This is a work of fiction. All events described are imaginary; all characters are entirely fictitious and are not intended to represent actual living persons.
Copyright © 2021 by Nick Sullivan
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without express written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Cover design by Shayne Rutherford of Wicked Good Book Covers
Cover photo by Martonio Paleka, photographer in Split, Croatia
Copy editing by Marsha Zinberg of The Write Touch
Proofreading by Gretchen Tannert Douglas and Forest Olivier
Interior Design and Typesetting by Colleen Sheehan of Ampersand Book Interiors
Original maps of Cozumel & W. Caribbean by Rainer Lesniewski/Shutterstock.com
ISBN: 978-0-9978132-6-5
Published by Wild Yonder Press
www.WildYonderPress.com
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Map 1
Map 2
Dedication
Author's Note
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
The Deep Series
Afterword
About the Author
To Dawn Snow of the Caradonna Adventures travel agency. You booked my first dive trip ever… and the majority of the ones that followed. Thank you for introducing me to new worlds, both above and below the water.
In Memoriam
Dawn “Shelley” Snow—March 18, 2020.
I conceived the guts and bones of this story while writing my previous book, Deep Roots—before the arrival of covid-19 and the unparalleled disruption it has brought to all of our lives. As you might guess, the virus has greatly affected the travel and diving industry. Many of the places I base my books around will look very different when I return.
When I sat down to write Deep Devil, it didn’t take long for me to decide that my fictional world would depart from the reality we now find ourselves in. For one thing, many of the events in this story could not take place in our current environment. For another, I’d like to think that one of the services I provide to you, the reader, is escape. And I, for one, hear enough about covid-19 during my day-to-day life. Boone and Emily will enjoy their lives in a world without this virus… and I hope you enjoy living it with them, if only for a while.
Nick Sullivan
August, 2020
“Anything biting, mister?”
The man in the multi-pocketed fishing vest looked up. “Nope. Slow night.” He played the line in the water before squinting at the kid beside him. “You’re out late.”
“Fishing pier’s open twenty-four hours.”
“Yeah, but you ain’t fishing. And you’re a bit young to be out here on your own at one in the morning.”
The teen shrugged. “I’m eighteen.”
The man laughed, reeling the line in a few yards. “No, you’re not.”
The youth was sixteen, at best—more likely less. There was enough light spilling from the nearly empty pier parking lot to make that crystal clear. The Sunshine Skyway Fishing Pier was actually two separate piers that ran along the western flank of the Sunshine Skyway Memorial Bridge. Situated at either end, the piers were the remnants of the approaches to the original bridge, which had been destroyed in 1980, when a freighter had struck a support during a sudden storm. High above the fishing piers, the four-mile expanse of the new bridge rose above Tampa Bay, connecting St. Petersburg to the north with the suburbs of Sarasota to the south. This southern span of the fishing pier was quite a ways from any residential areas.
The fisherman eyed the kid. “How’d you get down here?”
“Bicycle. That’s a cool tattoo. You in the army or something?”
“Retired.”
“Thank you for your service.”
“Thank you for your thank you. Now run along home.”
“Nah, it’s boring there. What’s in your ear?”
The man adjusted his fishing cap, adorned with a spare hook and several iron-on patches. “Earbud. I like to listen to audiobooks when I fish.” Unseen by the youth, the man dropped a hand to his side and waggled it in the direction of the nearby bait shack, a “closed” sign hanging across its door.
“What’re you listening to?”
“Harry Fuckin’ Potter.”
“Really?”
“No.”
A throat cleared behind them. “Hey, kid… your parents know you’re down here?”
The fisherman turned and tipped his head in acknowledgment of the newcomer, a fit-looking young man in an orange reflective vest.
The teen squared his bony shoulders. “Who wants to know?”
“A Florida State employee who’s gonna have the cops call your parents if you don’t head on home.”
“Okay, jeez, I’m going.” The kid grabbed his bicycle, which was leaning nearby. As he slung a leg over his bike, he paused, looking at the newcomer. “You listen to audiobooks, too?”
“Beat it.”
As the kid wheeled away toward the southeast, the fisherman reeled in his line. There was no bait on the hook. “Thanks, Baker. If that pipsqueak asked me one more question…”
“Handled it like a pro, Angler,” a voice said over the earpieces. Both men heard it, the speech distorted by some form of voice changer.
Baker snorted. “Yeah, you had a real ‘get-off-my-lawn’ vibe going there, grandpa.”
“I’m thirty-nine, you drummed-out bullet sponge.”
“Can the chatter. Target is two and a half clicks out, just increased to ten knots. Saddle up.”
“Roger,” the fisherman said to the air, hefting the rod and a nearby bait box. Handing the fishing gear to Baker, he crossed the parking lot beside the darkened bait shop, thumping the wall twice with his fist as he passed, before heading for a black Chevy Tahoe with tinted windows. Behind him, the door to the shop opened and four figures moved smoothly toward the suv. One was dressed in Florida casual, but the remaining trio were most decidedly not, their silhouettes black-clad and bulky in the dim light.
Twenty yards away, Baker tossed the fishing gear into the back of an official-looking Florida Department of Transportation pickup. A close inspection might reveal that the fdot labels on its white flanks were magnetic decals, but at this hour of the morning, Baker wasn’t worried. He hopped into the truck, putting it in gear and heading for the on-ramp that would lead to the southern bank of the bridge. Two miles away, on the north Sunshine Skyway fishing pier, a similar truck would be making its way to the other side.
The fisherman, call sign “Angler,” slid into the passenger side of the Tahoe and exchanged his fishing vest for a black tactical one, its pockets contai
ning no jigs, hooks, or spare line. Instead, it was packed with spare magazines, electronics, and inset ballistic plates. Angler swung his legs outside the suv to slide portions of a harness into place on his thighs before seating himself and closing the door. The other doors opened, and two men and a woman joined him, the man in plain clothes cramming into the rear.
“Let’s get this show on the street,” the black-clad driver said in a thick Russian accent.
“It’s ‘road,’ borscht-for-brains,” the woman in the rear quipped. The lanky man beside her brayed a loud, equine laugh just as their earpieces crackled.
“Pipe down, Stallion!” the fisherman barked. That guy’s laugh is inhuman. Indeed, with those bulging eyes, Angler wondered if there wasn’t some frog in the man’s dna. “Say again, Palantir.” God, he hated these stupid call-signs. He knew “Palantir” had something to do with Lord of the Rings, an all-seeing crystal ball the evil wizard had… but why not just go with “Eagle Eye,” instead of something some mom’s-basement-dwelling nerd would dredge up.
“Target is inside of two klicks. And I see you’re still stationary.” The last sentence may have held a hint of disapproval, but the electronic distortion made it hard to tell.
Angler smacked the driver on the arm. “Tolstoy, you wanted to drive, so drive!”
“Pedal to the steel!” the Russian crowed, and the suv lurched forward, heading for the southern end of the bridge. As they reached the shore, Tolstoy swung left under the overpass of the bridge, turning onto the service road that ran alongside the Manatee County Rest Area before feeding back onto the bridge on the northbound side.
Ahead, the fdot truck was parked on the shoulder and the suv flashed past it. Angler glanced down at the Tahoe’s passenger-side mirror and watched as the truck’s orange roof lights flashed to life. It followed them to the bridge before turning broadside across the roadway and coming to a stop. Road flares sparked as Baker got out and blocked off the northbound lanes. If all was going according to plan, the second doctored truck would be doing the same on the other side of the bridge. If questioned, they were there because a horse had somehow made its way onto the bridge and they were closing it off until they could catch it. Once the team had completed their task, the bridge would be reopened, leaving no trace behind.
“Bridge is sealed. cctv feeds disabled. Four minutes.”
“Roger.” A black bag was handed forward and Angler took it, swiftly opening the zipper along the side and checking the safety on the compact H&K sp5 submachine gun within. Satisfied, he strapped the bag containing the compact weapon across his chest before retrieving a pair of gloves from a breast pocket and pulling them on.
“Three minutes.”
“Check harnesses,” Angler rumbled. Clinks and clicks filled the interior of the suv as the team adjusted lightweight harnesses, ensuring everything was secure. Glancing out the window toward the waters of Tampa Bay, Angler could see a majestic ship approaching the bridge. Nowhere near the size of the newer, gargantuan cruise ships operated by the major cruise lines, this vessel was still substantial, almost a cross between a mega-yacht and a smaller cruise ship. Just as well: this bridge only had 180 feet of clearance, and the larger cruise ships couldn’t pass beneath it.
“Helmet.” A hand came forward, holding a lightweight helmet with night-vision goggles mounted above the brow.
Angler took it and strapped it on. Overhead, the greenish glow of the bridge’s nighttime lighting shone on the support cables as they reached the apex of the span. Angler flipped down the optics, exchanging one eerie glow for another.
“Two minutes.”
The Tahoe skidded to a stop. In seconds, the four figures in combat gear spilled out and vaulted the concrete barrier that separated the northbound lanes from the southbound, moving low as they crossed, coils of rope in hand. Behind them, the man in the T-shirt exited the still-running truck and followed, standing by to retrieve their rappelling gear.
“Hook up,” Angler said, leading the group to the pre-selected spots where they would attach their rappelling ropes, splitting into pairs and lining up on either side of a red crisis-counseling phone mounted at the edge. The Sunshine Skyway Bridge had an infamous reputation that belied its sunny name: it was a popular spot for suicides. The Florida Department of Transportation had begun preparations to implement the Skyway Vertical Net, a barrier to prevent jumpers, by extending a net eight feet out from the center span. This would have made their current plan impossible, but construction had moved with the glacial speed of any government project, and only the initial stages had been installed. Ironically, the very thing that would eventually prevent jumpers now assisted them: the sturdy framework for the nonexistent netting made an ideal place to attach their primary carabiners.
“One minute. Descend to hold point.”
“Roger. Descending.”
As one, the group glided down to the base of the bridge and waited.
Now came the moment that Angler was most nervous about. They’d drilled this step the best they could, using an old railroad trestle as a stand-in for the bridge and a flat-bed semi driving underneath to simulate the boat. He wasn’t worried about their execution; it was the fact that the timing depended on someone who named himself “Palantir.”
“Ten seconds.”
Below their boots, a glow shone across the surface of the bay. A moment later, the sleek bow of the ship slid into view… then the foredeck… the roof of the bridge with a bulbous radar mast, and then…
“Now. Now. Now.”
With a near-silent whisper of rope against metal, the four figures glided downward, only an occasional application of their belaying devices needed to bring them down smoothly. They all landed on their feet atop the helicopter landing pad, situated behind the hangar nestled aft of the bridge. Swiftly detaching lines from harnesses, they moved in a low crouch, heading for a single pulsing light inside the hangar, an infrared strobe that their contact had left for them. Invisible to the naked eye, it winked on and off in their night-vision goggles. Much of the interior was occupied by an Airbus ach160, its rotor blades folded for storage.
“Hangar’s clear,” Angler whispered.
“Good. Wait one. Incoming.”
A buzzing sound approached and after a minute, four glowing pinpoints of red light came into view, a dark shape slowing to a hover near the hangar entrance. A small quad-rotor drone slowly sank to the deck, gently bumping onto its skids.
“Fetch the drone. Pocket the strobe. Enter the maintenance locker on the left.”
“Roger. Stallion, get the drone. Potluck, strobe.” As the woman on the team retrieved the flashing device from under the tail boom of the helicopter, one of the other men lifted the drone. Angler swung a metal door open and slipped into a small workroom, the others on his heels. “We’re in.”
“Excellent work, Angler. You should see four suitcases at the stern end.”
“Affirmative.”
“Each has a sticker with the first letter of your call sign and suitable attire inside. Put your gear into each suitcase and wait. At 0300, I will direct you to where you’ll be staying for the next few days.”
“Better ’n’ this, I hope,” Stallion muttered, looking around the cramped space, the scent of lubricating oil hanging in the air.
Palantir’s electronic voice barked a laugh. “There’s a very select passenger list for the maiden voyage of this ship, and half the rooms are unoccupied. Our employer has given you one of the best suites.”
“Is hot tub?” Tolstoy inquired hopefully.
“And more. Be sure to enjoy it all. After the payoff we’ll be getting for this gig, you’ll all acquire a taste for the finer things.”
“Just keep Tolstoy out of the mini-bar,” Potluck warned in her upper midwestern twang.
“I’m afraid that’s one amenity you won’t be able to avail yourself of. Our employe
r has locked up the in-suite bar.”
Tolstoy groaned, then winked at Angler, patting a pocket on his tactical vest as he unzipped it.
Angler laughed as he began stripping off his own gear. In addition to his hacking abilities, Tolstoy was also an expert lockpick.
As the team stowed their gear and donned fashionable attire, the 542-foot giga-yacht Apollo sailed into the night, bound for its first port-of-call, 507 nautical miles to the southwest.
Cozumel, Quintana Roo, Mexico.
8:00 am Central Standard Time
“I think we’re gaining on them!”
The excited tourist from Kansas was squinting toward the south. In the distance, a small dive boat was churning up an impressive wake.
“We’ll get there first, Greg, don’t you worry.” Boone Fischer sat in a half-sprawl across the portside bench on the flybridge, calmly plucking another slice from a half-consumed orange and popping it into his mouth. “Em’s not even at full throttle.”
Emily Durand glanced back from the flybridge wheel and gave Boone a shining grin, wind-blown locks of blonde hair tickling the top of her bright green sunglasses.
Cecilia, Greg’s dive buddy, pointed off the port bow. “But their boat is… I dunno… so much sleeker!”
Boone chuckled. “This boat’s blessed with inner beauty.” Admittedly, the Lunasea didn’t seem like the kind of vessel that could pour on the knots. A 38-foot Delta Canaveral, she was designed for an easy, stable ride at cruising speed, but unlike most boats of her type, she had a bit more under the proverbial hood. Originally named the Alhambra, her dive op in the Honduran Bay Islands had been a front for a local cartel, who used her and her sister ship to smuggle drugs in the area. When a failed run resulted in her capture by the Honduran Navy, the Alhambra changed hands again at a police auction in La Ceiba. After her second police seizure—this time in Belize—she had been gifted to Boone and Emily for their assistance in the retrieval of a priceless Mayan artifact, the jade bust of Ix Chel. Along with the boat had come a sizeable amount of money.
Greg bit his lip. “So, he’s not gonna beat us to Maracaibo?”
Deep Devil (The Deep Book 4) Page 1
