“Get down,” he yelled to Pamela.
The second shot hit the console, sending fiberglass splinters across the deck. Poachers were fair game, and that was what it appeared he was. It wasn’t anger Mac felt; he knew the other boat held a fisherman and there was a good chance it was Rusty. Used to the single throttle on his trawler, Mac felt the reassuring width of the twin controls under his palm. Pressing them both forward at the same time, he heard the engines increase in pitch and launch them into the waves.
Though it was still dark, he could tell from the configuration of the running lights that the boat shooting at them was likely a lobster boat. Speed was his friend. Another shot whizzed by his head. Mac ducked, and pushed the throttles to their stops. The boat launched forward broaching on a wave, but Mac didn’t care. They needed separation and this was how he intended to get it. Another shot rang out, this one right by his ear. It had not come from the other boat. Pamela was kneeling in the space between the console and leaning post using the cushion as a support. She fired another round. Mac knew she had little chance of hitting anything except a stray flying fish with the .410, but he hoped the sound and muzzle flash of the shotgun would be enough to deter their attacker.
A different sound put him on high alert, and he glanced down at the controls. The port-side motor had dropped from forty-four hundred rpms to thirteen and was still falling. Whether the shooter had hit the aluminum head of the engine, or if it was a malfunction, didn’t matter. What did matter was the reduced speed.
When a twin-engine boat loses half its power, it loses more than half its speed. Mac didn’t have to look down to know the port engine was dead. With his senses finely tuned to the vibration and feel of the craft, from the sound of the straining starboard engine and as they dropped off plane, it was apparent what had happened. Knowing he was redlining it for no gain, he dropped the rpms and chanced a look back.
The lobster boat was still there, but they were far enough away that it was no longer a threat. Mac took a few breaths, trying to control his racing heart and evaluate their situation. With one engine, he was crippled, but not dead, and wanting to see what the lobster boat was up to, he cut the running lights.
On a clear night, a boat was just as visible with or without lights. The backdrop of the boat against the night sky was like a negative, blocking the stars behind it. A trained eye could easily see the shape in the night sky. The only problem now was the thin band of light on the horizon foretelling the approaching dawn. Mac was crippled, under fire, and soon to be exposed.
Pamela stood like a statue beside him. This was not the first or even the second time they had been under fire together; in fact, Mac was starting to lose count. Their relationship—and for the first time, Mac didn’t deny the word—had come a long way. From accepting her as just another of Trufante’s girlfriends, most of whom were very short-lived, to a somewhat eccentric acquaintance who Mac feared more than liked, she had proven that she had both staying power and a sturdy spine. He still wondered about her mystical side, but having her in his court was better than having her against him.
Mac glanced back to the north, where the running lights of the other boat were still visible against the dark sky. With the slow-burning dawn gradually lighting the sky behind the center console, he knew they were an easy target. Fortunately, they were far enough away that Rusty had decided to conserve ammunition. He might have guessed the boat was crippled, but he didn’t know for certain. Returning fire, even though it had been ineffective, at least told him they were armed.
Their current situation was a standoff. Whether Rusty knew it or not, the boats were now equally matched. If it came down to firepower, Mac had no idea who would win. The one thing he knew for certain was that Rusty was not going away. Commercial fishermen are persistent and hardworking. It takes long days, often under harsh conditions, to consistently bring fish, lobster, or crab to market. Even those who skirted the laws by harvesting out-of-season fish or taking shorts still had to work for them. Rusty was of the later category, but still had the attributes to survive the harsh conditions.
Looking for the best possible outcome, and without the advantage of a faster boat, Mac thought about his foe. During harder times, Mac had fished every day for weeks on end and knew firsthand the toll it took, first on your body, and then your mind. A lot of guys he knew self-medicated with alcohol and drugs. Mac didn’t know if Rusty fell into the former category, but he had heard the man was a hard drinker. On a day like this, Rusty wouldn’t be out here if there wasn’t something hidden in one of those traps.
The only way to run Rusty off the trap line was to come straight at him with guns blazing. They had two shooters to his one, and by running a course directly toward him, it would be hard for him to judge their speed.
“Get ready to fire,” Mac said, spinning the wheel. He doubted Rusty would pull the trap with them this close. The only way to get the drugs was to force Rusty to act.
Mac lined the boat up just as the first rays of dawn fought through the horizon behind him. He could tell the battle between the weather gods was over and the storm had won when a blood-red shadow fell over the water. Mac didn’t have time to analyze the science behind the old saying: Red sky in the morning, sailor take warning. He pushed down on the throttles, and ignoring the screaming alarm from the port engine controller, got what speed he could from the starboard. There was a brief moment of concern for Trufante’s boat, but if Mac didn’t find the drugs, the boat would be of no use to either Trufante or himself.
“Fire,” Mac called out.
Pamela had the shotgun braced against the top of the console. While she emptied the chamber of the four remaining rounds, Mac pulled the pistol from his waistband and shot several rounds in Rusty’s direction. He knew they were out of range. The last thing he wanted was to injure the man. Mac was counting on the threat.
The rain had stopped, and the sky noticeably lightened. Each wave was now visible. Mac risked a quick glance behind him and saw the sun making a valiant effort to appear. He shot again while Pamela reloaded, wanting it to be clear to Rusty that there were two weapons aboard and he was outgunned.
The sky darkened again, and pellets of rain struck Mac and Pamela as they closed on Rusty. Pamela had reloaded and released two rounds in quick succession, to which Mac added a third.
A cloud of black smoke rose from Rusty’s boat. Besides the gunshots, their straight-on course and the unsettled weather were in their favor. Rusty had no idea how far away they were or how quickly they were closing. With their first tactic proven successful, he needed to close the deal.
“Slow the rate of fire,” Mac called to Pamela as he backed off the throttles slightly. They needed to allow Rusty time to retrieve the trap, not scare him off. Pamela shot once more, but Mac held his fire. He could clearly see the figure of a man at the stern with a gaff in hand. Having done this a thousand times himself, Mac’s muscles twitched in response to Rusty’s activity.
With the boat at an idle, Rusty was facing into the current with his bow lined up on the buoy. Once within reach, Rusty snagged it, and before the forward motion of the boat pulled the line tight, keeping one hand on the gaff, he reached for the rear controls and dropped the transmission into neutral, and with a well-practiced ease, he slid the line around the wheel of the winch.
Just before he hit the switch, Pamela shot again. They were close enough that Mac had meant to have her hold fire, but he had been caught up in what Rusty was doing. Pellets ricocheted off the steel wheelhouse, causing Rusty to jump and duck. As he did, the line came free of the winch and dropped back in the water.
“Hold fire.” It was better late than never.
Mac dropped his speed even further, knowing the situation was growing critical. After the near miss, Rusty might just run. Instead, Mac saw him glance back, then turn back to the controls and jam the transmission hard in reverse. Backing up on a pot was a bad idea; a sure way to get the line stuck in the propeller. But Rusty appea
red desperate.
Mac was close enough he could see the buoy bobbing off the stern. Rusty reached back with the curved point of the gaff to snag it. He was so focused on pulling the trap aboard that he failed to notice the line drifting under the boat. Mac held his breath, waiting for it to tangle in the propeller and stall the engine, but it floated underneath. Rusty wasn’t out of the woods yet, though. He needed to get the trap aboard before the transom smashed it to pieces.
Mac saw it happen in slow motion. Rusty had the line in his hand, and had dropped the boat into neutral, but it was a split-second too late, and the momentum caught the trap, dragging it under the boat. The water behind the boat suddenly flattened out and changed. Pieces of wood drifted back, then red fabric, and finally, a bubbling white that under any other circumstance might have looked like the prop wash behind a running boat.
Mac knew it wasn’t.
Twenty-Three
Time stood still as Rusty, Mac, and Pamela stared at the white powder dissolving in a billion gallons of seawater. In a matter of seconds, in a slow-motion swirl, a million dollars was … gone. All of them felt remorse and fear, but the loss meant something different to each: riches, livelihood, or love.
The rain continued unabated, masking the sound of the idling engines and giving the scene a surreal quality. Rusty, having lost the least, merely grunted, as if it were just another empty trap, and without a glance moved to the forward controls in the wheelhouse. Mac thought he heard a curse just before the boat’s transmission clicked into forward. Smoke hung in the air as the engine strained to push the hull through the first few waves, then Rusty was gone.
Caught in the vortex from the propeller, small bits of red vinyl from the dry bags were still visible in the water. The drugs were long gone. Mac Knew Warner was less interested in recovering the actual drugs than the cash it would bring him.
With Mac’s options limited until he could figure out how to find enough cash to buy Warner, his focus turned to Pamela and Trufante. From personal experience, Mac knew each of them had their own stories and baggage. Mac and Mel had joked that Pamela was like the suitcase she’d been dragging the first night Trufante spotted her—one wheel short of a full set. But over time, she had proven to be different, and a good influence on the Cajun. At this point, they were like family. A stranger might simply have seen sadness or fear in her eyes; but Mac knew it was rage behind the tears that mixed with the raindrops streaming down her face.
The day was light enough now that Mac could see the individual storm cells surrounding them, each hung from the sky with dark grey rain curtains that stretched to the water. Rusty’s boat disappeared into one, and Mac turned away. What Rusty had done no longer mattered. The fisherman would never know how his greed had complicated lives, but it didn’t matter. He was no longer a part of this.
Pamela broke the spell. “What are we going to do, Mac Travis?”
In the space of a few minutes, Mac’s emotional arc had moved from disbelief, to bewilderment, to rage. Sitting in the downpour, he felt his blood boil. With an image of JC squarely in his mind, he turned the wheel away from Stock Island and headed back around Key West.
JC found himself driving the streets of Key West with no conscious destination. But his habits were indelibly ingrained, and at six thirty, as the door opened, he found himself in front of his usual first stop, The Cuban Coffee Queen on Margaret Street.
The old Cuban woman behind the bar greeted him as usual and, without having to take his order, spooned a hefty dose of espresso into the metal basket. Seconds later, when the first drops of coffee spit from the machine, he watched as she whipped in a tablespoon of sugar. Minutes later, JC stood at the counter sipping from the small cup. Typically, the first sip brought a smile to his face, but today there was only concern. After finishing the coffee, he ordered another to go, then grabbed a large bottle of water from a glass-doored refrigerator. Taking it back to the counter, he prepared for a scolding from the woman behind the counter when he ordered two pastries. He gladly suffered the maternal tirade, knowing she actually cared about him. She was worked up enough that it wasn’t worth explaining that one was for someone else, and he looked toward the door, hoping another customer would enter to divert her attention.
The door remained closed, unusual at this hour, when the café was usually crowded with fishermen. While the woman’s quiet husband rang up the bottle of water, pastries, and coffees, JC looked outside at the large drops of water dripping from the awning. Just before he turned away, a dark blue truck with the state’s FWC logo stenciled on the door pulled to a stop and parked.
The man took his twenty-dollar bill, his aged fingers struggling to make change, but JC was not watching. He was focused on the front door, thinking the gods had once again misinterpreted his wishes. Running excuses through his head as he waited, he thought about making a run for the back door, but there was nowhere to go. Warner had likely heard about the fire, but regardless, was here for his monthly envelope anyway. If the officer didn’t find JC here, his next stop would be JC’s house.
JC decided it was better to meet him here and now. Fortunately, the rain had kept the fishermen at home. Being seen with the officer would be a strike against JC’s reputation, something Warner wouldn’t care about. He would relish putting pressure on the old fishmonger in front of witnesses.
Taking his change from the man behind the counter, JC said a quick “thank you,” and dumped the coins in the empty tip jar, hoping the money would influence the gods in a small way. With the water bottle, pastries, and coffee in hand, he walked to a small table in the corner and sat down, his back to the wall. This gave him some small advantage, as it forced Warner to sit in the opposite chair and face the wall. If customers started streaming in, Warner would be uncomfortable, not being able to see who was watching him and possibly talking behind his back.
As JC waited for Warner to sit down, he plotted. Warner had stopped at the counter and ordered café con leche, the American version of the powerful Cuban coffee. Taking the cup from the woman, he crossed the room and sat across from JC.
“Sorry about your loss.”
Warner took the lid off his paper cup, having not caught the subtle hint from the old woman that he should take it and leave. While Warner blew on the steaming foam, preparing to take his first sip—which hopefully would burn his mouth—JC thought back on their history.
A dozen years ago the officer had been assigned to the Lower Keys. Warner’s predecessor was a local, and understood how hard it was to make a living here. He had sympathized with the fishermen, ignoring many of their smaller indiscretions. Knowing they needed a place to sell their catch, he extended the same courtesy to JC and his fish house. In exchange, JC and the fishermen were his eyes on the water. The deal worked for both parties. More out of necessity than laziness, the FWC officer knew he had no chance of covering the vast waters of the Keys. His counterparts on the mainland, where a handful of inlets were the only entry points, had a much easier task. The island chain was impossible to patrol.
Acting like a Mafia boss, Warner had changed all that with his “tax” on the locals, and JC’s share was substantial: twenty grand every month. At this point, with his business shut down, that was the extent of his slush fund. Between the costs of opening the bar and paying Trufante’s finder’s fee, he was broke. Now, both the cash and the drugs were in the wind. His men had worked over the Cajun, who didn’t have it on him and claimed it was gone. This early in the morning, JC knew it was pointless to check his phone. Billy Bones would need longer than the deep dark hours of the night to find a cash buyer.
Both men knew where they stood. JC stopped himself from passing his loss off to the whim of the gods. “Devastating.” He shook his head and looked down at the table.
“Rent some freezer space and you’ll be back in business. I don’t see any reason this should alter our agreement. By the time the front’s cleared out, you’ll be on your feet again.”
JC knew
Warner was right. By dark, his business would be altered only in location. Having to shuttle product between rented spaces would be more expensive, but by tomorrow, he would ready. “It’s going to cost though.…”
The officer took another sip to hide his irritation. “I’ve been dealing with you old conchs for too long now. The next thing you’ll be telling me is that the payment was lost in the fire.”
JC extended his hands. “It was the gods’ will.”
“Those gods of yours won’t be able to keep you out of jail, if I don’t get my payment by tomorrow night.” Warner stood up, knocking over his cup and forcing JC to dodge the flow of lukewarm coffee heading across the table. “Tomorrow night,” he repeated, and turned to leave.
JC took a handful of napkins from the dispenser, and cleaned up the coffee. “Wait.”
Warner turned.
JC had one more card to play. “Our old friend Mac Travis is here.”
“What about him?”
JC saw a brief flash of interest in the cold eyes of the officer. “I can hand him to you on a silver platter. Got him mixed up in something bigger than fish.”
“Is that right?”
JC sensed the FWC man knew more than he was letting on. “You interested?”
“Maybe I am. Might relax some on the interest accumulating on your overdue payment.”
Warner gave JC a calculating look and walked out. JC waited until he saw the state truck pull away from the curb before picking up the bottle of water and pastries, which was for Trufante, and the fresh coffee for his ancestors. He left the café, and was walking down Margaret Street toward the cemetery when he saw a boat pull into the marina. He knew right away it wasn’t one of his fishermen, but wondered who would be out in this weather in a small center console.
Fishermen are a far cry from making fashion statements, but they know how to keep warm and dry. JC wrapped his slicker he had taken from his truck around him and pulled the hood over his head before crossing the street. As he approached the man started to look familiar. Normally, he identified people by their boats. This one was not familiar, and he moved closer. A man and a woman were huddled behind the console, neither in foul weather gear. This alone was a red flag and he squinted through the falling rain until he could see the man was Mac Travis.
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