Fallen Palm (Jesse McDermitt Series) (10 page)

Tuesday evening, October 25, 2005

“Sorry for boarding without permission, Captain McDermitt. But I knew it would be the easiest way to separate you from anyone that might be with you. Your wife?” he asked.

“Who the hell are you and what are you doing on my boat?” I asked, purposely ignoring his question. I’d removed my own sunglasses and I’m sure he could tell by the look in my eyes that I didn’t like him being there.

“Deuce told me about you,” he replied. “He also said he’d told you that I’d be visiting. I’m Jason Smith.”

The name on the card Deuce gave me. His new boss. I quickly and lightly stepped down off the gangplank. The dog stayed at the end of the gangplank and sat down. Smith extended his hand, but I ignored it.

“I don’t like anyone, especially people I don’t know, coming aboard, when I’m not here.”

“Like I said, Captain, I needed to talk to you alone.” He turned and opened a briefcase sitting on the stern fish box. He pulled out a thick, plain, file folder and added, “I’ve read your SRB, Captain. Very impressive.” SRB is the acronym used in the military for a Service Record Book. It contains everything a person did during their time in the military. Everything. In my case, there’s quite a bit of confidential information in there. If he had my full SRB, he had connections.

“I told Deuce I wasn’t interested in any job offer. Besides, at forty-four, I’m way too old to be of any help to you guys.”

“Deuce wasn’t able to tell you what I can. Please, just hear me out. If you’re not interested, I’ll buy you a beer and be on my way. However, I am going to give you a basic outline and tell you some things that are of a, shall we say, sensitive nature. Nothing we discuss can go further than this boat. May we go inside the salon?”

“After you,” I replied and unlocked the cabin hatch. “Stay, Pescador,” I said to the dog. He looked at me and raised his ears, but remained where he was.

Smith picked up his briefcase and stepped through the hatch into the salon. “Make it quick,” I said. “I have things to do.”

“This will only take a few minutes, I assure you,” he said, taking a seat at the settee. He opened the briefcase and slid the file folder over to me. “Go ahead, see for yourself,” he said.

I picked up the file folder and opened it. It was my SRB, all right. The whole thing. No redactions. How could anyone outside of high-level personnel in the special operations community get their hands on this? Okay, so the dude was the real deal.

“Captain, I’m the head of one of four teams being created to form a new antiterrorist organization,” he said as I took a seat across from him. “Each of these teams will work totally independent of one another and each team leader will hand pick and train their own personnel. I’ve been tasked with creating a team of highly trained operatives and have been given carte blanche access to our countries best-trained military and civilian personnel. Deuce, Art and Tony are part of my team, along with another thirty or so men and women from various military, law enforcement, and IT organizations. My team’s focus will be on the Caribbean, primarily. There’s a growing terrorist threat down here. A number of terrorist factions are at work throughout the Caribbean, Central and South America, and gaining access to our shores here is quite easy, as I’m sure you’re aware. I’ve filled just about every position needed, except one. Deuce is my Team Leader and as I said, he contacted me after meeting you, saying that you might be a good candidate for our needs. I must say, after reading your jacket there and coming down here to see for myself, I tend to agree. The last position is that of a transporter. The ideal person would be someone in, or recently separated from, the spec-ops community with a strong background in underwater work. He’d be well-established in the local community, with easy access to a boat large enough to move men and equipment to where we need them.”

“Whoa there, Smith! No way would I take the
Revenge
out onto blue water with thirty people aboard. Even if I was inclined to accept your offer. Which I’m not.”

“Please allow me to finish, Captain,” he said. “Our team consists of thirty or so people, but only half that will be field operatives and those will be broken down into three to five man teams, as the need presents itself. They’ll all train together to maintain unit cohesion, but when they go afield they’ll work mostly alone, but in constant contact with their other team members. Our missions, thankfully, should be rare, with most of our time spent training. The need for your services might be called upon once or twice a year. You’d continue doing what you do now, but you’d be supplied with some extra equipment to facilitate our needs. When called upon, you’ll take a fire team and their equipment out for a ‘fishing trip’, so to speak. You’ll be compensated with a generous monthly stipend, deposited into an account in the Caymans. Any specialized equipment will be at your disposal. Any ‘proceeds’ picked up during a mission can be kept or disposed of, as you and the team you’re working with see fit. You’d have to come up to Dam Neck to go through some training, perhaps a week. Mostly to familiarize yourself with new equipment and for the teams to get to know you.”

I stood up and looked out the large porthole at the rear of the salon, across the cockpit to the Anchor, where Alex and my friends were. The dog looked back at me, from where I’d told him to stay. I pretty much like my life just the way it is and with Alex back in it, I damn sure didn’t want to upset the apple cart. What he told me was intriguing, though. Deuce and his guys would be the pointy tip of the sharp end of the spear. Rusty was the only person around here that knew anything at all about my time in the Corps and even he didn‘t know everything. Would Alex stay, if she knew about my past? Could I take this offer and risk losing her again? No, I decided. It’s just not in the cards anymore. There was a time, when I was a warrior. I’d done my duty and performed at the best of my ability and was quite good at it. But those days were behind me now. A warrior has to have a warrior attitude. I’d lost that over the past few years down here and doubted it could be honed back into a person’s psyche.

“The answer’s still no,” I said, without looking back. “You owe me a Red Stripe.” Then I opened the hatch and stepped down into the cockpit. Without looking back, I crossed the gangplank and headed across the yard to the Anchor to rejoin my life, the dog trotting by my side.

Smith followed. I walked into the bar, where Alex was sitting on a stool, talking to Julie and Rusty. All three of them went silent when I walked in and turned to look at me. “Who is that guy?” Alex asked.

“Just a prospective charter,” I replied. That seemed to satisfy Alex and Julie, but Rusty looked skeptical.

“Oh my God,” Julie said. “Where’d that Portuguese water dog come from?”

“What the hell’s a Portuguese water dog?” I asked.

“That scraggly mutt you just came in with,” she replied.

“We thought it was a lab mix,” Alex said. “We found him on a sand bar, up on the Spanish Banks.”

“I’m pretty sure he’s a Portuguese water dog,” Julie said.

“Well, that would sure explain a lot of things,” Alex said.

Just then, Smith came through the door. I sat down next to Alex, turned to Smith and said, “Just give me a call when you and your friends firm up the date you want to go fishing, okay.”

“Sure thing, Captain,” he replied. He took a stool at the end of the bar and said to Julie, “Beer’s on me, Miss.” Julie pulled two cold Red Stripes from the icebox and set them on the bar in front of Alex and I. Rusty still stood off to the side, behind the bar, near where I knew he kept a short-barreled shotgun, closely watching Smith. I caught his eye and gave an almost imperceptible shake of my head, letting him know to stand down. He relaxed then. A little.

“The power’s still out,” Rusty said. “FPL guys are working on it, but it’ll prolly be a few more days. I gotta run over to Dion’s to get more gas for the generator. He’s got a big diesel back-up going, so he can stay open. You guys want anything?”

“Sure,” Alex replied. “Give Rufus the day off and get some of Dion’s chicken.”

“I can do that,” Rusty said, smiling as he headed to the door. Just then, it opened and two guys came in, one holding a gun.

“Let’s see some hands, people!” The guy who shouted it was a skinny guy, with long stringy hair. He was holding a nasty looking snub nosed .35 revolver, moving it back and forth over all of us. The other guy looked like he’d just crawled out from under a dumpster. “Out from behind that bar, you two,” he shouted, motioning to Rusty and Julie.

The guy with the gun herded us all toward the back corner of the bar, while the other guy went behind the bar to the register. “Easy with that thing,” I said. “No need to hurt anyone, here.” The dog was standing beside me, obviously on full alert. I looked down at him and said, “Stay.” He immediately sat down, but kept his eyes and ears on the intruders.

“I’ll give the orders, old man,” he said, taking a step closer. Rusty’s shotgun was in plain view, behind the bar, but Dumpster had his back to it. In a few seconds, he was sure to turn around and see it. I needed Stringy to take one more step before then.

“Well, ain’t you a pretty lady,” Stringy said to Alex who was standing behind my right shoulder. “Two pretty ladies,” he added, when he noticed Julie standing behind my other shoulder. Rusty was to her left and Smith was beside him. Stringy took another step forward and said, “Step aside, pops.”

I went to step aside slightly, to his right, in front of Alex. Then my left hand shot out, grabbing his gun hand, yanking it straight up and away from him. The gun went off harmlessly, straight up, causing Dumpster to spin around. I stepped forward with my right foot, hooking it behind Stringy’s knee and in the same motion, brought my elbow straight into his face, smashing his nose and toppling him backwards. Blood sprayed in an arc as he went down, landing head first. The gun clattered across the floor. I instinctively reached to the small of my back and pulled the Sig out, as Rusty rolled forward, coming up in a kneeling position with the .35. He pointed it at the unconscious and bleeding gunman. Dumpster had finally noticed the shotgun and was reaching for it, when I fired one round, striking the oak armrest at the edge of the bar, sending splinters into his face. I now had his undivided attention. Smith was just starting to reach under his coat.

“Get out here and on the deck, next to your buddy,” I hissed. “Or the next one goes through your thick skull.”

He stepped slowly out from behind the bar and got on the floor, next to Stringy. Rusty came up from his kneeling position, stepped over to me and handed me the .35. “Gimme the Sig, Jesse,” he said. Turning to the others he added, “You guys want that chicken spicy or regular?”

Alex stepped out from behind me and kicked Dumpster right between the legs, causing him to curl into a fetal position, moaning and holding his balls. “You animals got a lot of nerve looting defenseless people after a hurricane,” she said. For a second, I felt sorry for the guy.

The dog stood over Stringy’s head, quietly snarling, as I handed Rusty my Sig and took the .35, keeping both men covered. Rusty, without another word, headed out the door. I knew that he knew my Sig was unregistered. He’d stash it in his pickup and be back from Dion’s after the cops got here. It was doubtful that the cops would notice the hole in the roof and would assume I’d disarmed one guy and simply missed shooting the other, hitting the bar. At least, that was the story I’d tell. Hopefully, they wouldn’t do a ballistics analysis. With a simple check, a .35 slug is almost identical to a 9 mm.

Julie went out the back door and came back with a length of nylon rope, talking to Marathon PD Dispatch on her cell. “Yeah, the Rusty Anchor Tavern,” she said into the phone. “Both men are down and probably need an ambulance, as well as handcuffs. So, no need to hurry. I know you guys are busy.” She handed Alex one end of the rope as she closed her phone and shoved it into a hip pocket of her shorts. Together they bound Stringy and Dumpster, with their hands and arms behind their backs, tied to each other. I knew that with their combined boating experience, those two guys weren’t going anywhere. So, I walked over and laid the .35 on the bar, next to the splintered armrest.

Smith followed me to the bar and said, “Remind me to never fuck with you islanders.”

“You can leave, Smith,” I said, picking up my beer. “No need for you to be here, when the locals arrive. Thanks for the beer.” I knew he didn’t want to be around to answer any questions.

“I’ll call you next week,” he said as he headed toward the door Rusty had just left through. Walking by me, he said under his breath, “Very nice work, Gunny.” I heard both engines start up in the parking lot and the crunch of tires on the shell driveway.

Three cops arrived after about ten minutes. I told Alex and Julie the story they were to give, before they got there. I was sitting at the bar, while two cops were questioning the girls, when Rusty came back in carrying three large bags from Dion’s.

“What the hell’s goin’ on here?” he asked.

One cop, who was pushing the two thugs toward the door, stopped and asked, “Are you the owner?

“Yeah, Rusty Thurman,” he replied. “What the hell’s goin’ on?”

“These two dirt bags tried to rob your place at gun point, Mister Thurman. You can thank Captain McDermitt over there for keeping that from happening. He stopped them.” The cop then marched the thugs out to a waiting patrol car.