Zero Escape

by Kendall Talbot

  Charlene watched her leave and then turned back to the wall. A methodical approach was the only way to do this. So, she stepped up to number 1 and inserted her key.

  Lock after lock, she pushed in her key, and the hours drifted past slowly. The time for lunch slipped by. The only breaks she took were to use the bathroom. Louisa-Ann checked in on her every hour or so with offers of water and tea.

  Her back was aching, as were her fingers, when all of a sudden, the key fully entered a lock. She gasped. She’d been at it for so long, robotically moving from one to the next, that she’d begun to think it would never happen.

  Holding her breath, she turned the key, and the door popped open.

  She reached in and tugged out a metal container, similar in size to a shoebox. It wasn’t heavy, and with her hands on the cold metal, she carried it to the table. Using the same key, she unlocked the box. Her heart thumped in her neck as she peeled open the lid.

  Charlene froze.

  She’d imagined there’d be letters or photos, but never in a million years could she have guessed this.

  Chapter Seven

  It was days like today that had Marshall Crow hating his new career choice. Not that it was really a choice. If he did have a choice, he’d be back as a special warfare combatant, executing risky missions in treacherous environments. Working with his brothers.

  Life sucked like that. One minute, he was king shit, running his own game, getting respect from everyone around him. Next minute, his body packed in and told him to shove off.

  He could’ve handled being discharged because of injuries sustained during battle. Hell, he could’ve handled losing a few body parts in the process too. But to be forced to leave on account of his eyes—well, that was fucked up.

  The navy had done the right thing and offered him an office job. But that was no kind of life for him. Four walls and an oak desk. No, thank you! He was born to be on the ocean. Battling the wind and currents. Sea air had filled his lungs for as long as he could remember.

  That’s why he’d moved a few thousand miles south, bought his own boat, and started his charter fishing business.

  It wasn’t the same, though. There was no respect out here. His clients figured their cash meant they were in charge. Tourists, high on life and usually high on something else, were the worst customers.

  But that’s what he got for choosing Key West as his home . . . tourists.

  His navy pension, however, was barely enough to buy diesel. So as much as he detested the tourists, he needed them. And they seemed to be getting younger and younger. He was beginning to feel like an old man. Which was also fucked up, given he was only in his late thirties.

  He tried to ignore one of his customers barfing over the side as he showed his other customer how to put the pilchards on the hook for the third time. After helping the turkey to cast his line, Marshall went to the aid of the other guy.

  Thankfully turkey number two was no longer hurling chunks, but he was still leaning unsteadily over the railing and spitting into the wind. Marshall clapped him on the shoulder. “You alright there?”

  “Nope.”

  Based on the green tinge to the man’s lips, Marshall believed him. “Stay there. I’ll get some water.” Marshall didn’t feel sorry for him. He’d warned them both not to do the third round of tequila shots. But they were young. And stupid. So why would they listen to an old sea dog like him.

  Marshall slid down the seven steps to the lower deck, and just like every time he entered this space, he felt like he was home. Miss B Hayve was the love of his life. He’d bought the forty-six-foot cabin cruiser three years ago from a guy who had zero respect for her. She was in dire need of some TLC. Marshall had nursed her back to her former glory with his bare hands. In turn, she’d helped nurse him back to the real world.

  He’d been in murky waters before he got his shit together.

  Things were good now. Well . . . most of the time.

  He returned upstairs and handed the plastic cup to turkey number two. “Here you go. Just sip it.”

  “Oh, shit! I think I’ve got one.”

  Marshall spun to the other guy. His rod was flat-lining. He did indeed have one. Marshall strode across the bow. “Okay, this is it. Reel that sucker in.” He’d thought today was going to come up dry. But if the bend in that rod was anything to go by, then they were about to score big-time. Providing the stupid turkey could land it, that is. “Nice and easy. Just like I showed you.”

  “Jeez, it’s hard.” The man’s knuckles were bone white as he spun the handle.

  “Steady, mate.” Marshall tapped his shoulder. “You’ve got to coax it in or you’ll lose him.”

  Marshall reached over and showed the guy how to use the rod to its advantage.

  “That’s it. Ease back on the rod, wind him in.”

  He was a fast learner, tipping the odds away from the fish.

  Turkey number two joined their side. “Must be a big one.” His lips were no longer green.

  “I reckon it is.” Marshall agreed.

  Their grins showed how much they were enjoying the battle, and it was moments like this that made the vomiting and bitching all worth it. It’d taken Marshall five disastrous years to get over the blow life had dealt him. Five years of wallowing in alcohol-infused self-pity. But he’d dug himself out of that sewer pit, bought a shack on the beach and Miss B Hayve, and turned his life around. He tried to appreciate the good days. Sometimes those days weren’t even full days. They were just moments.

  When the blackfin tuna shot through the surface and the two turkeys screamed with joy, it was one of those moments.

  “Holy shit! Do you see the size of that thing?” The guy with the rod was grinning like he’d scored a touchdown.

  “Sure did. Don’t lose him. Keep your calm.”

  Minute after minute, pull after pull, the guy managed to fight the fish toward them. Marshall leaned over the side with the gaff, ready to ram the hook. “Nice and easy. Don’t blow it now.”

  The second the fish surfaced below him, Marshall hooked the tuna through the shoulder and hauled it onto the boat.

  “Holy shit!” His customers whooped. “How big is it?”

  “About a thirty-pounder.” Marshall was impressed.

  The guys clapped each other on their backs, their seasickness and hours of impatient bitching long forgotten.

  “Pick it up, fellas,” Marshall said. “I’ll take a few photos.”

  The men manhandled the fish into their arms, and Marshall took about a dozen shots. This last half hour of exhilaration made the first four hours of the charter worth it.

  “Alright, shall we head into shore?” he suggested.

  “Shit, yeah, I need a beer.” Turkey number two was obviously over his sea sickness.

  Marshall left them to take more photos and climbed up to the flybridge. They were forty-five miles off shore, and he guessed they’d pull into the harbor at about four o’clock, just in time to beat the rush at Pirate Cove. Not that there was ever a rush. If there were more than two dozen people in there, he’d walk right back out again.

  The turkeys were much happier on the journey home than they’d been on the journey out, and despite himself, Marshall enjoyed chatting with them about their travels. He was surprised to learn that the thirty-one-year-olds had taken off after Hurricane Katrina had robbed them of their jobs at a theme park in New Orleans. But the pair had bounced back by wandering the world for over a decade, stopping at whatever town offered work or adventure. Or both.

  Marshall fought a pang of jealousy as they rattled off some of the things they’d done.

  By the time Marshall was their age, he’d already served fifteen years in the navy and was working his way up to become a navy seal. He’d seen a fair whack of the world too. But not like they had. Some of the rat-infested hovels he’d been to would be better served being wiped from the face of the earth.

  His mind flashed to the horrors he was forced to work throug
h after the Indian Ocean tsunami. He’d rather have been in a war zone than lived through some of that shit. The kids were the worst. Fragile, innocent children who’d lost every single thing they knew. Their homes. Their families. Their friends. Even the clothes on their back. And the navy was supposed to help. It’d been impossible to know where to start.

  He cast the horrid memories aside and concentrated on his customers retelling of their trek through Peru. Yep . . . he was jealous.

  After arriving at the marina, he saw the two guys off with their prize catch filleted and bagged into meal-sized portions. Then he set about cleaning his baby. He hosed the deck, eradicating all traces of blood and sea water, paying particular attention to the side the fool had puked over. Marshall washed the dishes and filleting gear, and sorted the fishing tackle. Then he packed up his day bag and locked up the cabin.

  The sun was still blazing high on the western horizon when he jumped onto the wharf and aimed for his favorite drinking hole. Pirate Cove had seen better days. The décor was tired, and it smelled of stale ale and Cuban cigars. But that’s exactly why he liked it. You didn’t pay for posh glasses, and there wasn’t one fancy money-grabbing cocktail on the menu. Not that he’d order one anyway. Marshall came for the homemade lemonade and the relaxing atmosphere.

  “Look who the cat dragged in.” The barman greeted him with a grin and a sturdy handshake.

  “Hey, Red, how’s the day?”

  “Same as every other day.”

  Marshall placed a zip lock bag on the counter. “All yours.”

  “Hey, thanks, man. What’ve we got?”

  “Blackfin tuna. Ready for tonight’s sushi.” The turkeys wouldn’t miss the small portion Marshall had carved off for Red and his missus. Besides, they had enough to feed themselves for a week or more.

  “Nice. Shona’s going to love you.” Red was referring to his wife of thirty-one years.

  “She already loves me.” Marshall shot Red a cheeky grin.

  “Ain’t that the truth. When you gonna come around for dinner?” Red and his wife were as homey as the Waltons and notorious for feeding random people like they were stray cats. Red asked him to dinner nearly every time he graced the bar.

  “Next time. I promise.”

  “Yeah. Yeah.”

  Truth was, Marshall was beyond embarrassed by what Shona had seen of him. He’d made a mess of himself a few too many times and woken to find that Shona had cleaned him up. Shona wasn’t judgmental. Neither was Red. But he couldn’t forgive himself for what he’d put them through, and the damage was done. Every time he saw her, he was reminded of those dark times and the people he’d hurt. It was better that Red told her how good he was doing now.

  And he was doing good. Three years, six months, and eighteen days sober. And it was getting easier each day.

  Red didn’t ask for Marshall’s order. He already knew . . . lemonade and the best darn smoky barbeque ribs in America. And Marshall would know; he’d sampled the American staple in more places than he could count.

  Marshall eased onto his favorite bar stool and huffed out a big sigh. This was living.

  The music was subtle enough that he could hear the conversations from the dozen or so patrons dotted around the tavern. One of his pet hates was places that insisted on drowning out conversation with thumping music. If you asked him, the art of conversation was being outweighed by too many distractions. Music needn’t be one of them.

  His lemonade arrived, along with Red’s genuine smile. “How many victims did you have today?”

  Marshall huffed. “Two young guys. Had no idea what they were doing. One guy spent most of his time feeding the fish.”

  Red rolled his eyes. “Know that feeling.”

  Marshall had never experienced seasickness himself. But he’d seen it enough in his life to know that it was a type of hell. He’d love nothing more than to take Red out on his baby and show him a good day fishing. But it wasn’t to be. They’d have to settle for good old conversation over the bar. Which was fine with him too.

  Red shifted away to serve a couple of young blondes who’d entered the bar.

  The occasional tourist managed to find their way into Pirate Cove. Marshall didn’t blame them. The bar probably had the best view in all of Key West. But it wasn’t your typical tourist destination, so they rarely stayed long. He’d never seen these women before, so he pegged them as tourists, which meant they’d probably be leaving right after this first drink. Pity . . . they were nice to look at.

  Marshall didn’t get up close and personal with many women these days. He’d been in love once, but that was a whole other life time ago. But he still saw Leyna and her folks each time he went to Cuba, and it was nice to know Leyna had moved on from their failed engagement.

  The blondes took their glasses of wine and sat at one of the bar tables at the full-length windows overlooking the ocean. In the distance, a fleet of trawlers was making its way out to sea, no doubt hopeful for a lucrative evening haul.

  From his vantage point, Marshall could take in the lovely tourists, the ocean, and the front door, and via the mirror behind the bar, he could see just about every other aspect of the tavern. Exactly how he liked it.

  His smoky barbeque ribs arrived, and Marshall didn’t miss the glances from all the other patrons. The smell alone was enough to have people lining up to order their own serving. Once, when Red had drunk too many Havana rums, he’d told Marshall his secret. Both sweet and smoked paprika, and good old Basil Hayden’s Kentucky whiskey. But the final key to his best ribs was in the cooking. Eight hours in Red’s homemade smoker and basting every half hour with his thick hickory sauce was the trick.

  It was a labor of love for Red. Yet it paid off. He usually sold out each night, and the locals always came back for more.

  Marshall’s current nemesis, Warren McVie, stood up from the corner of the room, and when he licked his fingers and slicked his greasy hair over his ears, Marshall groaned. He knew what was coming . . . trouble. Trouble had a way of following Marshall. And it seemed the more he tried to avoid it, the more it snaked its way toward him.

  Warren’s exaggerated saunter confirmed he’d started his drinking early today. Marshall had already had a few run-ins with Warren, given that the two of them were competing for the same clientele. But Warren was a cowboy, and his shifty eyes and greedy palms were his downfall. Tourists, no matter how naïve, usually saw through his scheming techniques.

  Marshall gnawed the meat from a bone, licked his fingers, and reluctantly wiped the rest of the tasty sauce on his napkin. As much as he was enjoying the feast, he had no doubt he’d be needing his hands pretty soon.

  Warren eased up to the two women and must’ve missed the cringes on their faces, because his dumb grin remained. “Hey, ladies, how’re you enjoying our view?”

  “Well, it was good, until this second.” They giggled.

  Clearly Warren didn’t get the hint, because he placed his arm around the back of one woman as he leaned on her chair and tilted toward them. “I could show you lovelies around town if you like.”

  “No, thanks.” The taller blonde’s answer was swift.

  “Oh, come on, it’ll be fun.” Warren did some weird hip-thrusting thing that had both the girls easing back.

  Marshall couldn’t hold back a moment longer. “Leave ’em alone, Warren.”

  Warren glared at him. “Stay out of it, Crow.”

  “The ladies said no.”

  The blondes were looking at him now, and Marshall couldn’t tell if they were nervous or pleased with his assistance. But he was involved now, so if Warren didn’t back off, Marshall would have to make him. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  Warren turned back to the women. “Can I at least buy you a drink?”

  “No, thanks. We’re fine.”

  “It’s just a drink.”

  For fifteen-odd years, Marshall had been assessing situations for possible danger or harm to others. He never thought his skills would
come in handy once he was dismissed from the navy. But they did, more often than he’d ever thought possible. When trouble followed him, it usually ended in blood. And not normally his, though that didn’t worry him either. “Warren. Fuck off and leave ’em alone.” Marshall stood, showing Warren he meant business.

  Warren had never learned when to back down. And when he turned and squared off, Marshall sighed. He tried to portray annoyance at Warren’s decision, but in reality, he didn’t mind getting his hands dirty when the reason was right.

  Out the corner of his eye, Marshall saw two things. One was Red moving closer to the situation, although Marshall assumed it was only so he had a better vantage point, not because he was worried. The other thing he saw were Ernie and Buck standing up from their booth at the back of the bar. Warren’s twin brothers were just as stupid as he was.

  Marshall pointed at the beauty-challenged siblings. “Stay out of it, you two.”

  “Why don’t you stay out of it, Crow?” Ernie barked across the room.

  “’Cause the ladies don’t want Warren’s attention.”

  “Well, let ’em tell him themselves.”

  Marshall resisted a chuckle at his stupidity. “They already did, dipshit.”

  Ernie clenched his fists and took another two steps forward. Marshall shook his head. Three on one would normally be a lopsided fight. But Marshall was six foot six, weighed two hundred and twenty pounds and had made a career of getting people to stand down. The closest these three had ever come to hand-to-hand combat was probably arm wrestling over who would pay for the last beer. Add to the mix that they were scrawny and undernourished and no doubt had a belly full of grog. The best decision for them would be to walk away.

  But they wouldn’t.

  Buck still had a gap in his mouth from where Marshall had knocked his tooth out a few months ago. It probably explained why he was easing in behind his twin.

  “Hey, guys, we just want a quiet drink, and then we’ll go. Okay?” The blonde closest to the door stood and eased back from the table with her drink in hand. Her friend, however, remained seated. When she lifted her glass and sipped her wine, she seemed quite comfortable with the trouble brewing around them.