Fallen Pride (Jesse McDermitt Series)

by Wayne Stinnett

  Julie, Chyrel, and Trent came running up adding more flashlights to the scene, so Deuce removed his night vision. Tony and Dawson each grabbed the guy by the upper arms and lifted him to his feet. He had a gash on the side of his head and blood was running down his left cheek. But, there was no mistaking that it was Kyle Parker.

  “Jules, get the lamp lit,” I said. “Bring him over to the table.” Julie ran ahead of Tony and Dawson, half dragging Parker.

  “What the hell happened?” Trent asked. “Who is that guy?”

  “He’s a hired killer,” I replied. “But, he’s out of business now.”

  “I don’t get it. What’s he doing here? Did you guys know he was coming here?”

  Deuce turned to Trent and said, “Calm down Carl. We only figured out what was going on late last night.” As we walked toward the now lit area around the table, Deuce continued in a calming voice. “Yesterday morning, someone tried to kill Jesse and me, but he ended up being the one getting killed. Late last night, we found out he had an accomplice so we kept watch all night in case he tried again. Everything’s okay now. Think you and Chyrel can rustle up some breakfast?”

  “Breakfast?” he said looking confused. “Yeah. Yeah, sure. Pancakes okay?”

  “That’d be great. Thanks. And don’t worry, there were only two of them.”

  Trent headed off to the western bunkhouse and Chyrel followed, trying to keep him calm and answer his questions as best she could.

  “Sit him on the bench, facing away from the table,” Deuce ordered. “Near the end and tie his hands and feet to the legs of the bench and table. It’s time to get some information from our guest.”

  Tony pulled another length of quarter inch twisted sisal rope from the pocket of his cargo pants and removed Parkers shoes and socks, before tying his feet together and pulling them back to the legs of the bench. He did the same thing with the tailing of the first rope, tying his hands to the legs of the table. He wasn’t gentle. Sisal rope is made from the fiber of the agave plant and is widely used in baling hay and marine uses. It’s a very coarse, rough fiber and when used to tie someone’s hands, it’s extremely uncomfortable.

  After securing him to the table, Tony went through his pockets, producing a throwaway cell phone and keys apparently to a rental boat, but nothing more.

  “I’m not going to tell you anything,” Parker spat out.

  “Sure you will, Parker,” Deuce growled. “But, not until after we eat.” Parker jerked his head up, surprised that Deuce knew who he was. “Oh yeah, we know who and what you are. And we know you were working with Stolski. What we don’t know,” and he kind of trailed off there. “Well, what we don’t know, we have ways of finding out, don’t we Gunny.”

  “Oh yeah,” I said. “But you’re right. No hurry. Stolski’s dead and this turd fondler will pray to join him soon enough. You want another cup of java, Commander?”

  Julie caught on quick and said, “Come on, Gunny. Can’t we just slap him around a little before chow?”

  “You’ll get your chance, Petty Officer,” I said. “But let’s have some coffee and pancakes first.”

  “Alright,” she hissed. “I’ll get it. But don’t start without me.”

  She headed toward the main house and I looked over at Deuce and whispered, “Better not leave her alone with this guy. You remember last time?”

  “The Cuban?” Deuce asked. “Or the Iraqi?”

  “The Iraqi,” I winced as we walked over to the other table. “Poor sonofabitch had to eat his own pecker.”

  Tony stood there staring at Parker, his arms crossed and his feet apart. Pescador stood next to him with the hair on his neck and back standing up, a low, menacing rumble coming from deep in his chest. Tony was in bare feet, wearing only a pair of cargo shorts, the muscles in his chest and abdomen flexing with every slight move and his dark, ebony skin glistening with sweat. Apparently, he and Deuce had played this game before. He shouted unintelligible gibberish that sounded like some strange African dialect with clicking sounds, never taking his eyes from Parker. Parker looked up at the strange sounds with a look of fear and dread.

  “No,” Dawson shouted as he turned around. Then very slowly, as if speaking to a child he added, “You may not eat him.”

  Tony’s face became even harder if that were possible, his nostrils flaring as he bent his head slightly, looking at Parker with dark, hooded eyes and mumbling more gibberish.

  Deuce, Dawson and I sat down at the far end of the other table. Soon Julie joined us with three mugs, a thermos and two large bottles of water. She whistled and tossed one to Tony. He caught it backhanded, never taking his eyes off Parker. He opened it and took a couple of swallows then pulled a towel from one of his cargo pockets and set the towel and the water bottle next to Parker on the table. The former CIA agent knew full well the meaning of the towel and water. Tony left him sitting there and joined us.

  A few minutes later, Chyrel brought a plate full of pancakes out, stacked on top of several more plates and set them on the table, with a bottle of syrup and several forks. Apparently she was privy to the game, too. She never said a word, just took the throwaway phone Deuce picked up from the table and went back to the bunkhouse. I passed out the plates and forks and we all dug into the pancakes.

  After a minute, Deuce whispered to Julie in a voice low enough that Parker couldn’t hear, “Maybe you should join Chyrel.”

  Julie surprised me with the sternness in her whispered voice. “The other one tried to kill us. This one came here to kill you and Jesse. I’m okay with whatever you plan to do, so long as you don’t actually kill him.”

  Deuce poured another cup of coffee, picked up the file on Parker and walked around to stand directly behind him. He tried to crane his neck around, but finally gave up. “You won’t get anything out of me,” Parker said. “I’ve been waterboarded before.” But his voice belied his bravado.

  Deuce set the heavy mug down on the table, causing Parker to involuntarily jump. Again, he tried to twist around to see what Deuce was doing. Deuce opened the file and started to read some of the highlights of Parkers short career with the CIA out loud.

  The look on Parker’s face said it all. Most of what was in the file should have been redacted and he knew it. “Not much of a career,” Deuce said. “And no reference to having been captured or undergone waterboard training. The Gunny here has, though, haven’t you Gunny.”

  “Yes sir, many times. Died twice, had to have CPR to bring me back.”

  “Care to show our guest here what it’s like?”

  I caught on instantly to what Deuce was doing. He knew I could hold my breath for almost two full minutes. He wanted me to mimic drowning through waterboarding.

  I got up and moved over to the bench next to Parker. Deuce quickly snatched up the towel and put it around my face, pulling my head back on the table, while Tony stepped in front of me and pinned my arms. I’d seen men waterboarded before and knew exactly how they acted.

  Slowly he started pouring the water onto the towel. After about thirty seconds, I started making a show of struggling and puffed a little air out. Then I started struggling and puffing harder. At the one minute mark, I was fighting really hard against Tony, but not so hard that I could break free. Finally, Deuce released the towel and Tony let go of my arms. I managed to get a mouthful of water and made a great show of choking, coughing, and spitting up water as I fell to my hands and knees, gasping for air.

  “Anyone can survive this once and not talk,” Deuce said. “Imagine how many times a professional, such as myself, can bring someone that tried to kill me to the very brink of death and not actually kill them, when I can do it so easily to one of my own men. You’ll tell me what I want to know, Parker. You’ll tell me more than I want to know.”

  Cheryl came back and handed Deuce a file folder and two more large water bottles. He set the water on the table just beside Parkers head. By now, it was obvious the man was very afraid. Around him was an apparent Afri
can tribesman who wanted to eat him, a woman that wanted to feed him his own genitalia and a madman that would torture one of his own.

  Dawson walked over and stood in front of Parker. He squatted down so that he was eye level with the man and in a calm soothing voice said, “I know you’re scared, Parker. You reek of it. It’s in your eyes and the way your voice cracks. You don’t have to go through this. Just tell the Commander what he wants to know, okay?”

  Parker looked up at Tony standing behind Dawson then at me, struggling to get to my feet and finally at Julie, standing at the end of the table with a menacing look on her face. “You c-c-can do anything you w-want. I’m not g-gonna talk!”

  Dawson smiled reassuringly at the man and in a lightning fast move, brought his fist up and hammered it down between the man’s thighs, smashing him so hard in the groin, I winced.

  Parker howled in pain, but only for a second. Deuce quickly grabbed the wet towel and covered his face, yanking his head back hard on the table. Tony grabbed a bottle, twisted the cap off and slowly started pouring it over the towel. Parker began to struggle immediately and within seconds, he was sucking in water and coughing it back into the towel. It lasted only about fifteen seconds and Deuce released the towel.

  Parker’s head tilted forward as he coughed up huge mouthfuls of water. A few seconds later, Deuce grabbed him by the hair and jerked his head back, shouting, “You called Jason Smith yesterday at 1900! The call lasted two minutes! What did you ask him?”

  Between racking fits of coughs, Parker managed to get out that he called Smith to say he lost me, asked if he knew where I was headed, and Smith had told him about this island. It only took another ten minutes and Deuce had every bit of information about Smith that Parker knew.

  It was Stolski that was contracted to murder Smith’s wife three years ago. That was his first contract after leaving the Agency. Stolski brought Parker in and cut him in for a fourth of the contract. In fact it was the reason he left. During the first year, both men received several contracts from the Agency, mostly through Smith. But, when Smith left the Agency himself, to pursue his political ambitions, the contracts nearly dried up. So, both men had jumped on the chance to get a good paying contract from Smith. He’d first contacted Stolski just two weeks after being transferred to Djibouti. Stolski said it would have to be a two man job and wanted more than what Smith had offered. They brought Parker in and they agreed on a price of $200,000, half up front and half when the job was completed. With Stolski out of the picture, Parker saw a chance to increase his pay and contacted Smith to renegotiate. Besides the $50,000 he’d already received, Smith wired another $50,000 to Parker and agreed to pay him that much again, when he finished the contract.

  Just after sunrise, we were sitting in what was now Chyrel’s satellite office in the bunkhouse. “Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t necessarily mean nobody’s not out to get you,” Deuce said as we waited for Chyrel to get Stockwell on the encrypted video call.

  “Let’s hope Kumar is able to nab Smith,” I said. “Otherwise, we’ll be looking over our shoulder for a while. What time is it in Djibouti?”

  “Just after 1500, eight hours ahead of us,” Chyrel said. “Connection being made.”

  Stockwell’s face appeared on the screen. The guy must never sleep. It seemed no matter what time Deuce called, he was in his office. “We captured Parker early this morning, Colonel. He’s confessed to being contracted by Jason Smith, along with Stolski, to kill both Jess and me. He also admitted to being a part of the murder of Charlotte Downeger Smith and that Jason Smith paid them $100,000 to murder her.”

  “I don’t suppose these confessions will hold up in court, will they?”

  “No sir, they won’t,” Deuce readily admitted.

  “I can probably make the case to the AG that a hired mercenary taking a contract on a Federal Agent could be construed as an act of terrorism. Considering that the President was also threatened, I’d say Mister Parker will be enjoying the sunset in Gitmo by the end of the day.”

  “Have you heard from Kumar, Colonel?”

  “Not yet. His bird isn’t scheduled to land in Yemen for another two hours.”

  “What should we do with Parker?”

  Stockwell thought for a moment and then said, “Get him ready to be delivered to a Navy chopper at sea. It shouldn’t take me more than an hour to get the paperwork pushed through. I’ll call you with a rendezvous point once I know it’ll go through. Good job, all of you.”

  The screen went blank. “I sure wouldn’t want to be Parker,” Chyrel said.

  “What do you mean?” Julie asked. “Prisoners in Gitmo live in luxury.”

  “Yeah, luxury behind barbed wire fences for the rest of your life. I couldn’t take that.”

  “You do have a point,” Julie said. “But, it’s still better than he deserves.”

  The three of us left the bunkhouse and joined Tony and Dawson standing guard over Parker, not that he was going anywhere. He was still tied to the table, head hanging down, crusted blood on his cheek from where Deuce had clobbered him with a dead branch from a lignum vitae tree. Even a dead branch from one of those trees is as hard as tempered steel. His wrists and ankles were chaffed and bleeding also, from struggling against the coarse ropes and he’d soiled his pants.

  “He’s not going on my boat like that,” I said. “Take him up to the deck, strip him down and put him under the shower. In the hanging closet by the front door you’ll find a go bag that has some flex cuffs in the side pocket. Should be an old pair of fishing shorts and a tee shirt on the shelf there, too. We’re leaving in about half an hour.”

  Tony had put on a shirt and shoes along with a shoulder holster that had a knife sheath on the front. He pulled out his K-bar and sliced the ropes securing Parker to the table with a single swipe and another pass between his ankles freed his feet. The two men lifted him and half dragged him toward the main house, Pescador leading the way.

  Half an hour later, we were idling out into Harbor Channel in the Cazador. I brought her up onto plane headed due south. The coordinates Stockwell had given us were at the edge of the Gulf Stream 30 miles almost due south of Bahia Honda. Since we only had two hours to get there, I decided to take the smaller boat because it only needs three feet of water and we wouldn’t have to go way east to pick up the main channel. We were meeting a Navy MH-60 helicopter that was coming out of NAS Jacksonville on a routine long range training flight to Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. It would be stopping to refuel in Miami and would meet us at the coordinates Stockwell had provided at exactly 0930 and would only have ten minutes on station at the most.

  It was just me, Deuce, and Dawson aboard and we had Parker tied up in the little head below the console. Deuce took his phone out, pulled up the text message from Stockwell and punched the coordinates into the Simrad chart plotter. “It’s 28 nautical miles almost due south of the Bahia Honda Channel Bridge. Total distance is about 37 nautical miles and we have 93 minutes to get there.”

  I ran the calculation in my head and said, “That’s 25 knots average speed. It’s almost like he knows the most economical speed of this boat.” I turned hard to port, entering the unmarked narrow channel through Cutoe Banks, slowed down just a little to weave and thread my way through the Banks. Then I headed northeast towards Marker 52, just north of Big Spanish Key. A couple minutes later we were clear of the Banks and I turned south toward Big Spanish Channel and pushed the speed up to 30 knots. “But, I’d rather be early than late.”

  “You know these waters well,” Dawson shouted from where he was seated on the port gunwale. “That little cut couldn’t have been more than three or four feet deep and not much wider.”

  Deuce was leaning back against the seat, as I was, deep in thought. We were now in deep water headed southeast between Crawl Key and Annette Key. “What’s on your mind, Deuce?”

  “All of it, man. Sometimes, like this morning, I wonder if I’m doing the right thing bringing Julie into all this.”


  “She’s a really independent woman,” I said. “I don’t think anyone could get her to do something she didn’t want to do.”

  “What if I wasn’t involved in all this? Think she’d want to become involved on her own?”

  “No. That I’m sure of. Look, she’s a woman in love and she’s going to go where her heart takes her. And you are involved, there’s no getting around that, unless you want to quit. Quitting’s not in your nature.”

  “Sometimes,” he said, “I’m just not so sure now.”

  We passed under the bridge at Bahia Hondo into the open Atlantic and I switched on the Simrad radar. All the electronics on board were Simrad. Good equipment, but not the best. The more I used this boat, the more I liked it, though. The sweeping Carolina flare of the bow allowed it to run at a good speed, even when seas were a little rough. Today, we had a southeast wind, blowing at about ten knots and the rollers were only a few feet and widely spaced. She rode up the crest, tilted slightly and rolled down the other side with no spray at all. The big 480 horse Cummins diesel engine, which David had tweaked to about 500 horsepower, ran quietly and smoothly.

  When we were five miles out, I told Dawson he could bring Parker up on deck. I didn’t want him throwing up in the head. Dawson opened the small hatch and pulled him out, squinting in the bright sunlight. He was drenched in sweat, not just from the heat down there, but I think fear had a lot to do with it.

  It took another 40 minutes to reach the rendezvous point and we were ten minutes early. Parker was sitting on the small bench seat in front of the helm. We hadn’t told him where we were taking him. Neither Deuce, nor I, felt he deserved to be told.