The Grace Painter (The Grace Series Book 1)

by Mark Romang

  He didn’t see many places a sniper could hide behind on the Sea Maiden’s main deck. The deck was fairly empty. But stacked near the stern were rectangular fish traps, as well as smaller, circular traps used to catch shrimp. But Creedy could see right through the traps.

  Dismissing the traps, he zeroed in on wooden crates stacked near the portside railing. The crates offered much better protection. But after monitoring the crates for a good minute, Creedy saw no rifle muzzle reflections or scope reflections anywhere around the crates. And other than a bait freezer sitting next to the pilothouse, the deck offered little protection.

  He has to be in the pilothouse, Creedy concluded, already focusing his binoculars on the small windows encircling the pilothouse. Creedy could feel the sun’s increasing warmth as it broke through a cloud formation. He didn’t mind the heat, as the sun could possibly help him locate his adversary.

  “Come on, I know you’re in there,” he muttered.

  Finally he saw a brief flash appear from behind the second windowpane. The flash only lasted a second, but prompted him to take action. Creedy swam away from the outboard motors and up alongside the Boston Whaler’s portside.

  He grabbed the rail and lunged from the water, using his feet to rapidly scale the hull until his stomach rested atop the chrome rail. An amazing amount of water gushed onto the Whaler’s floor from the holes shot into its hull. Soon the Whaler would sink like an anchor to the bay’s sandy bottom.

  The gunman manning the .50 caliber machine gun aboard the Sea Maiden unleashed another fearsome volley. Water and fiberglass exploded. Creedy ignored the leaden death raining onto the listing Whaler and lifted a lid on a long, rectangular storage compartment used as a weapons cache. Besides the mounted M60s and M2 .50 caliber machine guns, each Port Security Unit TPSB carries an arsenal of weapons onboard that includes M16A2 machine guns, M9 service pistols, a riot shotgun, grenades and a M203 grenade launcher.

  Creedy hurriedly unsnapped latches on an aluminum crate resting in the storage compartment. Inside the crate were three different types of grenades. He grabbed a M7A3 riot hand grenade with his left hand, and then lifted the M203 grenade launcher out from the storage compartment with his right. As soon as the M203 cleared the rail, Creedy allowed himself to fall backwards into the river.

  The M203 grenade launcher is a clip-on device that attaches to the underside of a M16A2 combat rifle. The beauty of the M203 is that the user still has two weapons in one simple to use package.

  Creedy floated on his back and pushed the barrel tube forward, slid the M7A3 riot grenade into the breech, then pulled the barrel tube backwards, locking it shut. A burning agent inside the 40mm grenade would atomize the gas and assist in dispersing it. Creedy intended to drive the sniper out into the open where he could get a clean kill shot.

  Still floating on his back, Creedy kicked his way back to the Whaler’s stern and its two outboard motors. Once there he released the M203’s safety and aimed the launcher at the second windowpane in the trawler’s pilothouse. His heart hammered, and his hands shook uncontrollably. He leaned the weapon against the side of an Evinrude motor for stability.

  Keenly aware of the big .50 caliber shells knifing into the water all around him, Creedy double-checked his range. He willed his hands to stop shaking, and then squeezed the trigger and intently followed the grenade’s arcing path as it penetrated the pilothouse. Glass shattered, and a heavy gas cloud soon filled the trawler’s command center. Two men came coughing and stumbling out onto the deck, one of them carrying a scope-mounted rifle.

  Creedy pulled back on the M16A2’s T-shaped cocking handle and loaded his first round into the rifle’s chamber. He then moved the firing selector into “auto” mode, which enabled him to fire three-round bursts every time he pulled the trigger. Creedy hastily dialed in the required range setting, then aligned the forward bead of his sight onto the sniper’s chest.

  “Say hello to God, Salvador,” Creedy mouthed just before squeezing the trigger. The three-shot burst struck the sniper’s torso exactly where Creedy intended it to. The sniper dropped his rifle and pitched dramatically onto his face.

  Creedy felt neither joy nor guilt at taking another man’s life. Five minutes into violent combat and his emotions had flat-lined. Like an aquatic robot, Creedy functioned solely upon the extensive training drummed into him while a cadet aboard the Barque Eagle. By rote he aimed his rifle at the last gunman aboard the Sea Maiden. He was about to pull the trigger when a gleaming orange-and-white MH-90 Coast Guard helicopter dipped from the sky and hovered about seventy feet above the trawler.

  Creedy hadn’t even been aware of the helicopter’s approach, so fixated had he been on dispatching the sniper. Carrying two pilots and a gunner, who has the choice of either firing a M240G machine gun swivel-mounted at the portside cabin door, or a handheld laser-sighted .50 caliber sniping rifle, the MH-90 is an invaluable asset used in combating drug smugglers.

  During drug interdictions at sea, the MH-90 intercepts the smugglers and fires a series of warning shots from the M240--as many as 100 shells per set. And then if the boat still refuses to surrender, the handheld .50 caliber rifle is used to disable its engines.

  Content to watch the final act play out, Creedy hoped the crew aboard the chopper would forgo the warning shots and get right to business. Shoot first and then ask questions. That’s how he would play it. The gunman aboard the Sea Maiden had already squandered two chances at surrendering. So why not grant him his death wish? Because he may just confess information that can topple the Veracruz drug cartel, or at least bring it to its knees. That’s why, Creedy thought.

  But on this bloody afternoon the opportunity for mercy had come and gone. Only terrible reckoning remained. As Creedy expected, the gunman aboard the Sea Maiden pointed his formidable weapon skyward toward the Coast Guard helicopter and commenced firing.

  The MH-90 immediately ascended to a safer altitude, its twin Pratt and Whitney turbine engines powering the helicopter to a position forward the Sea Maiden’s bow. Stirred back to action, Creedy fired his M16A2 at the gunman, hoping to occupy him long enough for the Coast Guard helicopter to regroup. Hovering in place, the gunner aboard the MH-90 opened up the chopper’s M240G machine gun and fired at will. The blitzkrieg caught the gunman, Wilfredo Vargas, full-on. The handsome, boxer-turned-assassin died instantly.

  Lieutenant Creedy heard one more shot ring out as the gunner used his laser-sighted sniper rifle to put a .50 caliber round into the Sea Maiden’s engine compartment, disabling the vessel. The MH-90 then flew over and hovered above the sinking Boston Whaler.

  Creedy waved at the helicopter. The co-pilot smiled and jerked his thumb backwards. Creedy looked in that direction and spotted another Boston Whaler speeding toward him. The boat would carry him back to port.

  Creedy tried to smile but couldn’t. Lubanski and Dalton were no longer alive, and the guilt of being the lone survivor ate at him. Why me? Why do I get to live? He knew the answer would likely evade him for his remaining days, and haunt him by night. He supposed he could chalk his beating heart up to luck, if he believed in such a thing. But he’d never subscribed to the silly concept before. So why start now?

  He just hoped Carlos Zaplata was aboard the Sea Maiden. He’d hate to think Lubanski and Dalton sacrificed their lives for nothing.

  Chapter 47

  Morgan City

  Wearing denim carpenter shorts, a Tommy Hilfiger T-shirt, running shoes and a LSU ball cap, Carlos Zaplata walked boldly down the promenade atop Morgan City’s seawall.

  In his current getup he could hardly be mistaken for a multi-billionaire. And that was by design. He wanted to blend in with the locals. If he failed to do so he would surely be spotted by law enforcement milling about the port. A dragnet was in place just for him. Morgan City policemen and federal agents from the DEA and FBI were everywhere.

  Zaplata had no way to know for sure if the Americans knew he’d been aboard the Sea Maiden, but he took nothing f
or granted and assumed they monitored every available entry and exit point to the city.

  Subsequently, with capture dangling like a hangman’s noose over his head, he strove to make himself as inconspicuous as possible, something he’d grown accustomed at doing. Paranoia had served him well over the years, as had the plastic surgeon he kept on his staff. Luckily, the other walkers on the seawall paid him no mind. They appeared too distracted with the commotion going on in the harbor to spot a fugitive on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted list.

  Zaplata arrived at a staircase that provided an exit off the seawall. He descended the stairs at a reasonable pace. At the bottom of the steps ran Front Street in north and south directions. He paused briefly at the curb and waited for a motorcycle to pass. He glanced at his Rolex, cursing himself for not putting on a cheaper timepiece before departing the Sea Maiden.

  Exactly six minutes had expired since he made landfall near a lonely cemetery at the south end of town. Shortly after he hid his inflatable raft in some tall marsh grass, he heard a fierce exchange of gunfire take place between Coastguardsmen and his men aboard the Sea Maiden. He had no doubt who won the battle. His men were fierce and cunning fighters. But they were no match for the Americans with their superior weapons.

  It was actually better for him if his enforcers were killed in the battle. If captured, skilled interrogators would eventually get them to talk about his operational secrets, and then his multi-billion-dollar drug enterprise would crumble overnight.

  He always knew it wouldn’t last forever. But the final chapter’s abruptness took him back. Now he wasn’t even sure if he could make it back to his homeland. His every instinct told him to get to the airport in Patterson as soon as possible. The longer he waited the more likely he’d be apprehended.

  Yet before leaving America he had to deal with Brinkman once and for all. He would never again have this opportunity. Unfortunately a major complication prevented him from fulfilling his obsession. He needed transportation to New Orleans.

  Taking a bus to the Big Easy remained an option. Only ninety miles separated New Orleans from Morgan City. But why take a bus when his pilot could get him to Brinkman’s hometown in far less time? And the more he thought about it the riskier a bus ride became. Federal agents will be watching all the bus stations, Zaplata concluded, as he crossed over Front Street and continued down a sidewalk that paralleled historical storefronts, many of which were still boarded up in response to Hurricane Vera.

  The establishments were mainly antique dealers and gift shops, but Zaplata could smell Italian cooking wafting from a small café just ahead. Baking garlic bread and bubbling marinara aromas tempted him to enter the café, but he wisely shrugged off the urge. Food would have to come later at a more appropriate time. He needed to find a taxi.

  Zaplata spotted a young couple standing outside an oyster bar. He thought about asking them, but walked by without making eye contact. He didn’t think the giggling couple, so blissfully in love, would be able to provide him with a coherent answer. Ah, here we go. This person should know, Zaplata thought. The drug lord stopped in front of a hardware store. A middle-aged black man stood outside the store and swept broken glass into a pile.

  “Excuse me, sir. Is there a taxi service in Morgan City?” Zaplata inquired.

  The potbellied shopkeeper turned to face him. He smiled, revealing the whitest teeth Zaplata had ever seen. The shopkeeper pointed with a thick stubby finger. “Why, there sure is. And there’s one of them behind you.”

  Zaplata looked over his shoulder and spotted a taxi cab driving up the street, trolling for customers. Zaplata felt his confidence spike. Maybe he could elude the American lawmen after all. He waved his hand vigorously. The taxi driver saw his enthusiastic hail and pulled up to the curb.

  Zaplata hurried up to the Ford Fusion. On the front doors were magnetic car signs that advertised Delhomme’s Taxi Service. Zaplata opened the back passenger door and settled into the seat. After he shut the door he looked up and surveyed the elderly driver. The cabby wore a windbreaker and a floppy fishing hat. Wispy white hair tumbled out the hat.

  “Where you headed to, young man?” the old-timer asked, glancing in the rearview mirror at his passenger.

  Zaplata cringed under the cabby’s piercing gaze. Although his dark eyes were partially obscured by tufted eyebrows, they seemed to take in everything. Zaplata hesitated. Should he have the old man drive him to New Orleans or stick to the original plan and head to the airport in Patterson? It would probably be easier to avoid authorities by riding in the taxi to New Orleans. But it would take so much longer to get there. And Zaplata was anxious to begin his hunt for Brinkman. “Can you take me to the Harry P. Williams Memorial Airport in Patterson?”

  “I sure can. And this is your lucky day, my friend. I’m celebrating my tenth anniversary in business today. Every fare is half-price,” The elderly taxi driver announced as he pulled the cab into the traffic flow.

  “How fortunate for me,” Zaplata muttered, not bothering to add he could probably afford to buy the entire state of Louisiana if it were up for sale. But then some things were better left unsaid. They hadn’t traveled very far when Zaplata spotted flashing lights up ahead. His heart skipped a beat when he determined the police cruisers were parked at the entrance to the I-90 Bridge. “Why are there so many policemen up ahead?” he asked, trying not to sound nervous.

  “I hear tell there’s a manhunt for a Mexican fugitive, and that the police are checking every vehicle that intends to cross the bridge,” the old man explained.

  Icy fingers of fear cleaved Zaplata’s stomach. If the police stopped and checked the cab he would be arrested on the spot. “Listen, Mr. Delhomme, I’m on a very tight schedule. I don’t have time to sit at a checkpoint. Can you detour around the bridge?”

  “I can detour around it. But if you ever want to get to Patterson we’ll have to cross Berwick Bay at some point.”

  “Surely there is another way across the water,” Zaplata said.

  “Well, there is an old car ferry.”

  “Take it!”

  “But the fella running it--he’s not the most reliable. Can’t hold his booze very well. He’s probably passed out in the wheelhouse.”

  “Maybe he’s sober today. Let’s take a chance,” Zaplata urged.

  “If you say so. You’re the one paying the fare,” Delhomme replied.

  Zaplata exhaled deeply when the old man turned right onto Freret Street, bypassing the police roadblock. Their new route took them east for three blocks through Morgan City’s historical district, where they tooled by century-old houses with gated entries and circular porticos. A walking tour of elderly women gawked and marveled at the captivating homes. Near the edge of the fairgrounds they hung a left on Federal Avenue and headed north.

  “What brings you to Louisiana?”

  Zaplata nearly choked at the pointed query. “What makes you think I don’t live here?”

  Delhomme chuckled again. “When you’ve lived here as long as I have you can spot a tourist a mile off. You look like a tourist to me.”

  “I’m here to look up an old friend,” Zaplata said truthfully.

  “That’s a noble reason. It’s not easy maintaining friendships these days. Everyone is so busy these days. They think they can replace personal visits with Facebook and text messages. That doesn’t fly with me.”

  Zaplata rolled his eyes. Listening to a sentimental cabbie ramble on about the horrors of social media and instant messaging sickened him.

  “Does your friend know you’re coming?”

  “No, it’s been several years since we last met. I thought I’d surprise him,” Zaplata said, grinning inwardly at the pleasant thought of seeing Mario Brinkman plead for his life. He still hadn’t decided by which method he would kill his hated enemy. But he knew once he located Brinkman, inspiration would take hold.

  He looked out the cab’s back window and noticed quite a few cars forming behind them. Delhomme drove annoyingl
y slow. Car horns blared at them.

  Zaplata suddenly grew paranoid. Perhaps Delhomme suspected he was the fugitive the feds and local police hunted for, and was stalling for time. Or worse, he planned to deliver him to the authorities.

  “I’m sure he will enjoy seeing you again,” Delhomme replied pleasantly.

  “Listen, I’m not really in the mood for chit-chat,” Zaplata said crossly. “Can you please drive faster? I don’t want to miss the ferry.”

  “I certainly can,” Delhomme said, nudging the accelerator ever so slightly, causing the taxi to speed up an additional five-miles-per-hour.

  Zaplata shook his head in exasperation. He glared out his window at small businesses and century-old churches. After they passed a hurricane-damaged school missing much of its roof, he could take it no longer. “Are we about to the ferry?”

  “It won’t be long now,” Delhomme promised. “At the end of Federal Avenue we’ll turn on the Levee Road and take it to the ferry. But I wouldn’t get my hopes up. Like I said before, the ferry operator will probably be sleeping off a hangover.”

  Zaplata sank back into his seat and forced himself to breathe deeply. He had to calm down. Stress causes mistakes. And if he were to commit a mistake in America he would rot behind bars forever.

  Inhaling and exhaling slowly, he closed his eyes and visualized Brinkman decomposing on the floor of his wretched little duplex. He gave serious thought to severing Brinkman’s head and taking it back home to his taxidermist. Brinkman’s handsome face would make a striking addition to his billiard room.

  Zaplata smiled at the delicious thought. He would display Brinkman’s head next to the stuffed trophy animals he’d shot, posing the head so it looked like Brinkman was being eaten by a lion.