Rising Tide

by Wayne Stinnett

  “How’s the fishing, you old dog soldier?” Rusty asked.

  Dog soldier?

  That was a slang term for an Army infantryman. Rusty and I had served in the Corps together, during my first tour. We’d arrived at Parris Island for boot camp on the same bus. It sounded like he had the phone on speaker.

  I was instantly on alert.

  “Just a typical day,” I said, straining my ear for anything out of the ordinary. “How are things there?”

  “A usual day at the old Roadhouse,” he replied. “Jimmy said Savannah was with you on the boat. Is she available?”

  Surely Jimmy had told Rusty that he’d called Savannah for a ride. Something was wrong. And Old Roadhouse? I thought.

  One of Rusty’s favorite movies was called Roadhouse, with Patrick Swayze and Sam Elliot as bar bouncers. The bar in the movie, Double Deuce, was a wild and raucous place where fights happened every night and the band played behind a chain link fence. Swayze and Elliot were brought in to tame it. But the old Roadhouse was a dangerous place.

  “Yeah,” I said, getting Tank’s attention with my hand. “But she can’t come to the phone.”

  Tank was staring, ready. I gave him two signals—move up and hostage. He went into action instantly, first going to Alberto and whispering in his ear, then reeling in both their lines and stowing the gear.

  “Down in the galley making lunch?” Rusty asked.

  He also knew we were fishing from my skiff. Someone was listening who thought we were on the Revenge.

  “No,” I replied. “She’s in the cabin. She got seasick on the way out here to the Gulf Stream.”

  “That’s too bad,” he said. “Happens a lot with her, though. When will you be back to the marina?”

  Two more clues. Savannah’s lived aboard for two decades and never gets seasick, and we keep the Revenge up at our island. I wanted desperately to know what was going on.

  “We should be back there in a couple of hours,” I said.

  I suddenly realized that Savannah was on her way there now. And probably only fifteen minutes away. I stifled a gasp.

  “Good,” Rusty said. “We’ll see you when you get here.”

  I looked down at my phone and the call had ended.

  “What’s going on?” Tank asked.

  Alberto was up on the forward casting deck.

  “Something’s not right at the Anchor,” I whispered, and started the outboard. “I think someone is there looking for me and Savannah and holding a gun or something on Rusty.”

  “Then let’s go,” Tank said.

  “Both of you, move back here.”

  We sandwiched Alberto between us, and I hit the throttle, pointing the bow toward the southwest and Vaca Cut.

  “I’ll call Chyrel,” Tank yelled. “Andrew and Tony were coming down to help move some stuff for her. Maybe they got there early.”

  He bent behind the small console to block the wind noise.

  “What’s wrong?” Alberto said, his voice sounding on the verge of panic.

  “We don’t know yet,” I replied. “We’re going to the Rusty Anchor to find out.”

  “She said they’re in Layton,” Tank shouted, over the engine and wind noise. “She’s diverting them to the Anchor and will follow them as backup. Didn’t Savannah say she was headed there? You should call her.”

  I let Tank reach over and take the wheel as I leaned behind the low console. Savannah’s phone rang four times and went to voicemail.

  “Don’t go to the Anchor!” I shouted into the phone. “Something’s going on there.”

  I ended the call and tried again but got her voicemail once more.

  I put the phone back in my pocket and took the wheel, pushing on the throttle, though it was wide open.

  “Should I try to call the police?” Tank asked.

  “They won’t get there for twenty minutes,” I replied. “Are you carrying?”

  He nodded and I nodded back. I knew Tony and Andrew would also be armed, and probably Chyrel, as well. It was fifty/fifty whether Savannah was, but she also had Finn and Woden with her.

  Slowing the boat a little as we neared the channel for the cut, I felt my phone vibrate and pulled it out. It was Tony.

  “Where are you?” I asked, as we entered the channel.

  “Just hit the four-lane,” Tony said. We should be there in less than five minutes. Chyrel is behind us. What do you want us to do?”

  “Head in normally,” I said. “We’re close, just entering Vaca Cut. We’ll come in like a couple of fishermen just returning. Whatever’s going on, they think we’re two hours out.”

  We passed under the bridge and I slowed to a normal speed as we came out into Vaca Key Bight. I didn’t want to attract any attention if anyone was watching. I just hoped we’d get there before Savannah. I had no idea what was going on, but I sure didn’t want her in the middle of it.

  We followed the channel until we reached Marker 7, then I turned right, staying just beyond the stick farm—a bunch of different colored wood and plastic poles marking the approaches to numerous private channels.

  I knew the water was at least three feet deep and every fiber of my being urged me to mash the throttle. I tried Savannah’s phone again. This time it went straight to her voicemail without ringing.

  For a moment, my mind flashed back to Alex, and how she’d been abducted from Boot Key Harbor and murdered on our wedding night. I bumped up the speed just a little.

  Still a mile from the entrance to Rusty’s canal, I spotted the bow spray of a boat rounding East Sister Rock, off to the southwest. As we got closer, I recognized the familiar lines of my old Grady-White and angled to intercept.

  As we neared one another, I pulled back on the throttle as Savannah dropped down off plane.

  “What are you doing here?” she yelled across the thirty feet of water between us.

  Finn and Woden stood next to her with their front paws on the gunwale. Finn barked a greeting.

  “Something’s wrong at the Anchor,” I replied, keeping my voice low; sound travels well over water. “I’ve been trying to call you. Come over and take Alberto.”

  She pulled her cell out of her hip pocket. “My phone died. What’s going on?”

  We both shifted to neutral and I reached over and grabbed the midship cleat on the Grady.

  “I’m not sure. But I think there’s trouble.”

  I stood and, still holding the cleat with one hand, scooped Alberto up and lifted him over the Grady’s higher gunwale. “Y’all stay out here until I tell you to come in. Come, Finn! Woden, bewachen!”

  Finn leapt over the gunwale and Woden stepped down, turning sideways to Savannah and Alberto in a protective manner.

  Without waiting for an answer, I put the Maverick in gear and headed into the canal.

  Tank jumped slightly, then pulled his phone out of his pocket. “It’s Tony,” he said, stabbing the phone’s screen with his finger and putting it to his ear. “We’re just entering the canal.”

  He listened for a moment then said, “Good. Walk out to Jesse’s sailboat. We’ll meet you there.”

  He ended the call and pointed toward Salty Dog. “Pull up here. I have an idea.”

  We tied up quickly and I saw Tony and Andrew headed toward us on the dock.

  “Grab the four biggest fish,” Tank said, opening the fish box.

  I immediately realized what he had in mind and tossed his snapper and the big cobia up onto the forward casting deck, just as Tony and Andrew reached us.

  “Where’s Chyrel?” Tank asked.

  “Blocking the driveway,” replied Andrew. “What’s the plan?”

  “Grab a fish and head toward Rufus’s kitchen,” I replied. “Use the fish to conceal your weapon.”

  Removing my Sig Sauer 9mm from its holster at my back, I opened the cobia’s mouth and looked inside. It was definitely wide enough. I thrust the Sig into the wide mouth and gripped the lower jaw with my thumb. It would take two hands, but as
soon as I let go of the fish, my weapon would be up and ready.

  The others did the same thing with the snapper and two big groupers, then we headed toward the back door.

  “Finn, heel!”

  He fell in beside me as we strode toward the deck. He must have sensed the urgency in my voice; his ears were up, and on full alert.

  As we neared the back deck, I knew something was definitely amiss. Rufus was nowhere to be seen and he rarely left his little kitchen area, preferring the outdoors to the air conditioned interior.

  The windows were streaked with rivulets of condensation; the AC was cranked up high.

  A quick glance at the parking lot and the dock space where the guides kept their boats told me that there couldn’t be more than a handful of people inside. Most of the boats were gone.

  One vehicle in the lot stuck out like a sore thumb amid the pickups and Keys cars. It was parked away from the others, backed into a spot facing the building—a white Cadillac Escalade.

  “Spread out a little when we get on the deck,” I said quietly. “Tony, you open the door and lean in. Yell for Rusty and tell him we have some fish for Rufus.”

  The four of us moved up the steps and just as Tony reached for the door, it opened.

  A Hispanic man stepped out. “What you want?”

  “Dropping some fish off for Rufus,” Tony replied, lifting a big grouper with both hands. “Who are you?”

  I could hear the low rumble starting deep in Finn’s chest. Dogs are a great judge of character and Finn could somehow sense that this man wasn’t to be trusted.

  Tank stepped past me. “Get outta my way, boy. This damned snapper’s heavy.”

  The man in front of me pulled up his shirt and reached for a gun he had stuck in his waist band.

  Already wary, Finn lunged instantly, sinking his teeth into the man’s wrist in a vice-like bite as the man howled in pain.

  We weren’t visible from inside. With the AC cranking, it was unlikely that they’d heard the man scream.

  “Off, Finn!” I whisper-shouted, dropping the cobia and covering the man with my Sig. “Don’t move a muscle.”

  Finn let go but stood close to the man, just in case he didn’t comply with my order.

  I quickly rolled him onto his belly and put my knee on the middle of his back as I removed my web belt from my cargo shorts. I secured his hands behind his back, latching the buckle tightly against his wrists, as Tony tied his shoelaces together so he couldn’t run.

  Tank was still at the door, ready to go. Then, without a word or signal, he turned the knob and went inside.

  The rest of us charged in after Tank, just as the first gunshots rang out.

  I wasn’t worried about the man Finn was watching; his innate sense of good and bad had been right. The man’s gun hand would be useless for a while and the more he pulled against that belt buckle, the tighter the little teeth dug into the webbing. He was out of the picture.

  Rusty and Sid were in front of the bar, along with Jimmy, Naomi, Rufus, and a guide by the name of Wilson. Two more Hispanic men had guns trained on my friends and a third pointed a smoking barrel to my left. The man with the smoking gun had a red stain slowly spreading down his shoulder.

  Things seemed to move in slow-motion, as often happens in a terrifying situation. A part of my mind took all these things in and processed the information in a micro-second. The two gunmen wheeled to engage us, and the third man grabbed Naomi around the waist.

  There was a fast succession of gunshots and two of the men went down. The man Tank had obviously shot held Naomi in front of him, shielding his body.

  “Drop the guns,” he ordered. “I will kill this puta.”

  Without thinking or hesitating, I squeezed the trigger, just as another gun went off behind me. The man’s head snapped back, and he fell to the ground, leaving Naomi unharmed.

  “Mine hit the ground first,” Tony said to Andrew, moving toward the two downed gunmen.

  The mustachioed former Coastguardsman grinned. “Mine was taller.”

  Seeing my and Tank’s bullet holes in the third guy’s forehead told me he didn’t need to be checked out. I turned toward Tank.

  He lay on the floor, blood soaking his shirt at his abdomen.

  “Tank!” I rushed to his side and knelt next to him.

  Rusty came around the bar with a trauma kit in his hand, opening it as Tony knelt beside me.

  Tony pulled a package of QuikClot from the kit and tore it open. Without a pause, he ripped open Tank’s shirt, sending buttons flying, then poured the granulated contents into a bullet wound in Tank’s torso.

  I ripped open a large gauze bandage and handed it to Tony, then pulled another out of the white box and peeled the backing off.

  Tony used the first pad to wipe the area around the wound, then I covered it with a self-adhesive bandage.

  “Roll him,” Tony ordered.

  Tank grunted when we did. The exit wound was worse, as was usually the case. A bullet goes in small, but rapidly mushrooms as it passes through the soft tissue.

  Tony poured another package into the wound, stopping the blood flow almost immediately. It took three gauze pads to clean the exit wound before I could put the bandage on. We rolled Tank onto his back once more.

  Sid produced a pillow and put it under his head. “An ambulance is on the way.”

  I leaned into Tank’s field of vision. “Stay with me, Tank. We have a medevac on the way.”

  “Fifty-one years and I never got shot,” he croaked. “Vietnam, Lebanon, Somalia…” He coughed hoarsely. “Only to get taken out by a gang punk. He got the first shot off and I missed my first one.” He coughed again. “But I didn’t miss the second one. Did you get them all, Gunny?”

  “We got ’em, Master Guns.”

  He looked me in the eye and nodded. “Any friendlies hurt?”

  “Zero casualties,” I replied.

  I could hear the wail of a siren. The hospital was less than a mile away.

  Suddenly, the front door opened and Chyrel came rushing in. She saw Tank on the floor and raced to his side. “I heard the shots. What happened?”

  “I got shot,” Tank replied, grinning at her. “Ain’t that kind of obvious?”

  The back door opened, and Savannah and Alberto hurried in. “I know you said wait, but I saw Chyrel come in and—” Her hand flew to her chest when she saw Tank on the floor.

  He started coughing again, harder this time, and Chyrel took hold of his hand. “Hang in there, Owen,” she whispered. “Help’s on the way.”

  Tank’s head rolled to the side, eyes closed, and he was still.

  The flight from Marathon to Bimini took a little over an hour from takeoff to landing. Island Hopper would be kept in one of Armstrong’s new hangars at North Bimini Airport, minutes from his shipyard on the west side of the island.

  “There she is,” I said, pointing at Ambrosia tied up at the new dock, next to Jack Armstrong’s shipbuilding and repair facility.

  “Madre Dios,” Alberto sighed, sitting up in his seat and looking over the dash panel. “She’s really big.”

  Savannah had chosen to ride in back with Finn and Woden, so Alberto could enjoy the ride in the co-pilot’s seat.

  I brought the Hopper down to five hundred feet as we flew past and waggled the wings at several crew members looking up at us. I easily picked Nils Hansen out of the bunch. His white hair stood out among the others.

  Switching to the airport’s Unicom frequency, I announced my intention as we swung around and lined up with the runway. Once on the ground, I taxied toward the apron in front of three new hangars.

  A white Ford F250 with the Armstrong logo on the front doors pulled out from beside one of them and stopped next to my wingtip. Jack Armstrong himself climbed out of the passenger side as I shut down the big radial engine and went through my post-flight. Alberto enjoyed that part, repeating each check as I secured the bird.

  Finally, we climbed out and Jack came t
oward us, extending his hand. “Good to see you again, Jesse.”

  “Good to see you, too, Jack,” I replied, shaking his hand.

  He turned to Savannah and gave her a light hug, then knelt on one knee in front of Alberto. “You must be Ambrosia’s new deckhand.”

  Alberto looked up at Savannah, then me.

  “Didn’t I say work was going to be fun?” I asked.

  Jack stood and looked me in the eye. “How’s your friend?”

  It never ceased to amaze me how much information the man had at his disposal. The shooting at the Rusty Anchor had only been three days ago, and news of it was kept to a minimum.

  “He lost a lot of blood,” I said. “But he survived the gunshot. It may have shortened the time he has left, though. Stage 4 cancer.”

  “That’s too bad,” Jack said. Then he turned to Savannah. “I came out here personally to deliver a fax the communications officer received just thirty minutes ago.”

  He reached into his jacket pocket, took out a sheet of paper folded in thirds, and handed it to her.

  Savannah unfolded it and started to read. Her hand went to her mouth and her eyes moistened.

  Jack smiled at me.

  “It’s from the Department of Children and Families,” she said, looking up at me. “We’ve been approved.”

  “What?” I asked, taking it from her. “I thought it would take weeks.”

  “I made a few calls,” Jack admitted. “Hope you don’t mind.”

  Savannah flung her arms around him and hugged him tightly. “Oh, thank you!”

  When she released him, I took his elbow and stepped away from Alberto’s ears. “I’m guessing you had something to do with the lack of fallout from what happened at the Rusty Anchor?”

  “I did,” he replied, simply. He winked. “But try not to make a habit of it.”

  I grinned at him, then knelt and showed the paper to Alberto. “Know what this means, little man?”

  He looked at it. I knew he could read, but legal documents were probably too complicated for him. He shook his head.

  “What this means,” I began, “is that Savannah and I can now adopt you and you can live with us forever.”

  He looked up at me, then to Savannah. She knelt beside him and hugged him.