Wood's Reach

by Steven Becker

  “I owe ya, girl,” he said. Taking the keys, he jumped onto the deck.

  “Yes, you do, Mac Travis, yes, you do. Take care of my babies now.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Mac turned the key and scanned the cluttered dashboard. The four engine controls alone took up a huge amount of real estate, stacked two over two on the left side of the wheel. The twin touchscreen chart plotters filled the space above, and a row of gauges was to the right side, with two rows of rocker switches below them. He’d figure out the controls once he was clear of the deputy. He wanted to be gone in case the man discovered his courage and came back.

  He depressed the start buttons one at a time, and the engines roared to life. Mac tested the wheel and nodded to Celia, who tossed the lines. The boat jumped when he pulled back the throttles, but he gained control, realizing that with 1000 hp behind him, he would need to be careful. He cut the wheel and took a deep breath as the bow turned to face the open Gulf. Even with all his years of running boats, the power behind him was scary. Easing the throttle forward to get the feel for it, he felt the boat slide away from the dock.

  He almost reversed when he saw the deputy sitting outside the harbor talking on his cell phone, but he turned his head to hide his face and waited to clear the last marker before pushing the throttle down hard. The boat was on plane before he knew it, and like a horse, he gave it its head to see what it could do. Amazed at the speed, he cruised to deeper water, not turning until he was well out of the deputy’s line of sight.

  Cruising at over fifty knots, he checked the gauges and calculated the fuel consumption in his head. It showed plenty of fuel, but the engines were thirsty, their current consumption on the display reading almost thirty gallons an hour. He slowed to a modest twenty-five knots and looked ahead to the point of land that hid the Vaca Key cut. Following the shore, he stayed in the deep water between Rachel Key and Rachel Bank, rounded the point at Stirrup Key, and passed Russell Key, where he cut the wheel, leaving the green number thirteen marker on his starboard side. Slowing to fifteen knots, he stayed in the narrow channel between the markers, emerging a minute later on the Atlantic side. The small houses of Key Colony Beach were to port as he increased speed and entered the deeper channel between the mainland and the reef, where he turned toward the west. He cruised at thirty knots, the deep V of the bow easily tossing aside the two-foot waves, and started the electronics.

  The unit on the left was configured for the radar; the one on the right showed the boat’s location and direction of travel superimposed over a nautical chart. He had thought about heading to Key Largo, but if Hawk had taken Alicia, she would be heading this way. On a whim, he turned on his cell phone, setting it on the bench next to him while it started up. He passed the private island just offshore of Sombrero Beach and took a wide turn to enter Sister Creek. On reaching the first green marker, he slowed and picked up the phone.

  There weren’t many numbers stored in its memory, and the Ts came up quickly. He cut the rpms and picked up the phone.

  Trufante answered immediately. “Mac. They got Alicia,” he yelled over the roar of the sportfisher’s engines.

  “Can you go below so I can hear you?” Mac said, surprised by how quiet the four outboards behind him were.

  “Can you hear me now?” Trufante asked.

  “Yeah. I had a feeling Hawk was going to pull something like this. I’m heading into Sister Creek to see if he’s still there,” Mac said, turning the wheel into the canal.

  “Me and TJ are heading that way. We’re just passing Islamorada. Should be there in an hour or so.”

  “I’ll call you back in a few and figure out where to meet.” He thought for a minute, figuring that if Trufante was involved, anything could happen. It would be better to assign a rendezvous now, and there was only one place nearby where that would work. Although it would kill a small part of him to see the vacant lot where his house had been, he picked up the phone and hit redial. “Meet me at my old house,” he said and hung up.

  Hawk wouldn’t know the boat, but he would spot him at the wheel. With that in mind, Mac stopped in a wider portion of the canal, its shape dictated by the natural mangrove shoreline. He climbed the stainless steel rungs and took control of the boat from above. There were no electronics up here, just the basic controls, allowing the driver a better view of the open water. For fishing, it was essential for extending the horizon to spot birds and debris floating in the water or to peer into the transparent water to see the reefs. For his purposes, it would shield him from any eyeballs at ground level.

  He made the last turn and entered the dead-end canal, immediately cutting the engines. Still worried that he would be seen, he stayed against the right shoreline, cutting the line of sight from Hawk’s boat, but also taking him longer to realize that the trawler was gone.

  ***

  “Plot a course to Key West,” Hawk ordered the guy they called Mike.

  She tensed when he turned and came toward her.

  “Easy there, sweetheart. I’ve got no interest in hurting you. Just want what’s in that brain of yours,” he said and sat in the chair across from her.

  She continued staring out the large rectangular window, watching the water as they cruised west. Trying to estimate their speed and distance to Key West not only kept her mind off her predicament, but would also let her know how much time she had to work with. She doubted he was in a big enough hurry to redline the engines and guessed they were probably going close to fifteen knots. That would put them four to five hours out of Key West, depending on currents and wind. Plenty of time to delay him and find a solution.

  “What do you want from me?” she asked meekly. The Agency training had taught her not to be aggressive in this kind of situation. Better to let her captor feel in control.

  He shifted the thumb drive from hand to hand. “Just want to know what’s on this. You figure it out and I’ll cut you in.”

  “Cut me in for what?” She was curious now. Not that she would take the deal, but she sensed that he knew more than she did and might provide some information to help her solve the mystery.

  “Don’t play that game with me. I know you know,” he said.

  The only thing she knew for certain was that there were images of tattoos, and her program had found some kind of match. But she had been abducted before she could cross-reference what she’d found and discover the meaning. “I’ll need some equipment to continue my research.”

  “I’ve got a laptop here. Get me the location and I’ll make you a wealthy woman.” He pushed forward the computer that sat between them.

  The offer didn’t appeal to her at all. If she’d wanted wealth, she would have stayed in Silicon Valley. “That toy? I can barely check my Facebook feed on that. I’ll need more power.”

  “Please don’t make this more difficult. I did my own research and know what you are capable of.” He pushed the laptop the remaining inches to the edge of the table.

  There was no harm, she thought. This could buy her some time. “I’ll need a lot of broadband.”

  “Not a problem. Full Wi-Fi aboard,” he said. “I’ll leave you to it.” He got up and walked forward to the wheelhouse.

  It was a gamble using the remote access portal, but she had a failsafe and quickly loaded a cloaking program from the Internet. After it finished loading, she assigned a hot key combination that when activated would destroy anything recorded on the drive in an instant. A data expert could retrieve it, but that would mean time, and she figured Hawk was running on a tight schedule. Once it was installed, she breathed a sigh of relief.

  With the program running in the background, she opened a browser window and entered an address. A peer-to-peer site opened and she entered her password. A minute later, the screen showed her computer in Key Largo. This would enable her to do some research, and, on the off chance that TJ was there, she could communicate with him. It was cumbersome switching screens back and forth, but she navigated to the match the d
atabase had pulled up and pushed Mac’s drive into the USB port.

  The image that her recognition program showed on the screen surprised her. It wasn’t another tattoo at all, but an old chart. Forgetting her circumstances, her analytical brain took over, and she became totally absorbed in the work. Switching windows and opening databases was cumbersome on the single screen, but she now knew that Mac had been right. There was some kind of a map embedded in the tattoos. Now she just needed to figure it out. The knowledge might be the bargaining chip that could save them.

  ***

  Working the throttles for the outside engines, Mac spun the boat and reversed his course. He had no idea when Hawk’s boat had left, but with Celia’s children purring behind him, he could make up the miles fast. While he steered the canals leading back to the inlet from memory, he waited for the screen on the left to power up. The radar display soon became visible, showing concentric five-mile circles centered on the boat. It was jumbled this close to shore, with too many boats and houses nearby. Patiently he navigated the channel, holding his speed down until he was clear of the last marker. He knew a boat like this, especially one owned by Celia, would be a target for the half dozen law enforcement agencies that patrolled these waters.

  Clear of the inlet, he pushed down the throttle. Despite himself, he smiled as the boat went up on plane and hit fifty-five knots. Within minutes he was past Sombrero Light, the red steel structure standing sentinel over the reef five miles from shore. He kept going for another few minutes and slowed. Working the controls on the screen, he adjusted the radar and studied the screen, starting with the marks east and west of his location. The Bahamas were to the south, and he doubted Hawk had reason to cross into international waters, especially with a hostage aboard, and Marathon was to the north. If he was there, the radar would be useless.

  Several large blips showed on the screen, and he looked out to sea trying to get a visual on the closest. It was a tanker, moving west, probably motoring just inside the Gulf Stream to save fuel. Using the size of the ship and relating it to the mark on the screen, he was able to narrow the search to boats the size of Hawk’s. There were several, and he studied their courses, trying to guess which one held Alicia.

  Three were headed toward Key West, and unable to make any further distinctions, he took a wild guess and headed after them. Two were in Hawks Channel, the inside passage, and the third was working at an oblique angle that looked like it was heading to the Cay Sal Banks, a shallow area in Bahamian waters that was coveted by fishermen. The only way to get confirmation was to follow them.

  The blips on the screen became closer every minute. He soon ruled one out as probably a sailboat, and minutes later his guess was confirmed as he passed a ketch rig moving west. That left only one boat underway, and he pushed the throttles to their limits. At over sixty knots, he was moving about four times faster than the boat on the screen, and he soon saw a dot on the horizon that turned into a thin line and then took on the shape of a ship. He didn’t need to get any closer to confirm it was Hawk.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Mac knew he was outnumbered and outgunned. In his rush to escape the deputy, he had left the Glock aboard the center-console. The only weapon he had was speed. There was no way he could rescue Alicia by himself, and he didn’t want to let Hawk know he had been discovered. Turning back, he pushed the boat to its limits, not surprised when the speed hit sixty-five knots. The faster he met TJ and Tru, the sooner they could be in pursuit. He locked onto the radar signature of Hawk’s ship and set the most direct course for Boot Key Harbor.

  Less than a half hour later, he entered the channel. Passing the gas docks on his port side, he idled past City Marina and turned left into one of the side canals. TJ’s sportfisher was already docked, blocking the view of his old house—one that he didn’t want to see anyway. The dock was too short for both boats, and not wanting to use his neighbor’s empty section, he called to the men and pulled up alongside the larger boat. He eyed the house next door, wanting to get out of here before he was seen. Mac was responsible for the loss of his sailboat—the reason his dock was empty.

  “Hot damn, Mac, nice wheels,” Trufante said.

  “We can thank Celia,” he said. “I just spotted Hawk’s boat heading toward Key West. Hop in, we can catch them.”

  TJ looked warily at him. “I don’t know, Mac, better to have my own boat.”

  Mac understood and explained, “We got to head them off. With the radar, we can race offshore, beat them down there, and get Alicia back.”

  “Take ’em by surprise,” Trufante chimed in. “Come on, I gotta see how fast that sucker’ll run.”

  Pamela appeared from the cabin and followed Trufante, both their faces lit up by the four engines on the transom like this was some kind of pleasure cruise. TJ nodded, locked the cabin behind her, and reluctantly stepped aboard. Mac gave orders to the men and tried not to frown at Pamela. He had no qualms taking a woman along; she was just unproven. He knew what he could expect from the two men, but so far she had a stronger magnet than Trufante for attracting trouble.

  “Long, strange trip, Mac Travis,” she said as she passed him, moving to the padded seat by the transom.

  He ignored her and signaled to Trufante to release the lines, and minutes later they were past the last marker, picking up speed and heading southwest. The afternoon was beautiful. Under other circumstances, he would have enjoyed the light catching the ripples on the calm water and the feel of a well-built boat below him, cutting through the water. But his teeth ground together, and he was focused on only one thing.

  “I think that’s them,” Mac said, pointing to a blip on the screen. It had been less than an hour since he’d had eyes on it, and he was glad the signal was still there. The boat should have made another fifteen miles, putting them off Sugarloaf Key.

  All three men were leaning against the rocket launcher, hands firmly clenching the grab bars as they started at the electronic display. They watched as the range narrowed; Hawk’s ship was now inside the ten-mile ring. At this rate they would catch him soon. Mac needed a plan.

  “He’s got to be heading for Key West. We can cut outside and beat him there, then anchor in the channel behind old Tank Island. They’ll have to run past us to reach one of the marinas.”

  Both men nodded. He fine-tuned the throttles, synchronizing the engines at 4400 rpm, and watched the GPS. They were going over fifty knots now, and he looked over at the men. Trufante had a huge smile on his face. TJ was the opposite, clearly worried about Alicia. A glance back at Pamela confirmed that she was out in her own world. He added another 400 rpm, and the boat jumped forward and hit sixty knots.

  Mac was used to navigating IFR, or “instrument flying required,” as pilots called it. He’d been setting lobster pots and diving in all kinds of sketchy conditions for years. Though unable to work a smartphone, he was at home with the electronics on a boat. With one eye on the chart plotter and the other on the radar, he changed course slightly to the south. It wasn’t the most direct line for Key West, but would put them offshore of Hawk’s trawler when they passed. At their current speed, even with the course change, they would be in Key West at least an hour before Hawk. Fuel was a concern, though. Not knowing where this adventure was leading, he was worried at the rate of consumption. TJ might have a credit card, but he and Trufante did not have the means to fuel the boat. As soon as they cleared Hawk’s boat, he backed off the throttles, dropping the fuel consumption into a more palatable range.

  ***

  Alicia was so engrossed in her work that she didn’t notice Hawk looking over her shoulder.

  “I knew the tattoos were some kind of map,” he said.

  “Duh. But that’s too wide a subject,” she said. Then, realizing he was standing behind her, she hit the hot key combination and the screen went dark. Her fingers were poised to enter the last keystroke that would wipe the drive, but she waited.

  “That kind of behavior is not going to help y
ou,” he said.

  “And you are not going to get any more information. I think we are at a standstill,” she said, not really sure she had any leverage.

  “And there’s no guarantee that what you find will be the answer, either. I’ve been around this game long enough to know things are not always the way they seem. People will go through such extreme lengths to hide treasure that they forget their own clues.”

  She nodded, acknowledging he was right. It was the same in data analysis. The high-end encryptions had dead ends and false trails laced throughout the code. She knew more than one programmer who had forgotten his key, making the data worthless. “What about a deal?”

  “I’m listening,” he said.

  “You need me, or you would have found this already. What if we work together and split the find?”

  He paused. “If you come up with the answer, we can work out a deal,” he said.

  She couldn’t help but notice the smirk on his face. There was no way she could trust him, but she was obsessing about the riddle now. “Okay, but I need more power than this.” She lifted her fingers from the keys.

  “We’ll be in Key West in a couple of hours. I’ll see what we can do for you.” He turned to walk away.

  “What’s in Key West?” she asked.

  “Just work on the data. And I’ll need some insurance.” He called to Wallace, who set what looked like a shock collar for a large dog and several tools on the desk.

  “That’s not necessary,” she pleaded.

  “Like I said. Just insurance,” Hawk said and nodded to Wallace, who placed the collar around her neck, adjusted it, and fastened the two bolts with a wrench.

  She wiggled, trying to get as much space between the rough material and her skin, but as he tightened the bolts, she felt the two probes touch her skin. With a glare in Hawk’s direction, she went back to work. He was right, the tattoos were a map, but that was the easy part. Assuming this was several hundred years old, she had her work cut out for her. Charts from that era were often more artistic than accurate. The cartographers took liberties where things were unknown and often hid ciphers in their drawings, creating a code within the chart. She entered another sequence and the screen lit up again. Studying the chart, she noticed the landforms resembled their present-day representations, but the accuracy was nowhere close to what they needed to even start a search pattern.