Otis changed frequencies, as did the old man in the swing. We heard Tony asking for a spot at the east end of the tee dock. “How long is your vessel, Captain, and how long will you be staying?” a voice I recognized as the Dockmaster asked.
“Fahty-five feet, mon,” Tony replied. “Jes stoppin’ fuh a short time. I be movin’ on befo di sun go dohn.”
“Sunset’s at eight thirty, Captain. The full-day rate would be less expensive than the hourly rate after about four hours. The daily rate is eighty dollars.”
“I and I take dat,” Tony said. “Is di east end of di tee dock available?”
“Absolutely, Captain. Tide is falling, with a one-point-eight-knot current. Please tie off on your port side, into the current. For your own safety, please hold your bow just short of the end of the dock.”
“Rogah dat, mon. Back to sixteen.”
The old man in the swing took a cell phone from his pocket and made a short call. Once he’d hung up, he began to watch the water to the south through his binoculars, barely trying to be inconspicuous about it.
“Your boat’s being run by Jamaicans?” Otis asked.
“He’s a DHS agent,” I replied. “Former Navy SEAL. The two men with him are DEA.”
“DHS, FBI, and DEA?” Otis said. “You guys got a whole Scrabble game going.”
The Revenge came around the curve in the river and slowly came down off plane as Tony piloted her past the mooring field.
“That’s your boat?” Benton asked.
“Yeah,” I replied.
“You mean it belongs to the government, right?”
“No, it’s mine.”
Andrew’s voice came over my earwig. “We’re in the parking lot, splitting up. Sheena and Craig are going up to the deck of the restaurant on the west side of the park. Art and I will be on the back deck of the one on the east side. Sheena’s surveillance team just reported that Cross was leaving his house.”
“He’ll be early,” Deuce said. “Normal drive time of about forty-five minutes. He should be there in less than an hour. Everyone hurry up and wait.”
Though the air conditioner for the little tender’s house was running at full blast, with the window open it was beginning to get pretty warm. Down on the boardwalk, I was relieved to see the old man stand up and take off the light jacket he’d been wearing since sunrise. He didn’t appear to have a gun. At least not visible.
“What do you think, Deuce?” I asked quietly. “The old man doesn’t appear to be armed, and it looks like it’s only the two watching.”
“So why is the one so far away?” Deuce asked, working things out in his head. “There’s no way he can make a shot from that distance, standing on a boat. I doubt even you could.”
“You’re right,” I replied. “What are we missing?”
“My guess is the old man’s there to identify your boat to either the guy on the boat east of you, someone downriver, or both.”
Looking out the door to the south, I could see the sandbar I’d thought would be a good shooting position yesterday. Or at least where it was supposed to be. With the tide falling just past the high, it was completely underwater. Beyond that, down the west riverbank to the hospital, were a number of homes, none of which were within range of even my rifle.
“We have a pretty good view that way,” I said. “Haven’t seen anything out of the ordinary. The only hide I’d considered is underwater now.”
“Another boat down that way?” Deuce asked. “One north and one south, to follow Tony after the exchange?”
“Lots of boats,” I said. “On the water and tied up at docks.”
“So, they’re only looking,” Deuce said. “Planning to follow, maybe.”
“I’d go all in that Cross won’t take any action anywhere near the downtown area,” Sheena said.
“Once he’s under arrest, he’s not going to be able to take any action at all,” I added.
“Agreed,” Andrew said. “There’s probably a third watcher out there. Maybe in one of those homes along the riverbank. But I’d also bet he’d be on a boat, so he can follow Tony.”
I looked up at Otis, who was listening intently to my one-sided conversation. “It looks like deep water on the east side of the sandbar, Otis,” I said. “It’s been years since I was here last. Any idea how deep?”
“Yeah,” he replied, pointing at an opening through the marsh that reconnects to the river another mile to the south. “Through that creek right now, there’s a good ten feet of water. At low tide, only about five.”
“I heard him,” Tony said, over my earwig. “Saw it on the way up. It’s not marked, but the chart plotter shows a minimum of five feet.”
“That’s your out, Tony,” I said. “Andrew can take the old man at the same time they take Cross. You cut through there at wide-open throttle, like you’re running from the scene. It’s completely out of rifle range from the houses on the western shore. Keep the throttles against the stops all the way to Battery Creek. If the third watcher is on a boat, he’ll come after you.”
“Five feet doesn’t leave much margin for error,” Tony said.
“That’s at low tide. You’ll have at least that much under the keel once you’re up on plane.”
We continued to watch the old man and his nephew, occasionally scanning the rest of the area, as Tony and the DEA guys tied up at the dock. Tony went into the small shack at the cross of the tee dock and returned to the Revenge a moment later.
Nobody we saw looked conspicuous but the two Rosses. After half an hour, with little said between us on the comm, the surveillance team reported that Cross’s car had just turned off of Boundary Street, on the north side of town, heading south toward the waterfront on Ribaut Road.
“Time to move into positions, people,” Andrew said. “Sheena, you and Craig first. Go past where the old man is sitting and take the next swing to the east, just past the amphitheater. Tony, I want you guys to leave the boat and move past Sheena ten yards and wait at the seawall. Art and I will sit here until we see Cross enter the park, then we’ll move into the grassy area behind Sheena.”
“Eyes and ears open,” Deuce said. “We’re only going to get one chance at this. Chyrel, have Pat and Chrissy in the forward cabin and ready.”
“Got it, Boss,” Chyrel replied. “I’ve been using the camera on the roof to scan the western riverbank. Very few people in the backyards down there. Little activity on any boats at the docks. Way down where the river bends again, there’s some kind of workboat tied up to a pier, divers working on their equipment. Probably dock builders. Nothing much else.”
“Park in the marina lot,” Nick said. “I might be only a few minutes, or it may take an hour.”
“Sure thing, Mister Cross,” Kyle replied, turning into the large metered parking lot.
Getting out of the car, Nick reached back inside and carefully picked up the briefcase. Once away from the car, he placed it on the sidewalk and took another burner phone out of his pocket. Swimp answered the third throwaway phone, which Nick had given to him, on the first ring.
“I was just about to call you,” Swimp said. “The boat got to the marina early. Been there a while now, but nobody got off. Just now, three black men went ashore and walked right past Marcel. The name of the boat is Gaspar’s Revenge, out of Marathon, Florida.”
“You’re sure it’s them? I just got to the park.”
“Unless there’s other Jamaicans running around Beaufort in a big ole sportfisherman. Seen ’em when they came by Spanish Point. They pulled outta Battery Creek.”
“Battery Creek?” Nick asked, picking up the briefcase and looking out over the marina. “Does the boat look like it’s capable of an ocean crossing? Where is it?”
“Tied up at the east end of the tee,” Swimp said. “Definitely big enough to make it from the Bahamas. Big twin diesels. Maybe they even got here yesterday and anchored up there by the commercial docks.”
“Okay, I’m going down to the boardwalk.�
�� After a second’s hesitation, he added, “Now, don’t take this the wrong way, Swimp. But I’ve arranged a backup plan to stop the boat.”
“What kinda backup?”
“I have a bomb in the briefcase, wired to a cell phone.”
“The same briefcase that the money’s in?” Swimp asked, obviously annoyed.
“Don’t worry,” Nick replied. “If we have to use it, I’ll still pay you the hundred grand. That’s how important this is. I don’t give a fuck about the niggers’ bodies, but those two women have to disappear forever. Like they were never there. Today!”
“What happens if you don’t have a phone signal?” Swimp asked. “It’s been spotty in town lately.”
“Get a piece of paper,” Nick instructed. “I’ll give you the number.” Nick waited a moment, and when Swimp was ready, he gave him the phone number to the throwaway phone.
“I won’t blow it until the boat gets past Spanish Point,” Nick said. “And only if I know he got past you. I’ll be up on one of the restaurant decks after I give him the money. If the bomb doesn’t go off before the boat reaches Broad River, you blow it and collect the bodies of the two white women.”
“Got it,” Swimp said.
Nick ended the call and started walking toward the marina’s dock entrance. From there, he could see the big fishing boat tied off at the end of the east-west dock. Not seeing anyone aboard, he continued around the dogleg in the boardwalk. Pausing at the beginning of the long, straight seawall, he watched the boat for a minute. Nobody was on deck, but he was certain Pat and Chrissy were aboard.
Scanning the long boardwalk, Nick saw Swimp’s uncle sitting in a swing about halfway to the end. Beyond him, a couple sat on another swing, deeply engrossed in a very animated conversation. Behind the couple, in the grassy area east of the amphitheater, two men were throwing a Frisbee back and forth.
Then Nick saw Whyte. He was a good thirty feet past the couple, standing by the large chains and bollards of the seawall. He had two men with him, both wearing those long stringy braids the islanders were known for. Aside from that, the park was empty toward that end.
Squaring his shoulders, Nick walked toward the three black men. Aside from Swimp’s uncle and the couple he could now see were arguing about something, the Jamaicans were alone on the boardwalk. The men throwing Frisbee in the grassy area were too far away to hear anything. The couple seemed to be so engrossed in their argument, Nick didn’t think they’d notice anything else, even if he set the bomb off.
Whyte saw Nick approaching. He turned his head and said something to his men, then stepped away from them, his hands clasped in front of him. Nick would have recognized him by his smug attitude, even if the two dreadlocked henchmen weren’t right there with him.
As Nick approached the man, Marcel Ross looked right at him, then quickly looked away. Nick ignored the old pervert and continued walking. He picked up a few words of the couple’s conversation. Though they were trying to speak softly, he could tell they were arguing over a visit from her mother. The woman was very pissed about the situation, and had there been more people around, she would likely be causing quite a scene. Whyte stood there, looking straight at him, ignoring the couple on the swing.
Nick ignored them as well and continued toward Whyte. He stopped five feet away from the man and nodded his head. “Mister Whyte? I was expecting you to be alone.”
“Yuh double-cross I once, mon,” Whyte said, clearly still irritated about what had happened on Cat Island. “If yuh don’t ha’ di money right now, I and I will shoot yuh peckuh off and toss yuh in di watah.”
“I have the money,” Nick said. “And I didn’t double-cross you. The government sent those men down to Cat Island. Not me.”
“Lemme see di money.”
“Right here in the open?” Nick said.
“Out in di open is di best. Got heah a while ago, so I be sure yuh don’t have no udduh mons heah.”
“How do I know the two are not already dead and you’re just shaking me down for more money?”
“Use yuh own eyes, mon,” Whyte said, waving a hand toward the big fishing boat. “Dere’s a camera on di roof, anudduh of I mons be watching you from di boat.”
Nick looked across the water to where the boat was tied up, less than a hundred yards away. Suddenly, someone stood up through a forward deck hatch, exposing their face and shoulders. It was Chrissy, no doubt about it. She disappeared and a moment later, Pat stood up and looked around, before disappearing just as quickly.
“This is the last of it,” Nick said, carefully lifting the briefcase and opening it before turning it toward Whyte. “You take this, and I don’t ever want to see you or hear from you again. You were the one who did the double cross by not finishing the job the first time.”
Whyte smiled and took two slow steps toward Nick. “Is jest business, mon.” He looked into the briefcase and visually counted the stacks of hundred-dollar bills. Reaching in, he thumbed one at random, confirming that it was all there. “We both know di job was more expensive dan yuh paid. Yuh must really want dem womens gone. None of I business why.”
“No, it’s not,” Nick replied. “Just do it this time.”
Whyte slowly closed the lid of the briefcase until it snapped shut, then took it from Nick’s hands. An evil grin spread across his features. “I and I can make it real slow, if yuh want, mon. Or, jest a fahty-five to di heads and toss dem in di ocean.”
Nick looked slowly around. “I don’t give a rat’s ass how you do it. Just kill them both and make sure they stay dead this time.”
Suddenly, the Frisbee that the men on the grass were throwing landed on the boardwalk behind Whyte. He looked and saw one of the men trotting toward it.
Whyte clutched the case under one arm and started to run past Nick, his two men running closely behind him, shouldering Nick out of the way. Nick turned quickly after them, not understanding what was happening. He felt a jarring crunch in his lower back and he was suddenly falling forward, as the couple on the swing rose and pulled guns out.
As Nick hit the ground, he saw Whyte and his two men run past Marcel, heading toward the main pier. The man who had been arguing with the woman was giving chase. He suddenly veered and snatched Marcel from the swing and flung him to the ground hard.
Nick was in pain. Someone seemed to have a knee in the middle of his back, and hands grabbed at his wrists, pulling them back excruciatingly hard. The woman stood over him, pointing a gun at his head.
“There’s the words,” Deuce said over my earwig. “Take him down now!”
I watched as Art expertly tossed the Frisbee onto the boardwalk just behind Tony and the DEA guys. Andrew trotted casually after it. Suddenly, Tony started running, the DEA guys right on his heels. Cross spun around and Andrew went from a trot to a sprint.
Andrew’s not a small man. A little shorter than me, but his chest resembles a beer keg. He lowered a broad shoulder, planting it squarely in Cross’s lower back, tackling him from behind. I winced as the man went down, the hit was that hard.
It was over in seconds. Art joined Sheena as Craig feigned sprinting after Tony, then grabbed Marcel Ross and threw him to the ground.
Art quickly left Andrew and Sheena, who already had flex cuffs on Cross, and sprinted after Tony. When Tony reached the gate, he handed the briefcase to Keenan as he and Dannell rushed past him. Then Tony slammed the gate closed and sprinted down the floating pier toward the Revenge.
“Two tangoes in custody,” I heard Andrew report.
Art began yelling excitedly, trapped outside the gate, as Tony reached the Revenge and climbed quickly to the bridge. He started the engines as Keenan and Dannell made fast work of the dock lines. The two men had barely pushed the Revenge away from the dock when Tony mashed the throttles.
The roar of the big super-charged engines split the relative quiet of the sleepy little waterfront town. The Revenge turned downriver, pushing two huge bulges of water from under the stern. In seconds, s
he was up on the step even before reaching the middle of the river, accelerating away.
“The guy on the boat is getting ready to move,” Deuce said. “And he’s on his cell phone to someone.”
Standing quickly, I looked to the east. Damien Ross was pulling his anchor. “Otis, what’s the horizontal clearance on the north side and the height to the top of the superstructure?”
Confused about what I was asking, he replied, “You’re nuts! It’s nearly sixty feet to the top! You’ll kill yourself.”
“I’m not planning to jump,” I replied, estimating the distance to the edge of where the bridge opened at about eighty to ninety feet. “You have any rope?”
Otis went to a locker and opened it, realizing what I wanted to do. “I still think you’re nuts, but if you wanna play Tarzan, this is a hundred feet long. It’ll just reach.”
I took the coil of rope from Otis. “Wait till I signal you. Then open the bridge.”
I headed out the door, looping the coil of heavy rope over my shoulder. On the catwalk that surrounded the little house, I looked up at the steel beams and girders that framed the swinging span of the bridge, then down at the roadway where the bridge opened.
This is fucking nuts, I told myself as I started to climb.
The top of the structure wasn’t very high above the catwalk, and I reached the peak easily. I tied off one end of the rope and tossed the rest out into the northern channel, hoping Ross would at least obey that rule and stay in the right channel.
When I climbed back down to the catwalk, I shouted to Otis, “Stop the traffic, but don’t open the bridge until I tell you!”
A warning bell began ringing, and the lights started flashing at either end of the swing bridge, bringing traffic to a stop from both directions. I went down the steps three at a time, swinging on the handrails. When I reached the bottom, I sprinted to the middle of the swing bridge. Taking the rope, where it hung from the top of the bridge, I began moving toward the north end of the span, where downtown Beaufort lay, moving the rope around each beam and cable I came to.
Fallen Angel: A Jesse McDermitt Novel (Caribbean Adventure Series Book 9) Page 18
