Rising Storm: A Jesse McDermitt Novel (Caribbean Adventure Series Book 11)

by Wayne Stinnett

  “High tide will only give them a couple more feet,” Deuce replied. “Jesse said the boat drafted nearly six. That would be fine if seas were calm. Carmichael’s boat’ll bounce the bottom in this chop.”

  Deuce scrolled the device northward. “Here. About a hundred yards north of Soldier Key. This would be my choice on a day like this. Ten feet of water at low tide all the way through the shoal.”

  Tony came around behind the two men at the helm. “That’s got to be the one,” he said. “It’s got some turns and Carmichael said he’d need guides to get through the channel.”

  “Head south,” Deuce said. “We’ll wait a mile north of Soldier Key. They’re lost in rain clutter, but when they come out of it, we’d see them a lot better from down there.”

  Andrew pushed the throttles forward, bringing the big boat up out of the water, as he glanced at the radar. The rain band Carmichael’s boat was lost in wasn’t far away, but they needed to move farther away, and the other boat would be near the edge of the radar’s reliable range.

  In another five minutes, Andrew brought the Revenge down off plane. The sun was shining, but to the east it looked like another line of storms was building.

  “Where’d they go?” Deuce said, adjusting the radar’s gain to maximum, as the rain squall the trawler had been lost in finally moved ashore. “They were right there just five minutes ago, two miles inshore from Stiltsville.”

  “We haven’t heard anything on Jesse’s listening device,” Julie said. “Not since Carmichael started shouting orders when the rain was about to hit them.”

  “Head back to the channel,” Deuce said. “Are those bugs waterproof?”

  “No,” Paul replied. “Think it just got wet? I’ll activate the second one; this one’s near the end of its power, anyway.”

  Andrew pushed the throttles to the stops, making a sweeping turn to the north. “Carmichael must have changed his mind,” Andrew said. “If they’re in Biscayne Channel, sea clutter from the breaking waves on the shoal could be hiding them on radar.”

  “That doesn’t look good,” Charity said, leaning over to whisper to Chyrel, and pointing toward the dark clouds approaching the bay from the east.

  Another storm had crossed the southern part of the bay earlier, and dark-gray sheets of rain were now slowly undulating across the Everglades.

  Chyrel looked up at the fly bridge. Jesse’s and Carmichael’s heads were all that was visible over the low windshield. “They don’t look concerned.”

  “Carmichael might not be,” Charity whispered, “but Jesse is. That storm’s going to catch us in just a few minutes.

  A low scudding cloud passed over, darkening the sky. They’d watched as Jesse’s boat turned and went out to sea minutes before. It was barely visible against the gray sky to the east. Then, suddenly, it was enveloped by the gray and was gone.

  Sensing the changing barometer and feeling the charge in the air, Charity stood up. “I think we need to take cover,” she said, just as a bolt of lightning struck the water to the east of a line of fishing cabins built over the water.

  “We can’t yet,” Cruz replied, but jumped as the crack of thunder reached them. “Wilson wants us to stay up here until we reach the ocean.”

  Suddenly, the clouds seemed to burst open and rain started falling in sheets. Penny jumped up, squealing, and ran down the side deck for the shelter of the cabin. Jenna was right behind her, as Chyrel moved quickly down the other side of the boat. Cruz had no choice but to follow the two younger women.

  The rain wasn’t a concern for Charity. She’d spent more than one sleepless night at the helm during a storm.

  “Get the girls inside!” Carmichael yelled down from the bridge. “Secure everything, and let me know when you have the wheel.”

  Once inside the salon, her hair plastered to her scalp by the rain, Charity turned and asked Cruz where they kept the towels.

  Lifting the top of the navigation desk next to the door, Cruz pulled out a revolver and pointed it at them. “Move! Get your sweet asses down to the VIP cabin.”

  The two younger women screamed, as Charity froze in place for an instant. She knew that she could move quickly enough that the first shot would only injure her. She also knew that Cruz would never get a second shot off. But Chyrel and the two girls were behind her and they could be injured.

  “Move!” Cruz screamed, thumbing the hammer back.

  One by one, the women obediently went down the steps and into the cabin below the pilothouse. Once they were inside, Cruz closed the door. Charity heard a clicking sound and knew they’d been locked in.

  “What’s going on?” Penny asked, on the verge of tears.

  “Why are you doing this?” Jenna yelled, pounding on the door.

  “Shut up down there,” Cruz shouted back, her voice muffled and coming from above. “Sit tight and get comfortable.”

  Looking up, Charity saw a trap door, with a ladder leading up to it. Usually roof hatches on boats had dogs, latches, or some other mechanism on the inside, to allow them to be opened. This one didn’t.

  “Shh,” she whispered, holding a finger to her lips. Slowly, she stepped up on the first rung of the ladder, tilting her head to put an ear to the hatch. She could hear Cruz talking, either on a phone or intercom, telling Carmichael that she had the wheel.

  Hearing scrambling noises from above, Charity pushed gently against the hatch. It didn’t budge. From the stern, she could hear a scuffle taking place, then a loud thud, as if something had been dropped on the deck. She hoped it was Carmichael’s body.

  “What’s going on?” Jenna wailed.

  “Be quiet,” Chyrel whispered softly. “We won’t let anything happen to you.” Then, eyeing the suitcases and Jesse’s backpack on the bed, she touched Charity’s shoulder. “Jesse’s bag.”

  “Check it out,” Charity said. “He’s notorious for never going out on the water unarmed.”

  Opening the zipper, Chyrel saw nothing but clothes. She felt around, and pulled some out. “Nothing but clean shorts and tee-shirts.”

  “I saw Jesse offer Carmichael a cigar,” Charity said, climbing down, and going to the drawers under the bed. “They were smoking them on the bridge.”

  Yanking open the first drawer and seeing nothing, she slammed it shut, then pulled open the one below it. Chyrel started on the other side.

  When Charity opened the top middle drawer, her breath caught in her throat. “Thank you, oh wise and paranoid Jesse.”

  “Cigars?” Chyrel asked. “Was he planning to smoke them out?”

  Lifting the box out, Charity felt it was heavier than it should be. “He was a sniper,” she said, grinning, and opening the box. “Trained to hide in plain sight.”

  Pulling out two fistfuls of cigars, she set them aside then tilted the box to scoop out the remaining few. A small tag in the bottom read, Made in the Dominican Republic, and appeared to be sewn into the bottom of the lining. Tugging it slightly, she felt the bottom give and she lifted it out, removing Jesse’s Sig Sauer P226 from where it was nestled on a soft foam pad that fit the box. Pulling the slide back slightly, she saw that he’d already chambered a round. Knowing Jesse, it was on top of a full magazine, but she slipped the magazine out and checked to make sure.

  “Now it’s eleven against six,” Charity said, barely audible, as she slid the magazine back in with a click. “Bring it, bitch.”

  Above, Charity heard heavy footsteps, going up to the pilothouse.

  “I dropped a pin on my handheld,” she heard Carmichael say, his deeper voice resonating through the overhead. She assumed he meant that he’d marked a spot on the boat’s GPS. “We’ll come back and get what’s left after the storm. I know the perfect place to ride it out for an hour or so.”

  The sound of the waves hitting the hull changed, and Charity sensed that they were turning. She thrust the handgun into the cargo pocket of her shorts and scrambled up onto the huge bed, moving to the single porthole.

  Direct
ly above her head, rain was pounding on the side deck. Water splashed against the porthole, and outside, visibility was only a few hundred feet. The boat was turning toward the shoal. She saw one of the stilt houses off the port bow, barely visible through the pouring rain. She continued to watch the water for a moment; the house disappeared forward of the boat as it turned.

  “I think he’s going to one of those houses built over the shoal,” she said, scooting to the edge of the giant bed, and dropping down.

  “Who are you?” Penny asked, moving warily away from the ladder.

  Charity thought about it for a moment, before replying in a low voice, “We used to work for the government, but now we’re freelancers. Wilson and Rosana? They’re not who you think. They rape and torture women, before killing them. Right now, Ginger and I are the only thing standing between them and you.”

  “That can’t be true,” Jenna said. But there was no conviction in her voice.

  “It is,” Charity said firmly, pulling open the only other door in the cabin. A huge shower took up what was probably a full head at one time. “Get in here. If you hear shooting, don’t come out until one of us tells you to.”

  “This can’t be happening,” Penny said, choking back tears. “We just wanted to party and have a good time.”

  “Everything’s going to be okay,” Chyrel said, quietly, putting a hand on the younger woman’s shoulder and gently guiding her into the shower stall. “Let us do our jobs, okay? Then we’ll get you home. Stretch is one of us, too.”

  “I didn’t think he was like Wilson,” Jenna muttered, following the blonde into the shower.

  “He’s not like anybody you ever met,” Charity said, switching on a light inside the giant white room, and closing the door.

  Chyrel turned to her partner and whispered, “Where’s Jesse?”

  “Unknown,” Charity replied, her mind moving faster now as she surveyed the small cabin. She hefted the empty cigar box. It wasn’t cheap cardboard. It was heavy, probably a hardwood. She handed it to Chyrel. “I need you up on the bed, as close to the wall as you can get. Have that box ready to bash the face of anyone who steps through the door.”

  Chyrel did as she was told and climbed up onto the bed. Kneeling on the edge with her back to the wall and left leg braced against the hull, she swung the cigar box like a tennis racket, judging her backhand distance to the door.

  Charity looked around the cabin. The logical place for her would be crouched low, directly in front of the door and as far away from it as she could get. Unfortunately, that would put her in front of the shower. The only other choice was the far corner of the bed.

  Climbing up onto it, she realized for the first time just how big the bed was. There was way more room than any two people would need, even three. In fact, with her back against the aft wall and the hull, Chyrel was a good ten feet away.

  “Unless I’m hit,” Charity began, looking right into her friend’s eyes, “don’t swing. You’re my backup; I don’t want you in my line of fire.”

  “Got it,” Chyrel replied. Her expression was one of fear and awareness—a good combination, if tempered with reasoning.

  The two women waited. Occasionally, a snippet of conversation could be heard from above. After a few minutes, Charity heard the pilothouse door closing, then feet moving toward the bow on the starboard side deck.

  “It won’t be long now,” Charity whispered.

  Chyrel nodded, flattening herself against the forward bulkhead as the sound of the engine dropped to an idle. The rocking motion decreased, and Charity knew they had entered water that was protected from the storm. A moment later, there was a scraping noise, as the boat bumped a dock or something, then the engine was shut off. Less light was coming through the porthole, and the inside of the cabin was dark.

  Following the sound of footsteps with her eyes, Charity knew by the footfalls that it was Cruz moving aft to tie off to a dock at the house she had seen earlier. A moment later, Charity heard the aft salon door open and close. Above, she could just make out the two of them whispering.

  Then nothing but silence.

  Charity readied herself, knowing what was going to happen. The moment the door swung open, she planned to shoot whoever was on the other side. It was a conscious decision. She hadn’t heard anything at all from Jesse and assumed he was either incapacitated or dead, but there was no time to think about him now.

  Slowly, she thumbed the hammer back on the Sig. It had no safety, just a firing pin lock, and she knew that the only way to release that was to pull the trigger. A Sig Sauer handgun doesn’t go off accidentally.

  Suddenly, the door flew open, and Cruz was standing on the other side, pointing the short-barreled revolver straight into the cabin. In the microsecond it took for the woman to scan the room and see Charity, she didn’t even have time to realize that it was the last thing she’d ever see.

  Charity fired. At the same instant, she heard a sound from above. Time seemed to slow, as Charity realized her mistake and rolled forward on the bed, not even looking to see if Cruz were hit.

  Carmichael must have realized that even with a gun, it was four to one, and his captives might be able take Cruz down. Charity had figured that it might be the two of them coming through the door, but discounted it. The gun would be the advantage over a bunch of frightened women, and one or the other of them would probably be standing off to the side of the door.

  She’d failed to take into account that they might use both entrances.

  The report of a second round being fired inside the small cabin shocked her. Charity heard the shot ring out before she’d brought her gun up. Something tugged her hard into the mattress, and she saw Carmichael’s face looking down at her through the open overhead hatch.

  Slow-motion events unfolded in Charity’s mind as the sound of Jesse’s Sig striking the deck reached her ear. The clatter was drowned out by Chyrel’s scream as Carmichael dropped through the opening, landing lightly on his feet.

  Then the pain hit her.

  Cold saltwater hitting my face woke me instantly. Increased pressure on my ears told me I was underwater. I tried to reach in the direction I thought was up, but my hands were tied and heavy.

  An anchor? I thought, thrashing around to get my hands loose.

  My knee struck the sandy bottom and I rolled my legs under me, pushing off the seafloor with all my strength. Surprisingly, I instantly shot out of the water to my belly, even with the heavy anchor holding me down.

  I gulped air, then was pulled back down again. Gathering my wits, I stood on the bottom, leaning into the strong current, and looked around as I tried to free my hands. But that wasn’t going to happen until I could see what I was doing.

  The water was about eight feet deep and clear, but I had no mask, so I could only make out vague shapes. The bottom seemed to rise to my right, so I pushed myself that way, letting the anchor help keep my upper body low against the flow of water. I planted my feet firmly with each side step, to keep from being sucked into the bay.

  Squatting slightly, I pushed off the bottom again, timing it right this time. I exhaled hard, as I pulled the anchor up with me, and only my head broke the surface. I quickly grabbed a deep breath of air, before being pulled back under.

  The back of my head hurt, but now it was clear and I knew that I was in my element, where patience is the overriding prerequisite for survival. I’ve done free dives to a hundred feet, many times, holding my breath for more than a minute. One minute seems like a very short time, but a lot can be done in sixty seconds, if you take your time and don’t waste energy struggling.

  Slow is smooth, and smooth is fast, I reminded myself.

  The body’s urge to take a breath has a lot more to do with carbon dioxide buildup than lack of oxygen. Free diving required slow, deliberate movements to keep the diver’s heart rate down. Decreasing the blood flow in an almost Zen-like manner used less oxygen and created less carbon dioxide. I began to slowly release a stream of bubb
les from my lips, satisfying at least partially my body’s need to exhale.

  Trudging deliberately uphill toward a dark shape, I concentrated on my balance, holding the anchor in my hands, arms outstretched and limp, using no more muscle energy than my legs needed. I had to repeat the surfacing procedure three times. Each time I did, I lost several feet for every ten I gained trudging across the bottom.

  Finally, I made it to a low coquina ledge, which barely reached mid-thigh. The surge told me I was close to the surface. I swung the heavy anchor to my right and it landed on top of the ledge. Without its weight, the current nearly pulled my feet out from under me. I pushed off the bottom and let the current lift me onto the ledge, as the anchor held me fast. The rough broken shells, loosely cemented together with limestone, cut into my knees. Ignoring the pain, I managed to get my feet under me and stood up.

  The water was chest-deep, but a wave was bearing down on me. I had only a second to check my surroundings, before I had to drop low, to keep from being swept off the coquina ledge.

  Just before I squatted under the wave, I glimpsed a large chunk of the same kind of sedimentary rock off to my right. Sandbars extended toward deep water just below the surface on either side of it.

  As the wave rolled over me, I took advantage of the relatively calm water between waves and gathered the anchor in my hands, pushing off the top of the coquina ledge in an arcing dive into the swift moving current.

  Again, I used the anchor to help balance my body, leaning into the flow, and sidestepped my way across the small natural channel. I only had to surface twice before I managed to bull my way onto the sandbar on the leeward side of the big rock. Both the rock and sandbar were submerged, but the rock created a breakwater from the waves. When I reached shallow water, I dropped to my knees, gulping air.

  Waves broke over and around the rock, sending spray high over my head, before reforming in deeper water in the bay. After a moment, I was able to stand, the water only reaching my thighs.