Fallen King: A Jesse McDermitt Novel (Caribbean Adventure Series Book 6)

by Wayne Stinnett

  “Pescador will be alright,” Kim said, drawing her Sig Sauer P229 from her purse. “I’m going with you. This is my home and you can’t stop me.”

  Kim took off down the steps after Hinkle, Marty following close behind her. Remembering things her dad had taught her, staying low and close to the tree line, she began working her way west toward the Trents’ house. She could barely see her dad’s friend doing the same thing around the east side of the island. Halfway to the small house, Marty caught up with her as she knelt by an orange tree.

  “How did you know something was wrong?” she whispered.

  “I don’t know,” the young deputy replied, moving ahead of her toward the house. “Stay behind me.”

  When they reached the house, Kim slowly opened the door. The heavy drapes were all closed over the windows, but a single small candle in the kitchen area shone with enough light to see Carl and Charlie lying on the floor.

  Kim rushed to the smaller of the two bedrooms and found the two children asleep in their beds. At least she hoped they were asleep. Crossing the room quickly, she put the back of her hand in front of Patty’s face and was relieved to feel her warm breath as she exhaled. Moving to Carl Junior’s bed, she found him to be sleeping as well.

  “These two are okay,” Marty said, rising from beside Carl’s inert form as Kim came out of the bedroom. “They seem to be sleeping. Just like the dog.”

  “Same with their kids,” Kim replied. “We have to find my dad. He’ll know what to do.”

  Exiting the tiny structure, they followed the tree line toward the two bunkhouses and nearly tripped over someone lying on the ground in the shadows, ten feet from the first building.

  Marty knelt down and examined the man, putting a hand against his throat. He was wearing the same night vision goggles Hinkle had. The man had a strong pulse, was breathing and appeared unhurt. “It’s the black man with the shaved head and missing fingers,” he whispered to Kim. “He’s wearing night vision.”

  Marty gently removed the goggles from Tony’s head and put them on, adjusting them to fit his head. He looked around the clearing. The image was distorted, everything appearing in shades of gray and green. He saw Hinkle rising up from another person lying on the ground on the opposite side of the clearing. Remembering that Hinkle had said something about a communication device, he began searching Tony’s pockets for a radio. Finding nothing, he looked closer at the man’s face with the night vision.

  Turning the man’s head, he saw what looked like a hearing aid on his left ear and removed it. Wiping it off, he put it in his ear. Adjusting the clip around the back of his ear, he heard nothing. “Agent Hinkle, can you hear me?”

  A voice came over the tiny device in his ear, sounding like the man was standing right next to him and whispering in his ear. It was disorienting, as he could hear nothing in the other ear.

  “You found Tony? Is he alright?”

  “Yeah, just knocked out. Same with the caretaker and his family. I have this guy’s night vision too.”

  “Good on ya, mate. Check the bunkhouse. Charity went to bed a couple hours ago and Chyrel was setting up her computers. Should be the only ones in there.”

  “Roger that,” Marty replied. Turning, he said, “Stay behind me, Kim.”

  They moved quickly to the bunkhouse and opened the door. Through the night vision, he could see what appeared to be an office of some kind. There were two desks, one with a computer tower beside it and the other with a laptop open on the desk next to a half-eaten meal. A woman with wavy blond hair sat slumped back in the chair in front of the keyboard.

  Looking around the tiny room, he saw two sets of bunk beds, one occupied. He moved quickly to the bed, while Kim followed and went to the woman at the desk. There was just enough moonlight filtering around the cracks in the drapes for her to see.

  “This is Chyrel,” Kim whispered. “Asleep like the others.”

  “The woman pilot is over here in the bed,” Marty whispered back. “Same thing, sleeping.”

  Over his earwig, Marty heard Hinkle say, “Art and Colonel Stockwell are out cold, too. Looks like the Colonel was sitting at the table here and fell backwards. Got a nasty gash in his head, but looks like he’s alright. There’s a thermos on the table and two mugs of coffee, both still warm. I’m going to the other bunkhouse. You check the other half of that one, but it’s probably empty.”

  Kim and Marty slipped out the door and moved behind the small bunkhouse to the opposite end. Entering quickly, both of them with guns still drawn, Marty looked around and saw that it was totally empty, the beds all bare.

  Back outside, they joined up with Hinkle coming out of the other bunkhouse. “Paul, Art, and Andrew, all knocked out,” Hinkle reported. “What the bloody hell is going on here?”

  “Dad must be in the main house,” Kim said and began running across the clearing in the moonlight.

  “Kim, wait!” Marty shouted, but she wasn’t having any of it. He ran after her and caught up to her at the bottom of the steps, grabbing her arm and stopping her. “Let me go first,” he whispered.

  Moving ahead of Kim, he started up the steps. Halfway up, he heard a low rumbling sound coming from the top of the steps. Through the night vision, he saw the dog move slowly into view, its head bowed, lips pulled back in a menacing snarl and the hair all along its back standing straight up. Marty knew this wasn’t good. “How well do you know that dog?” he whispered over his shoulder, never taking his eyes off the big animal.

  Kim looked up to the top of the steps and saw Pescador standing there in the moonlight, his back arched and ready to attack. She stepped around Marty and called his name. “Pescador, it’s me.”

  To Marty’s relief, the dog immediately lifted his head to the sound of Kim’s voice and sat down. Kim went ahead of Marty and scratched the dog’s ear. “Pescador, this is my friend, Marty. Where’s Dad?”

  She moved past him to the door of the house and opened it, disappearing inside. Marty followed, stepping quickly around the dog, who sniffed his leg as he passed.

  As he went through the door after Kim, he nearly bumped into her, coming back out. “He’s not here,” she said.

  Running across the deck, she leaned over the rail and shouted into the darkness, “Where’s my dad?”

  “He’s not out on the pier,” Marty heard Hinkle reply over the earwig. “But I did find something. Meet me at the tables, mate.”

  “Come on,” Marty said. “Agent Hinkle found something.”

  As Marty and Kim rushed down the back steps, Pescador slowly followed. A light came on in the Trents’ house and Kim could hear one of the children crying.

  “Go,” she said to Marty. “I’ll check on them.”

  Walking through the door into the Trents’ kitchen, Kim saw Charlie coming out of the bedroom, holding the little girl, and Carl sitting at a table, holding his head.

  “Are you guys alright?”

  Carl looked up, his eyes bloodshot. “Yeah, what the devil happened?”

  Charlie got Patty quieted and Carl Junior came into the room, rubbing his eyes. “We just finished putting the dishes away,” Charlie said. “Most everyone went to bed right after supper, but Jesse and Travis rolled up their sleeves and helped, so we got it done pretty fast. When Chyrel got here, they went out and helped her unload. I made a plate of leftovers for her and when I came back in, I just collapsed on the floor.”

  Carl Junior went to his dad and climbed onto his lap before Carl spoke. “I found Charlie on the floor and went to her, but then I just went black.”

  Marty opened the door and leaned in. “Everyone’s waking up. Everything okay here?”

  “Yeah, I think so,” Kim said.

  “Yeah, we’re okay, Marty,” Carl said. “When’d you get here?”

  “Captain Trent?” Marty stepped fully into the room. “I didn’t recognize you earlier. Kim and I just got back from supper.”

  Carl looked confused for a moment, then seemed to shake it of
f and stood up. “The others?”

  “Knocked out, like you.”

  “Go ahead,” Charlie said. “We’re all fine. Give us a minute to get the kids back to bed and we’ll come out and help.”

  Kim joined Marty and they went out to the clearing together. The little light escaping from the curtains did little to illuminate the area, but a full moon had just risen above the trees and it was lighter.

  They saw Hinkle standing by the table talking to Travis and walked over to them as the others started coming out of the bunkhouses. As they walked up, Marty noticed what looked like a propane tank standing on the table.

  “Fentanyl,” Travis said. “That explains it.”

  “Ain’t that the stuff the Russians used a coupla years ago?” Hinkle said. “The Dubrovka Theater?”

  “Yeah,” Travis replied as Kim and Marty stepped up to the table. “A hundred and thirty hostages and all forty terrorists were killed by it. Where’d you find this?”

  “Floating on the bank next to the foot of the pier, Colonel.”

  Travis stood up and wobbled a little, as the rest of the team gathered around them. “Heavier than air gas,” he said. “Must have been someone in scuba gear who released it on the north side, letting the breeze carry it over the whole island. Who was first to wake up?”

  “The dog,” Marty replied. “Up on the deck.”

  “Makes sense,” Bourke offered. “Had he been down here, he’d have been out longer. The rest of us were already asleep and didn’t even notice it. How long were you knocked out?”

  Art checked his watch and said, “Tony and I just started our watch twenty-four minutes ago. I don’t remember anything after my first circuit out to the north pier and back to where Donnie found me, and I woke up just a few minutes ago.”

  “So we were only out for fifteen or twenty minutes,” Travis said. “They can’t have gone far.”

  “The dive boat!” Kim said.

  “What dive boat?”

  “When Marty and I turned into Harbor Channel, there was a dive boat running without lights out beyond the Contents. The water’s deeper out there and it was headed east.” She crossed her arms and looked from Travis to the others. Choking back a sob, she asked, “Where’s my dad?”

  Travis got up and walked over to where Kim stood, gently guiding her to the bench and sitting her down. “We’ll find Jesse, Kim. You have my word on that.”

  Charity sat down and put her arm around the girl. “We will.”

  Travis looked at Chyrel. “Get Deuce on the horn.” Turning to Marty, he said, “Deputy, can you contact the sheriff? We need eyes in the sky. Did you see the dive boat as well?”

  “Yes, sir, I’ll give dispatch a description and we’ll have choppers up out of Marathon, Key Largo, and Key West right away.”

  Travis reached into his pocket and took out a business card, handing it to Marty. “Give the sheriff my number. Have him call me right away.”

  “Yes, sir,” Marty replied, taking the card and running across the clearing.

  Travis slowly turned around toward Bender. “They came early, Paul. And covertly.”

  “They must have had a plan ahead of time. It’s only twenty-one-thirty. Lavolier and Horvac couldn’t possibly have moved that fast. In fact, they should only have arrived in Marathon by now.”

  “Andrew,” Travis said, “Get on the horn to the Coast Guard. Let them know one of our agents has been kidnapped.”

  “Linda!” Kim said. “Somebody has to call her.”

  “Do you have her number?” Tony asked calmly, sitting next to Charity with a nod of his head toward the chopper. “We’ll call her together. Charity has to get up in the air.”

  As Charity rose and headed toward the chopper, Tony helped Kim to her feet and started toward Chyrel’s office, which was now all lit up.

  “Donnie, go with Andrew in the chopper,” Travis ordered and then turned to Bourke. “Andrew, coordinate with the Coast Guard and the sheriff’s birds from the air. Have the sheriff’s office pass the boat’s description to every law enforcement agency between here and Miami.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “I’m here in Marathon now.” Deuce was talking to Chyrel using the video function on his sat-phone. “We just landed.”

  Stockwell’s face appeared next to Chyrel sitting down at the desk. “Jesse’s been kidnapped, Deuce.”

  “What? How? When?”

  “We found an eighteen-liter tank of fentanyl by the north pier. They came ashore somehow and released the gas, letting the wind carry it across the island. It knocked everyone out.”

  “Is anyone hurt? That’s dangerous stuff.”

  On the tiny screen, Deuce could see Art step into the office behind Stockwell. “Colonel, we found the spot where they came ashore. Looks like three men in either canoes or kayaks. A pair of fins were stuffed in a nearby mangrove root where they beached two boats.”

  “No,” Stockwell replied after a moment’s thought. “Nobody hurt and it doesn’t appear that anything else has been disturbed. Everyone here’s a little groggy, but alright. Canoes or kayaks would have been seen—way too much water to cross with no cover. My guess is a scuba diver or snorkeler carried the canister over and was picked up, along with Jesse, by the small boats. The effects of the gas only lasted about fifteen minutes.”

  “That’s about how long it’d take to paddle ashore from deeper water. They must have had a larger boat out there.”

  Stockwell described the dive boat Kim had seen, relaying the information as she sat on the bunk talking on Tony’s sat-phone. Outside, he could hear the Huey starting up.

  “We have a Monroe Deputy out here, a friend of Jesse’s daughter. He’s relaying the information to the sheriff’s office and says they’ll have helos up out of Marathon, Key West, and Key Largo in minutes.”

  “We’re still at the airport,” Deuce replied. “Heading out to the jet now. We’ll be in the air about the same time.”

  “Wait, Deuce,” Stockwell said. “The sheriff’s chopper has to be taking off from there. The jet’s useless out here, except as command and control.”

  “Roger that, Colonel. We’ll locate and join the sheriff’s chopper. It won’t have room for all of us, so I suggest we put the jet up with its long range radar. I can put two men aboard to coordinate the chopper search. We refueled when we landed, so they can stay aloft for hours.”

  “Good idea,” Stockwell replied. “The rest of you join with the sheriff’s helo and head due north. Charity is lifting off now with Donnie and Andrew aboard and will be headed east. We find the boat and converge, force it to stop and board it from the birds.”

  Within minutes, the G-5 was rolling down the taxiway with priority clearance. Deuce quickly found the sheriff’s chopper with the help of someone with the airport’s fixed-base operator. Identifying himself to the deputy on board, he soon got the okay from the sheriff’s office and the chopper was in the air.

  Sitting in the copilot’s seat, Deuce adjusted the headset’s mic boom. “Head due north. We’re looking for a dive boat about thirty feet, with a full hard top, open on the sides.”

  “Roger,” the pilot replied. “But you know that describes about half the hundred or more dive boats that operate out of this area.”

  “How many of them will be out at this time?”

  “A lot more than you’d think. Night diving is pretty popular in the backcountry. Still lobster season for another six weeks.”

  His phone pinged a message. It was from Bourke, asking him the frequency the sheriff’s chopper was on. He glanced at the radio mounted in the dash and typed in the numbers, sending the message to both Bourke and Kumar Sayef aboard the Gulfstream. A moment later, Bourke’s baritone voice boomed through the headset, “CCC Air Two to sheriff’s helo.”

  Expecting it, Deuce grabbed the mic before the pilot could. “Andrew, this is Deuce. Where are you?”

  “Just lifted off the island, bearing zero niner zero at one thousand feet.”r />
  “We’re headed due north,” Deuce responded. “Should intercept you in four minutes.”

  “CCC Air One, we’re aloft,” Kumar’s voice came over the headset from the Gulfstream. “We’ll begin circling counterclockwise at ten thousand feet, searching by radar. Deuce, Goodman can already see a half dozen small craft on the bay.”

  Kumar Sayef was a Delta Force First Sergeant, before being hired by DHS for his linguistic skills. With him was Ralph Goodman, a former Maritime Enforcement Specialist Petty Officer with the Coast Guard and airborne electronics technician.

  “Deuce, this is Ralph,” Goodman’s voice interrupted. “We now have twenty-one possible bogeys, most all of them in the size range you described. If you take a heading of three four zero you’ll be over the first one in two minutes. Andrew, turn to a heading of zero seven niner two miles out—you’ll see the second nearest one. We’ll just have to eliminate them one by one.”

  That’s a lot of boats, Deuce thought. Knowing the search could take all night, he called Director Stockwell. “A lot of boats out here, Colonel. Do you have any better description?”

  In the background he heard Kim’s voice. “It had a white top that ran all the way to the stern and it was running without lights. Big bow flares like the Revenge.”

  “Dive boat dead ahead,” the pilot said.

  Looking out through the windshield, Deuce soon saw the boat. It was anchored, with lots of lights on. Seconds later, they came to a hover ahead of the boat. It had a white top that only covered the bridge and half of the deck.

  “I know that boat,” the pilot said. “It’s Jeff Rockport, he’s a fisherman. Runs a charter boat out of Crawl Key.”

  “That’s not it,” Deuce said and keyed the mic. “No joy, Ralph. Open cockpit fisherman. He’s anchored up.”

  Goodman gave him a new heading and the chopper turned, flying off toward the next boat. For the next two hours, the two choppers, augmented by two more from Key West and Key Largo, painstakingly checked boat after another, all taking direction from the men in the Gulfstream.

  “Agent Livingston?” the pilot said.