Diver Down (Mercy Watts Mysteries) (34 page)

He humphed, but laid a crisp napkin in Joe’s lap.
 

“I don’t know if I can eat,” said Joe.

“One taste and you won’t have any problem,” I said.
 

Aaron gave him a ramekin of mac and cheese and he took a tentative bite. “Wow.”
 

I took a generous bowl of spätzle. Just what my swimsuit-splitting body needed. “Thanks, Aaron. Is that mustard in the spätzle?”
 

“Country dijon. I made it myself.”
 

“You’re a freak.”
 

“You want dessert?”
 

“If I want to go home in a cargo plane,” I said, poking my pudgy thigh.
 

“Huh?”
 

“Not right now.”
 

Aaron ran off. Probably to make dessert anyway. Joe finished his mac and cheese and then polished off two bowls of spätzle. “What does he put in there? Crack?”
 

“I’m guessing valium. Feel better?” I asked.
 

He slurped down the last noodle and said, “I’m still freaked, but I do feel better. Spitball’s right. You’re lucky to have him.”
 

We both leaned back, watching Todd and Tracy’s kids smack the crap out of each other on the diving platform. The other kids slid into the water and swam away. There seemed to be a ten-foot radius around those kids at all times. Todd and Tracy were snoozing on the sand and didn’t notice. Even if they were awake, I doubt they would’ve cared.
 

“Those kids make me want to get a vasectomy,” said Joe.
 

“They are repulsive,” I said.
 

Joe leaned back and closed his eyes. Aaron’s food was working its magic. With the aid of butter and bacon fat, I turned my mind off and went to sleep. A couple of hours later, the phone rang, and every cell in my body went hot. Joe sat up bleary-eyed and stared at the cell phone in his lap, but didn’t touch it.
 

“Answer before they hang up,” I said.
 

He tried to give me the phone, but I pushed it away. “They’re expecting you.”
 

Joe licked his lips and pushed the answer button. “Hello.” He went silent and then said, “I want some proof that you really have him.” He paused and then his eyes teared up. “We’ll be there.” And he hung up.

“Well?” I said. “Do they have him?”

“Yeah, they do.”
 

“Did you hear Andrew speak?”
 

“He said, ‘Hey, onion butt”.
 

“Onion butt?”
 

“My nickname in college,” said Joe.

“How did he sound?”
 

“In pain and scared shitless.”

“What’s the plan?” I asked.
 

“We meet tonight at the dive buoy in Half Moon Bay. They want the money in a waterproof bag attached to a float. They’ll put an address with Andrew’s location in another waterproof bag with a float. We drop at the same time.”

“What time?”
 

“Seven thirty.”
 

“We have an hour and a half. Can I have that phone?” I called Tabora and told him the plan. He’d gotten the money, proceeds from a drug buy the Coast Guard had interrupted. He couldn’t resist telling me how he took it out of the property room in his daughter’s backpack. If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought Tabora was having fun. I could hear the squealing tires as he drove toward La Isla Bonita and hung up so he wouldn’t die on the way.
 

Joe gathered his towel and water bottle. “Tell me again how this is going to work.”
 

I gave him the phone and said, “It will work because most ransom victims are returned alive. Think of it as a business. If they kill an American, there will be some serious outrage and attention on the island. They don’t want that. They want money.”
 

“But some don’t come back.”
 

“That’s true, but I’m not worried.”
 

Liar, liar, pants on fire.
 

Joe blew out a breath and then sucked another one in quick. “You’re going on the boat, right? You’re the only one with experience.”

“I have experience with criminals, not with kidnappings, but yes I’ll be there.”
 

“Good. Let’s go find Mauro and Spitball.”
 

The two dive masters were cleaning equipment and closing up for the night. Joe told them the plan and Spitball got a float he wouldn’t mind losing. Tabora showed up with two other cops armed to the teeth. Pinto wasn’t one of them, so I was happy. Spitball packed the money into double ziplock bags and then put them inside a large neon yellow float bag. Aaron showed up with caramel volcano cakes and we ate while we waited. I’d never seen time go so slowly.
 

Thirty minutes to go and one of the office ladies came into the dive shop. “Miss Watts, your mother is waiting in the restaurant.”
 

I found Mom sitting at her favorite table, holding court over Lucia, Graeme, Dixie, and, most surprisingly, Aunt Tenne and Bruno.

“What’s going on?” I asked, not standing too close in case it wasn’t going as well as it looked.
 

“It’s our second to last night and we’re having a celebratory dinner,” said Mom. “Sit down.”

“I can’t. I’ve got to do something.”
 

Her eyes narrowed. “No, you don’t. Sit.”
 

Behind Mom, Mauro and the others walked onto the beach and began loading tanks and BCDs onto
La Isla Bonita Two
as a cover for our operation. If you looked close, you could see the weaponry concealed inside the officers’ fishing vests.
 

“I’m going diving,” I said. “With Aaron.”
 

Mom relaxed. “Aaron’s going?”
 

“Yes, Mother. My keeper is going.”
 

“We’ll see you later then,” said Dixie.

I turned to go, but stopped to ask, “What are we celebrating?”
 

Mom beamed. “Bruno’s returning to the States with us.”
 

Dixie shrugged her shoulders at me and seemed bewildered by the turn of events. Good. Mom must not have told her about Bruno’s work. At least
 
he could have a tiny bit of privacy, not that I thought it would last. Aunt Tenne kissed Bruno’s cheek and he responded with pleasure. Sure it was quick, just a flash really. He did a tiny lean toward her and smiled slightly. It was the right kind of smile, symmetrical and crinkled around the eyes. Any worry I had about Bruno disappeared.
 

“I’m glad to hear that,” I said. “Welcome to the crazy, Bruno. I wish you luck.”
 

“Mercy!” said Mom.
 

I cackled and ran down to the beach. It wasn’t completely dark but close. Only a sliver of sun was above the horizon, leaving shimmers of orange on the water. Spitball met me beside the boat. His eyes darted around and he was practically vibrating with excitement. He was happier than a pig in shit as Grandma George would say.
 

“Remind you of the old days?” I asked.

“Hell, yeah. Lock and load, girl.” He moved aside and I climbed on board. Alex sat at the rudder. Mauro and Joe sat midship in front of two tanks each with BCDs tucked under the benches. It looked like we were going for a night dive until Tabora and his guys got onboard in civilian clothes and broad-brimmed hats pulled low.

“Very stealthy,” I said.

“This is an authorized operation, but no one needs to see the weaponry. ” He pointed to the darkening ocean. “When we’re out there no one will be able to see who I am.”
 

That wasn’t comforting. It reminded me of the tagline from
Alien
:
“
In space, no one can hear you scream.” I gave myself the shivers with that thought.
 

Mauro patted the seat beside him and Alex started the engine.
 

“What’s wrong?” asked Joe. Aaron’s food had clearly worn off and his muscles were taut.
 

“Nothing. Just thinking about the ocean,” I said.

“Don’t,” said Mauro. “The vastness will overwhelm you.”
 

“Have you ever lost anyone?”
 

“Never.”
 

It was all I could do not to lean into him and try to soak up some of that experience. “But things happen in the water.”
 

“Rarely, but when it does it’s usually due to panic or bad decision-making. A couple of kayakers disappeared because they went out when a storm was coming in and didn’t stay close to the shoreline. It happens.”

“There’s no storm tonight,” said Joe.
 

“No,” said Tabora, sitting next to him. “It’s clear. We’ll make the exchange quietly, and I’ll radio shore. I have a team ready to retrieve Mr. Thatcher.”
 

“Where’s Pinto?” I asked.

“As far from this as possible.”
 

We all waited, but Tabora didn’t elaborate. Aaron climbed onboard, chewing a huge wad of Bubble Yum and wearing the world’s oldest and shortest swim trunks. Luckily, he was wearing a Batman tee. Aaron without a shirt was a scarier thought than the ocean at night. Spitball climbed aboard and Alex eased out into open water. We zipped over the darkening water through the low-speed channel and into the open ocean. The sun made a last blaze across the water and dipped out of sight, leaving us in increasing darkness.

Chapter 15

ALEX CUT THE engine and we drifted to a stop. Mauro flipped a switch and a small floodlight jutted a yellow beam out into the darkness like a sword. We sat in silence, listening to the marker buoy bump against the hull. Spitball pulled out the float bag with money and sat it in the middle of the boat and we all stared at it.
 

“Listen,” said Spitball.

We held our breath. There was a hum in the distance, faint at first but growing louder fast.
 

“There they are,” said Mauro. He went to the prow and shut off the floodlight. I gasped at the sudden darkness. Spitball fired up a handheld floodlight and pointed it down between the dive markers. The other boat cut its engine and for a moment there was only the sound of waves slapping against hulls. They cut their lead flood, too, and then a handheld swept the water. I could only make out the faint outline of the boat. It was about the same size as ours, but without the canopy.
 

Joe stood up, his legs shaking. Spitball heaved the float bag into his arms. Joe turned in the direction of the other boat and yelled, “Andrew Thatcher!”
 

“Tabora, stand up!” yelled a man from the other boat.

Tabora’s shoulders twitched, but he stood up and faced the other boat. I expected gunfire or accusations of treachery, but nothing happened.

“We have the money!” yelled Joe.
 

“Throw it in!”
 

Joe kneeled on the bench seat and shoved the bag over. It hit the water with a big splash. Spitball got out a long hook and pushed the bag away from our boat. There was another splash, this time much smaller. A pole pushed a small orange square through the water.
 

Mauro grabbed my arm. “Do you hear that?”
 

“What?” I whispered.
 

Spitball looked back at us and mouthed, “Shit.”
 

Then I heard it. Another boat coming in hard behind us, a big cruiser with multiple floods.

“Pull it back!” yelled someone from the other boat.
 

“No!” yelled Joe. “They’re not with us.”
 

There was a loud squeal from a bullhorn and someone yelled, “Stop where you are!”
 

I yelled at Tabora, “I thought this was authorized!”

“It is!” he yelled back.

The kidnappers fired up their motor, their hook pulling the orange box back toward outstretched hands. Spitball kept pushing the money bag toward them.
 

“Get it! Get it!” they yelled. But they weren’t reaching for the money, only their own drop.
 

Andrew’s life was in that box. Another foot and it would be gone. Tabora was screaming at the cruiser. Spitball was screaming for the kidnappers to take the money. I pushed Joe out of the way, scrambled up onto the side of the boat, and dove in. My body sliced into the warm Caribbean water. I swam underwater toward the box and then my head broke the surface. Screaming all around. Gunfire behind me. I swam with everything I had toward that small orange square. Hands reached for it. I stretched out and batted it away under the water. A man fell overboard, his mouth open in a scream, his throat exploding into a blossom of blood. He hit me and I went under. A hand had me by my cover-up, dragging me deep into the blackness. I bit it and the hand released.
 

On the surface, I saw the square and another body in the water. I grabbed the square.
 

Mauro screamed, “They’re going to ram us!”
 

“Go, Alex!” yelled Spitball.

More gunfire. The hook struck the water, narrowly missing my shoulder. Aaron was on the edge of our boat. He saw me.

“No!” I screamed.
 

He jumped. The little freak jumped. I swam to the left, my lungs burning.

Our boat rocketed forward and the cruiser kept going. The kidnappers on the other boat were screaming, but they didn’t get out of the way.
 
The cruiser hit them dead middle, splitting the little boat in half with a tremendous crash. Bodies flew into the water, wood and metal flew everywhere like deadly fireworks.
 

“Get the money!” someone yelled from the cruiser.
 

“Aaron!” I screamed, but he didn’t answer.

Oh my god. I got my partner killed.
 

“Aaron!”
 

Floodlights from the cruiser swept the water. Who the hell were they? They weren’t ours and sure as hell weren’t the drug dealers’ friends.