Fallen Angel: A Jesse McDermitt Novel (Caribbean Adventure Series Book 9) (29 page)

“Don’t you touch me!” the blonde woman screamed as rough hands dragged her to where Swimp was sitting. She hadn’t said much of anything since Swimp kicked the door down at the house. She had a Southern accent, but not from around here.

Swimp grabbed her wrist as two of his cousins pulled her closer. “So, you a Southern gal, huh? Well, why don’t y’all just set yer pretty little ass down here on old Swimp’s lap and we can talk about the first thing that pops up.”

Damien grabbed the dark-haired girl around the waist and pulled her onto his lap in another chair, without resistance. “This one don’t seem to have a lot of fire in her.”

“Should suit you about right,” Swimp said, laughing as the blonde squirmed on his lap, trying to get free. Several others joined in the laughter at Damien’s expense.

“Somebody go get a bucket a water,” one of the men said, shoving his hand down the older woman’s blouse. “She ain’t gonna be no fun asleep.”

Another man stood and picked up the overturned bucket he’d been sitting on and headed toward the pier. A cooler was dragged out of the back of one of the pickups parked in the backyard, and cold beers were passed around.

Suddenly a roaring sound could be heard down near the pier. “What the hell was that?” someone shouted.

“Prolly just one a those rich assholes running aground,” Swimp said, looking back through the darkness toward where the sound had come from. “Happens all the time.”

The roar was followed by another as the boat’s operator tried to get off the bank, then it went quiet and excited voices could be heard arguing.

“See there,” Swimp said. “Another rich asshole stuck in the mud.” Then, over his shoulder, he shouted, “Hurry up with that water.”

S
eeing the marsh that went back between the trees, I waited until the
Revenge
was almost on it, then shifted the port engine to reverse and the starboard to neutral.

“Give me a depth reading astern,” I whispered to Manny as the
Revenge
slowly turned her bow toward shore, slowing in the current.

He quickly switched the sonar to aft scan. “Plenty deep for about thirty feet,” he said.

When the
Revenge
was perpendicular to the creek, I reversed the starboard engine and slowly backed the boat toward the opposite shore. I was familiar enough with the pluff mud to know there wasn’t much chance of damage to the props, and I needed a good running start. The mud was deep and very soft. I’d seen boats power straight through it on more than one occasion.

I shifted both engines to neutral and waited, watching the bank ahead, as the current slowly carried us past the marsh. When we were in the right spot, I checked to make sure the rudders were amidships and shoved both throttles forward halfway. The bow rose sharply as the
Revenge
lunged forward, pushing tons of water up onto the mud flat behind us.

At the last second, I brought both engines to idle for a second. The bow came down hard, creating a huge wave that moved toward shore. I shoved the throttles again and accelerated, lifting the bow up on top of the wave and climbing it as the wave began to break on the mud flat in front of us.

When I felt the keel begin to ride up on the mud, I shoved both throttles to the stops. The engines roared in defiance, lifting the bow higher and pushing the
Revenge
deep into the mud flat. Just as she was coming to a stop, I throttled back and killed the engines. The Revenge settled, leaning to port about fifteen degrees.

“Go, Manny,” I whispered. Then shouting toward the men on the rail, I said, “What the hell did you do, Jimmy?”

Tony was quick to catch on and responded, “What did I do? You’re the one supposed to be watching, Earl!”

I grabbed my rifle and quickly went to the narrow ladder that went up to the roof. “Good job, Jesse,” I heard Andrew whisper. “The pulpit is over dry ground, but you’re not going anywhere anytime soon.”

“I have line of sight,” Manny whispered.

Handing my rifle up to him, I started up the ladder. My shin still throbbed every time I put weight on it. Once on the roof, I crawled past the radar dome to where Manny lay prone at the leading edge.

“Wind’s calm,” he said, looking through his spotting scope. “Range to the group is just over two hundred yards.”

I quickly removed the front and rear lens covers and brought the rifle to bear in the direction Manny indicated. Sighting through the scope while wearing night vision goggles wasn’t easy, but it was something we’d trained to do in the Corps.

“Looks like a target-rich environment,” Manny said, quoting one of his favorite movie lines. Hearing footsteps on the pier, he turned his scope that way.

“One man at the foot of the pier with a bucket,” Manny said.

“I’ll get him,” Art said.

I turned and watched as Art stealthily approached the foot of the pier, Tony following ten feet behind him. Scanning to the left, I found Andrew, quietly picking his way through some kind of crops, all arranged in straight rows. I wasn’t sure what they were growing out here. It looked like some kind of small tree or bush. They used to grow some of the best cotton the world had ever known on these islands before the Civil War. Maybe they were trying to make a comeback.

A moment later, I heard a cracking sound and looked back to where Art was dragging the man off the pier. Tony quickly bound his hands and feet with zip ties as Art picked up the bucket and climbed up onto the pier.

With Art walking slowly but loudly on the wooden planks, Tony crossed under the pier and angled away to the east. I turned my attention back to the group around the fire. I could see Pat clearly, sitting back on an old couch, apparently unconscious. At least I hoped so.

Scanning the group, I found Chrissy. She was sitting on the lap of the same guy that I’d kicked out of the boat. She had her head down, hair covering her face. Next to them was a big leather recliner. A giant of a man sat on it, Chyrel on his lap, struggling to get free.

“I’m in position,” Andrew said. “I have the whole group covered and away from the ones in the chairs holding Chrissy and Chyrel. If need be, I can cut them all down at once.”

Travis’s voice came over the comm. “Andrew, do not fire unless fired upon. Identify yourself first.”

“I’m in position on the other side,” Tony whispered. “At a forty-five-degree angle from Andrew and the group.”

The classic pincer attack. With Andrew and Tony on opposite sides, safely out of one another’s line of fire, the group of men caught in the middle had no chance.

“The big guy, Manny,” I said.

“Air still calm,” he replied. “Range two hundred and six yards, declination ten feet.”

I adjusted the crosshairs to compensate for the drop in elevation, the rifle already zeroed for two hundred yards, I put the crosshairs on the big man’s neck. It was a really easy shot, so long as Chyrel didn’t move behind the guy’s head. At this range, his skull would barely slow the bullet down.

“Art is at the foot of the pier,” Manny said.

“This is the police!” Andrew shouted, his booming voice carrying easily to the group.

“You’re surrounded!” Tony shouted. “Place your hands on your head and do not move!”

Chaos seemed to overtake the group. Several men ran toward a group of pickups parked behind them. Two men pulled handguns from under their shirts, waving them wildly, as a woman came out of the house carrying a rifle.

A shot rang out from the group around the fire, followed by automatic weapons fire from both Tony and Andrew’s position. Beyond the big guy, several men went down as most of the others ran toward the group of pickups.

The big man and the guy from the boat stood up quickly, holding Chyrel and Chrissy in front of them as shields, and the big guy they called Swimp pulled a gun out and pointed it at Chyrel’s head.

“Don’t come any closer,” he yelled. “I’ll kill this bitch.”

I had a shot, but his face was dangerously close to Chyrel’s. The guy from the boat didn’t have a weapon, but was shielding himself with Chrissy.

“You do that and I guarantee you’ll die,” Art said, striding toward the group, the ugly machine pistol up and pointed ahead of him.

“I swear, I’m gonna put a bullet in her pretty little head,” Swimp shouted.

“No, Swimp!” the woman with the rifle shouted. “This ain’t gonna keep going on! Let her go!”

I swung my scope to the woman for just an instant. She had the rifle up and leveled at Swimp, finger on the trigger and tears running down her face.

“What the hell you think you’re doin’, bitch?” Swimp yelled at her. I brought the scope back to the big man. It was over, but he didn’t know it yet.

“You let that woman go, or I swear I’ll kill you myself!” I heard the woman shout.

I slowly began to apply pressure against the trigger spring. He moved slightly and I followed.

“Dammit, Angel!” Swimp shouted and pointed his gun at the woman.

Just as I squeezed the last of the slack out of the trigger, Swimp’s head seemed to explode in a gray-green mist through my night vision optics. At the same instant, he fired at her. My mind registered the sound of the two shots almost simultaneously, and I realized that I hadn’t fired. Swimp’s body collapsed to the ground, like a puppet with its strings severed.

Suddenly, Tony, Art, and Andrew charged forward, taking the guy from the boat down hard. The roar of several engines racing as the others tried to get away was drowned out by the sound of police sirens coming down the long dead-end road.

W
e got a late start the next morning, with little talk about the night before. Pat had a bruise on the side of her chin, but was otherwise unhurt. Chrissy was upset and crying when Andrew had reached her. Then in a fit of rage, she began kicking Damien Ross as he lay on the ground, bound hand and foot. Nobody stopped her until she’d gotten it all out of her system.

The police had arrived just in time, blocking the only escape route for the men who tried to flee. Besides Swimp and his wife, two other Rosses were dead and five injured.

It was nearly midnight before everything was sorted out and the tide had risen enough to get the
Revenge
off the mud. As it turned out, the plants that I’d thought were Sea Island cotton were actually marijuana. Ten acres of it. A deputy told me that it probably had a street value of two million dollars.

Swimp was very dead. The bullet from his wife’s rifle had entered the middle of his forehead and exited the back, taking most of his skull with it. He’d shot her in the chest and she’d fallen near her husband’s body. She died a few minutes after we got to her. Coughing pink foam as I knelt where she’d fallen, Angel Ross had told me that Swimp had murdered his first wife and she was worried that he was going to kill her as well.

I’d sent Manny back to the boat, before the cops got there and told him to stay inside with Finn. Being an active-duty Marine, it wouldn’t look good for him to be involved in a civilian shooting, even if he was assisting law enforcement.

Originally, I’d planned to take a leisurely trip back to Henry’s place on Andros, leaving early. But the events at the Ross house and the late start meant another high-speed crossing, stopping in Jacksonville for fuel. The seas after that had been pretty big, but well-spaced. The combination of wind and the powerful Gulf Stream current slowed us to only forty-two knots at wide-open throttle. Still, the
Revenge
was more than up for the challenge.

We made Henry’s place by noon, but we didn’t stick around long. The fake IDs and passports Chyrel had made for Pat and Chrissy worked fine on entry into the Bahamas. We had lunch, refueled, and said our goodbyes.

Henry had told me that Rene Cook disappeared the night after we left. His sailboat was gone. Apparently, he didn’t believe me that his secret was safe. I wondered what it was he was running from. He and Angelique weren’t legally married, only living together. She was brokenhearted, but would be okay, Henry had told me.

Pat and Henry seemed to have formed some kind of bond while we were there the first time. She wasn’t a fishing guide, but knew boats pretty well and agreed to help him run the place, in exchange for a place for her and Chrissy to live.