Electric Barracuda (45 page)

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Authors: Tim Dorsey

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Mahoney heaved a sigh of relief and wiped his brow.

The sky grew darker, wind gusting harder.

“Lowe,” yelled White. “I’ll be right with you.” He began walking back.

“What is it?” asked Mahoney.

“Just remembered. I left my briefcase in the trunk . . . Toss me the keys.”

Mahoney’s heart almost blew. He began feeling his pockets with feigned futility.

“You didn’t lose the keys, did you?” said White.

Mahoney opened his mouth, and it stayed open.

Lowe began walking up. “I got a spare set. Here, catch!”

Mahoney’s eyes went wide as the keys seemed to arc through the air in slow motion.

When they were at the highest point, another loud, fast-approaching sound.

Everyone looked back toward the Loop Road.

“. . . I . . . want to rock-and-roll all night! . . .”

A gleaming chopper smashed the middle of the stockade fence and tore across the compound, followed by a camera crew that ran on foot through the Doberman-shaped hole in the wooden barrier.

The gusting wind made the Doberman’s American flag cape flap dramatically behind him, then whipped it around his face.

Everyone watched as the bounty hunter screamed and drove in blind circles before finally crashing into the beekeeper’s shack.

The camera crew ran by, filming the Doberman as bees chased him in more screaming circles before finally diving off the seawall into the swamp.

Mahoney used the chaos to run to the back of Crown Vic and pop the trunk with his own key. Serge handed him a briefcase—“What a day!”—and Mahoney slammed the hood shut.

Agent White stood still, observing the TV crew pulling the bounty hunter out of the water. “Unbelievable.”

Mahoney dashed over. “Here’s your briefcase.”

“What? Oh, thanks.”

The agents and deputies drove off.

Mahoney stayed behind and waved back at the porch. “Don’t know how to thank—”

“Just get out of here!” yelled Lucky.

Mahoney jumped in the Crown Vic, pulled out of the driveway and raced off down the Loop Road.

Epilogue

U.S. Highway 1

A
Crown Vic headed south from the Everglades and reached the bottom of Florida City. Which meant the bottom of civilization on the mainland.

Mahoney stopped at a fork. “Preference?”

“Take the Card Sound Bridge.”

That meant a left, where the bulk of the tourists were veering right.

A half hour later, on the far side of the bridge to Key Largo, the Crown Vic sat outside an infamous ramshackle roadhouse.

Three men sat on adjoining stools.

“Alabama Jack’s,” said Mahoney. “I should have known.”

Serge raised his bottle of water for a toast. Mahoney and Coleman raised beer and whiskey. “To brothers.”

“And me, too,” said Coleman.

Drinks touched.

From the breezy doorway. “Serge!”

He turned around. “Skid Marks! Bacon Strips!”

Two more stools.

Serge pulled out a large brown envelope. “It’s all there.”

“What’s all there?”

“The solution to your problem.”

Skid Marks opened the packet and flipped through powers of attorney and other stamped documents with every caveat that put Brad’s entire offshore portfolio completely in their control. He looked up from the last page. “But how’d you get him to sign all this?”

“You don’t want to know.” Serge took another pull of water and gazed out over the sparkling mangrove bay. “Can’t make you accessories after the fact.”

“Really appreciate it,” said Bacon Strips.

Serge tossed another packet on the bar. “That’s a bonus.”

The bikers opened it and read Brad Meltzer’s just-revised last will and testament. Skid Marks looked up. “It leaves everything to our families.”

“But ‘will’?” said Bacon Strips. “Doesn’t that mean we have to wait until he dies?”

Serge just smiled.

Skid Marks closed his eyes. “You’re right. We don’t want to know.”

Serge took another cold sip and turned to Mahoney. “So what now?”

“I’m retired.”

“Retired? You can’t do that?”

“Conflict of interest.”

“That would be me?” said Serge.

“You have your rules—I have mine.” Mahoney idly peeled his beer label. “Took an oath. One I can no longer faithfully execute. All that’s left is turn in the papers and give ’em back the car.”

“Promise to stop taking those stupid meds?” said Serge. “We’ve got a lot of catching up to do, and I want to have fun!”

“Any ideas?”

“Enjoy fishing?” said Serge.

“Got a place in mind?”

“That I do.”

Mahoney nodded. “Bogie Channel.”

“I hear the bonefish are biting.”

“Let’s roll.”

Mahoney threw cash on the bar, and they went back out to the Crown Vic.

Serge grabbed the handle on the passenger door. “Sorry about the teeter-totter.”

“Just don’t do it again.”

The Loop Road

Splashing in the swamp.

A few hundred yards behind the old Capone place.

Greed was the hallmark of a Miami attorney named Brad Meltzer. Overruled all other human instincts. Eating, sleeping, survival.

With night on the way, and eyelids swollen big, Brad remained hard at work. The broken boards would be several feet underwater during the rest of the year, but right now they still remained in reach.

Brad dove down again and came up with fistfuls of soggy currency, which he carefully unfolded and added to the growing damp stacks at the base of a tree. Next to a small pyramid of gold bars.

He returned to the hole and jumped back in. Then up again with more wadded bills. Before he climbed out, another splashing sound to the north.

His head swung. “Who’s there?”

A blurry form approached.

Brad pulled his right eyelid up.

“Oh, it’s you. I was just about to call. I found Serge.”

No reply.

Brad climbed out of the underground wooden box. “I thought you’d be happy. You didn’t actually think I’d steal your thousand dollars. I— . . . What’s the gun for?”

Silence.

“Oh, I get it. You want a cut of
this
.” He dumped more cash next to the tree. “I was going to tell you about that, too. It was a freak discovery—just happened. My cell phone got wet, but I was going to call as soon as I got out of here. I swear.”

Nothing.

Brad’s chest heaved. “Since we’re practically partners now, it’s only right you should get, say . . . twenty-five percent. No need thank me.”

Quiet.

Brad bit his lip. “Okay, half.”

Just crickets.

“Please, put the gun down,” said Brad. “You’re scaring me.”

A drilling stare.

Desperation. He finally nodded to himself. “Fine. You can have it all.”

The gun came closer.

Brad’s hands went up. “Wait! No! Molly!”

Bang
.

About the Author

T
IM
D
ORSEY
was a reporter and editor for the
Tampa Tribune
from 1987 to 1999, and is the author of twelve previous novels:
Florida Roadkill, Hammerhead Ranch Motel, Orange Crush, Triggerfish Twist, The Stingray Shuffle, Cadillac Beach, Torpedo Juice, The Big Bamboo, Hurricane Punch, Atomic Lobster, Nuclear Jellyfish,
and
Gator A-Go-Go
. He lives in Tampa, Florida.

Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.

Also by Tim Dorsey

Florida Roadkill

Hammerhead Ranch Motel

Orange Crush

Triggerfish Twist

The Stingray Shuffle

Cadillac Beach

Torpedo Juice

The Big Bamboo

Hurricane Punch

Atomic Lobster

Nuclear Jellyfish

Gator A-Go-Go

Credits

Jacket design and illustration by Mumtaz Mustafa.

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ELECTRIC BARRACUDA. Copyright © 2011 by Tim Dorsey. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

EPub Edition January 2011 ISBN: 13: 9780062041593

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