Coastal Fury Boxset (1-3)

by Matt Lincoln

  By then, Brad had managed to regain his footing and stood swaying a few feet away, blood pouring from his nose. His second buddy grabbed my arm and tried to hold me, but I turned and drove a fist under his arm, breaking his grip, and then cracked a blow into his jaw.

  Once they were both on the floor, I turned my attention back to Brad, who’d pushed himself into a stumbling dash. He lowered his center of gravity, one shoulder tucked so that the other one faced me, ready to ram. So, the meathead played football.

  Rolling my eyes, I stepped to the side, stuck a leg out, and tripped him. I drove an elbow between his shoulder blades to help him on his way to the floor.

  When he landed, I heard something crack. I hoped it was a tooth.

  “Get out, while you can still walk,” I said over the moaning, collapsed bodies that surrounded me.

  None of them moved very far. They didn’t even try to stand.

  I guessed they couldn’t walk, after all.

  Whoops.

  The distant sound of sirens floated over the crowd which had quieted down when the fight started. Even the jukebox had stopped playing. Now that things settled, a cheer erupted from in the main room. It spread, picking up wolf-whistles and applause along with encouraging shouts until you could’ve mistaken the bar for a rock concert.

  So much for flying under the radar.

  I stayed with the downed college boys until the police swarmed in to collect them. My statement to the cops didn’t take long. Brad had sustained the most injuries, so he was the last one to be handcuffed.

  As two uniformed officers hauled him off the floor, I stepped in front of them and met Brad’s flinching gaze with a steely one.

  “You ever go near that girl again, I’ll find you,” I told him. “If there is a next time, you’ll stay down. Permanently. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” he croaked weakly.

  The cops flanking him nodded in acknowledgment as they dragged the kid away. If Brad complained, they’d deny I’d made a threat. The Metro guys knew me, if not by sight, then by reputation. I might’ve been retired, but I’d always be a law enforcement officer in their eyes.

  The cheering died down as I made my way back toward the bar for that overdue cold beer. I saw that a pair of officers had joined Jezzie and were talking to her. That was good. They’d get what they needed for a statement and make sure she got home safe, if not sound.

  I went to the far side of the bar and sat on the stool next to the reserved seat that no one was allowed to use. Nadia, another of my employees, came over with a beaming smile, and I ordered the biggest damned draft she could pour.

  She brought the beer over fast, and I tried to settle in for a drink. “Tried” being the operative word.

  I’d barely taken a sip when someone behind me said, “Excuse me, Special Agent… er, Mr. Marston?”

  Somehow, I managed not to groan as I turned on the stool and came face-to-face with a sizable group of young people. They were the same sailors who’d been here with their dates on opening night when I told my Cobra Jon story. Most of them wore sheepish grins, especially Ty, the one who’d been a cocky smartass the night Rolling Thunder opened. I figured they must’ve seen the fight.

  “I’m retired, and it’s Ethan,” I told them. “And you are?”

  “Ensign Charlie Sheets.” The kid stuck a hand out, and I shook it. He pointed out his other friends. “Jeff and Ty were here last time, too. It’s an honor, sir.”

  “Well, Ensign Charlie Sheets, I hope you all are having a good time tonight.”

  “Oh, we are,” Sheets said. Apparently, he’d been elected the unofficial leader of the group. “We were just wondering…” He trailed off, and his gaze flicked to the empty stool beside me. “Last time, you said you’d tell us about that.”

  “I did, didn’t I?” I admitted, holding back a sigh. That stool was the only piece of the original bar that I’d left intact. The rest of the bar stools were gleaming, polished wood with brand new tie-on cushions. The one next to me was a rusty diner-style model with vinyl padding on the swivel seat, and its thick metal base remained bolted to the floor.

  There was a bullet hole through the seat padding, right near the top. That bullet had come far too close to making sure my partner would never be able to have children or take a normal piss for the rest of his life.

  If it had gone where it was intended to, there would’ve been a lot more dead guys in Mike’s bar that day.

  “alright, fine.” I grabbed my beer and took a long, comforting swallow. I needed to wet my throat really good, to tell that story. “This might sound completely unrelated, but I promise I’ll get back to the barstool.” I cleared my throat.

  “It all started with the security guard who found three girls in a box.”

  1

  Overnight security at the dockyard wasn’t a bad gig. Sure, the heat and humidity got bad at the height of summer, but the rest of the year? Yeah, Pete didn’t mind. The patrols kept him in some resemblance of shape, and the location couldn’t be beat.

  At the beginning of his shift, Pete had watched cargo being offloaded from a ship called the Somewhat There. It sat lower in the water than he thought it should, and in the late-afternoon light, lines of rust looked like blood seeping from rivets and welds. Saltwater did that, but the effect was no less eerie. Now, halfway through the night shift, Somewhat There was being reloaded for a trip back out to the islands. Pete always wondered when the ship would live down to its name and only make it somewhat to its destination.

  He made his way through the aisles created by the containers brought in by Somewhat There. Everything had cleared customs. All he had to do was make sure nobody snuck in, from the ship or through the dockyard fences.

  Deep within the rows of shipping containers, Pete stopped within the shadows. He dropped his flashlight into its ring on his utility belt and got his smokes out of his uniform shirt pocket. Smoking wasn’t allowed, but everyone did it. The bosses didn’t care as long as they weren’t next to flammables.

  Pete lit the cigarette and inhaled. He frowned and took it from his mouth. Something about it didn’t smell right. He snuffed it out on the side of a container and tossed it to the ground. There were only three ciggies left, barely enough to last until morning, assuming they weren’t bad like the first one. He sniffed at the pack. Tobacco. Nothing more.

  “Ah, hell,” he muttered. There went one good smoke.

  He sniffed at the air and then shoved the cigarette pack into the pocket. The stench wasn’t strong, and a breeze from the water teased it away from where he stood. He walked further in and caught the scent again. It smelled like rotting meat and was getting worse, which meant one of the climate-controlled containers had a malfunction. He couldn’t tell which container, or if it was up in a stack. Great. He got his radio out.

  “Patrol Two to Base.”

  “Yeah, Pete?”

  “One of the cold units from Somewhere There broke. It reeks like spoiled meat down here.”

  “I’ll check the manifest and get back to you.” His supervisor sounded bored. It wasn’t like he could help on patrol or anything. “I’ll have it for you on your next round.”

  “Copy.”

  He shoved the radio into its holster and pulled out the flashlight. Everything looked normal. Steel on top of steel on top of steel. He shook his head and continued his routine. Once into the fresh air, he got a few deep breaths and pressed on. His craving for nicotine pushed him to step a little faster.

  Two hours later, Pete still hadn’t had his smoke. His undershirt stuck to his skin, and the nice little breeze was gone. He wiped sweat from his forehead and wished for a cold beer and a fresh pack of cigarettes. Nah, a cigar was what he needed.

  As he approached the container stacks from earlier, Somewhere There chugged out of her docking slot. She rode lower with the new load. One good blow and that ship was going down. Nothing Pete could do about it.

  He radioed his supervisor about the manifest.<
br />
  “I haven’t gotten around to it.”

  Pete groaned. Of course not. Why should Fred listen to Pete? “I’m back to those stacks. I need to know where to look.”

  Pete stopped at the aisle where he’d tried to smoke earlier. With that breeze gone, the stench lay like a… he had to think of the word… oh yeah, miasma. A death cloud. The thought settled like Snow White’s apple.

  His radio crackled.

  “I don’t see nothing,” Fred said. “All flowers and fruit and shit. No dice for the carnivores.”

  Pete frowned. That in itself was unusual. Somewhat There always had one or two containers of fish, if not beef from Argentina. He pulled his undershirt collar out and over his nose. This wasn’t bad fruit.

  He played the flashlight’s beam across every container in sight. The first aisle looked as normal as ever. Pete swallowed as he approached the next aisle. More boxes, more stacks, no hints. At the end of the aisle, he saw more rust than usual at the base of one of the containers. Kind of like on Somewhere There’s sides. Saltwater and sea air weren’t kind to metal.

  He stopped and swung the light back toward the box. That wasn’t rust. Pete fumbled for his radio.

  “Fred, we need bolt cutters, now! There’s blood here.”

  Pete and his boss didn’t always get along, but he could rely on Fred not to give him shit when something went down. Within three minutes of his call, the security golf cart rounded a corner. His supervisor jumped out with the cutters.

  “Where?”

  Pete pointed with the flashlight, and Fred handed him the cutters.

  “Why me?” Pete argued.

  “You found it,” Fred said. “I’m in the office, not here.”

  Pete took the cutters and shook his head. Fred just wanted to get out of more paperwork than necessary. Whoever opened the container got the worst end of the deal. They both knew they were supposed to take official steps to open the container, but dammit, that was blood.

  “Thanks,” Pete said in his driest possible tone.

  He said a short prayer and then set to it with the bolt cutters. It took five minutes and a gallon of sweat to get the door unlatched. It creaked open a few inches, more than enough to damned near knock the men over with a stench worse than a broken-down garbage truck in a heatwave.

  “I—I’m gonna call someone.” Fred hustled back to the golf cart. “Don’t let anyone get too close.”

  Pete didn’t want to get any closer than his boss did. He backed up to the stack across from the offending box. They didn’t pay him enough for this shit. That job offer from the storage rental place sounded better by the minute.

  Something rattled around inside the container. Pete groaned. He really, really didn’t want to look, but the sound came and went at uneven intervals. That wasn’t a broken HVAC unit. He edged toward the door, all the while wishing the dockyard hadn’t downsized night security.

  He called toward the narrow opening, “Hello?”

  Whatever was in there banged around a few times with a few squeaks he couldn’t place. Pete shuddered. Maybe the cargo wasn’t what he feared, but smuggled animals weren’t much better, especially if a bunch died.

  While holding his breath against the stench, he nudged the door open.

  Leathery wings flapped into his face. Pete screamed and dropped his flashlight. Tiny claws grabbed at his thinning hair, and then it was gone.

  “Shit!”

  Pete watched the bat pass through a cone of light above the aisle. That little fella was never getting back to wherever it came from, and Pete’s heart was never getting back to a decent rhythm. He shook it off as best as he could and retrieved the dented Mag-Lite. Toughest damned flashlight he’d ever had, despite all the impacts it’d suffered over the years. Pete suspected it’d outlast him.

  Once he got his breathing under control, he went back to the door. Leery of more bats, he stood to the outside and pulled it open. The port authority and Metro Police always took forever to arrive on-scene, and the other security guys had their own issues that night. He might as well take a look. See how bad it was.

  The container remained silent. Pete scanned the ceiling for more surprises. No bats. He frowned. Not much of anything. The container was empty, except for sand and a bunch of leaves and crushed flowers. He swallowed and prayed for strength. There was one spot left to look, on the other side of the closed door. The side where the blood leaked.

  He unhitched the latch and gave the door a heave. It swung out and banged against the next container, but Pete barely noticed. At his feet was more sand. Beneath a pile of wilted flowers and leaves were three still forms. Bare legs lay at uncomfortable angles from one of the bodies. Long, black hair lay slack on the metal floor from all three.

  Pete backed away, unable to take the light off them. Three girls in a box. Suddenly, this wasn’t the gig for him.

  “Ah, hell.”

  2

  “Mixing beer and axes doesn’t sound scary at all,” Robbie Holm said with a laugh.

  “Mixing guns and meth sounds safe?” I asked dryly. “It’s not like our job is dangerous or anything. Besides, Ramsey said we can put off paperwork until morning if we meet here.”

  My partner chuckled as we pulled into a spot outside Miami’s newest trendy spot, the Axe Grind. I recognized a few cars, including a blue vintage VW Beetle.

  “Hey, would you look who came out from the Lab Cave?” I said as I nodded to the car in question. “Clyde’s here.”

  “I’ll be damned.” Holm grinned. “Wonder if Bonnie made it, too.”

  Bonnie and Clyde, the department’s lab techs, were Rosa Bonci and Joe Clime. They rarely left their basement lair. I don’t remember a time when at least one of them wasn’t in. Hell, I’m not sure I remember a time when both weren’t there. Those two were a one-two science punch and saved more cases than I care to recall. They were such a well-hitched team that we all called them “Bonnie and Clyde.”

  “Only one way to see if she’s here,” I said.

  We went into the former warehouse and found most of our team at one of the throwing ranges. The ranges were like batting cages, except for the target boards and deadly weapons. Looked like fun.

  “Marston, get over here!” Diane Ramsey, MBLIS Director, my boss, and planner of this department outing, waved me over. “Welcome to the Military Border Liaison Investigative Service’s first annual team-building event. Whoever scores highest wins a Michter’s Ten-Year Single Barrel Bourbon.”

  I whistled. The Twenty-Year’s little brother wasn’t a bad score.

  “May as well hand it over,” Holm said. “I need a consolation prize for twelve days with no action, and I can out-throw any of you.”

  “Want to make a bet on it?” Lamarr Birn asked as he walked up to us. “Fifty bucks says you can’t.”

  Diane and Sylvia Muñoz, our new Special Agent, laughed at the dare. Not many women could make me worry about my safety. Diane was one. Muñoz was the other. Muñoz, Birn’s new partner after Meisha Griezmann was promoted to another office, was a spitfire and instantly meshed with the team. At five-foot-three, she looked like a cute young coed with her gorgeous eyes, generous smile, long black hair which was usually coiled into a bun when on duty, and light-brown skin.

  The bad guys always underestimated her as a petite, pretty little thing with her innocent eyes, but Muñoz was as deadly as any SEAL with her firearms and martial arts expertise. When other agents crossed her, she was known to drag them to unscheduled training sessions in the gym as punishment. Or to axe throwing.

  Still laughing, Muñoz and Diane circled in on Holm. I smelled something was up, but he took the bait.

  “Fifty bucks and a round of beers.” He looked around. “Where’s the beer?”

  “Beer after throwing.” Birn grinned and nodded toward the range. “You might want to rethink that bet, though.”

  Bonnie and Clyde were up. Seeing them outside the lab was surreal, and watching Bonnie wield an axe was da
mned impressive. She’d ditched her lab coat and slacks for a tee-shirt and jeans, and she’d thrown her hair into a ponytail. One of the Axe Grind’s throwing “coaches” helped adjust Bonnie’s stance and then stepped back. She took the handle in both hands and held it behind her head so that the flat edge of the axe almost touched her back. At a signal, she snapped her arms over and forward. The axe spun in an arc until it slammed into the middle of the plywood target with a loud thunk.

  I had to elbow Holm to make him stop gaping. This was Bonnie. And Bonnie knew how to throw an axe.

  “Still wanna make a bet, partner?” I asked.

  The corners of his eyes crinkled, but I was the only one who knew his tell. To everyone else, his wide smile showed no doubt. I dropped into a chair next to Diane and crossed my arms. By the look on our boss’s face, she also had a hunch of how this would play out.

  “You going to help embarrass him, Ethan?” she asked.

  “He’ll do enough on his own. After a whole lot of nothing on this last case, he’s antsier than a shark at the chum bucket.”

  “And you?” She gave me a long look. “It’s not often you come back empty-handed.”

  I shook my head. Holm and I had just spent two weeks hunting the last remnants of the Black Mamba gang throughout the Caribbean. They fled Nassau after we took down their leader, Cobra Jon, a few months earlier. With a power vacuum and pressure from rival gangs, we all worried about how these new freelancers would form up.

  “They’ve gone to ground,” I told Diane. “Best we can do is keep eyes and ears on the islands.”

  She nodded and then looked over to where Holm was prepped for his first throw. Like Bonnie, he held his elbows up and the axe behind him. His smooth release sent the axe whirling through the air, also like Bonnie’s. However, very unlike Bonnie’s, the axe hit handle-first and clattered to the floor. Holm looked stricken. He had another chance and snatched up the second axe. I leaned forward. This was interesting.