Fallen King: A Jesse McDermitt Novel (Caribbean Adventure Series Book 6) (18 page)

“You don’t know?” I asked.

He grinned and arched an eyebrow. “Not everything.”

“I have a charter on Friday, then my other daughter and her family are coming here on Saturday.”

“You might want to think about cancelling both,” Travis said. “At least until we get a handle on what we’re up against. I’m also going to contact the Secretary. Since this involves us, I’m going to suggest DHS take the lead. When he gives the green light, both teams will be ready to move into action.”

I thought about that a moment. With two antiterrorism teams to draw on, this could all be over very quickly. The group in my Friday charter were from a nonprofit organization that helps injured servicemen and women by remodeling homes and providing activities to acclimate them to civilian life. I’d hate to disappoint them, and few other charter boats could afford to do a charter for free.

“No, I’m not gonna cancel either one. The charter is through a service-related-injury nonprofit. Those guys have had enough disappointment. And this weekend will be the first time I’ve seen Eve in a long time and the first time I meet my grandson.”

“The daughter that’s married to the lawyer?”

“Yeah,” I replied. “Haven’t been in contact with him since that night a few months back.”

The truth is, I was looking forward to both the charter and the little family reunion and was hoping both went well.

“Let’s do this, then,” Stockwell said. “If we don’t have a good resolution to this Zoe Pound thing by Friday, you hire a couple more crewmen besides me. If need be, some
friends
might be spending the weekend at your
fish camp
when your family arrives.”

“Just how do you figure the Secretary can justify taking the lead?” I asked Travis. “The team is supposed to be deployed against terrorism.”

“There was a bit of a change in the CCC’s mission statement a few months ago. It hasn’t been overly publicized, but the CCC has been redesignated as a police force. Still to be called upon against known terrorist targets, but able to work freely on American soil. It happened a few weeks after the takedown in Key West.”

Stockwell was referring to the arrest of Dimitri Darchevsky last year, when about a dozen of the team’s spec ops people moved to take the Russian down after an assassination attempt on the President.

I sat back down at the table next to Travis. “Just how does a Miami gang being directed by a Croatian psychopath equal terrorism?”

“They’ve been using grenades, a weapon of mass destruction, right?” I nodded and he continued. “They’ve been dropping these grenades on fragile coral reefs, knowing you wouldn’t stand for it and would come out of what they perceived as you hiding.”

“I still don’t get the connection to terrorism,” I said.

“There are a number of types of terrorism. Those reefs are old and fragile, right?” I nodded again. “And pretty important to the environment, wouldn’t you say?”

“Environmental terrorists?”

“For lack of a better word, yes. Or ecoterrorists. Thousands of people come down here every year. This area depends on that environmental balance with tourism. I’m sure the Secretary will agree.”

“Do what you have to, Travis,” I said, standing up. “Bender and I will get the quarters ready.”

Setting up the bunkhouse wasn’t a difficult task. All the linens, blankets, and pillows were stored in a single closet in each bunkhouse. Kim would have a roommate for a while, but she and Chyrel got along well. Bender took care of the eastern bunkhouse for the men and while getting a bunk set up for Chyrel in the other bunkhouse, I thought about what Stockwell had said.

Reefs are very old. Most corals only add an inch or so a year to the hard calcium skeleton they live out their lives attached to. Individual polyps live only a couple of years and it takes thousands of them to create a formation that covers a single square foot of area.

They live mostly in warm shallow water, where their tiny tentacles gather microscopic food particles as they drift past the colony in the currents. The reefs are part of the reason the water in the Keys is so clear. The destruction of a small area of a reef, whether it’s by a grenade, a boat running aground, or just uneducated divers kicking the polyps with their fins or dragging equipment across them, takes many years to recover. Some never do, leaving behind the ghostly white skeleton most people think of when coral is mentioned.

I try to do everything I can to ensure the safety of not only my divers, but the environment they visit. I never allow heavy gloves and as long as the water temperature is above eighty degrees, I discourage the use of wet suits. Exposed bare skin usually keeps divers from touching anything.

After getting the bunkhouse set up, we didn’t have long to wait. Soon, the heavy beating of a helicopter flying low could be heard from the northeast.

Moments later, Charity gently settled the black Huey in the center of the clearing and as the whine of the engine subsided, the doors slid open.

Tony was out first, reaching back and grabbing his duffle and gear bags. Donnie Hinkle jumped out beside him, gear bags in hand, and the two men started walking toward us, Pescador trotting up to Tony for an ear scratch.

Hinkle is a former SEAL sniper, a lanky, dark-haired Australian with an odd sense of humor. He’s not really a loner, as Bender said. Shooters just have a different mindset and are usually the quiet type.

Art Newman and Andy Bourke came around the front of the chopper as Charity climbed out of the pilot’s seat. I first met Art and Tony the day I met Deuce a year and a half ago. They’d accompanied Deuce to find the place his dad wanted his ashes scattered. They were both with Deuce’s SEAL team at the time and about to transfer to DHS.

Art and Tony were both in their early thirties and Art was always ready with a quick joke. Like Deuce, he’d grown his hair since I last saw him and now wore it slicked back and tied in a ponytail. His short, powerful frame belied his catlike reflexes.

Andrew Bourke is the old man of the bunch. A former Senior Chief Petty Officer in the Coast Guard’s Maritime Enforcement, he drills the younger men and women in the team on small boat boarding tactics. The same age as me, he’s a bit shorter but the same weight, with broad shoulders, barrel chest, sandy blond hair and a bushy mustache. He has an easy way about him and can always be relied on in tough situations. Quiet most of the time, but when he speaks in his deep, rich baritone voice he gets people’s attention without having to raise it.

I shook each man’s hand in turn. I hadn’t seen Art in quite a while and he was amazed at the progress on the little island. Tony was quick to point out the aquaculture system and explained how it worked. Tony had spent a lot of time working on it with Carl. Noticing the many fruit trees growing around the edge of the perimeter, Art said, “You can damned near stay off the grid here.”

“That’s the idea,” I replied. “Y’all store your gear in the east bunkhouse. Hey, I thought Chyrel was coming with you.”

“She had to pack some electronic equipment,” Charity said. “She’s driving down and bringing her little boat. Should be here before dark.”

“Alright,” Stockwell said, “stow your gear and we’ll go over everything in a few minutes.”

Once the team had their gear put away, we gathered around the tables and Travis brought everyone up to speed on what was going on and who we were up against. When he was done, he read an email to the group from the Homeland Security Secretary, directing him to take charge of the investigation and bring those responsible for destroying the reefs into custody.

“Is there anything you’d like to add, Jesse?” Travis asked, when he’d finished the short briefing.

“My youngest daughter is living here with me now,” I began, glancing at my watch. “Should be back in less than an hour. She knows a good bit about what’s going on and I’ll fill her in on the rest. I hope this thing can be resolved quickly, because my other daughter and her family are due here on Saturday.”

“If we’re still here Saturday, mate,” Hinkle began in his lyrical Australian accent, “yer family won’t even notice.”

“What’s your assessment, Mister Bender,” Travis asked.

Bender stood up at the far end of the table. “Jesse was wrong about two things earlier,” he began. “If Tena Horvac has firm control of the gang’s leadership, she won’t wait until tomorrow. This is a woman who thrives on dangerous situations, and the prospect of losing a dozen or more of the gang’s lower ranks won’t dissuade her one little bit. They’ll move tonight. Also, from everything I’ve read and learned, she isn’t a psychopath, but a sociopath with Messalina complex tendencies, probably stemming from both physical and sexual abuse as an adolescent.”

“Messa what?” I asked.

“It’s a psychological disorder more commonly called nymphomania,” Bender replied.

Bourke suppressed a laugh, but Charity was unable. “Yeah,” she said, between snorts, “that describes Ettaleigh, alright.”

I stood up quickly. The laughter and grins disappeared. “What exactly do you base this opinion on?” I asked Bender.

“Sit down, Jesse,” Travis said. “He meant nothing personal. The rest of you, act professional here. Jesse, Paul has a degree in forensic psychology.”

I slowly sat back down. “Forensic psychology?”

“It’s the application of psychological techniques and principles to situations involving violations of the law that are criminal in nature and understanding the criminal mind,” Bender replied.

Bourke leaned over to me and said, “Think like a criminal.”

Late one night a few months ago, Bourke and I sat on the bridge of the
Revenge
, trying to fathom the reasoning behind why someone was trying to kill us. We agreed that we were just unable to think like a criminal. Bourke looked back to Bender and asked, “So you think they’ll attack here tonight?”

“If Deuce and the rest of the team don’t find them in Miami, yes, they will. And not according to any logical time table. Don’t try to determine cloud cover, moon phase, tide, or anything else. They’ll move as soon as they know their two men failed earlier today.”

The sound of two outboards approaching brought everyone to their feet, reaching for handguns. I recognized the sound of Charlie’s boat slowly approaching from the south, dodging the shallow sandbars and reef heads. The other one sounded like twin outboards, coming into Harbor Channel at the east end.

“Two boats,” I said. “The one coming from the south is Carl and Charlie, with their two kids. They’re about ten minutes out. The other might be a Monroe Sheriff’s patrol boat coming up Harbor Channel. Closer, less than five minutes. Donnie, grab your scope. You can see the channel from the waterline, just beyond the fire pit.”

Hinkle was gone in a flash and in seconds came out of the bunkhouse with his rifle uncased and slung over his shoulder. In seconds he disappeared into the mangroves on the northeast side of the clearing.

A tense moment later he returned, waving us off from the tree line. “Sheriff’s boat with two people aboard,” he shouted as he walked up to the group.

“That’ll be my daughter and Deputy Phillips,” I said.

The group became scarce, unpacking in the bunkhouse and walking out to the north pier. I took Kim, Carl, and Charlie aside at the dock and explained what I could to them. Carl had already seen the chopper come in, as they were within sight of the island long before the deputy’s boat got close enough to see it.

“How many men do you have here?” was all he asked, as their two kids carried boxes of groceries up to the house.

“Besides Bender, five more, and I think Charity is planning to stay over.”

Carl looked at his wife and a silent message seemed to pass between them. “We’ll stay,” Charlie said. “Probably safer here than anywhere else. I’ll get started on dinner.”

Charlie was a soft-spoken and practical woman. When something needed to be done, she just did it. Lately, I’d come to rely on her counsel about my teen daughter. Charlie is quite a bit younger than Carl, and little Patty and Carl Junior were her only children. Jimmy’s girlfriend, Angie, is Carl’s daughter from a previous marriage and though there were only ten years between them, Charlie helped her through a difficult stage of life.

Regardless of what Bender said, I still felt confident that Deuce would take them down in Miami. Failing that, if they came at all, it would be tomorrow. Very late tonight at the earliest and that was only if the landlubbers could find their way. So I was ready for Kim’s question when it came.

“Will it be okay if I go out with Marty? We won’t be late.”

“Why don’t you go get cleaned up while
Marty
and I have a talk,” I said, glancing over at the young man in the patrol boat.

She went up to the main house for a shower and the Trents headed for their house to start supper, leaving me alone on the pier with the deputy, who was still sitting uncomfortably in his boat.

I walked toward him, Pescador at my heels, and said, “Deputy?”

He stood up in the boat and stammered at first, trying to find the right words. Finally he managed to say, “I went to see Mister Thurman, like you said. He didn’t know what I was there for and neither did I, really. We talked about what happened this morning trying to figure out why you thought I should see him and I mentioned I had asked Kim out.”

“And?”

“He showed me a letter that was framed,” he replied. “‘The Rules for Dating a Marine’s Daughter,’ he called them.”

“You do understand that badge on your chest is the only reason we’re even talking?” I said. “And that badge won’t matter to me when it comes to Kim’s well-being. I hope you paid particular attention to rule number six.”

He grinned and said, “Absolutely, sir. All of them. Your daughter is safe with me.”

“How old are you?”

“I’ll be twenty in a month, sir,” he replied. “My dad’s a good friend of the sheriff and I went through the academy after graduating high school. I’ve only been with the department for a little over a year.”

“Ben Phillips?”

“Yes, sir. Dad pulled a few strings to get me hired on.”

Ben is a well-known fishing guide who lives and works out of Ramrod Key. I’d met him a few times and thought him to be a good man.

“Walk with me, Deputy,” I said and started up the steps to the deck, Pescador bounding ahead. He climbed quickly from the big center console, adjusting his uniform and catching up to me. As we reached the back steps and started down to the clearing, he noticed the helicopter.

“Holy crap! You have your own chopper?”

“It’s not mine,” I replied as Bender and Stockwell stood up from the table and started toward us.

As we approached, Stockwell stuck out his hand. “How are you, Deputy Phillips?”

The young man quickly made the connection between the unmarked black chopper and the fed he’d met earlier in the day, but was obviously struggling to remember the name.

“Travis Stockwell,” Travis said, shaking the deputy’s hand. “And this is Paul Bender, one of my men.”

The deputy shook hands with Bender as the others seemed to appear from nowhere, drifting out of the tree line and the bunkhouse and walking casually toward us.

Phillips eyes moved over the approaching group of four men and a woman, also noting the bunkhouses. “This is a DHS compound of some kind?”

“Something like that,” I said. “Being a law enforcement officer, I don’t have to tell you about operational security. These people are here due to a potential threat in the Keys from a Miami gang. You’ve heard about the people using explosives on the reefs?”

His mind was quick. Looking at the group in front of him and then at me, he said, “Grenades is what I’ve been hearing from some local fishermen.”

“That isn’t public knowledge,” Bender said.

“Yeah,” I replied, “it pretty much is down here. Secrets don’t last long in a small town.”

“Why’s local law enforcement involved?” Charity asked.

I introduced Phillips to everyone and explained that he would be escorting my daughter off island for supper.

“If she wants to eat out,” Bourke offered, “one of us could take her. No need to involve the locals.”

“It’s not official,” I explained. “It’s social.”

“Ahh,” Tony said, grinning. “You’re dating Kim?”

“With Mister McDermitt’s permission,” Phillips replied.

Tony stepped closer to the young man, his dark black scalp glistening with a light sweat. He put his arm around Phillips’s shoulder, squeezing it with the nubs of two fingers he lost on an op in Cuba last year. “She’s like a baby sister to all of us here. Anything happens to her besides a nice meal at a nice restaurant, I’ll be first in line after Jesse.”

“They’ll be alright, Tony,” I said. Then I turned to Phillips and looked hard into his eyes. “You will be armed at all times, right?”

“Armed?”

I quickly explained the situation with Zoe Pound to the deputy, telling him that no action was expected over the next few hours, but I’d consider it a favor if he remained armed while going out with my daughter. “She’ll be armed, too.”

“She will?” the young man replied as Kim came walking across the clearing. She was dressed in jeans and wore a clean and pressed denim shirt. I don’t even own an iron, so I had no idea how she’d accomplished that.

“Yes,” I replied, “She will.”

“Ready?” she asked Phillips, hugging my arm and kissing me on the cheek.

“What time will you bring my daughter home, Deputy?”

“Early, sir,” he replied, extending his hand. “It was a pleasure meeting you earlier.”

I walked them to the north pier and helped untie. “Early is twenty-one hundred,” I said. “Late is twenty-one oh one.”

“Yes, sir,” Phillips replied, starting the engines. I watched as the boat idled down the short canal from the house.

Returning to the group, we all sat down at the tables and I listened as the twin outboards opened up in Harbor Channel, heading east.

“I just got an email from Deuce,” Travis said. “Both teams, combined with officers from FDLE and Miami-Dade, moved on the home of Zoe Pound’s leader, Jean-Claude Lavolier, their clubhouse, and a known warehouse belonging to the gang. A short firefight ensued at the clubhouse, and three of the gang were killed before the rest surrendered. Grayson was wounded slightly, just grazed by a bullet.”

Scott Grayson had been a Staff Sergeant in the Marine Corps when he was tapped to join Deuce’s team. A tall black man, he had the physique of a body builder, yet defied the stereotype and had been a Combat Diving Instructor in the Corps. Powerful muscles aren’t a prerequisite for combat divers since underwater, the divers are weightless.

“Lavolier wasn’t at any of the locations, nor was Horvac. The house had a small staff, there were only a few people at the clubhouse, and aside from eighty kilos of cocaine found at the warehouse, it was empty.”

Hinkle let out a low whistle. “Eighty keys? And nobody to watch over it? Somethin’ seriously wrong there, mate.”

“A complete disregard for everything the gang’s been involved with for years,” Bender said. “They’re on their way here.”

A part of me still couldn’t comprehend the why of it. Any sane person would have been long gone since Elbow Cay and never looked back. It’s like Bourke and I had discussed—there’s just no rhyme or reason to the thought process of the criminal mind. I looked from Bourke to Bender and then to Stockwell. Apparently, Bourke and I weren’t the only ones to discuss the best way to understand the way bad guys think. Probably a big reason why Bender didn’t have to spend as much time training as the others. His primary job with the team was his expertise in understanding the criminal mind.
Forensic Psychologist
, I thought.

“Paul,” I said, “how will they come? Will they just come hell bent for leather? Or methodical?”

Bender grinned. “Yeah, at first. Finding this place after dark will be a bitch, though.” Turning to Stockwell, he asked, “Did Deuce get any intel on how long ago Lavolier left his compound? How many men?”

Stockwell nodded. “They missed him by minutes. Ten to twelve men with him and Horvac.”

Bender considered it and looked at his watch. The sun was nearing the end of its daily dance across the sky, already lighting the high, puffy clouds to the east with a soft orange hue.

“Two hours driving time, an hour to organize a plan and steal a boat. They’ll come fast after that, but like I said, finding this place after the sun goes down will be the hard part. An hour at least to get here by boat. Twenty-two hundred at the absolute earliest. More than likely after midnight.”

“We go dark at sunset,” I said. “One-hour watch starts once Kim gets back, two on at all times. Until then, no approach is invisible from the end of the piers. Everybody relax and catch something to restock the food supply. Charlie and Carl will have supper ready in an hour.”

“I already told Deuce to have six men return to Homestead and come directly to Marathon by air. They’ll land within the hour and wait there as backup.”

I nodded. “Probably won’t be needed. Eight of us and only a dozen of them.”

We discussed options, countermeasures, and possible intangibles for another twenty minutes. Charity went back to the chopper and returned with a small case, passing out communication earwigs to everyone.

“Where do you want me, mate?” Hinkle asked.

“Hope you brought a mosquito net, Donnie,” I replied. “Follow me.”

The group split up, some heading for the main house, where snorkeling equipment was stored in the dock area, while others went to the bunkhouse, where several kept their own rods and reels for when they stayed over on the island. We lived mostly off the sea and what vegetables and fruit we grew. Having more people on the island meant everyone had to pitch in to keep up the food stock.

As Hinkle and I walked toward the main house, Charity trotted up beside me. “Think Kim would mind some company?” she asked. “I’m staying for a while.”

Without waiting for an answer, she stopped at the chopper and grabbed a Go Bag, then turned and went back to the west bunkhouse. When Hinkle and I reached the end of the south pier, I pointed west. “See that island?”

He nodded. “Where’s the approaches?”

I pointed to the northeast. “Harbor channel runs almost straight for three miles. That’s the only deep-water approach and except for the light on Upper Harbor Key and a few crab traps, it’s unmarked. A boat big enough to carry ten to twelve men can only come that way.”

He looked toward the channel and back to the south end of the mangrove-covered island west of the pier. “Looks to be a couple hundred meters from here and a lot of range with no obstructions. Right enough, even at night. Any other approaches?”

I pointed due south toward the gap between Water Key and Howe Key. “That way’s shorter, but you have to know the water. There’s a lot of sandbars and cuts, navigable in a small boat, but dangerous at night.”

Pointing toward the interior, I said, “Water on the north and west sides of the island is only deep near the island itself. Beyond the pier up there it gets shallower. The only way to get back there is by running right along the mangroves where it’s a little deeper due to the current. Even a flats boat couldn’t make it at low tide and when the tide’s full, you’d have to pole across most of the north flats. Odds are, they’ll come from Harbor Channel.” Pointing back to the island, I added, “Last month, I built a small platform on the south end of that little island. From there, both approaches are visible for over a mile.”

He grinned and nodded. “Be just like back home in the outback.” Pulling out a small spotting scope, he scoured the nearby island. “I don’t see no platform, mate.” Lowering the scope, he added, “Seeing as you built it, though, I wouldn’t expect to.”

“It’s level with the surrounding mangroves about ten meters in from the south tip. In a ghillie suit, you’ll be invisible. None of my boats have shallow enough draft to get over to it, so take a change of shoes.”

“I’ll get my gear. Doncha worry, mate. I’ll be more than comfortable.”

Hinkle trotted up the pier and I stood there a minute, looking out over the water. An artist couldn’t paint a more serene scene.
Why were there so many people that wanted to muck up the water?
I thought. Everywhere down here, people were wanting to take beautiful, undisturbed landscape and put up condos, build roads and bridges, and develop the whole area with tee shirt shops and bars to grab the tourist dollars. I guess I’m slightly guilty of that myself, but at least my little island wasn’t built into some ungainly, concrete monstrosity.