Rising Tide

by Wayne Stinnett

  “Then let’s get going,” I said. “DJ Martin is going to meet us in Fort Myers.”

  “He one of your Armstrong spooks?” Tank asked, as he stepped aboard.

  Tony laughed. “DJ’s not a spook, man. With just one leg, he’s lucky to sneak up on a glass of water.”

  “You’ll like DJ,” I said. “He was a snake eater in Afghanistan.”

  “That where he lost a leg?”

  “And received the silver star in doing so,” Tony replied.

  Paul stayed below to untie the lines as the rest of us went up to the bridge. Once I had the engines running, he tossed the lines off and stepped down into the cockpit. I put the engines in gear and idled away from the dock as he coiled and stowed the lines.

  “So, what’s the plan?” Paul asked, once he joined us.

  “Recon,” I said. “Billy has a house staked out. A girl who lives there busted up an attempted kidnapping and MS-13 wants to get back at her.”

  “That’s it?”

  I looked back toward shore and saw Chyrel’s car pulling out of the driveway. “Alberto’s involved somehow.”

  “The kid?” Tony asked. “How could he possibly be connected?”

  “I have no idea,” I replied honestly. “He was found on a homemade Cuban boat, covered with a tarp made in Fort Myers.”

  Tony grinned, his brilliant white teeth in sharp contrast to his ebony skin. “And of course, you don’t believe in coincidences.”

  I nodded.

  “And Billy is?” Tank asked.

  “Billy Rainwater,” I replied. “Chieftain of the Calusa people.”

  “The Indian kid you were buddies with, in 3/9?”

  Tank and I were with Weapons Company, Third Battalion, Ninth Marine Regiment, when we deployed to Lebanon the first time. When we rotated back to Camp Lejeune in early ’83, I was nearing the end of my first enlistment and Billy had just transferred in, fresh out of Infantry School. Tank was reassigned as a marksmanship instructor shortly afterward, so he’d hardly met Billy. Yet nearly four decades and thousands of Marines later, he remembered him.

  “We were only back for a week before you got orders to the range,” I said, bringing the Revenge up on plane. “You were the company gunny and Billy just a boot PFC. How could you possibly remember him?”

  Tank glanced over at me from the port bench. “I served fifty-one years in the Corps. Guess how many Native Americans I served with.”

  He was right. The Corps reflected the demographics of the nation very closely, though skewed slightly in favor of minorities. But in my twenty years, I’d only served with one other Indian.

  “Probably close to the number of black guys I served with,” Tony quipped from the second seat. “Not a lot of brothers among the SEAL teams.”

  “Three,” Tank said. “Besides, I always made it a point to know my troops.”

  I set a course of 320° magnetic and engaged the autopilot. We were making thirty-five knots and it’d take four hours to get there, with one course correction in about three hours. I checked my watch.

  “It’ll be close to noon when we arrive,” I said to Tank. “What’s in the cooler?”

  He grinned. “We went for a run this morning. Five miles in just over forty-five minutes. When we got back, you were probably just waking up, but we were hungry. So, Chyrel made a dozen biscuits and cooked up a whole package of lean sausage.”

  Tony was up like his seat had voltage running through it. “I’ll get it.”

  A moment later, he came back up the ladder with a brown paper bag in his hand. “I thought you said she made a dozen.”

  Tank shrugged. “Like I said, we were hungry.”

  Tony opened the bag and passed out three tightly wrapped packages that were still warm. Tank waved him off.

  “Is sausage the right thing to eat in your condition?” Paul asked.

  Usually quiet and observant, Paul rarely offered an opinion, except from a psychological point of view. Tank was dying of cancer. It wasn’t bad in any one particular part of his body yet, but by the time it was discovered, it’d spread throughout his abdomen and bones.

  “I only had one,” Tank said. “Along with some sliced melon, strawberries, wheat toast, and OJ.”

  Tony looked down into the bag again. “There’s only five left.”

  Tank grinned at him. “What can I say? Living with an old Devil Dog gives a woman an appetite.”

  I’d never pried into his and Chyrel’s relationship. At first, their marriage sounded like a business deal. Chyrel wasn’t a kid, but she was twenty-five years younger than Tank. She’d agreed to care for him when the time came that he couldn’t take care of himself. In exchange, she’d get the house he’d bought and a survivor’s pension. Knowing her as I did, and how much she simply liked the man, I knew she’d have done it anyway. She’d already confided to me that when the time came, she’d sell the house and put the proceeds into Tank’s charity fund.

  Tank figured that since he’d been a Marine from the age of seventeen and had retired less than three years ago at sixty-eight, he wouldn’t receive a fair pension for all his years of service. By marrying Chyrel, though, she would be eligible for a survivor’s pension when he was gone.

  But over the months since they’d married, they seemed a lot more like a couple than business partners. I’d never been one to judge. Hell, Savannah was ten years younger than me. Tank and Chyrel were more than old enough to make life choices on their own. Chyrel had never wanted a husband and to Tank, that was perfect—by not remarrying when he was gone, she’d collect his pension for a long time.

  As we headed away from the Keys and into the deeper waters of the Gulf, there was a moderate chop. But the Revenge was a blue water boat, so the waves were barely noticeable.

  I told the men about what I’d learned online, about the gang wars, missing and dead hookers, and the drug connection.

  “You think MS-13 filled the void after the Blanc cartel was dismantled?” Tony asked.

  “That’s possible,” I replied. “Where there’s a demand, someone else will eventually come in to fill the gap.”

  Paul had been quietly taking everything in, digesting it all in that analytical mind of his. He turned his head and looked back at me. “How were the two prostitutes murdered?” he asked.

  “A bullet to the back of their heads,” I replied. “Execution style.”

  “And others have been reported missing, you said?”

  “Yeah,” I replied. “Maybe half a dozen or more.”

  “They’re dead,” Paul said flatly. “The gangbangers just did a better job of disposing of the bodies.”

  “What makes you think that?” Tank asked. “Some psychological profile or something?”

  “Simple economics,” Paul replied. “If there’s a turf war between rival gangs, ultimately it’s going to be about money. Whether that money comes from drugs, prostitution, or a bake sale doesn’t matter. Each gang will try to cut off the revenue flow of their rivals.”

  I thought about that a moment. From what I’d learned about MS-13, they were ruthless and used murder and intimidation as tools. I didn’t think it would be beyond them to just kill off prostitutes who worked for a rival gang.

  “If you can’t raise the bridge,” I said. “Lower the river.”

  Tony looked over at me, swallowing a bite from his biscuit. “You mean take the hookers out of the equation?”

  I nodded. “And the drugs, too, if we can figure out how.”

  “And just how do you figure on doing all this?”

  “Cash,” I said.

  I saw the light flicker in Tony’s eyes. “You mean we go into these seedy neighborhoods and proposition hookers?”

  “Most of these women are drug addicts,” Paul said. “Many come from broken homes and abusive relationships. And most addicts don’t want to be one. They can’t stop using on their own and just don’t have the wherewithal to get treatment.”

  “Call Chyrel,” I said to Tony. �
�While they’re at the Anchor, she can use Rusty’s Wi-Fi to find the nearest drug rehab center around Fort Myers. We’ll grab the hookers and take them there. Even if they don’t complete the treatment, they’ll be safe for a few days.”

  “Do you really think they’ll go willingly?” Tank asked.

  I thought about that a moment. “While you have her, tell her to send two hundred thousand dollars from my account to me at the BB&T on McGregor in Fort Myers.”

  They all looked at me, surprised.

  “We’ll give each one an incentive,” I said. “Five grand when they complete the treatment and relocation to another town.”

  In a squalid, abandoned apartment building, Maria Gonzalez huddled in a corner of what had once been a second story unit’s small living room. She was done, spent, used up for the night. But she had cash in her pocket. Just what that meant to her these days, she really couldn’t comprehend.

  Across from her, a black woman named Shanice sat cross-legged on the floor. Both were high on meth, but it was from the night before and they were starting to come down—tweaking.

  The initial rush of methamphetamine produced a feeling of euphoria that lasted for hours, sometimes all night. After that, the high slowly subsided as the user’s body began to shut down, unable to handle the continuous rush. It was during this post-euphoric high stage that a meth user was most lucid, but usually argumentative. Once the high was gone, nothing else mattered except finding more meth.

  Both women knew of the missing and dead hookers and both had taken precautions, as best they could, to not be picked up by someone in the rival gang. Yet, there they were, sitting across from one another in the same room—a Hispanic MS-13 prostitute and a black one who worked for the Lake Boyz gang.

  Maria drew her knees up and pulled her sweatshirt down over her legs. It wasn’t terribly cold, but there was a chill in the early morning air.

  “I don’t think my people can protect me anymore,” Maria said.

  Shanice looked over at her. How the two had ended up in the same room, neither of them knew. It had just started to get light outside, and like vampires hiding from the daylight, they’d wandered into the same hiding place.

  “Your people started this,” Shanice argued.

  “My friend was killed a week ago,” Maria said. “And her son kidnapped. Your people ransacked Razor’s place and took the boy. So, Razor hit back.”

  Shanice looked down at her ankles. She’d heard Bumpy bragging about killing several Hispanic working girls. “Bumpy killed her.”

  “Huh?”

  “He’s Lake Boyz,” Shanice said. “I heard him bragging about killing a few chicas and trashing that Razor guy’s place.

  Maria was horrified. “Why would he do that?”

  Shanice lifted her head and glared at the other woman. “You don’t belong here,” she spat vehemently. “Before your posse came, Lake Boyz ruled and everything was good.”

  Maria didn’t want to argue with her. She was right. The Hispanic population in the area had slowly grown over time. It wasn’t her fault that her parents had brought her to Florida. It was where her dad could find work. Up until he was killed in a drive-by shooting several years earlier.

  “Look around,” Maria said. “You call this good? Neither of us is safe. What can we do?”

  “I started turning tricks to get out of this hellhole,” Shanice said. “I didn’t have no job and got evicted from my shithole apartment. I thought I could do it for a few weeks and save up, ya know. I never wanted to smoke it.”

  “Me neither,” Maria said, a tear trailing down her cheek. “But it made things easier. Now I can’t stop.”

  “So, what’s left?”

  “I don’t know,” Maria said. “Just die, I guess.”

  “Nobody gets out alive.”

  “My mom’s forty,” Maria said. “I used to think she was young. But I know I’ll never get to be her age.”

  Shanice rose and went to the window. It was boarded up, but there was a small crack between the two sheets of warped plywood.

  “It’s getting lighter,” she said, peering through the crack.

  “You got someplace to go?” Maria asked.

  “No. Do you?”

  “I was staying with a friend,” Maria replied. “But he kicked me out two days ago. Said it was too dangerous.”

  The location of the abandoned apartment building was between the two neighborhoods controlled by Lake Boyz and MS-13—neutral turf. But since this latest war had started, working girls weren’t safe anywhere.

  “There’s a Popeye’s across the street,” Shanice said, angling her head to the right for a better view. “You got any money?”

  “A little,” Maria said. “But I don’t feel like going out there.”

  “Gimme five dollars,” Shanice said. “I’ll go get us something.”

  Maria eyed her suspiciously.

  “Fuck it,” Shanice said. “I’ll buy and you can pay me when I get back. Deal?”

  “Sure,” Maria replied.

  The black girl pulled the door open and left. Maria could hear her footsteps on the stairs for a moment, and then it fell quiet. Alone with her jumbled thoughts, the silence was oppressive.

  She stood and moved over to the window. She had to stand on her toes to see through the crack. Her knees shook.

  After a moment, she saw Shanice on the sidewalk below. She walked down the street a little way, then turned to cross over to the fast-food restaurant.

  Suddenly, a Chevy lowrider came careening around the corner. It stopped and several Hispanic men jumped out and grabbed Shanice before she could take two more steps.

  The men wrestled her toward the car. When she screamed for help, they started to beat her. Finally, they threw her into the backseat and climbed in on either side of her.

  The car’s engine roared and rattled as the Chevy sped off down the street.

  Maria collapsed to the floor, sobbing.

  Once we reached the marina and got the Revenge tied up in her slip, I told the others to stay aboard while I walked to the bank. I carried a well-worn backpack on one shoulder.

  It was only a mile and the walk allowed my mind to decompress from the run up from the Keys. When I arrived at the bank, I stood in line for the teller windows and when it was my turn, I asked to speak to the manager.

  I’d done this kind of financial transaction before and knew it was a waste of time to tell the window clerk what I wanted. She asked me to have a seat in the lobby and Miss Thompson would be right with me.

  I sat and watched the news on a TV with the sound turned down. After a few minutes, a middle-aged woman approached. She wore a business suit and skirt, and her hair was cut short.

  “I’m Noreen Thompson,” she said. “What can I help you with?”

  I stood and extended a hand. “Jesse McDermitt.”

  She shook my hand and invited me to her office.

  I dropped my empty backpack in one of the chairs in front of her desk and sat down in the other one.

  “I received a wire transfer for you,” she said. “But I’ll need to see some identification.”

  After showing her my license, she asked how I’d like the funds.

  “Twenty straps,” I replied.

  She picked up her phone and talked to someone for a moment, then after hanging up, turned to her computer. After a few seconds, the printer started, and she produced a receipt and asked me to look it over.

  She seemed reserved and slightly put off, and I knew why. Bankers encounter all kinds of businesspeople. But a rough-looking customer picking up a ton of cash usually meant only one thing in South Florida. What she thought I was doing with the money or what kind of person she thought I was didn’t matter, and I offered no explanation.

  The receipt seemed in order and I only nodded.

  An armed security guard came in with a metal briefcase. He placed it on her desk and left, closing the door behind him.

  Miss Thompson pulled the bli
nds, then turned and opened the briefcase. Inside were neatly stacked bundles of one hundred-dollar bills. She removed them one by one, counting them out as she placed them on her desk.

  “Please sign here, if everything’s okay,” she said, moving the receipt closer and pointing to an X.

  I signed for the cash, then put it all into my backpack.

  Ten minutes after walking in, I was back out on the street, headed toward the marina, with nearly a quarter million dollars in my backpack. I wasn’t armed, but I also didn’t look like a target.

  Muggers and thieves usually worked in darkness, anyway. And they preferred victims who wouldn’t fight back. Though there were some gray hairs around my temples, at six-three and over two hundred pounds, any would-be thief would think twice. So, I wasn’t worried.

  Still, as was my habit all the time, my head was on a swivel and I walked with a confident stride.

  The sidewalk was busy, but not crowded, as I made my way back to the marina. Most of the people I encountered were office workers, probably going to or from lunch.

  When I got back to the boat, DJ had arrived. They were all sitting around the cockpit coaming, talking.

  “Hey, Jesse,” DJ said, as I stepped down into the boat. “The guys were just filling me in.”

  “Let’s go inside,” I suggested.

  In the galley, I slid behind the counter and put the pack on top of it, unzipping it. I took out one of the bundles, tore off the strap and counted out five stacks with five bills in each.

  “Go out and buy something,” I said. “Anything small—a coffee or something. Pay for it with a hundred-dollar bill.”

  “What gives?” DJ asked.

  Tony stepped forward and picked up a stack of bills. “Hookers don’t make change.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “And the type we’re looking for will be suspicious of a hundred-dollar proposition.”

  “You sound like you’ve done this before,” DJ said, stroking his long goatee.

  “Saw it on TV,” I lied.

  The truth was, I don’t watch a lot of television, and aside from the one on the Revenge, we didn’t have one on the island.