by Lyle Howard
“Aren’t those people ever going to leave us alone? They scare me sometimes.”
“I know this has been really difficult for you, princess. It will all go away very soon though, I promise. Just remember: no matter how scared you get, you know I love you, right?”
“I love you too, Dad.”
Nathan Waxman pushed the button to shut off the phone and then, holding onto the chrome railing so tightly his knuckles turned white, began crying uncontrollably.
31
Since he was manning the bridge, Gabe assumed this had to be Kennedy. He was speaking into the radio, asking for weather and ocean conditions for the northern Bahamas and surrounding area. Gabe peeked through the opening and confirmed his suspicion. Kennedy was tapping his foot, impatiently waiting for the weather report, shrouded in an eerie red glow from the bank of electronic instruments before him. With all of the expensive technology at Kennedy’s disposal, Gabe’s focus was still drawn to the most utilitarian piece of equipment he saw inside the control room: the pistol strapped to Kennedy’s waist.
The weather report came back forecasting moderate seas with a light breeze blowing out of the northeast. This would be wind and water that would never get the opportunity to weather Mystique’s hand-polished teak veneer.
Gabe waited for Kennedy to set the microphone back in its cradle. He wanted to leave no chance for him to radio for help. On the control panel, a carnival of lights blinked and oscillated in a myriad of functions as Gabe closed in. Kennedy was leaning forward, shifting his eyes from the sweeping green beam on the radar screen to the front and back windows. Mystique was closing in on the last overpass before the Port Everglades inlet, the tributary that would take her out into the Atlantic Ocean. As a matter of courtesy and safe boating, it is customary for a ship’s captain to signal the bridge tender when their vessel requires the drawbridge to be raised. This was a practice Gabe should have accounted for before deciding to make his move.
The horn blasted three long blasts, causing Nathan Waxman, who was still standing out on the bow, to cover his ears and shake his fist up at the wheelhouse window.
The unexpected noise caused Gabe to stumble backward and trip over the large captain’s chair that was bolted to the floor behind him. Tyler Kennedy spun around without drawing his weapon, as startled by the intruder as Gabe was by the blaring claxon.
“Who the hell…”
Since Gabe was already low, he dove for Kennedy’s legs. Kennedy fell backward with a bone-jarring “thud,” hitting the inflexible deck with tremendous force. Gabe clawed his way up the prone captain’s body, twice slapping away his hand when he reached for his gun. “Stop struggling with me,” Gabe snarled, “I’m trying to save…”
A left cross came out of nowhere and caught Gabe on the side of his face; Gabe thought he heard his brain rattle the punch nailed him so flush. Kennedy seized the opportunity to shift his weight and roll to his right. Now he was on top, trying to keep the intruder’s flailing arms from inflicting any damage.
“How’d you get on my ship?” Kennedy growled, spittle dripping down from his lips.
He straddled Gabe, with all of his weight on Gabe’s waist, all of his bulk upon the belt and buckle.
Squirming flat on his back, Gabe was able to look up through the window and see that they were passing beneath the opened span of bridge. A few more minutes and they would be inside Port Everglades, a deep harbor filled with commercial vessels, cruise ships, restaurants with water-view windows, the Broward Convention Center, and other buildings built out of glass to afford the most scenic view of the ocean. The concussion from the blast would turn all of those windows into glass grenades, and hundreds of innocent people would surely be killed or maimed by the shrapnel.
Kennedy was surprisingly strong for a man nearly twice Gabe’s age. His arms were sinewy but powerful from years of yacht racing and deep sea fishing. He struggled to keep Gabe’s arms pinned to the floor, but as long as he did, there was no chance he could reach his weapon.
Gabe shifted his weight, juking to his left the way a prizefighter would feign a punch and counter with his opposite hand. Kennedy let go of Gabe’s right wrist for a split second, but that was all it took for Gabe to grab the pistol.
“Off of me,” Gabe said between exhausted gasps. He had the barrel of the gun pressed against Kennedy’s throat. “Stand up slowly.”
Kennedy raised his opened palms in compliance and rose warily to his feet. “What do you want?”
“How much longer until we reach Port Everglades?”
Kennedy looked over Gabe’s shoulder through the window. “I’d say about 10 minutes, why?”
Gabe was standing now, leaning against the control console, the gun never wavering from its target. “Does this thing have an autopilot?”
Kennedy looked puzzled. “You mean like an airplane?”
“Yeah,” Gabe said, glancing back and forth between the high-tech equipment and Kennedy. “Like an airplane.”
“I can lock the steering in place, that’s about it,” Kennedy admitted.
Gabe saw that it was clear sailing ahead, and motioned at Kennedy with the barrel of the gun. “Do it.”
“Tell me what you want and maybe I can help you,” Kennedy said, as he tightened a small wheel screw beneath the steering yolk.
“No one can help me anymore,” Gabe said, waving the gun between Kennedy and the hatch leading outside on deck. “After you.”
Kennedy moved sideways, never turning his back on the intruder. “If it’s money you’re after…”
Gabe smirked. “It’s not money, pal. If it was money, you’d never have seen me coming.”
Kennedy was standing against the railing, the muzzle of his own gun pressed into his spine. His silver hair was blowing wildly in the wind and the cold salt air was making his eyes tear. “Is this about blackmail? A kidnapping? You’ll never get away with this!”
This guy talked way too much. Gabe was fighting the urge to club him on the back of his skull and dump him overboard, but he knew he’d probably drown in the process. “Shut up, I’m trying to save your life.”
Kennedy turned to face Gabe, incredulity in his eyes. “Yeah, right.”
“Jump.”
“Excuse me?” Kennedy said, glancing down at the dark water racing past the hull of the yacht.
“You heard me … jump, or I swear to God I’ll shoot first and toss your corpse in afterward.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me! That water must be freezing!”
Gabe held the gun up to Kennedy’s temple. “The water’s gonna be warming up real soon, I promise. Now jump!”
“What are you going to do with Nathan?” Kennedy demanded to know as he hoisted one leg over the railing.
Gabe couldn’t take it anymore. With one swift push, Kennedy flew overboard, did a head over heels pinwheel, and splashed into the water legs first. “Son-of-a-bitch wouldn’t shut up,” Gabe grumbled to himself as he began to make his way toward the nose of the ship.
Nathan Waxman was standing at the pinnacle of Mystique’s bow, the state flag of Florida flapping rigidly on a chrome mast above his head. He was facing away from Gabe, engaged in a conversation on his cellular phone, oblivious to his unexpected guest.
Gabe’s first impression was that Waxman appeared smaller in person. It might have been an optical illusion, with the ex-mayor silhouetted against the shimmering lights of the Port on the horizon, but Gabe didn’t think so. Waxman seemed to be standing a full head shorter and was much leaner than Gabe had always thought. Gabe had always found himself a bit star-struck by the famous and the infamous, but none of that mattered anymore.
Careful not to let the squeaking from his tennis sneakers give him away, Gabe crept up behind Waxman and placed the muzzle of Kennedy’s gun against the base of his head. The ex-mayor stopped his phone conversation in mid-sentence and froze in place. With his free hand, Gabe reached around and took the cellular phone.
“It’s my daughter
.”
“Hello?” Gabe listened to the innocent voice.
“Dad?”
Gabe put his hand over the mouthpiece and motioned for Waxman to turn around. “How old is she?”
Waxman wasn’t sure what to say. “Seven … going on 20.”
The corner of Gabe’s mouth curled up. “I understand that age. Look, I’m going let you finish talking to her, but say anything out of line, say anything to warn her, and the last sound she’ll hear is a sound she’ll spend the rest of her life in therapy trying to forget.”
Waxman nodded and took back the phone. “I … I’m sorry, baby. Are you all tucked in?”
The lights in the distance were growing brighter and clearer as Gabe gestured for Waxman to wrap up the call.
“You’re my everything, princess. Always remember that.”
Gabe zipped up his windbreaker as the cold wind pelted his body.
“I love you, too. Sleep tight … I’ll talk to you…” He looked questioningly at Gabe. “Soon?”
Gabe grabbed the phone and threw it overboard.
“Who the hell are you, and how’d you get on my yacht?”
Gabe took a step forward. “Who I am isn’t important, neither is how I got here.”
“What do you want? Is it money?” Waxman asked, pulling his wallet out of his back pocket. “If it’s money, we can work something out.”
“I was sent here to kill you,” Gabe said, tiredly.
Instinctively, Waxman took a step back, but he was already standing against the railing. His wallet was trembling in his hand. “Who sent you?”
Gabe lifted up the waistband of his windbreaker to expose the belt. “I don’t have time for all your questions, but I do have time for you to answer one of mine.”
Gabe stepped closer, until he was close enough to see Waxman’s facial muscles twitching from fear.
Waxman stared at his assailant, examining his weary face. “You don’t look like someone who could kill another human being in cold blood. What is it you really want from me?”
“Look at me.”
The ex-mayor was too afraid to stare into Gabe’s face directly.
“I said, look at me,” Gabe growled, sticking the barrel of Kennedy’s pistol directly beneath Waxman’s chin.
The ex-mayor had no choice but to lock eyes with Gabe.
“Did you kill your wife?”
The question took Waxman by surprise. “What?”
Gabe cocked the hammer on the pistol. “I don’t have time to repeat the question.”
Waxman’s eyes opened wide like picture windows that Gabe stared right into. “No, I didn’t kill my wife. I don’t know who did. I loved her … and now, all I‘ve got left is our daughter. I’m begging you … please don’t take me from her!”
It had all come down to this one moment. This wicked trade-off. His son’s future for the life of this man. “I never intended to shoot you,” Gabe said, as he took a deep breath, stepped back, and confidently placed his finger on the buckle of his belt…
32
Through her binoculars, Shayla Rand watched the impact of the explosion; it was so thunderous—so violent—that fish as far as 500 yards in both directions were boiled alive. One moment Mystique was the envy of the waterway, cruising majestically into the Port, and then, instantaneously, she completely disintegrated. A glowing plume of orange and red fire and billowing black smoke shot thousands of feet into the night sky, igniting it like daylight. The plastic explosive and the additional 200 gallons of highly combustible marine fuel left little trace of the once sleek ship. The hull splintered into infinitesimal fragments, raining harmlessly down on the churning water like an early December rain.
A crater 20 feet deep and 500 feet long was blasted into the limestone and coral riverbed beneath ground zero. The shockwave created a tsunami of water 30 feet tall that roared out in every direction. On the west bank, shallow-rooted pine trees fell in on each other like toothpicks when caught in the destructive path of the massive wave. As the wave moved down the walled-in waterway, it seemed to gain momentum and height. Smaller boats that were moored to wooden or concrete docks behind some of the more opulent homes were thrown from the river like a bar of soap out of a bathtub. One 16-foot runabout was launched so high, it tumbled end over end before busting through a massive screened-in patio, crashing bow-first in the shallow end of the homeowner’s pool.
The tidal wave stormed out of the Port without mercy. Sea walls that had withstood more than 50 years of hurricanes and blistering weather crumbled like stale cheese from the violent impact. Fuel docks pummeled by the wave sprang leaks and exploded, sending pillars of fire and caustic fumes rising like torches into the darkness.
Most of the larger cruise ships had already set sail in the afternoon, but a handful of remaining ships that had been converted into floating casinos transporting gamblers just beyond the legal distance from shore to try their luck for a few hours weren’t as fortunate. Most of these fortune hunters were standing out on deck enjoying their complimentary bon voyage cocktails when the thunderous blast hit. Any passengers who weren’t blown off their feet from the force of the explosion were pelted with flying glass from their shattered drink tumblers. Two men who were caught in the middle when one of the gangways tore loose were dumped into the water between the ship and the concrete berth. When the wave struck the opposite side of the ship, they were mashed against the sea wall—two gory blotches that were quickly washed away with the surging tide.
This was also the first aftermath of the belt that Damon Washington had witnessed firsthand. He stood at the controls of the cigarette, his mouth hanging open in dumbfounded awe. Beside him, Shayla screamed and dropped the binoculars, blinded by the flash from the explosion. They were over half a mile away, and they could still feel the warmth from the blast. The invisible heat wave rippled through the air at an alarming speed, warping the horizon like an airport’s tarmac on a hot summer day. “You’ve got to be shitting me,” he marveled under his breath.
Shayla clawed at her eyes, praying her sight would quickly return. She could still make out the tower of flames, but it was blurry and her field of vision spotted. “Video doesn’t do it justice, does it?” she said, putting her hand on Washington’s shoulder. “I’ll be damned. I had Gabe figured out all wrong. I never thought he would go through with it.”
Suddenly, Washington’s demeanor turned from one of devout reverence to one of sheer panic. “Good God almighty! What the hell is that? It sounds like a freight train!”
Shayla continued trying to clear her eyes, but still couldn’t make out what had Washington on the verge of hysterics.
“Hang on,” Washington screamed as he gunned the throttles and sent the cigarette boat spinning in a 180-degree donut turn. Rand was flung to the deck as the twin engines thundered to life. The bow of the boat lifted itself out of the water, defying gravity in a pirouette of spewing foam and screaming exhaust. Shayla slid on her back across the deck, groping wildly for anything to give her a hand-hold. Washington had the throttles pushed as far forward as they would allow, but kept fisting them, as though the pressure from his hand would somehow increase the engine’s capabilities.
Pulling herself to her knees by grabbing onto one of the aft line cleats, Shayla looked behind them to see what had Washington so terrified. At first, she thought her eyes were still playing tricks on her. It was massive! A liquid phantom of monolithic proportions was bearing down on them … dark as a blackout, but full of unnatural life. The monstrosity was swallowing small boats whole and spitting them out onto dry land. It seemed to moan in a low bass rumble as it approached, like it was trying to communicate in some terrifying language. The terrifying sound was punctuated by the splintering of wooden piers and the exploding of outboard engines.
The cigarette boat rocketed past another boat that was also running for its life. This smaller cruiser had less horsepower and quickly fell behind in the high speed retreat. There was an entire family aboard
, who had undoubtedly been enjoying a pleasant night on the water until all hell broke loose. Shayla saw the horror on the parents’ faces and the confusion on their children’s.
The wave caught up with them seconds later, seizing them like a caged animal grabbing a piece of fresh meat. It pulled them straight up out of the water, flinging their helpless bodies to different points on the compass. The boat flipped over, its whining propeller chewing at the empty air. When it hit the surface, the gas tank erupted, but the flames were instantly doused by the wave engulfing it.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Washington screamed in shock. “Did you see that?”
Shayla had pulled herself to the front of the boat and was hanging with white knuckles onto the windshield next to Washington. She didn’t want to look back, but the sound was growing louder, like a locomotive on steroids. “It’s gaining on us!”
Washington leaned forward, his face stinging from the salt spray, as if leaning forward would somehow help the boat become more aerodynamic. The cigarette skipped across the surface, its keel barely skimming the water. One slip of the wheel, or if they hit an oncoming wave the wrong way, and they’d be dead long before the wall of water ever reached them.
“We’re not going to make it,” Shayla screamed. “It’s almost on top of us!”
Washington didn’t have to be told. The stern of the cigarette slowly began to rise out of the water.
“Hold on, this is going to be tight!”
The Intracoastal Waterway is fed by hundreds of smaller canals, creeks, rivers and rivulets. The Dania Cutoff Canal was just one such tributary. Washington threw the wheel hard to starboard, and the cigarette boat cut a 90-degree swath through the channel. Shayla had to wrap her leg around the seat behind her to prevent from being catapulted out of the boat. The engines wailed in opposition as the portside of the cigarette lifted itself out of the water. For a second that seemed like an eternity, the speedboat skidded on its side, slicing a thin bubbling wake that was barely a foot wide. Washington shifted his weight to the left and commanded that Shayla do the same. With the center of gravity sufficiently compensated, the hull once again slapped the surface and the cigarette’s engines dug into the water.
