Storm Surge: A Fast Paced International Adventure Thriller (Storm Thriller Series Book 3)

by Steven Becker

  With his primary—and only—footwear on, Mac grabbed a pair of cargo shorts and a T-shirt from the dresser, and went to the bathroom, where he dressed. Using the light from his phone to navigate the bedroom, he found the door without incident and closed it behind him.

  It was too late for alcohol and too early for beer, so Mac filled his water bottle and headed down the stairs of the stilt house. One of two structures on the island, the other being a small storage shed. The house had originally been built by Wood, Mel’s father and Mac’s mentor. Destroyed by a fire bomb shot by a rogue CIA agent a few years ago, Mac had rebuilt the structure. It was strong enough that, though the storm surge from Irma had reached the top step, it had weathered the hurricane with only the loss of a few solar panels.

  Using the flashlight on his phone, he followed the narrow mangrove-lined path, swatting mosquitoes as they tried to zero in on an unexpected midnight snack. A hundred steps later he stopped to open the gate, screened with mangrove branches to blend into the backdrop of the island, and stepped onto the beach. The dock was new, built only last year. Back in the day, Wood had enjoyed his privacy, having simply a lone piling to tie off a boat.

  Since Mel had moved back to the Keys it had been one improvement project after another, starting with satellite internet and most recently the improved dock. Three boats bobbed gently there on their lines. Ghost Runner, his custom forty-two-foot steel-hulled trawler; Reef Runner, a twenty-four-foot center console; and a new addition from his last adventure, a Surfari motor sailer. Not knowing what he was going to run into, he’d already decided to take the trawler. It was the best combination of speed, efficiency, and size. The trawler looked like a commercial fishing boat, which it was in part, but had been re-powered several years ago allowing for a comfortable cruising speed of thirty knots.

  Mac turned the battery switch on, and started the engine. While the 800-horsepower Cat C-18 warmed up, he turned on the electronics package, a dual touch-screen setup. Once the unit powered up, he set the left-hand screen to radar and the right to the chartplotter function. Things hadn’t always been so high-tech aboard Ghost Runner. What he had once resisted, he now relied upon. Mac touched various waypoints already entered into the unit, and connecting the dots, the plotter created a route through the Seven Mile Bridge and up the coast.

  The Gulf, or backcountry, side of the Keys was not somewhere you could run a straight course. The flats, shoals, sandbars, and small islands made navigation difficult during the day, and without electronics a risky venture at night. Once he was satisfied with the route, he pressed GO and cast off the lines.

  Before he allowed the autopilot to take over, he cut a hard turn around a submerged rock standing sentinel just outside the small channel leading to the dock. Once clear of the hazard he engaged the autopilot. He’d always been a John Henry kind of guy and it had taken mounds of evidence to convince him that the electronics could steer a straighter course than he could. Now that he was convinced, he checked the gauges and course, then went forward into the small cabin and made a cup of coffee.

  When he returned to the wheel, Mac could see the lights from the old Seven Mile Bridge just ahead. Taking control back from the autopilot to navigate through the narrow channel between the large concrete pilings, Mac steered toward the red lights marking the opening of the demolished swing bridge. Once clear, he continued past the new, higher span, and steered through the channel marked by the one square and three triangular placards mounted to pilings. They were colored red and green, as well as numbered, but in the dark of night he had to rely on their shape. Keeping the triangular shapes to port, he followed the channel leading through the shallows to Hawk Channel. When the depth finder read thirty feet of water, he turned the controls back to the autopilot. Hawk Channel, running parallel to land on his port side and to the infamous reef on his starboard, was a safe deep-water passage through the Keys.

  Despite the channel’s consistent course, Mac continued to monitor the chartplotter, and keep a watch for other boats. The reef, on his starboard side, had claimed hundreds of boats that had failed to respect the deadly coral. With an estimated time of two hours to reach Key Largo, Mac sat down to think.

  First, he did something he should have done originally, and called Alicia’s and TJ’s separate cell phones. Mako had never appeared to be the brightest bulb in the chandelier. It was worth the few minutes it took to confirm that neither was answering. Both calls went to voicemail without ringing, a sign they were turned off, which added a bit of urgency to Mac’s concerns.

  As he transited Hawk Channel, new landmarks he could rely on fell in his wake. Sombrero Key Light and the high-rise condo at Key Colony Beach were in his rearview mirror, and the flashing white lights marking the Tennessee Reef Light and Alligator Reef were tiny white dots on the horizon. Other than the Long Key Bridge and the Channel #5 and Channel #2 bridges outside Islamorada, there was little else out here except for a few anchor lights from boats fishing on the reef, and the few houses whose occupants were still awake on the islands.

  Another cup of coffee and and two hours later found Ghost Runner off Key Largo. Mac again reclaimed control of the boat and, respecting the flats adjacent to the channel, turned to port and set course for the red piling, now just a flashing light, marking the entrance to the channel and TJ’s dive shop. The unanswered cell phones had been his first clue that something was amiss. When he turned to enter the side canal where TJ docked his boat behind the shop and found it empty, he knew they were in trouble.

  The one shot that they were safe was the chance they were on a night charter. That thought did little to lower his ever-increasing apprehension. There was good cell service several miles past the reef, and still neither had taken his calls.

  He pulled up to the vacant dock. Leaving the engine running, Mac used one line to secure the boat, and hopped onto the dock. The few minutes it took to check the house and dive shop yielded no clues. Mac returned to the boat, hopped back over the gunwale, released the single line he had used amidship, and swung the bow around. As he traveled through the canal, and then the channel, he hailed TJ’s boat. He didn’t expect an answer, nor did he receive one, on channel 16. Switching to channels 68, 69, and 72, he repeated the call on the off-chance that they weren’t monitoring the main hailing frequency. No replies came back.

  The Keys’ ecosystem begins just offshore of Miami and runs seventy miles past Key West, ending in the Dry Tortugas. It encompasses a vast amount of water, but the area where dive charters operated was relatively skinny. Looking seaward, Mac saw several white lights, the anchor lights from boats probably snapper fishing. Concentrating on the slice of water between thirty-five and one-hundred feet in depth, he turned his attention to the left-hand display. Mac set the zoom to ten miles, and scanned the area.

  From two miles away he was able to identify the lights ahead with the blips on the radar screen. With a pretty good idea of the area where TJ and Alicia operated their night charters, he turned to the east. There was no other way than to check each boat and see if it was theirs.

  Mac cruised over the reef. What would have been a dynamic color change, a palette of shades from white to indigo during the day, was just ink-black water now. Cruising south, Mac reached the sixty-foot line and turned to port. Heading east, he ran down the reef, slowing for the handful of boats, checking them as he passed.

  None was TJ’s.

  With Carysfort and Alligator Reefs showing on the opposing outer rings of his radar, Mac halted the search. He cut the engines to an idle, set the bow into the waves, and sat back to think. The obvious place to start was with Mako. In order to find Alicia and TJ, he needed more information. Reluctantly, he picked up his phone and called Mako.

  46

  Syracuse, Sicily

  Mako was having a hard time deciding if the hurt look on Saba’s face was real or contrived, though it didn’t matter.

  “Start at the beginning. We’ve got time,” he said.

  Silenc
e settled around them, broken only by the gentle lapping of the waves against the seawall.

  “My father’s life is at stake here. And Faith.”

  Mako glanced over at Saba, who looked more vulnerable than he had seen her. Under other circumstances it would have been a romantic setting, watching the harbor of an ancient city under a star-flecked sky. That wasn’t the case now. As much as he was attracted to her, he needed to know. He sensed a battle within her. There was no point in rushing her—they had all night.

  Finally, a few long and uncomfortable minutes later, she turned to him.

  “I can’t reveal sources, but I can give you the facts.”

  “All ears,” Mako said. He thought about taking her hand in his, but felt the gesture out of place, and if he thought that, it surely was. Be patient, he told himself.

  “The forgery took me by surprise, too, as did the unveiling.”

  Having expected that, Mako nodded, but it was not the information he wanted. If she wanted to go backwards in time, that was fine, as long as she ended with stealing the journal from him.

  “It starts and ends with the Vatican, and their representative for all things art is Bishop Maldonado. He was the one who reported the journal as being missing.”

  “And that I had it.”

  She paused for a second and looked out at the water. Mako followed her gaze, but there was nothing to see. Before returning his eyes to her, he noticed some activity around the docks. Mako suspected it was fishermen, who often left before sunrise to get the morning bite then be back in time to sell their catch at the market and avoid the afternoon winds.

  “You were hired by the CIA. Do you know who their client was?” she asked.

  Mako thought about that for a second. It was a question well worth asking—as soon as he could find Alicia. He looked at his phone, seeing that it was after four a.m.. He thought about calling her again and decided it was pointless. Mac was on his way, and there was nothing he could do from here.

  “I don’t know.” It was not an answer he liked giving. Turning the tables, he asked, “Doesn’t the pope have people for that?”

  “The Swiss Guard, I guess.” She paused. “But, when you have that much power there’s no harm in reaching out. They are also trying like hell to look innocent in all this.”

  The murky waters were starting to clear. “Reaching out, like to Interpol, and the CIA, through Maldonado?”

  “Yes. Corruption seems to be embedded in the Vatican like the plague,” she said.

  “So, Maldonado asks the CIA and Interpol to find Caravaggio’s journal, but why? And why did you steal it from me, if they were going to get it anyway?”

  “Money. We work for free,” Saba said. “Your contract was probably well into six figures.”

  Mako knew the answer, but chose not to disclose it. There was often enmity between contractors and government workers. “I’ll go along with that for now, but not buying all the way in.” Mako started feeling better about the theft. At least it wasn’t personal.

  “How do Burga and Longino fit into this?” Mako asked.

  “Now we get to the meat of it, and why Maldonado is so freaked out. It’s no secret that under the Sistine Chapel is a huge cache of art—much of it likely stolen. Caravaggio is only one of the artists. His commissions, especially in his later years, all hang in churches. And, for all his reputation, there are damned few of them. He worked by himself, rather than set up a shop with apprentices who facilitated the process, like the other masters did. There was more than one brush in the paint pot on many masterpieces. Caravaggio painted on the run.”

  “Good history lesson, but it doesn’t answer my question.” Caravaggio was starting to fascinate him; the seedier side of the art world had his attention.

  “Collateral.”

  “They borrow against stolen paintings?”

  “Yup.”

  47

  Key Largo, Florida

  “Mac?”

  It was Mako’s voice. Then another, an unknown woman in the background. He assumed he was on speaker.

  “Try the Coast Guard?” she asked.

  Mac paused, not recognizing the voice. Mako caught his hesitancy and did a quick introduction. Not caring about the prickly tone he was conveying, Mac ignored the question. “Might be a good idea if y’all filled me in.”

  The tension on the other end of the phone was palpable.

  Finally, Mako was back on the line. “Just a contract that’s gone bad. The details don’t really matter.”

  “The details always matter,” Mac responded, thinking it was typical Mako. He would much rather deal with his father. “Where’s John?”

  Another pause. Mac was about to express his frustration when Mako broke in.

  “That’s another problem.”

  “Mako, and whoever the hell you’re with. You’ve got two missing persons here, both friends of mine. I know your shit is top secret, but I’m going to need something to go on.”

  Mac could hear Mako and the woman talking in the background. While he waited for them to decide what to tell him, he started to consider his options. Like the woman had suggested, there was the Coast Guard. They kind of did this for a living. Breaking into the dive shop and seeing who had chartered the boat was also an option. This was not his first rodeo and Mac figured by the time the Coasties got their skivvies on and met him, hours would have elapsed—and he wasn’t certain, though the boat wasn’t at the dock, that they were on it—or were even really missing.

  Mako came back. “Honestly, I don’t know how any of this is going to help.” He paused and briefed Mac on the journal as well as the Church’s, and the Mafia’s, involvement.

  Mac knew he was leaving out details, but this was something to go on. “I’ll get back to you,” he said, and disconnected the call, staring at the dark water, looking for answers.

  The ocean is hard enough to read during the day. At night its many times more difficult. Even with the moonlight highlighting the dappled crest of the waves, he couldn’t see in the troughs. Man-overboard drills emphasized that one person physically point at the victim. It was that easy to lose sight of someone—in daylight. He had checked all the boats that fell inside the radar screen with no luck. He didn’t want to think it, but if they were in the water, there was little he could do until morning.

  The best option was checking the dive shop. At least he could see if they had a charter and who had booked it. With that as a logical place to start, he spun the wheel toward shore and pressed down on the throttle.

  Twenty minutes later, Mac steered Ghost Runner into the small canal behind the shop. He slid into the now vacant space TJ docked their charter boat and, using the lines waiting for its return, tied off his boat. Leaving the engine running, he navigated the narrow dock without the flashlight on his phone. The small beacon would attract attention he didn’t want. Once on dry land, the security lights high up in the second-story eaves illuminated the area around the house.

  Just before he reached the stairway to the living quarters, he saw two wheelchairs sitting underneath the concrete stairs. Curious, he gave them a cursory glance, until he saw the Marine Corp logo on the back of each one. That meant nothing in itself. A few months ago, he and Mel had driven up here to get some help decoding an encrypted hard drive. Alicia and TJ had made short work of the problem, and the four had gone to dinner. He remembered Alicia talking excitedly about working with adaptive and PTSD divers. As much as he didn’t want to consider the possibility that the veterans were involved, under the circumstances, he was forced to consider it.

  The rub was the business they were in. In a perfect world, veterans would be without reproach, but reality was far from that. Many, after resigning their rank, hired on with the independent contractors the government now relied on so heavily. The pay and benefits far exceeded what they were used to, but not all the contractors were good—or ethical. Unfortunately, the wheelchairs were no coincidence.

  Mac continued toward
the storefront. He had spent some time in the war room upstairs, and recalled not seeing a scrap of paper anywhere. Out of curiosity he had looked. As he moved around to the front, where the dive shop was located, he could only hope they used paper calendars for their bookings—otherwise he would be out of luck. It didn’t matter. When Mac saw the metal grill pulled across the glass storefront he had no choice but to try upstairs.

  With multiple deadbolts, the entry door to the apartment looked like it was in Chicago or New York, not Key Largo. There was no way to gain access, aside from kicking it in, and that was if it wasn’t steel reinforced. To reach the windows he would need a ladder.

  Back at the boat, Mac looked at the VHF, trying to think of a way to access the network of fishermen and boaters without alerting the Coast Guard. Channel 16 was the main hailing frequency, which the authorities routinely monitored. Instead, he dialed up Channel 79. Channels 68 to 72 were often used by recreational boaters, but he chose the one the commercial guys preferred.

  At first, no one answered when he hailed as Ghost Runner. Realizing his boat had only recently been named by Trufante’s girlfriend, Pamela, and most boaters wouldn’t recognize him, he called out using his own name. Several seconds later a voice came over the speaker, acknowledging him. The name of the other boat was not familiar. As with his own vessel, that meant little. He would likely know the captain. After thirty years in the Keys he had many contacts and was well known through the string of islands.

  “Looking for a pair, maybe more, of divers. Anything out there?” Mac knew from the clarity of the connection that the responding boat was within his search zone. VHF ran on line of sight, which usually meant a maximum of ten miles.

  “Nah, ain’t nothing out here. Even the snapper bites off.”