by Lyle Howard
Washington’s eyes grew as big as ping-pong balls. “Sorry.”
Shayla wordlessly turned her gaze back to the choppy water.
“That’s probably just a routine beach patrol,” Washington said. “The only extra security is going to be onshore. We’re covered. No one suspects a thing.”
“And when should Gabe arrive?”
Washington checked his watch. “He should be there already.”
“You’re positive he understands what he’s supposed to do?”
“I went over it a dozen times with him. He’s ready.”
Shayla took another look at the surrounding landscape through the binoculars. Even in the waning sunlight, the panorama was still well lit, except for the slight green tinge to everything. “You’re sure he’ll follow through?”
“Well, he’s still weak from the junk pumping through his veins, and that beat down you gave him last night didn’t help.”
She put her hand up to the bandage on her face and gently caressed it. “It helped me.”
Washington pulled the handle from the gas tank and screwed on the cap. “That should do it,” he said, climbing up the ladder onto the dock and setting the handle back into the pump. “Let me just take care of the bill, and we’re good to go.”
Shayla slipped the leather strap around her neck and let the binoculars hang down over her ample chest. “Get a move on. I don’t want to miss the fireworks.”
26
Mystique was lit up like a Christmas tree. From stem to stern, the 94-foot yacht screamed opulence. Most people on the dock that night would have been in seventh heaven just owning the 16-foot runabout that hung from two large davits on her stern. She was stark white, floating like a grand dame, contrasted with the pitch night sky. Her epithet was artfully gilded across the transom in large cursive, gold-leaf letters. Three decks high, she was truly a sight to behold.
Moored at the longest berth in the marina, the one usually afforded to the occasional small cargo ship when dock space at nearby Port Everglades was at a premium, a steel ramp extended from her starboard side, where delivery men carted up dollies full of edibles and drinks. It looked to Gabe as though there were enough provisions for a small army, but there were only two passengers on this voyage.
Gabe remained in the shadows for now. Huge wooden crates and 55-gallon steel drums were scattered all over the place, making it very easy for him to stay out of sight. The last thing he wanted was to have some unsuspecting spectator accidentally bump into his belt buckle and blow everyone in a quarter-mile radius to Kingdom Come. Washington had told him the belt was completely tamper-proof, but Gabe didn’t see any reason to tempt the odds. He had to admit that the explosive device was ingenious. Holding up his pants was probably enough high explosives to take the down a large building. That image wasn’t exactly putting his mind at ease. They told Gabe it would be painless, but how could they know? He just prayed they were right.
Another cold front was cutting though South Florida, bringing the evening’s temperature into the low 40s. Gabe asked Washington if he could get him something warm to wear, and was given a dark nylon windbreaker. It wasn’t keeping him toasty the way a down-filled jacket would have, but what was it going to matter in an hour anyway? The chilly wind blowing in off the water tore into each and every one of Gabe’s aching muscles. Shayla had really done a number on him. When he’d awoken this afternoon, he could barely swing his legs off the bed. His back was covered with lumpy purple bruises that felt like raw meat to his touch. He moved so slowly, it took him nearly two hours to shower and get ready. He had asked Washington for something for the pain and was grateful for the nondescript pill he was given. Whatever the medication was, it eased the soreness and gave him a bit more mobility.
The plan, as Washington had explained it, was very straightforward. Proximity to the mayor wasn’t really an issue. He only had to sneak onboard, wait until the boat was at least a quarter mile from the marina and … painless.
Sitting on the dock, with his back pressed up against one of the wooden crates, he pulled his knees up against his chest, careful not to jostle the belt too much. It didn’t fit too snug, but after the dinner they served him back at the motel, he was thankful it was a bit on the loose side. He had been pleasantly surprised by the food’s preparation. Everything had been exactly how he ordered it. The steak was cool red inside and charred on the outside, while the lobster tail was sweet and succulent. He was astonished that he had any appetite at all, but then this all seemed like some sort of surreal dream anyway.
He was going to be dead in less than an hour. Was that possible?
Gabe had never worked on a case where the criminal had been sentenced to death … many had been sentenced to life in prison, but no candidates for the chair they called “Old Sparky.” Surely, the maniac he had chased into the alley would have been convicted and eventually executed, but that sentence had already been carried out without a jury’s recommendation. Gabe found himself wondering many of the same thoughts that a criminal awaiting his execution might have. What will the weather be like tomorrow? For that matter, what will the world be like tomorrow? A chill ran down Gabe’s back as he crawled toward a larger stack of crates to block the escalating breeze. The regrets in his life had been so many … his wife and daughter, his partner, and now his son.
What will Casey do when he finds out I’m dead? I’ll miss him so much. Will the feeling be mutual? What sports will he grow up to play? Now that he’ll be able to afford it, where will he go to college? What line of work will he choose? Who will he marry? How many children will he have? Where will they live? Will he even remember me then? He had to clear his mind or his heart would shatter. He had to stay focused, if not for himself, then for his son’s sake.
Gabe was 200 yards from the stern of the yacht with nothing between him and Nathan Waxman, except half a dozen news crews, a handful of delivery men, and about 300 screaming onlookers and protestors. Sneaking on board? Nothing to it! He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. Flipping it open, he had to tip it into the moonlight to read the credentials. Even in the chalky glow, if it was a forgery, it was a darn good one. It looked exactly like his old police badge and identification card, right down to his signature.
Gabe peeked around the corner of the crate. Waxman was still waving out at the crowd and trying to answer any questions he could discern over the rabble. Lights from the television cameras danced back and forth across the hull of the yacht like floodlights on a prison wall. Uniformed patrolmen as well as plain-clothed officers mingled in the crowd. To Gabe, some of the cops who were trying to look inconspicuous stood out more than the uniformed sentries. They were the ones not looking at the yacht. They circulated through the mob like people searching for a lost friend. Gabe spotted them easily. He counted more than a dozen. Maybe they were expecting trouble.
Footsteps…
Gabe quietly slid himself back into the shadows behind the shipping container. Two patrolmen from the sound of it. They took their time, pausing every few seconds and then moving on. Hard heels clicking on the wooden dock … getting closer.
“Hey,” one said. “Time for a cigarette break.”
They were right on the other side of the crate. Gabe pulled himself into a tight little ball.
“Sure,” came the response in a huskier voice. “Why the hell not?”
Of all the places to stop! Don’t you know not to smoke around all of this combustible stuff?
Gabe could hear the crinkling of the cigarette pack and the repeated attempts to ignite a lighter.
“Too damn windy,” the first one said. “Stand over here.”
The husky one must be turning to block the wind. More tries at lighting the smoke.
“Damn! I think my lighter must be out of juice. You got any matches?”
“Yeah, here.”
Of course he’d have to have matches with him! Don’t either of these two palookas know that smoking can kill you?
The lit match came sailing over the top of the box and landed directly on the top of Gabe’s right thigh. The burning pain was instantaneous. With his eyes pinched tight, and a grimace that belied his true anguish, Gabe flicked the match into the water where it sizzled to death. Son-of-a-bitch!
“Can you believe all of this bullshit?” the first one said, between drags.
Gabe wasn’t really trying to eavesdrop on the conversation. He was more intent on rubbing his thigh through the hole in his pants and biting his lower lip.
“Hey, after what that guy’s been through, don’t you think he deserves some R & R?”
One of the guards leaned against the crate. It didn’t budge, but Gabe could tell there was someone pushing against the other side.
“So the guy got off,” the first one said. “I always thought he should have.”
That remark perked up Gabe’s ears.
“What are you talking about?” asked the second one.
Gabe tilted his head. Yeah, what are you talking about?
“You know who his wife was, right?”
“Just what I read in the papers,” the second one admitted, as he took a long drag from his smoke. “I knew she was a congresswoman or a senator or something like that.”
“A state senator,” corrected the first one, “up in Tally.”
“So?”
“She was a real powerful woman, had a lot of clout, but then she had her daughter and gave up her political career to raise the kid.”
A daughter? I didn’t know Waxman had a daughter.
“And your point being?”
Aw, say more! Please, say more!
The first one let out a long, throaty cough and then spit something into the water. “Well, I could never leave my little girl motherless.”
“So you think somebody else killed his wife?”
“Change the subject,” the first one said. “You almost done with that thing? We gotta go.”
The voices started to fade as the two patrolman moved off in the opposite direction.
Gabe collapsed back into the shadows. His heart was pounding and his hands were trembling. What had just happened here?
Have I even taken the time to think this whole thing through? What if Waxman really didn’t kill his wife? Who else would have benefitted from her death? These are the basic questions that any rookie cop would’ve asked, so why haven’t I? The jury found him innocent, yet Bock insists he’s not. Why am I taking that psychotic’s word for it?
The engines of Mystique roared to life, interrupting Gabe’s thoughts. White water churned and smoke fumed from beneath the transom as the throttles were gunned and then set back to idle speed. It’s almost time. What am I supposed to do? I can’t do this if there’s a chance Nathan Waxman’s really innocent. But if I don’t do it, they’ll kill Casey for sure!
The delivery ramp on the side of the ship was almost secured, and with only a few more cases of food-stuffs to be rolled onboard, a forklift was preparing to pull the steel loading ramp back onto the pier.
Gabe stepped out from behind the crate and, as planned, hung his badge around his neck. It’s simple. I don’t have any choice. I’ve got to see this thing through or my son is dead!
27
The sleek black cigarette boat glided effortlessly through the water. This was manatee season and the protection of those gentle mammals gave them the perfect excuse for moving so slowly up the river. Shayla Rand stood next to the wheel with her red hair tucked tightly beneath a dark-colored baseball cap. With one hand holding onto the frame of the windshield, she pressed the zoom on the side of her night-vision binoculars and brought the distant marina into sharp focus. “This is close enough.”
Damon Washington eased back on the throttles although the boat’s mighty engines continued to protest like a caged animal. With a predator’s eye, Shayla surveyed the waterway. A flotilla of pleasure boats were moving both up and down river, while a few ships she spotted in the distance were circling near the marina. Curious boaters would soon be in for the surprise of their lives. “We can’t just sit here bobbing in the middle of the channel,” Washington warned. “We’ve got to keep moving or someone’s going to hit us.”
Shayla never lowered the binoculars. “I don’t want to get any closer. As soon as it’s done, we’ll get the hell out of here.”
Washington spun the wheel to the right. “Then let me circle at least. Otherwise, someone might think we’re having engine problems and call the marine patrol.”
As the cigarette boat began its slow loop, Shayla turned her body to face the opposite direction, never losing sight of Mystique.
“Why are you so worried about him? He’ll do it,” Washington asked over the low drone of the engines.
“If you want to know the truth,” Shayla said, wrinkling her nose and feeling the fresh stitches tug on her facial skin. “I’m really hoping the bastard will chicken out. I’ve got some unfinished business to settle with him.”
28
Gabe’s hair was hanging down on his forehead in sweaty ringlets. He wasn’t sure if it was nervous perspiration or the lack of medicine over the past eight hours but, either way, the waterworks were flowing. He made his way toward Mystique, keeping a low profile by skirting along the edge of the pier, moving from crate to barrel and blending in with the crowd whenever it was necessary. His breath was coming in short gasps, puffing out of his mouth in little clouds of warm vapor. He wasn’t aware of anything or anyone but his intended destination, and he lumbered single-mindedly on the most surreptitious route to reach it. The crowd noise and all the lights had turned the entire scene into a blurry dreamscape that he found himself stumbling his way through.
The mob grew more boisterous and chaotic the closer Gabe got to the yacht. Overhead, a police helicopter did a low sweep over the marina, causing most of the gallery to cover their ears and hold their collars tight around their necks.
If they thought that was loud…
Gabe had no specific plan as to how to get onboard. Bock’s guidelines left much to be desired in that department. All he had were his very authentic-looking credentials and his own instincts.
Two boxes of paper goods, one case of assorted vegetables, and one box of Idaho potatoes. These looked like the last provisions being loaded onto the ship. Gabe decided to make his move as they were being readied by a dockworker to dolly up the ramp. “Whoa, hold on a minute there, partner. I’ve got to look inside those boxes,” he said, displaying his badge hanging from his neck chain.
The dock worker, who wore a credential badge of his own pinned to his coveralls, wiped his forehead on his sleeve and shot Gabe an irritated glare. A ponytail dangled out of his baseball cap, and the name Rick was embroidered on his pocket. “Excuse me?” Rick asked, peering around the side of the stack of cumbersome boxes.
“I said, I need to see inspect inside those boxes.”
The longshoreman was obviously having a hard time juggling the cartons on the inclined ramp. “Why are you hassling me man? This is like my 15th load already. Why are you starting to check this stuff now? Don’t you got something better to do with your time?”
Gabe sized Rick up quickly. He was little thinner than Gabe was, but Gabe had been losing so much weight lately that the clothes would probably be a good fit. “This is just routine. We don’t want anything getting onboard that shouldn’t be here.”
Rick propped his elbow onto his dolly. “But we’ve probably loaded over 100 boxes already! Why are you waiting until now?”
Mystique’s engines revved and her twin propellers boiled the dark water behind her stern.
“I want you to come with me,” Gabe ordered over the noise.
“Say what?”
“You heard me,” Gabe shouted, matter-of-factly. “Follow me.”
Rick hung his head in disgust. “Why are you giving me such a hard time, man? I just want to load these last few boxes and get the hell out of here!”
It sounded like Mystique was
almost ready to depart.
“The boxes can wait. This boat isn’t leaving here until I say it is,” Gabe said, trying to sound as official as possible. “I have some questions to ask you, and I’m not going stand here screaming at the top of my lungs!”
Rick stabbed his hands into his overall pockets and grudgingly let Gabe lead him off the pier. “Where are we going?”
“Away from all of the commotion,” Gabe said over his shoulder. “Just follow me.”
There was a storage shed at the far edge of the marina’s property. A single light pole dimly illuminated the old wooden cabin that housed a variety of electrical tools, hoses, and various other items used for maintenance of the docks. A rusty padlock and hasp was the only security preventing anyone from stealing any of the shed’s contents. Gabe lifted the lock in his hand and tugged on it. Despite its decrepit appearance, the lock held firm.
“Can’t you just ask me whatever you want to know out here?” Rick asked anxiously.
Gabe shrugged with his back to him. “I guess I’ve got no choice.”
Rick was too busy stomping his boots on the pine needle-covered ground trying to keep his warmth circulating to even see the blow. Gabe’s trained fist moved like a piece of the darkness; it was nearly invisible—a spinning roundhouse that focused all of his weight and energy upon five small and otherwise insignificant knuckles.
Rick’s head snapped to the side, his ponytail whipping around face in protest. He had no time to react anyway, as the opposite set of knuckles caught him squarely beneath the jaw and nearly lifted him out of his Timberland work boots. His head lolled backward, his eyes gazing blankly skyward at a panorama of night that now held twice as many stars as it did only a few seconds before. He stumbled backward, but Gabe caught him before he hit the cold hard ground.
“Sorry about that,” Gabe said, trying to rub out the painful stinging sensation in his fist. “It was all I could think of at the moment.” He pulled Rick’s limp body behind the storage shed, quickly stripped off the worker’s overalls and threw them on over his own clothes, but not before removing his windbreaker and draping it over the motionless longshoreman. The coveralls buttoned up the front, so Gabe left two or three buttons unfastened so he could easily access the belt buckle detonator. He removed Rick’s baseball cap and adjusted the plastic strap in the back to loosen it. Pulling the brim low over his face, he headed back toward Mystique knowing full well he had only minutes before the dock worker would regain consciousness and all hell would probably break loose.
