Fallen Pride (Jesse McDermitt Series)

by Wayne Stinnett

  “Son,” Rusty said, “Julie’s my only child. Her momma died giving her to me. She’s so much like her momma. There’s no greater gift I could give a man and no better man than the one I give her to. You take real good care of her.”

  “I will, sir,” Deuce said respectfully.

  “A shame your dad couldn’t be here today,” I said. I lifted my glass and said, “To Russ Livingston.”

  We tossed back the rum and Rusty said, “Okay, that’s it. Julie’ll kick both our asses if you’re drunk.”

  “I think it’s about time we get out there,” I said.

  “Yeah,” Rusty said. “I’ll go check on Julie.”

  Deuce and I walked out the back door of the bar and around the side to the altar that my former First Mate, Jimmy Saunders, had built. Most of the guests were seated and Dan sat on a stool by the wall playing softly on his guitar.

  Deuce and I were met at the altar by the Reverend Douglas Bader of Conch Unity Church. Rusty took Julie there when she was little, though neither had been in a couple of years.

  “Good to see you again, Jesse,” the Reverend said. “Be nice to see you in my Church one of these days.”

  “One of these days, Reverend,” I said. “This is Deuce, I mean Russell Livingston. He’s the groom.”

  “You’re a lucky man, Deuce,” he said. “Julie’s a fine young woman. Do you prefer Russell?”

  “Deuce is fine, Reverend. But, Julie doesn’t like it, so make it Russell during the ceremony.”

  He laughed and said, “Yes, even as a little girl she detested schoolyard nicknames. You have the rings?”

  “I have hers,” Deuce said. “Julie has mine.”

  “That’s perfect,” he said. Then he looked over the guests and said, “Quite an assortment of guests. Your side seems to be mostly hard looking men.”

  “We’re military, sir,” Deuce offered. It seemed to satisfy the Reverend.

  Just then, Jimmy’s girlfriend, Angie, came around the corner of the bar and said something to Dan. He wound up the tune he was playing, turned his amp up a little and started the Bridal Chorus. Everyone stood up and waited. After a few seconds, Jackie came around the side of the bar. She’d changed into designer jeans and a light blue blouse, with a ruffled neckline and was carrying a light blue bouquet of hibiscus. She had her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail.

  Once she joined us at the altar Dan started playing the Wedding March and Rusty came around the corner, with Julie on his arm. Deuce inhaled sharply. Rusty had changed, too. He was wearing black trousers and a light blue long sleeve, dress shirt. Both obviously brand new. Julie was dressed in a simple white dress that I recognized from a picture on Rusty’s mantle.

  I whispered to Deuce, “That’s the dress Anna wore when she and Rusty were married.”

  Gone was the little girl that I’d watched grow up. Gone was the tomboy, besting all the boys in high school at fishing. Gone was the second best flats guide in the Keys. Gone was the Coast Guard SpecOps Petty Officer. In place was a beautiful woman, her dark auburn hair styled in a simple way, with a narrow headband of small, light blue flowers and a simple, short, white veil.

  “Wow,” Deuce whispered.

  Rusty and Julie walked slowly between the rows of guests and up to the altar. Dan ended the March as Rusty gave her a hug, took her hand and placed it in Deuce’s, then took a seat in the front.

  “Please be seated,” said the Reverend. “My friends, we’re gathered here in the eyes of God to join this man and this woman in Holy matrimony. Who gives this woman?”

  Rusty stood up and with a tear in his eye and a choke in his voice said, “Her mother and I do.”

  The Reverend continued, “In the Book of Genesis it says, ‘It is not good for man to be alone. I will make a helper suitable for him.’ I’ve known this woman most of her life and know that she is more than up to the task. Russell and Julie, as you prepare to take these vows, give careful thought and prayer, for as you make them you are making an exclusive commitment one to the other for as long as you both shall live. Your love for each other should never be diminished by difficult circumstances, and it is to endure until death parts you. Hand in hand you enter marriage, hand in hand you step out in faith. The hand you freely give to each other, is both the strongest and the most tender part of your body. The wedding ring is a symbol of eternity, it is without end. It is an outward sign of an inward and spiritual bond which unites two hearts in endless love. And now as a token of your love and of your deep desire to be forever united in heart and soul, you Russel, may place a ring on the finger of your bride.”

  Deuce turned to me and I reached into my pocket and handed the ring to him. As he slid it onto her finger, he said, “Julie, I give you this ring as a symbol of my love and faithfulness to you.”

  The Reverend said, “By the same token Julie, you may place a ring on the finger of your groom.”

  Julie turned to Jackie, who handed Deuce’s ring to her. As she slid it on his finger she said, “I give you this ring as a symbol of my love and faithfulness to you, also.”

  They both turned to the Reverend. “The ring is the symbol of the commitment which binds these two together. There are two rings because there are two people, each to make a contribution to the life of the other, and to their new life together. Let us pray.”

  He bowed his head and continued, “Bless, O Lord, the giving of these rings. That they who wear them may abide together in your peace and grow in one another's eyes. Amen.”

  “For as much as Russell and Julie have consented together in Holy wedlock, and have witnessed the same before God and these witnesses, and thereto have pledged their faithfulness each to the other, and have pledged the same by the giving and receiving each of a ring, by the authority vested in me as a minister of the Gospel, and according to the laws of the State of Florida, I pronounce that they are husband and wife together, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Those that God has joined together, let no man put asunder. Russell, you may kiss your bride.”

  Deuce lifted Julie’s veil and kissed her, as everyone began to cheer. I noticed that Rusty was weeping openly, but quickly pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes. Deuce and Julie started back down the aisle as the guests tossed bird seed over them. Jackie and I followed, along with Rusty.

  “The bar’s open!” Rusty yelled.

  Halfway down the aisle, I noticed a white van turning around in the parking lot and backing up to the congregation. It had a mural on the side of a huge wedding cake and the name, Creations by Rebecca on both sides and the back doors. It came to a stop just ten feet from the back of the chairs and the driver got out and opened the back doors. The driver was an older man, with gray hair in a ponytail. When he stepped away from the doors, I saw a huge wedding cake. It had four layers, the top one about twelve inches around and each lower one a few inches larger. It was over two feet tall and was sitting on a pallet four feet square.

  Twelve inches around? Two feet tall? “Deuce!” I shouted. “The cake!”

  Suddenly, all the team members drew their side arms and almost twenty guns were pointed at the driver. Tony was the first one at the back of the van. He produced a long Ka-Bar knife and gently pushed it into the top layer. It only went in less than half an inch “Solid,” he said.

  “Where’d this come from?” Grayson asked the driver threateningly.

  “A guy in Miami paid me $200 to deliver it,” he replied. “Said his regular driver was sick. And I’d get another $200 if I was exactly on time.”

  “Get everyone out of here,” Tony said as he began to very carefully cut away the outer cake from the small barrel hidden inside that contained the bomb.

  The team quickly moved all the guests through the parking lot and up the driveway. I stood next to Tony with Jared. Deuce came quickly over. “Get the hell out of here, Deuce,” I said.

  “I’m not going…”

  I cut him off. “Dammit, Deuce, you have
more than yourself to worry about. Go!”

  He reluctantly left, but didn’t go far. “How can I help?” I asked Tony.

  “Almost got it cleared away. Looking for a deton… Oh shit.” He looked up at me. “No time to diffuse it. The timer’s down to 35 seconds.”

  “Can we carry it to the water?”

  Tony looked toward the turning basin at the end of the canal, fifty yards away. “No time,” he said.

  “I’ll drive it off the boat ramp then,” I said and started quickly toward the front of the van.

  Suddenly, the engine roared to life and the van lurched forward then turned sharply onto the crushed shell road heading toward the boat ramp. Jared was behind the wheel.

  The van increased speed, crunching over several chairs and speeding down the shell road. “Jared!” Charity yelled as she ran up beside me.

  Roaring down the road, the heavy van rocked from side to side in the ruts. Tony, Charity, and I ran after it. He never slowed down, in fact he drove even faster. The van reached the ramp and swerved sharply to the left toward a shell mound at the concrete sea wall. It hit the mound and flew over the low wall, somersaulting and hitting the water almost vertically, nose down. When the grill hit, the van immediately flipped end for end and splashed into the water on its roof.

  There was a sudden whoosh and a giant fireball erupted, blowing the sides out of the van. Black smoke billowed in a mushroom cloud above it. The flames quickly went out as the van sank in the eight foot deep water.

  I ran faster, pulling away from Tony and Charity. Reaching the sea wall, I didn’t hesitate, but dove headlong into the water which now had a layer of flames from the ruptured gas tank. The water was clear, and I swam under the flames to the overturned van. I got to the driver’s door and tried to open it. It was jammed. I started to swim to the other side. The windshield was gone, so I swam through it.

  I found Jared’s body floating against the floor of the van. There was no chance he was alive. One of the slats from the pallet was thrusting out of his chest and back. I grabbed his shirt collar and hauled him out the open side door. I swam as hard as I could to get clear of the burning gasoline, finally surfacing twenty feet away on the ramp itself, gasping for air.

  I heard sirens in the distance and could hear people shouting and splashing down the ramp. There was nothing anyone could do. Jared was dead. Smith was unsuccessful at ruining his career in the Corps, but killed him in the end. Standing in the waist deep water, with Jared’s body floating face up, the plank sticking grotesquely out of his chest, I swore I’d find him and kill him with my own bare hands.

  Epilogue

  Jared’s funeral was held three days later and was attended by hundreds of people, including Colonel Stockwell, Tom Broderick, Tank Tankersley, and Tex Latimore. He was buried right next to his friend, Pop. All the military members of the team attended in uniform. Stockwell stopped in Jacksonville, North Carolina and picked up Tom, Tank, and Tex, along with an Honor Detail of seven riflemen and a bugler, handpicked by Tank. Deuce and I folded Jared’s flag and I presented it to Dave. As I knelt before him and his wife and gave the standard grateful nation speech, I whispered in Dave’s ear, “I will find him.”

  Stockwell ordered the whole team to take a month off after the funeral. The next day, Deuce and Julie reluctantly left in their Whitby ketch to honeymoon in the Caribbean. Charity had a meltdown after the bombing, but was able to be at the funeral. She and Sherri went up to Miami together immediately afterwards.

  Deuce and I decided we had to tell Cindy about Smith. She didn’t take it well, refused to believe us at first. Finally we showed her the redacted portion of his file, the news clipping of his wife’s murder, and the video of Kyle Parker’s interrogation, where he admitted being hired by Smith to kill his wife. She took it hard and left the next day for Oregon.

  I told Chyrel to take Franklin’s phone trace equipment home with her and to keep tabs on Smith’s account in the Caymans. If anything happened, I wanted her to call me immediately. I spent the next three days on the island, working with Trent to get all the little details finished on the bunkhouses and their house.

  On the fourth day, Chyrel called. “He’s in Belize. He just withdrew $10,000 at the Cayman Bank branch in Belize City.”

  “Can you freeze his assets?”

  “What agency do you want it to show freezing it?”

  “Make it the CIA,” I said. “He’s bound to know they’re looking for him and might not be aware that everyone else is on to him yet. Any luck with Franklin’s phone gizmo?”

  “Actually, yeah. Smith has three burn phones that he’s used on occasion. I had to keep the Director up to speed on what I was doing, sorry. Each person he called using the burn phones has been picked up and are being held with no contact to the outside world.”

  “So, the Colonel knows what we’re doing?”

  “He surmises,” she replied and ended the call.

  I already had the Revenge outfitted with provisions to last a month and reinstalled the bladder fuel cells. I left before dawn the next morning, not telling anyone. It was over 700 miles to Belize City and I had to stop in Cozumel to refuel. I arrived in Belize early the next morning and cleared customs. Chyrel gave me an address of a cantina where his primary phone was at every day for three days and I went straight there.

  I showed Smith’s picture to a pretty bartender there and with a polite smile I asked, “Has visto mi amigo, senorita?”

  She smiled back and said, “Si, senor. Meester Herrero come here three days. Nice man, Meester Herrero. Not so handsome as you, senor.”

  Not very original, I thought. Herrero is Spanish for steelworker, or Smith. I ordered a cold Belikin and took a seat by the door, in the shadows. The bartender came over and asked if I wanted to see a menu.

  “Huevos, salchichas, tomate y freír tomas, por favor.”

  She smiled seductively and said, “You have been to our country before, no?”

  “A few times,” I replied.

  She turned and went to place my order. She was wearing a flower print, pleated skirt and a white blouse hanging off of her left shoulder. Easy to see why Smith kept coming back.

  A few minutes later, she brought my eggs and sausage, with tomatoes and fry jacks on the side. I ate hungrily, then sat back and waited. I didn’t have to wait long. My satphone chirped an incoming message. It was from Chyrel and read, “Puerto Cortez, Honduras.”

  I left a twenty on the table and walked out the door. The next five days, he stayed just ahead of me. It seemed like he knew I was arriving and left just before I got there. I went 120 miles south to Honduras, then to Puerto Cabezas, Nicaragua, then almost 600 miles to Port Morant, Jamiaca. With only ten grand to his name and no access to his fortune, he would run out of money soon.

  It was late afternoon when I pulled up to the docks in Port Morant and got another text from Chyrel. “Tried to access account. Moving northeast now.”

  I fueled up and left Jamaica astern, heading toward the Windward Passage, a very busy shipping lane between Haiti and Cuba. Two hours later I received another text, “Cockburn Town.” I plotted the distance to the capital city of the Turks and Caicos on Grand Turk Island. Over 400 miles. I’d have to stay awake through the night, going through Windward Passage.

  I made Cockburn Town at 0200 and anchored in the shallow water on the west side of the island. I decided I’d catch a few hours of sleep and also avoid the overtime charge for customs.

  I awoke at 0600 and called the Harbor Master on channel 16. He directed me to the pleasure craft fuel dock on North Creek and said I could remain tied up there for 12 hours. I assured him I’d be long gone before then.

  I fueled up, paid the entry fee and cleared customs then started walking toward the Hispanic side of town. The official language of the Turks and Caicos is English, but there’s a lot of people that speak Creole and Spanish. By now, I’d gotten used to the kind of places Smith preferred. Little out of the way cantinas for drin
king, and tiny restaurants, where the tourists don’t go, for eating. He looked Hispanic and spoke fluent Spanish.

  I’d been just far enough behind him that I hadn’t seen what kind of boat he was using and so far, Chyrel hadn’t dug up anything. She hadn’t texted me that he was on the move again. So, I was pretty sure he was still here. Somewhere.

  I came to a small cantina set back down a narrow alley. The interior was dark, but the music coming from a radio and the pot of coffee on the burner told me they were open. I walked over to the bar and took a seat on a stool at the end. A moment later a large black man came out of the back.

  “Que quieres?” he asked with more of a growl than a voice.

  I looked him straight in the eye as I slid Smith’s picture slowly across the bar, with a twenty on top of it. “Cafe y informacion.”

  He poured a cup and set it in front of me then picked up the bill and the picture. He looked at it for only a second and said, “Si, he was here last night. A man running.”

  “Any idea where he’s staying?”

  “He is running from you, no? Estas con la policia?”

  I picked up the cup and took a drink of the thick, dark coffee before answering. “No, I’m not a cop.”

  A grin slowly came to his face. “I tink dis man might find big trouble today. Yes, I know where he stay.”

  I slid another twenty across the bar, but kept my hand on it. “He here ayer por la noche. Had drinks and ask about a cheap hotel. I send him to my cousin, she have rooms for rent.”

  “Donde esta la casa de su primo?” I asked. He studied me for a moment, wondering how much a threat I might be to anyone other than Smith. “I want only the man.”

  “Down the alley, senor. Casa roja a la derecha.”

  I removed my hand from the bill and picked up my coffee. I swallowed the last of it and said, “Gracias.”

  I left the bar and continued down the alley, looking for a red house on the right side. I found it five doors down. A sign in the window said there were rooms available in Spanish and English.