Wood's Reach: Action & Sea Adventure in the Florida Keys (Mac Travis Adventures Book 6)

by Steven Becker

  Hawk emerged from the cabin, his shadow visible on the deck before his body. Although Mac would rather have smashed his head in, he waited patiently for him to start across the deck. The minute Hawk moved to the rail to check the boom, Mac slid around the opened door and quietly closed it. Turning the lock, he inhaled deeply and started searching the cabin.

  He found her bound and gagged in the forward stateroom locker, but before he could untie her, he heard Hawk struggling with the cabin door. She was scared and trying to yell through the gag. Mac put a finger to his mouth to try and quiet her. He heard voices outside and moved to the cabin door. Hawk was outside on his cell phone, screaming at someone. Time was running out, and he went back to her, not concerned about noise now. Fumbling with the knots on her ties, he finally released her, but it had taken longer than he wanted. Next, he pulled the tape from around her mouth, releasing the wadded washcloth they had used to gag her.

  “What the hell is wrong with these people?” she started.

  “Where’s Tru?” Mac asked.

  “Back at the house. Bastards locked him up.”

  “Okay. We’ll get him, but first we need to get out of here. I’m pretty sure Hawk’s called his muscle back,” Mac said, looking around the cabin for another exit besides the door leading to the deck. He saw the hatch above and jumped on the bed. It would be a tight fit, but he thought they could make it.

  “Are you ready? Follow me, and don’t ask questions.” Hoping she could follow orders, he cranked the lever on the hatch and watched it rise. Seeing that it was going to be too small, he pulled the screen out, reached through the opening, and yanked the plastic cover off its hinges.

  Scraping his sides against the frame, he hauled himself through the opening and paused to see if Hawk had heard him. From the corner of his eye, he saw the headlights of a car turn into the driveway, and he knew it didn’t matter.

  “Hurry. They’re on the bow, getting away,” Hawk yelled at the men running toward the boat.

  “Come on.” Mac reached down through the hole and pulled Pamela onto the deck. Without a word, he moved forward to the bow and jumped across to the T-top of the center-console. The fiberglass T-top roof wobbled under his weight, but he ignored it and turned back to help her. She was already in midair. Landing in a crouch, she followed him down the rungs of the stainless tubing.

  The engine started, and he risked a look up at the bow of Hawk’s ship. There were two men standing above him. From this angle, they were shielded by the flare of the bow, but the second he moved away from the dock, they would be exposed. With no choice, he went back to the helm and pulled the throttle back into reverse. Wincing as the engine cowling slammed into the dock, he pushed the handles down. The boat moved forward while he cut the wheel hard to the left, smashing the cowling against the other piling. Gunshots were fired, and he ducked behind the console, pulling the woman with him.

  He was moving away from Hawk’s trawler now, staying close to the boats docked on his port side, using them for cover as he followed the slight bend in the canal. They were almost clear when he heard the sound of an outboard coming toward them. By the volume alone, he could tell it was moving faster than the posted no-wake speed limit. Thinking back, he realized he had only seen Wallace on the boat with Hawk. Ironhead must be in another boat, trying to trap them. Just as he thought it, a cabin cruiser turned the corner, and he could see the unique shape of Ironhead’s torso at the helm, silhouetted in the moonlight.

  The boat was bigger than the center-console, and Mac tried to judge its height off the water. It would be close, but it just might work if they could get past Hawk without getting shot. He pushed down on the throttles and slammed the wheel to the right, hoping the hull could make the hundred-and-eighty-degree turn without smashing another boat. A large sportfisher encroached into the canal, forcing him to waste precious time reversing and then straightening the boat for a better angle before proceeding.

  “Hold on. This is going to be tight,” he said. Looking at her tall figure, he added, “And you better duck.” Without enough room to accelerate to full speed, he did what he could and slammed the throttle to its stops. The motor revved, and the boat jerked forward. Gunshots hit around him, but he ignored them, pushing the “bow down” buttons on the trim tab controls as hard as he could and hoping the boat would go on plane before it hit.

  There was a loud smash as they cleared the bridge. He didn’t dare look back, but he knew at a minimum the electronics on the roof were gone. Disregarding the speed limit, he continued past the low bridge and turned right into another canal, hoping Ironhead would take the bait. There was only one exit from the maze of canals, and if this didn’t work, they could easily be trapped.

  The reassuring sound of metal on concrete carried over the night air.

  Chapter Nine

  Mac pulled back on the throttle, knowing the chase was over before it started. He looked up and saw stars shining where the T-top once would have shielded them. The stainless steel tubing remained, but the fiberglass cover and the antennae for all the electronics were gone. The boat would surely be noticed if he didn’t get out of here, but he needed to find Trufante first.

  “It’s only rock ’n’ roll, Mac Travis.” Pamela grinned at him. “But I like it.”

  She was bopping to another song in her head, and now he saw what connected her and Trufante—the need for trouble. “You know where that house of yours is from the water?”

  “Barely from the street,” she said. “Had to use the maps app on my phone to find it. Tru thought he knew where it was, but he—”

  Mac cut her off. “Pull it up,” he ordered.

  “You can’t always get what you want. But if you try sometime—you get what you need,” she continued on her Rolling Stones tribute, handing him the phone.

  Mac looked at the dark screen and handed it back to her. “Can you help out here?”

  She took it back and swiped her finger across the bottom, and the screen lit up. After she pressed several buttons, the map appeared. “It’s here.”

  He glanced over. “Can you zoom out so I can see the canals?”

  She manipulated the screen until he saw a blue dot in the large turning basin they had just entered. The red dot, indicating the location of the house, was in one of the side canals not far from where they were.

  “Got it,” he said. “Keep an eye out for anything you recognize.” He turned right into another unmarked canal.

  She was humming “Can’t Find My Way Home” now.

  The houses and boats passed by as they navigated the waterway. Glancing down at the phone sitting between them on the leaning post, he watched the dots converge until they were right on top of each other. “Anything look familiar?”

  “That one. See? That’s Tru’s bike behind those bushes,” she said, pointing to a dark house.

  Mac turned to port and coasted to a stop along the dock. He looked at her, about to ask for help with the lines, when he saw the fear in her eyes. “Hey. It’s all right. Tru always lands on his feet,” he said, moving forward to tie off the boat before the current could get a hold of it.

  “It’s all my fault. He warned me about buying the house from the auction.”

  He turned to comfort her but saw a pair of headlights turn onto the street. “We gotta get Tru first. Then we’ll talk,” he tried to reassure her. The lights went past the house, and he shut off the engine. “Come on.”

  He hopped onto the dock and extended a hand for her. She looked scared, but she took his hand, her long legs making easy work of the transition. They climbed the back stairs to the house and found the patio door open. He jumped when she turned on the flashlight on the phone and went ahead of him to the bedroom.

  “He’s under the bed.”

  Mac peered underneath, expecting to find him bound there, but it was empty.

  “No. We have to move it. There’s a compartment in the floor.”

  Together they moved the bed, and she showed him w
here they had taken the carpet up. A minute later, they were staring at the outline of the plywood cover. “I’ll be right back. Gotta find a screwdriver.”

  As he walked away, he heard her singing something, probably to Trufante. The woman was an enigma, but he would expect nothing less from Trufante. For now, all he could do was get the Cajun out of here and find somewhere safe to figure things out. Sending them to TJ’s now, instead of waiting until the morning for them to come down, might be the best course of action. He suspected that Hawk might take some time to lick his wounds, but he’d be back.

  Bounding down the steps two at time, he reached the patio and glanced toward the quiet street, wondering where the car had gone. Curious, he risked a glance around the concrete pilings supporting the house and saw it parked down the block. There were no lights on, but he thought he saw the outline of a head in the driver’s seat.

  Thinking he’d deal with him after Trufante was free, he went to the boat and retrieved the toolbox. Back upstairs, he returned to the bedroom and looked at Pamela’s face in the glow of the phone, rocking softly to some tune in her head. Ignoring her, he set the plastic box beside the panel, opened it, and removed a screwdriver. Using all his force against the handle to prevent the tips from stripping, he extracted the screws one by one and finally lifted the lid.

  Trufante was curled up in a ball, his frame barely fitting inside the cache. A lifeless eye looked up at Mac, who exhaled sharply when he realized his friend was still alive. Pamela appeared next to him, and together they lifted him out of the hole. “You good?”

  “Damn headache is all—champagne will do that to ya every time,” he said, shaking his head.

  “Come on,” Mac said. He noticed something between one of the joists and the plywood below it. “Can you shine the light in there?” he asked Pamela.

  She was on her knees, fussing over Trufante, who sat on the floor with his feet in the compartment. Together they examined the interior of the space. The light hit something. At first, Mac thought it was a discarded screw or nail left over from the construction, but when he moved closer, he realized it was a coin. Taking a flathead screwdriver from the box, he carefully dug it out of the tight space it was lodged in and held it up for them to see.

  “Hot damn,” Trufante said. “They pulled a bunch of whatever that is out of there.”

  Mac almost told them he had seen where it was now stored, but thought better of it. Though he trusted the Cajun, this information was better held close. “I’ll check it out later. We better get out of here.”

  They left the house and were standing together on the back patio when Mac remembered the car parked out front. “Follow me.” He led them downstairs and to the dock, trying to remain in plain view of the street. Talking loudly, he told them they could stay out at Wood’s tonight and made a show of helping them into the boat. The engine fired, and he leaned over to Trufante.

  “Take this,” he said, reaching into his pocket for the thumb drive, and after pausing for a second, he grasped the coin too. He handed them both to Trufante. “Stay low in the stern. When I back out, and the mangroves block the view from the street, you two hop off. I think one of his henchmen is waiting in a car a few houses down. If he thinks we’re all together on the boat, my guess is he’ll go and report back to Hawk. Once he’s gone, take the bike and head to Key Largo. Alicia’s expecting you tomorrow, but I think it’s better to get you two out of town tonight.”

  Trufante nodded. “What about you?” he asked and leaned over to tell Pamela the plan. She nodded her head and moved to sit on the transom.

  “Don’t worry about me,” Mac said softly, then called out loudly for Tru to get the lines.

  Trufante went to the bow and released the forward line, then went aft to the transom where he untied the stern line. “Okay,” he called over the noise of the engine.

  Mac looked back at them, and they nodded they were ready. Slowly he reversed, cutting the wheel to swing the bow away from the dock as if he were merely pulling away, but he let it go a few seconds too long, allowing the stern to fall back into the mangroves. The boat shifted when the couple jumped to the seawall, and he calmly pushed the throttle forward and started moving away from the dock.

  ***

  Hawk sat on the deck of his trawler watching the headlights from the police car recede from the driveway. What had started as a contentious discussion with the deputies quickly became friendly after Hawk placed a call to the sheriff’s private line. The deputies had been warned to back off the antiquities dealer and focus on Travis. Hawk went below and glanced at Ironhead, lying on the couch with an ice pack on his head. Passing by him without a word, he grabbed the bottle of scotch and went for the cabin door, the sight of the man turning his stomach.

  “I could use a swig for the pain,” Ironhead moaned.

  Hawk turned on him. “The only pain here is the one in my buttocks from you. That was my boat you wrecked, and now I have to have it pulled out of the canal before my ex finds out.”

  “What about dropping me by the hospital? I’m pretty sure something’s broke.”

  Taunting him, Hawk took a swig of the amber liquid directly from the bottle. “I’ll give you some aspirin and a glass of water. That’s all you’ll get from me. Go ahead, they’re in the drawer by the sink.”

  Hawk’s gut feeling was confirmed when Ironhead, belying his alleged injuries, jumped off the settee and went for the bathroom. Jiggling the pill bottles he had already removed and stuffed in his pockets, Hawk smiled to himself and went out on deck.

  He heard cursing, and drawers being slammed through the open door, but he ignored it. Mike had a history, one he knew well. He’d already caught him pilfering pills and had removed everything except the generic aspirin from the bathroom.

  “I can’t find shit in there,” Ironhead said, standing in the doorway. “I’m out of here.”

  “Do what you must, but I’ll have no part in it,” Hawk said.

  “Whatever.” Ironhead walked to the walkway.

  ***

  His head throbbed in rhythm with every step he took. There was nothing Hawk was going to do for him. Cursing himself as he walked, he hoped he hadn’t screwed up the relationship. The guy wasn’t fun, but the work was interesting—and it paid. Where else could he go and be allowed to dive as well as break heads? All bosses were assholes; the only real problem was the pills—and he needed some now.

  He looked straight ahead as he crossed over the bridge he had just smashed the boat into, not wanting to see the damage, or the condescending look he knew would come from Hawk, who was sitting on the deck of the trawler. He followed the golf course around a bend, passing a row of boats moored against the seawall, then a resort, an apartment building, and an empty marina. Reaching the first cross street, he continued straight for another block until it dead-ended into Sombrero Beach Road, where he turned left. On his right was the small strip mall that held the Brass Monkey. If there were pills to be found on this blasted island, they would be here.

  He crossed the street and entered through the blacked-out door. Music greeted him, and although there were laws against smoking in bars, the place reeked of it. Searching through the sea of bobbing heads and loud voices, he saw an empty seat on the far side of the bar. He worked his way around the room, dodging bodies until he reached the vacant stool.

  “Hey, Mike, you’re not looking so hot,” the bartender said.

  “I got trouble. You got something that can help?”

  The bartender shook his head. “You know you got some credit issues.”

  Ironhead reached into his pocket and pulled out two twenties. It was all he had left, and he wondered if payday would even come this week after he’d wrecked the boat. He placed the bills on the bar.

  The bartender eyed the bills before grabbing them from the scarred copper bar top. “Should leave enough for a chaser. Want a beer?” A minute later he placed a beer on a cocktail napkin and with a practiced hand slid two pills underneath i
t.

  Ironhead grabbed the bottle and took a long swig. With his other hand, he snagged the napkin and extracted the pills. Feeling better at the sight of them, he slammed the oxycodone in his mouth and finished the beer. That would take care of things tonight, but tomorrow morning the ordeal that had become his life would resume.

  He saw Wallace coming towards him and put his head down. It was one thing to be reprimanded by Hawk, but he was not about to take any crap from the failed and disbarred lawyer. It was bad enough he was forced to spend most of his days with him.

  “Thought I’d find you here. Boss is pissed,” Wallace said.

  “Whatever,” Ironhead said, hoping the pills would take effect quickly.

  “If you don’t have any other offers, I’d be thinking about making amends,” Wallace said.

  The bartender made a move toward them, but Ironhead waved him away. He turned to Wallace. “What do you have in mind?” He hated groveling.

  “They thought they were slick, but I watched them,” Wallace said.

  “You want a pat on the back or what?”

  “Travis got the girl, and they went back to the house where we had the Cajun in the floor.”

  Ironhead was focused on him now. “And?”

  “I saw the three of them get back on the boat and start to pull away. It was then I noticed the bike.”

  “What bike?” Ironhead asked.

  “Remember, we never saw a car, you know, how they got to the house in the first place.”

  Ironhead realized he was right. That was how this whole mess had started. If they’d known the couple was in the house, they would never have broken in—at least not then. “So, what of it?”