Bermuda Conspiracy

by K D McNiven

  “All aside,” Dax said. “When are they going to spring you?”

  “Maybe tomorrow,” Brock replied. “If not, I’m going to abscond some nurses clothing and sneak out the backdoor.”

  “Now that would be a sight!” Dax chuckled, humor crossing his face. “I’ll be interested to find out what forensics has to say about the gun we recovered.”

  “You and me both.”

  “I’m also curious why the shooter happened to be on the docks?” Dax said. “Seems risky to return when you’re being hunted down.”

  “Crossed my mind as well.”

  “I caught a good look at the shooter,” Dax said. “Unfortunately, he got a look at me as well.”

  “Over in my briefcase is a notepad and pencil,” Brock said, pointing one of his fingers in the direction of his leather case that one of his co-workers had brought him earlier. “Do you think you can sketch the man?”

  “I can’t say I’m the best artist. In fact, stick men are my specialty,” confessed Dax with a short laugh. “But I’ll give it a stab.”

  Dax turned around in the chair, walked across the room and pulled out the pad from the case. He set the paper on the dinner tray next to the bed and closed his eyes contemplatively as if reconstructing the face of the man he had glimpsed. Taking his time, he began to sketch the features he’d retained. What he remembered most were those cold, dark eyes—like daggers driving right through him. Lastly, he recalled the jet-black hair, cut into a flat-top and a square, expressionless face with a scar across his right cheekbone.

  After an hour of erasing and drawing, he came up with a reasonable likeness. As Dax studied the features, his blood ran cold. Their eyes had only met for a fleeting moment, and yet Dax had caught the emotionless, detached, shell of a man lying below the surface. Anger boiled inside of him while he reflected on the five men who had been assassinated, the sixth corpse still to be determined. If nothing else, he hoped his drawing, crude as it was, would help bring the terrorists to justice.

  “I don’t recognize him,” Brock said after examining the sketch. “I’ll run it through our database at the station and see what we come up with.”

  “If there’s some way I’m able to help, give me a buzz,” Dax said, swinging his leg from the chair and standing up. “I’ll hang out for a few days just in case.”

  “Appreciate it,” Brock replied. As Decker and Dax made their way toward the door, Brock added, “watch your back. I have a suspicion this isn’t over yet.”

  Dax threw a look over his shoulder. “You too, Detective.”

  Decker and Dax left Brock’s bedside and strode out into the hot, damp air. It was February and Decker was dressed in his khaki shorts, bright blue Hawaiian shirt, and sandals. Even though it was springtime, the temperature had climbed to the high eighties. He passed a side-glance at Dax, dressed in his blue jeans, dark gray T-shirt and black-leather Doc Martin boots, who looked perfectly cool in spite of the heat. Decker chalked it up to the fact Dax had grown up in Australian and had lived in Florida for several years. Undoubtedly, he’d acclimated to triple-digit temperatures.

  Dax saw beads of sweat on Decker’s brow and chuckled. “I’ll have to buy you one of those Japanese hand fans, mate.”

  “Desperation wins over pride. I’ll take it.”

  When they hopped into the rental jeep, Decker was happy to have the top off. The breeze rushing across his face helped cool him down. They drove along Read Boulevard and onto St. Charles Avenue and hadn’t gone far when they heard an ear-shattering explosion. The blast caused the jeep to vault into the air and upon impact, the force rolled it onto its side. Sparks flew all around them as the vehicle skidded across the asphalt road. A loud shriek of tearing metal resounded as it slammed into a street lamp. The post leaned precariously and then toppled over crushing the side, missing Dax’s head by mere inches.

  “What the bloody hell!” Dax said, surprise ringing in his voice. He looked around to see several cars had gone off the road as well.

  The smell of gasoline burned in their nostrils. They noticed the tank had ruptured and gas fanned out onto the road and pooled around them. Alarmed, Decker and Dax released their seatbelts and on hands and knees, they crawled out of the frame, hustled across the street in the nick of time. A spark ignited the gasoline and a violent boom followed. The rental burst into a fireball, smoke belching as the flames licked through the cab. The concentrated blast lifted them off the ground and hurled them into the air. They landed roughly onto the cement parking lot, the heat from the blast searing their clothes.

  Decker groaned the wind knocked out of him. He looked on mortified at the havoc surrounding them. Bright red embers rained through the blackened sky, seeming to devour them. Screams came from every direction—people running wildly like a shotgun blast; faces black with soot.

  “You okay?” he asked Dax, the smoke scorching his throat.

  A trickle of blood meandered down Dax’s cheek from a cut above his eyebrow and his ribs felt bruised. Aside from that, he appeared to be all right. He nodded and fell into a wracking cough.

  Decker pulled his gun from the shoulder holster not knowing what to expect. Trying to make sense out of what had happened, they scrambled to their feet and dashed across the lot. Ahead of them was the Orleans Royal Casino engulfed in flames, and in the distance, they heard the wail of sirens heading toward them.

  “This is unbelievable!” Dax choked, pulling out a handkerchief from his back pocket and covering his mouth to filter out the soot floating through the air.

  The two of them edged their way diagonally across the parking lot near the casino. It looked like a war zone. Cars were charred, some still on fire, glowing embers spiraled around them, searing their flesh as they hurried toward the casino.

  Unexpectedly, two more explosions erupted, and the ground rocked beneath their feet, the impact throwing them to the ground yet again. More shrieks followed and more chaos ensued. It was difficult to see through the thick curtain of smoke and the heat was nearly unbearable.

  “What gives? This is a nightmare!” Decker choked out, his throat on fire.

  “It looks like New Orleans is being targeted. First the tug boat. Now, this.”

  “Stay low. Hard to say who’s responsible and if they’re still hanging around here.”

  They lay prostrate for a few minutes to recover when they spotted two men dressed in jeans and black stocking caps pulled over their head. They were running madly in an attempt to distance themselves from the mayhem. One of them carried a large duffle bag, the other supported an assault rifle. The man holding the duffle bag had the same physique as the man Dax had seen on the docks the day Brock was shot. Dax strained to distinguish something recognizable to confirm he was one and the same. But other than the man’s build, Dax couldn’t pinpoint anything specific.

  Decker scrambled to his feet. Crouching low, he moved in their direction, Dax close at his heels. They slipped around a few of the vehicles for protection, trying not to lose sight of the two men, their lungs burning from the concentration of fumes.

  Fire trucks were already on the scene, dragging hoses across the lot to extinguish the raging casino fire. Ambulances squealed around the corner. Police and SWAT teams encircled the perimeter. The sound of collapsing walls and the wail of sirens was nearly deafening.

  Decker stopped short when he spotted a man stretched out on the asphalt. He rushed over and knelt beside him. The man’s face was bloodied and placing his index finger on the man’s throat, he didn’t feel a pulse. His face darkened, and anger surged through him. Not wanting the two men to get away, Decker scrambled to his feet and sprinted across the lot toward the road.

  The man with the gun glimpsed Decker and Dax racing up from behind. He pivoted, planted his feet, and squeezed off a round of ammunition in their direction. Decker and Dax hit the pavement, rolled behind a burned-out car, bullets tattooing the metal.

  Decker trained his gun and capped off several shots but the men q
uickly disappeared around the corner of one of the buildings. “Doing okay, Dax?”

  “Will be when we catch the buggars!”

  They battled to their feet and rushed in the direction where the men had fled. Once they reached the street, they heard the screeching of tires, turned and saw a black Buick barreling straight for them at breakneck speed. When the car was nearly on them, they leaped to the side, tumbled to the ground, and narrowly escaped being a permanent fixture on their front bumper.

  Decker squeezed off four rounds into the trunk of the vehicle as it sped out of sight. He cursed under his breath, agitated they had gotten away. At least he’d managed to catch the First two letters off of the license plates—TW. In all likelihood, they would find the vehicle was rented or stolen but either way, it was something to go on.

  A bit unsteady, they managed to get to their feet and brushed off their clothes, torn and blackened with soot. Glancing over at the jeep they saw it was fully decimated. Dax inhaled deeply and looked at Decker.

  “Don’t think the rental service is going to like the looks of the jeep, mate.”

  “I’m sure they’ll take into account the circumstances,” Decker said and slapped Dax on the back.

  They headed toward the casino, now engulfed with fire. Sparks and ashes floated through the air, making it difficult to breathe. The seven-story high-rise had flames shooting out of the windows, and by the appearance of the structure, there wouldn’t be much left to salvage.

  When Decker and Dax got to the front of the building, they saw numerous people stretched out on the ground with EMTs leaning over them. Several gurneys were being shoved into the transport vehicles, and all along the front, were puddles of blood. Off to the side, the police had already begun conducting their investigation, interviewing whoever was available.

  The SWAT team had arrived and were fanning out around the premises looking for those responsible and trying to secure the area.

  “Hey!” a loud voice shouted.

  Decker turned around to see a security guard rushing toward them, gun drawn.

  “What are you two doing here?”

  “We were driving by when the casino exploded,” Decker said, pointing his finger toward the street, then added, “Our car was a victim of the blast. It’s demolished as you can see. We were headed over to see what happened when we spotted two men on the back lot wearing black stocking caps. One of the men carried a duffle bag. The other man, an automatic weapon. We tried to chase them down, but they managed to get away.”

  “You need to speak with the NOPD,” he said.

  “Where we’re going,” replied Decker.

  Taking one of the officers aside, Decker and Dax filled them in on the details. The policeman was thorough as he tossed out one question after another and asked them to remain in New Orleans until they could gather further information. He also informed them the FBI would contact them as well.

  “I think I’d better call Callie and have her come pick us up,” Decker told Dax once they had finished up with the police. “I’m sure they saw the explosion from the Shark Eater.”

  “I have a gut feeling this act of terrorism was spawned by the same people who assassinated those men on the tug boat.”

  Decker’s brows raised. “A real possibility. I hope they catch them before something else horrific happens.”

  Several black vehicles screeched around the corner, pulling up alongside the curb. Three to four men in each of the cars lunged from the interior and took to the sidewalk where the local police department was interrogating those who had been guests at the casino.

  Decker saw the flashes of badges being shown to the NOPD and was aware these men were the FBI-led Joint Terrorism Task Force operatives, who worked with several agencies to tackle homeland terrorist acts. Decker had already concluded he and Dax would be called in for interviews because of their close proximity to the bombing, as well as Dax’s involvement with the sunken tugboat.

  Through the concentration of smoke, they saw the silhouette of a man rushing toward them, one hand flagging in the air. Surprise marked their faces when they realized the person was none other than Detective Brock, his other arm secured in a sling. He had a brown Panama hat patted down on his gray hair, his face stubbled with two days growth.

  “What the devil…” Dax said, his brows arching. He wondered how he managed to get released from the hospital so quickly. “I thought they were keeping you for a couple more days?”

  He shrugged. “I heard the explosion, and there was no way I was going to stay stretched out on a hospital bed while the city was being terrorized.”

  “No. I wouldn’t imagine you could.”

  “So, fill me in?” Brock said, coughing from the smoke.

  “Apparently someone set off a bomb,” Dax replied.

  “Looks like more than one!” Brock said, viewing the damage.

  “We spotted two men in the back lot right after it happened,” Decker said. “One of them was carrying a bag, the other a gun, which he decided to turn on us when we pursued them.”

  “Did you get any information?”

  “The car they’re driving is a dark Buick. The First two letters off the license plate are TW,” Decker replied. “Can’t tell you much more than that since they wore face masks.”

  “There was something unusual about one of the men—his demeanor caught my eye,” Dax said. “I’d swear it was the same guy who took pot shots at us on the dock.”

  Brock’s brows drew down into a frown. “Looks like we have more than one terrorist loose in the city. One man could not accomplish this alone, and I’m not going to wait around for the next event to occur. Let’s head over to headquarters and see what we can come up with. We have the sketch Dax drew, and the First two letters of the license plate. Not much to go on. I just need to connect a few dots.

  Chapter 10

  ⁂

  The Shark Eater, anchored close to shore, pitched violently when the explosion went off. Callie and Karina had been walking amidship at the time, both were thrown to the steel floor. Struggling back onto their feet, they stared in the direction of the Riverwalk, opposite from where they were, watching bright orange-red flames lick the sky. Tar-black smoke rolled across the Mississippi, floating eerily across the deck.

  “What do you think just happened?” Karina’s eye widened as she stared across the gap separating them from shore.

  “I’m not sure, but it looks like it might be the casino,” Callie replied. “Maybe a gas mine exploded. Why don’t we grab one of the guys and have him take us to shore? We’ll see what we can find out. Decker and Dax were close to that area visiting the detective.”

  Chase Vanderpool, one of the dive team who stood nearby offered to lower the side boat and take them to the docks, let them off and pick them back up when they were ready, his curiosity peaked. He wanted to find out what had caused the blast that had set even the Shark Eater to rocking. From where they were, it had sounded like a bomb detonating.

  Within a few minutes, they were scudding across the choppy waves, the wind hot against their faces. Callie drove into the city, the black smoke devouring them. She coughed several times and turned on the windshield wipers to brush aside the ash falling like rain. Her first calculation was correct. It was the casino. She had tried to call Decker’s cell phone a number of times but hadn’t been able to reach him. He and Dax had gone to the hospital a mere three blocks from the casino. She only hoped they weren’t caught up in the disaster.

  The scene was surreal, as they watched people running down the sidewalks and dozens of police cars whizzing by.

  “This is more than a little frightening,” Karina said, her head twisting every which way to determine what had happened.

  “I agree, Kat. I wish Decker would call me. I’m getting concerned.”

  Callie braked at the intersection as the light turned red. When the green light changed, she stepped on the gas, starting out into the intersection. From her peripheral vision, she c
aught sight of a vehicle accelerating through the stop light to their right. Before she could react, a loud crash blasted in her ears. The rental car lurched to the left, and the airbags exploded in their faces. She heard a cracking sound as Karina’s body slammed sharply to the right, her head striking the window. Panic overtook Callie when saw blood smeared on the passenger side glass.

  “Karina!” Callie yelled. Frantic, she flipped off the key and threw open the door. She felt like a thousand needles were driving into her neck. She gagged from the fumes as she struggled out of the car, and on weak legs, hurried to the other side.

  The front end of the black Buick was crushed, steam barreling out of the hood, and had fused with the side of their rental car. Dread filled her when she realized she wouldn’t be able to wrestle Karina out through the driver’s side. She had no other recourse other than wait for the paramedics to arrive.

  Flustered and on the verge of panic, she rushed over to the other vehicle as the passenger door flung open. A dark-skinned man stumbled out, a cut on his cheek and blood dripping off his chin. He staggered forward, momentarily dazed. Callie reached out to support his arm as another man climbed out from the driver’s side showing no visible signs of wounds.

  “Are you all right?” she asked the passenger, grabbing his arm to support him.

  He nodded, looking around nervously, but said nothing.

  Another passerby who had witnessed the accident pulled over to the curve and jumped out. “I’ve called for the police,” he said.

  Without warning, the passenger Callie had just helped pulled a gun from out of his jacket. Callie gasped when unexpectedly, he pistol-whipped the good Samaritan, who dropped to the pavement in a heap, blood pooling around him. No sooner had the man with the gun struck the good Samaritan, he turned and grabbed Callie’s arm in a vise grip, dragging her to the rescuer’s vehicle, which happened to be still running. He opened the back door of the man’s blue Chevy Impala and shoved Callie roughly onto the floorboards, climbing in behind her. The driver of the Buick who had slammed into Callie’s car nearly leaped into the driver’s seat. Closing the door quickly, he shifted down and roared off.