Wood's Fury

by Steven Becker

  “You’re a lucky man, Travis. They’re still alive.”

  Mac looked over at the piling. Trufante had one eye open and a strange look on his face. The water was just an inch below his nose. Another few minutes and it would have been over for them. Pamela appeared unconscious, but Mac was hopeful she was alive.

  “Good, then let them go. I’ll give you what you want,” he repeated.

  “Goddamned son of a bitch, go to hell. Of course you will.” JC called an order to Rusty, who set the boat in neutral, then returned to the transom, where he looped a dock line around the piling. He tied an end to the port and starboard cleats at the transom. Once the boat was secured, without a word, JC stepped up on the gunwale and started cutting Pamela loose.

  Mac released his grip on the trawler and with two strokes was by the piling at the same time that Pamela hit the water. He waited just long enough to see if she could swim, but when he saw no movement, he dropped into the water. Diving under, he pulled her to the surface and draped her upper body over the board at the same time that Trufante landed next to him.

  “You good?” Mac called over to the Cajun.

  “Right on. Just a little head rush.” Trufante reached the trailing board and pulled himself onto it.

  Mac climbed onto the board with Pamela, careful not to dump her as he straddled it. Facing her, he held a hand to her mouth and nose. Her breath was cool against the back of his wet hand. Looking over at the trawler, he saw JC watching them with an amused look on his face. He seemed almost happy.

  “I do feel remorse, Travis, but between my ex-wives, my gods, and that damned son of mine, I have an enormous need for cash.”

  “I told you I’d take care of it.”

  “Y’all just hang out for a bit.” JC freed the line from around the piling and brought it aboard. “Enjoy the scenery. I got something to check on and I’ll be back for you—or not.” He turned and walked back to the helm and pushed down on the throttle.

  Mac and Trufante fought to control the boards as the large wake from the departing boat tossed them into the piling. Finally, it died out and Mac turned his attention to Pamela. She seemed to be coming around. Using the leash, he pulled the boards together, allowing Trufante to help her. While the Cajun revived her, Mac scanned the water, finally seeing Ghost Runner just where he expected.

  A few minutes later, Pamela was sitting up, and he turned his attention to where JC had disappeared. Sitting on the board, he could barely see a quarter-mile away. In order to get a better view, he stood and scanned the water. From the elevated position, he could see the wake from Rusty’s trawler showing white against the darkening water. He was heading for the channel on a course that looked like it would take him back to The Tongue.

  Mac stood and waved his paddle in the air when he saw Ghost Runner approaching. A few minutes later, Ned coasted to a stop. Mac hopped aboard, then helped Trufante and Pamela. Reluctantly, he left the boards, as the boat was already crowded, and told Ned to head back to The Tongue. Something was happening there, and he needed to find out what it was.

  Thirty-Nine

  Mac was at the wheel of Ghost Runner en route back to The Tongue while Ned cleaned and loaded their small arsenal. Mel had checked out Trufante and Pamela and deemed them fit for action. Mac had decided on an indirect approach, using the back door; instead of the marked channel that passed the back side of the fort, he chose to follow Loggerhead Key and come at the site from the west.

  The route would require him going through the narrow pass that Van Doren had used to escape from Lafitte’s ship, but it was high tide and the chart showed six feet of water—Ghost Runner drew five. With a positive tide, he would have several feet under the hull. His concern about the narrowness of the pass was alleviated by having seen the channel from underwater; he had a mental picture of the deadly coral heads. Even with his knowledge, the transit was not without risk. A one-degree course difference on their approach could spell doom, and he wondered how Van Doren had managed it without electronics. There was nothing to use for concealment, and he would be in plain sight, but at least he’d approach from the opposite direction that JC would expect him.

  Mac formulated a plan as he closed on the narrow pass. There had been a subtle shift in the old man’s behavior. Releasing his captives and the confession about his circumstances was out of character. Mac intended to exploit his present state of mind, and attempt to make a deal. It would be a contract with the devil, but at least he knew that going in.

  With the length of Loggerhead Key behind him, Mac turned toward the south, then northeast, circling back to The Tongue. He saw the mast of the Surfari and another boat anchored over the site. Mel confirmed with the binoculars that it was Rusty’s trawler.

  “How’re they doing?” Mac asked.

  “Tru asked for a beer, so I’m guessing he’s fine. Pamela’s a little shaken up, but she seems to be coming around. She was up there a lot longer than Tru, and by herself. We haven’t always seen eye to eye, but she’s pretty tough.”

  That was a little bit of an understatement. Mel and Pamela had an unusual relationship. They rarely got along, but after being held hostage together by a human trafficker, had formed a bond stronger than their disagreements.

  Mel looked through the binoculars again. “I’m assuming, since you’re running right up on them, that you have a plan.”

  “Of sorts. He’s already shown that he’s not going to kill us, and he doesn’t have anyone to dive.” It was a strange thing about fishermen. Many, like Trufante, were averse to the water. Mac was counting on Rusty being one of them, too.

  “There’s a deal to be made there,” Mac said.

  “Why not just walk away while we’re all in one piece?”

  Mac was glad that the near-deaths of Trufante and Pamela had cured her treasure fever. She was right in a way, and though he was loathe to admit it, after seeing the gold bars he thought if he recovered them, he would have the means to deal with Warner.

  “We’re so close. If it’s not easy, we walk.” It was a vague promise, but she seemed to accept it. Mac turned to Ned, who was across the cockpit.

  “You got the guns ready?”

  “Pistols and paddleboards ain’t a good mix, but I’ve got it cleaned up and the shotgun ready. If there’s real trouble though…”

  Trufante appeared in the wheelhouse, interrupting Ned, though he didn’t need to complete his thought. Mac knew JC was armed. At best it would be a standoff. “We’re coming up on them.” Turning to Trufante, he asked him if he was okay.

  “I’m good.” Trufante turned to look at JC’s boat. “Gonna give that old fishmonger a little payback?”

  “Gonna see what he’s up to.” Mac was unsure what JC was even doing here without a diver. Then Mac thought about Sloan.

  “You good enough to get the tanks pumped up and the dive gear ready?” he asked Trufante.

  “Good to go. A beer might help some.”

  Mac ignored the comment and studied the approach. It was quite a bit more difficult coming at it from open water as from the anchorage. With his fourteen-foot beam, and the pass only twenty feet at its widest point, and with no landmarks, at least on the surface, there was little margin for error. “Can you go up to the bow and call out if you see anything?” he asked Mel.

  “What am I, cannon fodder?”

  “He’s not going to shoot us.”

  “You’re so sure, you go up there.”

  Mac moved away from the wheel, relinquishing the helm to her. After showing her the course, he stepped back and left the wheelhouse, then climbed the gunwale and started forward. With only minutes of daylight left, the water was already dark, not quite the ink-black it would be in a few minutes, but dark enough to conceal its secrets. Mac was glad for the dives he had made, only hoping he could recall the formations well enough to guide them through.

  Leaning into the rail by the bow pulpit, Mac used his knees to absorb the impact of the waves as Mel continued to the chann
el. Mac stared into the water, hoping for any kind of clue that might save his boat. In this situation, despite the thousands of dollars in electronics he had recently installed, he was as blind as Van Doren had been. Depth finders had become more accurate, and he had side-scan sonar, but these still didn’t look forward, only back. Many a boater, relying on the readings from the transponder on their stern, had grounded.

  They were within a hundred yards of JC’s boat when Mac saw something in the water. The beam of a dive light easily pierced the dark veil. It had to be Sloan. JC was visible now, too. There was no way he could have missed Ghost Runner’s approach, but from the direction of his gaze, he was staring at the light. With Rusty and JC visible on the trawler, it had to be Sloan in the water.

  Mac was deep in thought watching the dive light, and nearly missed the dark outline barely visible in the water. The eastern outcropping was just feet from their starboard side when he called a course correction for Mel. The boat turned slightly, avoiding a coral head large enough to tear through the steel hull.

  Once clear of the reef, Mac looked across the void at JC, who had yet to acknowledge him. With Sloan in the water, the playing field had changed—again. Mac regretted not keeping a better eye on him. Now that he thought about it, there had been plenty of opportunities for Sloan to see what they were doing. From the location of the light in the water, Sloan clearly knew what they had found. But it was too late to look back.

  Even if Mel was right and Mac couldn’t justify being here, Sloan’s presence in the water would not permit him to leave. Mac was fine if no one ever recovered Van Doren’s gold bars, but he wasn’t okay with Sloan and JC taking them. Though there was no love lost between father and son, there was apparently enough between them to form a business partnership.

  They were hemmed in now, with little leeway on either side of the trawler. Mac called back to Mel to idle around the lobster boat in order to place them in open water. Before he could do anything else, Mac needed to ensure he could escape.

  Looking back to the stern, he saw Ned, Trufante, and Pamela all staring into the water. He, too, had taken his eyes off JC, and when the first bullet struck the wheelhouse roof, he dropped to the deck.

  “Gun it!” he called to Mel, while he crawled back to the cover of the wheelhouse. Several more shots struck the boat before they pulled out of the effective range of the weapon. Though a bullet could travel more than a mile, shooting from a moving boat was wildly inaccurate, even at close range. Sitting a hundred yards from the trawler, Mac felt safe.

  Mac asked Mel to drop speed. It was time to see what Sloan was up to. With her circling far enough back, they weren’t enough of a threat for JC to continue firing, and he had already revealed a reluctance to kill them. More than likely he just wanted them out of the way until Sloan surfaced with the gold.

  Mac grabbed a fresh tank. Within minutes, he was geared up and on the dive platform. Trufante brought him a scooter, a cylindrical apparatus that powered divers long distances with little effort. The outcropping was well within the batteries’ range—if it was charged—but Mac was going anyway. Loaded down with the scooter, dive light, and speargun, he waited.

  “Turn the bow toward him,” he called to Mel. Waiting for the boat to swing away enough to hide the dive platform from JC, Mac slipped into the water. Having added extra weight in order to hug the bottom, he sank through the dark water. Once he hit the sandy bottom, he set aside the scooter and, using his core as a brace, pulled back the three bands on the speargun. Once they were set in their notches on the shaft, and not wanting to risk a misfire, he set the safety. With the lanyard of the dive light around his left wrist and the speargun attached to a clip on his BC, he picked up the scooter and squeezed the trigger.

  Powered forward by the almost silent engine, and sans light, he was close to invisible. Staying close to both the bottom and center of the channel, he sped toward Sloan. What he would do once he arrived would be dictated by the other man.

  Sloan didn’t see him until he was only feet away, giving Mac time to assess the scene. Sloan was working a pry bar against the coral, trying to dislodge one of the gold bars. Several already sat in a cradle fashioned from a BC, rather ingenious for an impromptu lift. Though quiet, the scooter still made some noise, mostly from the disturbed water, causing Sloan to look up when he took a break.

  They sat there for a long second, staring at each other. Mac signaled with a raised thumb for them to surface, but Sloan ignored him and reached down, pulling against the bar he had been working on. He loaded it in the BC and, without a fist stage or low-pressure hose on the tank, removed his regulator. Holding the mouthpiece to the manual-inflation port, Sloan hit the purge button.

  Air blasted into the BC, elevating it off the bottom. Mac had only seconds to act before the gold saw the light of day for the first time in centuries. Dropping the scooter, he unclipped the speargun and aimed for the bladder of the BC. It was several feet off the bottom now and starting to rise faster. Mac aimed and shot, but Sloan had seen his intent and thrown the pry bar at him. The water slowed its momentum, but not before it hit his arm. It just enough to affect his aim, and the spear flew harmlessly past the BC.

  Sloan immediately took off after the gold. Before he was out of reach, Mac dropped the speargun, reached up with one hand, and grabbed for Sloan’s fin. He knew the man’s legs were much more powerful than his own grip, but hoped it would slow Sloan down enough for him to retrieve the speargun shaft. As he gripped the fin, he felt the shaft pull backwards, as if a fish were on it. It was just enough for him to lose the grip on the fin. Sloan turned back to him. Even in the dark water, Mac could see the anger in his eyes. Reaching down his leg, Sloan pulled a knife from a sheath on his calf. Flipping it upside down, he slashed at Mac, who caught Sloan’s wrist with his free hand. Mac was about to release the line connecting him to the shaft so he could fight with two hands when he saw a large lionfish embedded on its tip.

  In that brief second, Sloan repositioned himself and slashed again, this time focusing on retrieving the shaft. Mac was a second late in reacting. The blade sliced his shoulder. It was too dark to see much, but there was no doubt his blood was rising to the surface. Mac saw the knife coming at him again and finned away from the strike, but Sloan kept coming. Mac sunk to the bottom, just out of reach, and pulled hard on the line. The shaft reached his hand just as Sloan’s knife flashed toward his hoses. Blocking the blow with the shaft, Mac pulled back. Sloan slashed again. Mac tried to retreat, but found he had his back against a coral head. There was nowhere to go.

  Pulling the shaft to the side, he grabbed it with both hands and swung it like a baseball bat. The water restricted the power behind his swing, but the lionfish hit Sloan, embedding its spiny and venomous dorsal fins into the side of his face. Mac could hear him as he screamed through his mouthpiece. Sloan’s knife fell from his hand and he dropped to the bottom as he tried to extract the painful spines from his face. While Sloan struggled, Mac grabbed the knife from the sand and slashed Sloan’s hoses, leaving them both concealed in bubbles.

  Forty

  The cloud of bubbles was short-lived as the tank ran dry. Sloan lay in the sand. He looked unconscious. Mac had a decision to make, and he needed to make it quickly. Whether Sloan was alive or not was not the immediate issue—he was out of air. If Sloan were to have a chance, Mac knew he had to get him to the surface quickly, where he intended to hand him off to his father. Maybe the old man would release his grasp on him if Mac saved his son. If not, Sloan’s blood would not be on Mac’s hands. Checking behind him, he saw the BC loaded with the gold bars sitting in the sand by the reef, but his priority had to be Sloan. The man had turned out to be his enemy, but Mac was not a cold-blooded killer.

  Moving toward Sloan, Mac calculated how long it had been since he had cut the hose and Sloan had taken his last breath. Everything had happened so quickly that it seemed like a long time, but he knew it had only been a minute. As long as Sloan had the regulato
r in his mouth, he was unlikely to inhale seawater and drown.

  Mac approached the body carefully. He’d dealt with lionfish before and knew exactly how much pain a puncture from one of their many sharp spines could inflict. If the victim was allergic to their venom, anaphylactic shock would lead to a quick death, but generally their sting caused only localized pain and swelling—unless one of their larger fins had gone directly into a vein. As Mac closed the gap, he became suspicious. Sloan was too still. Convulsions were an involuntary contraction of the diaphragm caused by too much carbon dioxide. When Mac had been younger, and a better freediver, he had been able to hold his breath without convulsing for almost two minutes. Sloan easily could be playing possum.

  The darkness also played to Sloan’s advantage. Mac couldn’t see whether his eyes were open or closed until he was less than two feet away. He reached out for the tank valve, which he intended to use as a handle to haul the man to the surface.

  A hand swung out and grabbed the regulator from his mouth. Mac instinctively bit down while he recovered but, desperate for air, the adrenaline running through Sloan’s system gave him the needed strength to pull it free. Mac sucked desperately as it was pulled from his mouth, trying to inhale as much air as he could.

  The second the regulator was gone, his chest started to tighten. If Mac had no air, he was not going to allow Sloan any, either. Using his fins, he kicked against Sloan as he made a desperate grab for the floating hose. Mac’s timing was off by a long second, allowing Sloan a deep inhale before he felt the force of Mac’s kick. Sloan extended his hand again for the regulator, but it was barely out of reach. Oxygen deprived, Sloan did the only thing he could. The single breath had given him enough strength and clarity to ditch his tank and pull the lionfish from his face. Even though the surface was less than thirty feet away, the extra weight was the difference between making it or not. With the BC and tank on the bottom, Mac watched as Sloan crouched down to gather momentum before he bolted.