Fallen Hunter (Jesse McDermitt Series)

by Wayne Stinnett

  Gaspar's Revenge is my primary fishing boat. She's a forty-five foot Rampage Convertible, custom built for the drug trade, with twin 1015 horsepower engines. It came up at a Coast Guard auction, just after I retired from the Corps and moved down here, a little over six years ago. So, I bought it and lived aboard at Dockside Marina, in Boot Key Harbor, for a few years, before I bought the island and built the house. She's the perfect boat for charter fishing and with the big engines, she can really move out.

  I turned southwest and followed the twenty fathom line, then turned on the GPS and radar. I punched in the numbers for Oceanside Marina and the GPS showed a line on the chart plotter that would take me to Northwest Passage, just past Key West, then south to the Atlantic side and east to the channel up to the marina. I checked the radar and saw that the only vessel anywhere in front of me, was a tanker twenty miles away. I nudged the throttles a bit more, to thirty knots, and turned on the autopilot. It would keep me on the line the chart plotter showed. Then I climbed down to the cockpit and unlocked the door to the salon.

  Beyond the salon was the crew quarters on the port side and the master stateroom beyond that. I went in and kneeled down at the foot of the bunk. Pushing the covers back, I punched in a code into a key pad. The green light came on and I pulled the lever next to it, raising the bunk. I store a lot of gear under the bunk, but what I was after was in a large chest in the forward part of the storage area. I unlocked it and removed a long fly rod case and two smaller boxes.

  I carried all three to the big settee in the salon and opened the first of the smaller boxes. I opened my sea bag, which I'd already packed my clothes into and reached into the box and pulled out a smaller case. Opening it, I pulled out my nine millimeter Sig Sauer semiautomatic. I jacked the slide and inspected it, even though I knew it was unloaded and clean. I released the slide and put it back in the case. I then took out three magazines and opening the second box, I took out a box of Parabellum cartridges and loaded all three mags. I inserted one of the magazines in the pistol, then placed it and the two other magazines back in the case and put the case in the sea bag.

  The second case in the box held a Beretta nine millimeter and three mags. I did the same thing with it, then put it and the two spare mags back in the case and also stored it in the sea bag.

  I put the empty box on the bench seat and opened the fly rod case. Inside was an M-40A3 sniper rifle, with a mounted U.S. Optics MST-100 scope, designed by John Unertl. It's a modernized version of the M40-A1 rifle that I used very effectively in the Corps. I bought it a few years back and fell in love with it. I inspected the rifle, then loaded the two magazines with Lapua .308 moly coated dovetails, from the box. I placed the rifle and magazines back in the fly rod case, closed the sea bag and strapped the case to it.

  Odds were that I wouldn’t need any of the firearms. However, I always thought it was crazy to go out on the water without protection. Call me paranoid.

  I took the two boxes back to the stateroom and put them back inside the large chest. As an afterthought, I pulled out two other small boxes and carried them to the salon. Opening the first, I removed a small case and opened it. Inside was a Night Spirit XT-3 night vision monocular. I replaced the batteries and put it back in the box, opened the sea bag and stored it inside. The second box contained six grenades, two white smoke, two black smoke and two high explosive. No need to inspect those, I though and stuck the whole box in the sea bag and closed it. I took the other box back and put it in the chest, closed it and lowered the bunk.

  When I got back up to the bridge, I turned off the autopilot and sat back, enjoying the feel of the big boat as it gently slid across the flat water. The tanker was within sight now, moving to the north and well out of my way. I looked at the radar and saw a couple of small craft, heading out of Northwest Passage. Shrimp boats, most likely, judging by the size and speed of the images on the radar.

  I kicked back and just enjoyed the ride, while chasing the sun westward. I glanced down to the foredeck, half expecting to see Pescador down there. When I looked at the hatch to the stateroom, I thought of Alex. I suddenly realized that it was the first time I’d thought about her all day. In fact, since yesterday. Maybe getting back in the game, helping someone, was just what I needed. How long is the grief process, I wondered. We’d been friends for a year, then she left for a year. When she came back, we took the friendship much further and were actually married within a week. I knew it was right, at the time. I lost her on our wedding day. Worst part was, I wasn’t even with her when she passed, being laid up and unconscious in the same hospital, with a hole in my lung. That was nearly ten weeks ago, but it seemed like a lifetime already.

  An hour later, I was tying up in Oceanside Marina. After getting all the lines secure, I connected the water line and shore power and turned on the water heater. A long, hot shower was in order. Then I was going to go over to Key West, for supper and a few beers.

  7

  Saturday Night, Rock and Roll

  After my shower I powered up my laptop to see what I could find out about Santiago. My First Mate, Jimmy Saunders, is some kind of computer whiz and set up a secure satellite internet link on the boat. I ran a few searches for Carlos Santiago, but didn’t find much. He owned a successful chain of laundromats in Miami, which was about it. I took my cell phone out of the cupboard where I’d put it, hell, I don’t even remember how long ago. The battery was dead, so I plugged the charging cord in and turned it on. I had sixteen missed calls, four text messages, and two voicemail messages.

  I checked the text messages first. One was from Deuce. He’s a DHS agent and former Navy SEAL, now working for DHS. The men who killed my wife killed his dad, Russ, also. Two of those men died in Miami, when we found Alex. The one that killed Russ is nothing but a pile of bones on an island about two miles from my house. Deuce’s message was short and to the point, as he usually is. It said, ‘Call me. Mission on the near horizon.’ The other three text messages were from Julie, my friend Rusty Thurman’s daughter. All three said pretty much the same thing. A lawyer was trying to reach me and to call her or Rusty as soon as possible. A lawyer? What’s that about?

  I pushed the button to listen to the voice mails. The first one was from Julie, restating that a lawyer wanted to see me and urging me to come down to Marathon, to visit her and Rusty. The second voicemail caught my attention. It was from the taxi driver, Lawrence. He said that Santiago was in town and staying at the Casablanca, an expensive hotel on Duval Street, just four blocks from Blue Heaven. I smiled. Then I called Lawrence. He picked up on the first ring and I told him who I was and could he pick me up at the marina in half an hour.

  “Ya sar,” he said. “Miss Tina been askin bout yuh,” he added with a chuckle.

  I closed the phone and sat it on the table, then went to the head and shaved. A few minutes later, I was in the stateroom getting dressed. I chose black jeans and a dark blue guayabera shirt. Then I went up to the bridge and looked out over the marina, toward Trent’s house, wondering what these next few days were going to bring. I had tonight and tomorrow to find out all I could about Santiago and his operation, not a lot of time. I debated calling Deuce, but decided against it. If he had a mission coming up, he’d be busy. Sooner or later, if he really needed my help on it, he’d show up here. Ten minutes later, I saw Lawrence’s big, black sedan turn into the parking lot. I climbed down and walked down the dock. He spotted me and pulled the car up to the end, by the gate, and got out.

  “Dat yuh boat dere, Cap’n?” he asked.

  “Yeah, the Rampage at the end,” I replied.

  “Ver nice,” he said.

  “Thanks. You had dinner yet, Lawrence?

  “No sar, was guh get a bite, aftuh I drop yuh off.”

  “Join me at the Blue Heaven. My treat. But, drop the sir. Call me Jesse.”

  “Well, thank yuh, Jesse. I will.”

  We climbed into his taxi and he took the short route to Blue Heaven, on North Roosevelt. I noti
ced he didn’t turn the meter on.

  “Thanks for the message about Santiago. Got any idea why he’s in town?” I asked.

  “Nah, he heah bout ever udder week,” Lawrence said.

  Minutes later, we pulled to the curb about half a block from Blue Heaven. Finding a parking spot anywhere in Key West is problematic. You take whatever’s available. Lawrence and I walked to the archway into the yard and then across the yard to the bar. Tina was on duty and smiled when she saw us. It was still early, but there were already quite a few people at the tables around the yard. Inside, I could hear live acoustical music. Sounded like a solo act, a guy singing about being lucky to live by blue water. It sure sounded good to me.

  “Hi Jesse,” Tina said setting a cold Red Stripe and a Coke in front of us as we sat down at the bar.

  “Hey Tina,” I said. “Thanks. How’s the best bartender and Deputy in Key West doing on this beautiful evening?”

  “Fine, thank you,” she said. Then leaning in closer, she said, “I want to apologize for last night. I had no idea you recently lost your wife. Frankie told me after you left.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I would like to talk to you, later. When you get off work.”

  “That’ll be in a couple of hours. You hungry?”

  “I tink we both be hungry,” Lawrence said.

  We each gave her our orders and she slid the slips through the windows. There was a corner table that was just opening up and I nodded toward it, to Lawrence.

  We walked over and waited while the busboy wiped it down, then took a seat, me against one wall and Lawrence against another. I told him the whole story about why I was here in Key West, the trouble that Trent was having and my plans to try to get him out of it.

  “Yuh tink yuh can do all dat?” he asked.

  “With a little help from friends,” I replied.

  Our food came, brought by one of the waitresses, who was friendly, but professional. Tina was busy with several tourists that had just come into the yard. The singer inside was now singing about a small island. I listened for a minute, as did Lawrence. I liked the easy sound and thought I might go inside later and hear more.

  “Good music, good beer, ahn good friends,” Lawrence said. “I and I got to get bock to di streets, mon.”

  “Be careful, Lawrence. Call me, if you hear anything that might help me and Trent out.”

  “Ya sar, I will,” he said as he stood up and headed toward the gate.

  I drank my beer and watched the people in the yard. The guys at the bar were starting to get a little loud and obnoxious. I got up from the table, leaving a ten under the empty bottle and walked to the corner of the bar. Tina had another cold one sitting there, before I even got on my stool.

  “You and Lawrence seem to be getting along pretty well,” she said.

  “He’s a nice man,” I said. “Reminds me of an old Jamaican man I know in Marathon.”

  “He is,” she said. Then she headed back to the tourist bunch, who seemed to be drinking pretty fast. In fact, at the pace they were tossing down shots it didn’t look like they were going to make it through the night.

  I looked around the yard at the other people, mostly tourist couples from a cruise ship, I guessed. The singer inside said he was going to do a Jimmy Buffett song and when he started into a slow ballad, the crowd inside about went nuts. I caught part of it, where he sang about a Blue Heaven rendezvous. No wonder the crowd ratcheted it up a notch. Just then, I heard a loud smacking sound and turned to see one of the drunks trying to climb across the bar, grabbing for Tina, while holding one hand to the side of his face.

  Without thinking, I launched myself off the stool and pushed through the guy’s buddies, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt. I yanked him backwards and he landed solidly on his butt, in the sand. I felt someone grab my right shoulder and instinctively swiveled my body toward him loosening the guys grip, while I brought my right elbow around and took him in the side of the head. He landed in a heap, next to the first guy.

  I took one step backwards, along the bar, so that all of them were in front of me. Two were still on the ground, but they had three friends arranged in front of me. Two were medium height and a little overweight, but the guy in the middle was at least six one and over two hundred pounds.

  I said, “If you boys help your friends up and walk out now, nobody else will get hurt.”

  The guy that I elbowed wasn’t going to be moving under his own power any time soon, but the one Tina smacked was struggling to get to his feet. He said, “You’re the one gonna get hurt, old man.”

  He was on his feet then, reaching into his pocket. He came up with a Buck knife, flipping it open, dramatically. Guys with knives are usually very over-confident and this guy was about as normal as they come. He lunged with the knife in his right hand. I took his knife hand with my left, brought it high and landed a hard right to his solar plexus. A rush of air escaped his lungs as I took the back of his neck in my right hand, still holding his knife hand high. I stepped back toward the bar and as he came off balance, I shoved down hard on the back of his neck, so his face hit the hard, wooden arm rest on the bar. He collapsed, like a suddenly deflated parachute.

  When faced with multiple opponents, you have to take out any with a weapon first, then go after the biggest. Usually the others will retreat, once the big man is down. I stepped over the two men in the sand and with both arms raised wide, at shoulder level, I said, “Come on, guys. It doesn’t have to be this way.”

  With my arms still stretched out wide, I took a long stride forward and head butted the big guy in the face. I heard a crunching sound, as his nose broke and felt something warm on my forehead. The forehead is a marvel of genetic evolutionary engineering. It’s harder than even the toughest bare knuckle brawler’s fists, to protect the brain. Few brawlers expect a head butt.

  The big man crumpled to his knees, both hands over his ruined face. I turned to the last two men and growled, “Do you guys want to walk out, or be carried out?”

  They were both ass over teakettle, trying to get the big guy up, so they could drag the other two out. A bouncer appeared through the door, just as the five guys got through the gate and several people at the nearby tables started clapping. The bouncer walked toward me in a menacing way, but Tina stepped in front of him and put a hand on his chest.

  “It’s alright, Jared,” she said. “He’s a friend. One of those guys grabbed my boob and I slapped him. Then he tried to come across the bar. Jesse stopped them.”

  Then she turned to me and grabbing a clean bar rag, said, “Oh my God, Jesse. You’re bleeding.”

  As she started wiping the blood from my forehead and face I said, “It’s not my blood. It’s that big dudes.”

  She wiped the rest of the blood from my face, and finding no injury she looked up at me and said, “Thanks, but you didn’t have to do that.”

  “Yeah,” Jared said. “That’s my job.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “You weren’t here.”

  He gave me a hard look, but then softened a little and he said to Tina, “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” she replied. “Jared, meet Captain Jesse McDermitt, from Marathon. Jesse, this is Jared Williams.”

  I extended my hand and the man hesitated, then stepped forward and took it. Young guys, especially the big ones, will try to crush your hand. I guess it’s an alpha male thing. I was expecting it and took his hand firmly, with a deep grip, so that he didn’t have my fingers in his grip. He tried to squeeze, but he wasn’t in an advantageous position.

  After a second he released his grip, then surprised me with a smile and said, “Any friend of Miss La Mons. Thanks, man.”

  He turned and went back inside. I took a closer look at his retreating form. His shoulders were wide enough that he nearly had to turn to get through the door. If he had any training, and he likely did, he’d be a tough one to handle.

  “Jared’s our mother hen,” Tina said. “He watches o
ver the waitresses like we were his sisters.”

  “Big guy,” I said, nodding my head. “I’d sure hate to have to tangle with him.”

  “Thanks, again,” she said. “I gotta get back behind the bar. Why don’t you go listen to Scott play? I’ll be off in a few minutes, then I’ll join you.”

  I nodded and headed through the door Jared had just gone through, the music getting much louder on the other side. It was still early, by Key West standards, but the place was more than half full. I found a seat against the back wall, away from the crowd, and sat down. Jared was standing in the back corner on the other side and noticed me take a seat. He stepped forward as a waitress walked by, took her elbow, and whispered in her ear. She looked my way and then walked over, placing a napkin on the table in front of me.

  “Red Stripe,” I said quite loudly, just as the music stopped.

  We both laughed for a second and she said, “Be right back, Captain.”

  Okay, I thought, either I’m wearing a Captain’s hat, and I’m not, or the communication between workers here was very good. Minutes later, she brought my beer and a glass. Well, I thought, maybe not perfect communication.

  I sat for the next forty-five minutes listening to the singer and watching the crowd of people. I decided the mixture was probably half and half, tourists and locals. When Tina walked over, I stood and pulled out a chair for her.

  “Thank you, Jesse,” she said smiling. She’d changed out of her Blue Heaven tee-shirt and was wearing a short pleated skirt, with a floral design, mostly red and blue, and a dark blue skin tight tank top under a white long-sleeve sheer blouse.

  The waitress came over and smiled at Tina. She ordered a diet Coke and I asked for another Red Stripe. When the waitress left, she said, “So, how long have you been charter fishing?”

  “Not long,” I said. “Started about six years ago, but I don’t take out a lot of charters.”

  “Be hard to make a boat payment if you don’t get paid,” she said.

  “I don’t need much,” I said. “My boats and house are paid for. My only bills are fuel and my cell phone, which I rarely even turn it on.”