by Tripp Ellis
My clothes were drenched, my shoes were soaked, and I was standing in a boggy pit of muddy water. The ground soaked most of it up quickly, and I shoveled the rest out. It made the digging easier, I had to admit. I piled the muck beside the ever-deepening grave. It was like shoveling fresh cow shit.
Tallboy grumbled about his cigarettes getting soggy in his pocket. He managed to find one in the middle of the pack and get it lit. The smell of a freshly lit cigarette wafted past my nose.
I kept digging. I didn't know how deep they wanted me to go. Were they really expecting me to dig a 6-foot grave for myself?
My guess is that it needed to be deep enough to cover my body with at least a foot of topsoil. It would be counterproductive if my body got unearthed during a storm surge.
I killed as much time as possible, trying to make the grave nice and square, with the sides smooth and level. Chopping through some of the roots were a real bitch.
"Hey! It's not an art project. It doesn't have to be perfect," Shorty grumbled. "Hurry it up. I'm ready to get out of here."
“Right. I wouldn't want you to catch cold in those damp clothes."
"Keep cracking those jokes, funny man."
"Glad you're enjoying the show. I'll be here all week."
"No, you won't."
I jammed the shovel in the ground and stomped on it with my heel. Instead of soft earth, I hit something hard. Maybe it was a rock? A thick root?
I kept digging around the object, scraping away the dirt. Several more shovel loads and I was able to make out the form of the object.
It was an old, rotting, wooden trunk.
The first hit with my shovel head cracked the lid. At first, I thought that someone had discarded an old piece of luggage.
I stabbed the tip of the shovel into the crack I had made and levered a larger piece of wood free. I had made a jagged hole in the top of the trunk that was about the size of the palm of my hand.
My eyes widened.
There was no mistaking what was in the trunk.
I knelt down and stuck my fingers through the opening. I fumbled around and pulled out a golden coin with a cross on one side and a shield on the other. This was Spanish gold from the 1600s.
Could this be the lost treasure of Jacques De La Fontaine?
"Well, I'll be damned," I muttered, staring at the coin.
"Quit fucking around!" Shorty said.
"You should take a look at this."
"Do you think I'm stupid?”
"You don't really want me to answer that, do you?"
Shorty snarled at me. He trudged toward the grave.
Tallboy had shuffled off to a nearby tree, dropped his trousers, and was taking a leak.
"I'm serious,” I said. “You’ll want to see this."
As Shorty sauntered to the edge of the pit, I flicked the coin up to him. It tumbled through the air, and his eyes focused on the glimmering gold. He reached to catch it. I took that opportunity to swing the shovel as hard as I could.
The blade cracked him in the shins. It sounded like a gong. He dropped to his knees and wailed in agony.
Another swing of the shovel connected with his face.
Blood spewed from his nose and mouth.
He fell limp. Out cold, possibly dead.
I grabbed his pistol from his shoulder holster.
Tallboy snatched his pistol from his holster and spun around, ready to fire—but his pants fell to his ankles. He tried to grab for his pants at the same time that he squeezed the trigger. Muzzle flash flared, and the bullet snapped past my ear.
I fired two shots.
Bang!
Bang!
The sharp smell of gunpowder filled my nostrils, and the .45 hammered against my palm. My ears rang from the blast. The wet thunk of two bullets hit Tallboy’s chest. He gasped for breath as he fell back against the tree he had just pissed on.
Blood rattled into his lungs, and his chest heaved. He coughed, and a volcano of red goo spewed from his lips. He was drowning on dry land. He only lasted a few moments, then went still.
Shorty lay motionless.
I reached down and grabbed a handful of gold medallions and stuffed them into my pocket, then climbed out of the pit. I figured I'd come back later and dig the rest of the gold out. But I had more pressing matters at hand now.
I fumbled through Shorty's pockets, looking for my phone, wallet, and keys. Once I found them, I tried to call Sheriff Daniels.
I couldn’t get a signal.
I slid the device into my pocket, and my fingers felt for a pulse on Shorty's neck. He was still alive.
The old me would have put a bullet into him right then and there. One less scumbag in the world. But the new me—the one seeking redemption—decided to let him live.
That was probably a mistake.
I wanted to kill the man. He had run my sister off the road. In my view, he didn't deserve to live. But that really wasn't up to me. That belonged to the Big Man upstairs. Maybe I had been encroaching on His territory?
I searched Shorty for additional weapons. He had a small subcompact in an ankle holster. I took that and shoved it into a cargo pocket.
In Shorty’s pocket, I found the pair of handcuffs I had been restrained with. I slapped them on Shorty's wrists, cuffing him behind his back. When he was secure, I dashed across the meadow and felt for a pulse on Tallboy's neck. He was dead. No doubt about it.
I moved back to the pit, and filled it in. No sense leaving the gold exposed for anyone else to find. When it was full, I moved back to Shorty and smacked him in the face a few times. "Wake up, sleepy head."
Shorty groaned.
I kept smacking him until his face twisted. "Wake up, dipshit!"
His dazed eyes peeled open, and he looked at me curiously.
“Yeah, looks like things went south for you,” I muttered. “Get up!”
He tried to stand, but he couldn’t put weight on the leg I had smacked with the shovel. He screamed in agony the moment he tried. "My leg. I think it's broken."
"Tough shit. Get up!”
He tried to stand again, and bones snapped and crackled. He screamed. This time his leg really did break, and the bone protruded through the flesh—a compound fracture. Tears welled in his eyes. "I can't. I can't."
This guy deserved all the pain and suffering he had coming his way. But there was no way I could force him to walk down to the beach and climb aboard the boat. It wasn’t physically possible.
I dragged his heavy ass to a nearby tree and cuffed his hands around the trunk.
He wasn’t going anywhere.
Panic washed over his face. "You can't just leave me here."
"Be glad I didn't shoot you."
"Man, there's all kinds of bugs and snakes on this island. God knows what else."
"Not my problem. Sit tight. Somebody will be here soon to take you into custody."
I left the jackass cuffed to the tree, then sprinted through the underbrush, weaving through the trees. I hit the beach and splashed into the surf. I climbed aboard the speedboat, weighed anchor, and headed back toward Coconut Key.
When I was far enough offshore to get a signal, I called Daniels and filled him in on the details. I told him to send a tactical team over to the tugboat to rescue Sarah.
“Where are you now?” Daniels asked.
“I just left Angelfish Key Island. You might want to send Brenda and the forensics team. Oh, and probably the paramedics. One of them is still alive.”
“That’s shocking,” Daniels muttered. “I didn’t think you left criminals breathing?”
“Maybe I’m slipping?”
I told him I'd be back in Coconut Key in about an hour.
Shorty and Tallboy were just symptoms of a larger problem. Fernando Gallo. And I didn't want to miss taking that son-of-a-bitch down.
39
JD greeted me on the dock at Diver Down. He was suited up with a bulletproof vest, tactical helmet, and gloves. His face twisted as I pu
lled the speedboat into an empty slip. "Where did you get that piece of shit?"
I threw him the lines, and he tied off. I climbed out of the boat and we raced down the dock toward the parking lot.
"I don't want to miss the action," JD said.
We hopped into JD's Porsche and raced across the island to Fernando Gallo's home. The sky was beginning to lighten, and the tactical response team assembled down the block from the luxury mansion.
Daniels waited with the squad.
We parked the car, hopped out, and joined the rest of the team.
Daniels pointed at me. "You stay put. I don't want you near this thing until your legal troubles are history. You got me?" His stern gaze turned to JD. "I guess you can tag along."
Jack smiled excitedly. He was like a kid about to enter a toy store.
I grimaced and climbed into the back of the tactical van and sat next to a technician. There was a bay of flat screens all connected to body cams. I watched the shaky video feeds as the team advanced to the front gate.
A black armored tactical vehicle with big knobby tires and reinforced steel plating plowed into the wrought-iron gate, mowing it down. The squad of shaky cameras advanced to the front door. A separate unit moved to the rear.
Daniels shouted, "County Sheriff! We have a warrant."
Just about the time he finished the declaration, a battering ram crashed into the front door, splintering the doorjamb, shattering glass. Shards danced across the foyer, and the tac-team tossed in flash bang grenades. Two quick pops whited out the monitors. It took a moment for the video feed to come back as the camera sensors adapted to the bright light.
The tactical squad stormed into the haze, clearing the area, shouting and hollering.
Muzzle flash flickered on the screen, and the rattle of gunfire echoed across the lawn.
It was hard to make out what was going on amid the chaos. It was nothing but shaky footage, smoke, muzzle flash, and lots of racket.
Two of Fernando's goons made a foolish attempt to fight off the tactical team.
Bullets zipped in all directions.
One of the body-cam feeds crashed to the ground and pointed at the ceiling.
The name on the bottom of the screen read J. Donovan.
The air escaped my lungs. My heart pounded furiously. My gut twisted.
Fuck sitting in the van!
I launched out the rear doors and hit the ground running. I sprinted around the van, and my legs drove me forward toward the fallen gate. I ran up the drive, past the armored vehicle, past the fountain, and held up at the front door. With my pistol drawn, I advanced into the fray.
The clatter of gunfire still echoed through the house.
I climbed the spiral steps in the foyer to the second floor landing. JD was flat on his back in the hallway. I rushed to him, and another officer helped me drag him out of the line of fire into a room that had already been cleared.
Jack looked at me with wide eyes, and he gasped for breath.
My eyes scanned his body for wounds. There were no blood stains on his legs or appendages.
I pulled off the Velcro straps that attached the vest and checked for damage. I felt his chest and abdomen.
He batted my hand away. "Quit feeling me up! I'm fine. Just got the wind knocked out of me."
I looked at the vest and found the bullet hole. It punctured a couple layers of Kevlar but stopped short of the other side. The slug was lodged deep in the fibers.
Jack coughed and groaned as he sat up. "Damn, that hurts."
I exhaled a relieved breath, then helped him to his feet.
By that time, the firefight was over. But it seemed like it lasted forever.
I heard someone shout, “Clear!"
I edged into the hallway and moved toward the master bedroom. A goon lay in the doorway, riddled with bullets. Crimson blood soaked the cream-colored carpet. Another goon was dead at the end of the hallway.
In the master bedroom, the tactical squad had Fernando facedown on the ground with his hands behind his head. They were in the process of zip-tying his hands behind his back.
They did the same to Karina.
Two tactical officers pulled Fernando to his feet. He grimaced when he saw me. There was a trace of fear in his eyes. He knew he wasn't getting out of this one. I flashed him a smug grin as the officers shuffled him out of the bedroom and down the stairs.
Two other officers pulled Karina from the ground.
“She's not involved in this," I told Daniels.
"Well, she's going down to the station either way. She’ll have plenty of questions to answer."
"I wouldn't have found Sarah without her."
Karina's eyes met mine as they marched her out of the bedroom. I assured her everything would be okay.
"What part of stay out of this did you misinterpret?" Daniels asked.
I shrugged. "Reflex action. Sorry."
Daniels frowned at me, then stormed off.
I followed the sheriff into the hallway and rejoined JD. He winced every time he took a breath.
"You doing okay?" I asked
"I'm fine."
"At your age, maybe you should get checked for internal bleeding?"
He scowled at me.
JD stood tall and pretended like it didn't hurt as he descended the staircase.
I followed behind him.
The tactical officers stuffed Fernando into the back of a patrol car. Red and blue lights flashed, and the patrol car zipped away from the scene. The ambulance had arrived, bathing the area in red and white light. EMTs evaluated Jack for good measure.
Daniels took the restraints off Karina.
She was taken down to the station to make a statement. A crowd of neighbors had gathered around, and news crews would be on their way.
We ambled back to the speedster, and I climbed into the passenger seat. JD groaned as he got in and pulled the door shut. He winced again as he buckled his seatbelt.
"You’re never going to believe what I found on Angelfish Key Island,” I said.
He gave me a curious glance.
I dug into my pocket and pulled out a gold coin. It needed some polishing, but it still had its luster. Jack took the coin, and his eyes widened in disbelief. "Where the hell did you find this?"
"There's plenty more where that came from,” I said with a sly grin.
JD cranked up the engine, put the Porsche in gear, and launched away from the curb, leaving the chaos behind.
The wind whipped through my hair as we cruised back to the station. I felt calm and relaxed for the first time in a long while. The $4.5 million lawsuit from the studio didn't seem so bad. I was sitting on a pile of gold. More than enough to cover expenses. We’d still be able to keep the boat. Or so I thought.
It was a moment of bliss that wouldn't last long.
40
We had Fernando on kidnapping. That was open and shut. With Chuck's testimony, we’d get him on illegal gold trafficking. Conspiracy to commit murder would be a little harder to prove.
By the afternoon, another storm had blown into the area. The tropical depression spinning around in the Atlantic wouldn't hit Coconut Key directly, but was projected to dump heavy rainfall. This put a damper on our plans to retrieve the gold. It had been sitting there for over 400 years. A few more days wouldn't make much difference.
I didn't tell anybody else about the gold.
But the gold presented problems in its own right. The state would likely confiscate it and take a percentage. Usually 20%. Who knows how much of it we would actually see, and when? It could take years to sort out.
By the time Brenda made it to Angelfish Key, Shorty was dead. Intracranial hemorrhaging.
Whoops.
I didn’t feel that bad about it.
Over the next few days, I stayed in the hospital with Madison. She was progressing well. I told her I got the son-of-a-bitch that ran her off the road, but it didn't change anything. I could see behind her eyes that she blame
d me, and rightfully so.
When she was finally discharged, I had a cab pick us up from the hospital and take us back to Diver Down. Alejandro had been looking after the bar while Madison was incapacitated. I helped Madison up to her loft, and she crawled into bed.
Her face was expressionless, and her eyes were deep as oceans. She had that stare where she seemed to see everything and nothing all at once. I'd seen it many times before on the faces of people who endured traumatic events.
"Do you want me to get you anything?" I asked before leaving her alone.
"No. I'm fine."
"I'm here whenever you need me. Don't worry about the bar. Between me and Alejandro, we’ll handle it. Take as much time as you need to get back on your feet."
"Thanks, Tyson," she whispered.
"Are you sure you don't need anything?"
"I'm fine. Really,” she said, thinly.
I pulled the door closed and made my way downstairs. I leaned against the bar counter. Alejandro served a customer, then wiped his hands with a bar rag and ambled my way. He was a good-looking guy in his late 20s. Dark hair, dark eyes, strong features. Whenever he was behind the bar, there seemed to be more female customers for some reason.
"How’s she doing?" Alejandro asked.
I shrugged. "It will take a little time. The whole thing has done a number on her head." I paused. “Are you managing okay?"
"No problem. I don't mind the extra hours. I could use the money," Alejandro said.
"If you need me to cover shifts, you've got my number."
"Have you ever tended bar before?" he asked.
"I've mixed plenty of drinks, does that count?"
Alejandro chuckled. "I think I can manage here just fine."
Emma Steele flashed on the screen behind the bar. "Earlier this week, we broke news that the Coconut County Sheriff's Department raided the home of local philanthropist Fernando Gallo in a predawn operation. Gallo has been arrested in connection with an illegal gold smuggling ring and has been charged with kidnapping, witness intimidation, and conspiracy to commit murder. County Sheriff candidate Ed Carrero is holding a live press conference.”
