.

  �
�So, what do you want?” I asked.

  Borkov smiled. “All in due time.”

  Two crew members came from below, one turning aft, the other forward. Then I heard and felt something even more ominous. The rumble of the engines cranking to life. I couldn’t see the guy who went forward, but the aft guy tossed lines and the ship began to move.

  The fate of Darrell and Darnell Wilbanks crossed my mind.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  RAY WENT FOR a long run on the beach. He loved night runs. Cooler and quieter. Fewer people around. Mostly strolling couples and a few shell hunters. After thirty minutes, he turned and made his way back toward home. Leaving his sandy shoes on the deck at the top of the stairs, he headed inside to a hot shower. Refreshing.

  In the kitchen, he snagged a beer and a hunk of cheddar cheese from the fridge and sat at the table. He picked up his cell phone from where he had left it on a stack of papers. It indicated he had received a text. Nearly an hour earlier. From Jake. He read it. One word: Borkov.

  He tried Jake’s number. It rang a few times and then jumped over to voice mail. He left a message to call back. He munched on the cheese and drained his beer. What did the message mean? Did Jake have some new information on Borkov? If so, Jake would have called. Left a message. Jake wasn’t much for texting. And yet he had. Why?

  Hairs raised on the back of his neck. Something was wrong.

  He dialed Pancake’s number. He answered almost before it rang.

  “Yeah,” Pancake said.

  Ray told him about the text. “What do you think?”

  “I think Jake’s in massive trouble and Borkov’s behind it.”

  “I agree. Meet me at the dock in Pensacola.”

  “On my way.”

  Just as Ray merged onto Highway 182, his cell chirped. It was Morgan.

  “What’s up?” Ray asked.

  “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

  Ray told him of Jake’s text and that he and Pancake were meeting at the Pensacola Harbor.

  “That clears things up,” Morgan said.

  “Clears up what?”

  “Just got a call from one of the patrol guys. Charlie Coffman. He got a report of an accident.”

  Ray’s pulse increased. Not something that happened often.

  Morgan continued. “Nicole’s red SL was found trashed off Perdido Beach Boulevard. Looks like it was T-boned by something big and bad.”

  “You sure it’s hers?”

  “No doubt. Coffman recognized the Mercedes from the Plummer scene. When she and Jake dropped by the other morning. Besides, her purse and Jake’s cell were inside.”

  The text now made perfect sense. Borkov had made his play. Not exactly what Ray had expected, but the facts couldn’t be denied.

  “Call your guy at the Pensacola PD and get him down to the harbor.”

  “Will do.”

  Ray then called Pancake, relaying this new information to him.

  “I’m ten minutes out,” Pancake said.

  “I’m twenty. Stay low until I get there.”

  “You got it.”

  Twenty minutes later, Ray pulled into the harbor lot. Pancake was there. The Sea Witch wasn’t. A knot swelled in his gut. There were maybe two dozen vehicles in the lot. Pancake stood near a black Lincoln SUV. Ray parked next to it and jumped out.

  “Check this out,” Pancake said, the tight beam from his Maglite scanning across the massive front bumper.

  Definitely not stock, the bumper was thick metal, painted black to match the SUV. The light beam reflected scrapes and dents and smears of red paint.

  “Looks like Borkov’s upped the ante,” Pancake said. “And now it looks like he’s in the wind.” He nodded toward the empty stretch of planking where Borkov’s floating palace had been docked.

  Ray looked around. “Don’t see any potential witnesses.”

  “I got one,” Pancake said.

  “Who? Where?”

  “There.” He pointed toward the Storm Shelter, his friend’s fishing boat. “Before we left yesterday, I set up the camera and the computer with a six-hour recording loop.”

  “You’re a freaking genius.”

  Pancake grunted. “You ever doubt that?”

  Ray didn’t. Never had. “Let’s take a look.”

  Once inside, Pancake sat down at the table and began working the laptop. He accessed the video file and began to run it backwards. At first all was still, then the Sea Witch appeared, moving backwards, gobbling up its own wake, and then nudging against the dock. Two guys tossing lines. Then Jake, Nicole, Zuma, and Boyd backing down the gangway and out of the screen. Pancake paused the video and then played it forward. As the quartet climbed the gangway, Borkov appeared at the rail and waved them on board. The lines were tossed and the Sea Witch angled away from the dock and into the darkness.

  Ray walked up on deck. He gazed out toward the Gulf. So Borkov wanted a war. Okay, so be it. War was Ray’s favorite pastime. He pulled out his cell and punched in a number.

  “Who you calling?” Pancake asked as his massive body lumbered up the steps and onto the deck.

  “Ira Gemmel. My guy at the Coast Guard.”

  Pancake started to say something, but Ray held up a finger.

  “Ira?” Ray said.

  “Ray, you got a bad habit of calling at night,” Ira said.

  “I need your help.”

  “I’m shocked.” He did sarcasm well.

  “It’s Borkov. He kidnapped my boy Jake and his friend Nicole.”

  “What do you mean, kidnapped?”

  Ray gave him a two-minute thumbnail of what he knew.

  “You sure?”

  “Got it on video.”

  Ira sighed. “Okay. I’m on it. I’ll round up my crew and get to tracking the Sea Witch down.”

  “Thanks. One thing. We’ll be in the field so let your guys know that.”

  “What do you mean in the field?”

  “I’m not going to sit by.”

  “Let us handle it,” Ira said. “It’s what we do.”

  “No can do, Ira. You know that.”

  “Unfortunately I do.” Another sigh. “Just don’t do anything stupid.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.” He disconnected the call.

  “What now?” Pancake asked.

  “Go after them.”

  “Billy Ray?”

  “You got it.”

  Next call was to Billy Ray Tucker. Ex-Navy Seal. Tough son of a bitch. True warrior. When Billy Ray answered, the background noise sounded like he was in a bar.

  “You sober?” Ray asked.

  “More or less.”

  “I need your crew.”

  “Now?” Billy Ray asked.

  “Ten minutes ago.”

  “What is it?”

  Ray gave him the same thumbnail, adding that he was at the dock in Pensacola.

  “I’m all over it. I’ll grab Tommy Patton and give Megan Willis a call. She has a new boat and I’m sure she’d love to open it up.”

  Tommy Patton had spent fifteen years with Delta Force. Mostly as a sniper and long-range recon but could do just about anything. Anything lethal, anyway. And had over and over again.

  Megan Willis had served with the Marines. Two tours in Afghanistan and one in Iraq. Flew close air support helicopters, among other things. Things she never talked about. Toughest woman he ever knew. And she loved fast boats. Very fast boats.

  “See you in twenty, max,” Billy Ray said.

  * * *

  Carlos Fernandez squatted in the hedges that separated the lot from the adjacent strip center. He watched as two men, one average sized, the other massive, sniffed around the SUV. He recognized them immediately as the pair he had seen on Raul’s front porch. Why were they here? What were they doing?

  Borkov had said grab the vehicle and make it disappear. No problem. If these two didn’t screw it up. He eased his gun from his jacket pocket. Not that he wanted to use it. That would attract unwanted at
tention. But he was on a short timeline. Borkov had also said it wouldn’t be long before things led back here and the local police got involved, and he wanted no breadcrumbs left behind.

  What to do?

  Then the men walked toward a boat and disappeared inside.

  Perfect.

  Carlos worked his way across the lot, head on a swivel, staying near the smattering of parked cars as best he could in case he had to duck for cover. He quickly reached the SUV, but as he placed his thumb on the fob’s unlock button, first one and then the other man came back on deck. Couldn’t be more than fifty feet away. The smaller guy had a cell phone to his ear.

  Carlos scratched his cheek with the gun’s muzzle. He calculated the distance. Not likely he could take them both from this distance. He’d have to charge them. Hope surprise gave him enough time to close the gap and pop them both.

  He set his feet, up on his toes, ready to go. His heart raced and his breath was shallow and quick. Now or never, he thought.

  But just as his legs tensed, ready to spring, the two men descended below deck.

  Carlos waited, expecting them to reappear but when they didn’t after a couple of minutes, he punched the unlock button. The SUV’s light flashed and a soft chirp came from beneath the hood. The interior lights sprang to life. He tore open the door and scrambled inside.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  THE SHORELINE AND then the lights of Pensacola disappeared quickly as the Sea Witch headed for deep water. Borkov had said little, and, in fact, had gone below, leaving Nicole and me trussed and sitting at the table. Sort of rude but I guessed we weren’t in any position to complain to the management. Zuma and Boyd stood near the stern, talking too low for me to hear, glancing our way from time to time.

  “This is not good,” I said.

  “You think?”

  I shrugged.

  “What does he want?” Nicole asked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe trade us for Grace. She’s the one that can sink him.”

  “We can, too. She told us what happened.”

  “Hearsay. She’s the witness. She actually saw it go down.”