Fallen Mangrove (Jesse McDermitt Series Book 5) (7 page)

The drive through Miami rush hour traffic had been a nightmare with the air conditioner barely working in his ten-year-old Buick LeSabre. By the time he got on the Florida Turnpike in Orlando, he’d already had to remove his three-year-old, off-the-rack coat and tie. The drive from Orlando to West Palm Beach was three hours of adrenaline rush, dodging demented truckers and wandering tourists. Then it seemed that everything south of Palm Beach was under construction, slowing traffic to a crawl for thirty-five miles.

That delay put him on the Sawgrass Expressway and Homestead Extension during rush hour, another harrowing sixty miles of hell. He debated the wisdom of getting off the interstate and taking the surface streets, but decided against it. He’d heard a lot of bad things about Miami and his directions had his destination just a couple of blocks off the Turnpike. After three hours of stop-and-go traffic, choking on car and truck fumes, he finally took the Southwest 184th Street exit to Cutler Ridge and turned right. Just ahead on the left in a small strip mall was the Presidente Supermarket he’d been told to look for. He turned into the little parking lot and looked at the signs over the few stores that were occupied. Around the grocery store was an eclectic assortment of bail bondsmen, pawn shops, and Cuban restaurants, with heavy bars over the windows and doors.

Finding the right office, he pulled into a parking spot and shut off the engine, which chugged a couple of times in the stifling heat before finally wheezing to a stop. He got out and looked around. The man he was meeting, Chase Conner, had once worked for the Florida Department of Revenue. He’d been fired just a few months earlier for accepting a bribe from an undercover Florida Department of Law Enforcement agent and now ran a small accounting business. It was shortly before he was fired that Conner had approached him about bugging the boat of another man they were both going to meet, concerning the sale of Confederate gold bars to the Florida Historical Society. Conner represented both the state and the IRS. He hadn’t wanted to go along, but Conner had been persuasive, suggesting that if the man on the boat got wind of another treasure find, they might be able to get to it first and get rich selling the treasure on the black market.
People all over Florida were getting rich doing a lot less
, Owen Bradbury thought. Looking at the eleven gold bars which the Society had purchased from the man on the boat every day didn’t make it any easier to resist.

Bradbury, Assistant Curator of the Florida Historical Society in Orlando, Florida, tried the glass door to the office and found it locked. There was a button on the door frame, so he pushed it and heard a bonging sound from somewhere inside. He waited and could barely see movement through the heavily-tinted glass of the door. The lock clicked and the door opened, releasing a blast of cold air and revealing a tall, sandy-haired man of average weight in a blue three-piece suit.

“Mister Bradbury,” Chase Conner said as he pushed the door wider. “So nice to see you again. Hope the drive down wasn’t too bad. Come in, there’s some people who have already arrived that I’d like you to meet.”

The inside of the office was darker. As Bradbury’s eyes adjusted from the white hot sunlight of south Florida, he made out the four people sitting in the office. A woman sat in a comfortable-looking chair in front of a desk, along with a man in a suit. A third chair to the woman’s left was empty, as was the chair behind the desk.

There were two other men sitting on a sofa against the wall. These men caught Bradbury’s attention immediately. Both were large men; he could tell they were tall even sitting down. Their light sports jackets didn’t conceal the fact that both men were heavily muscled, with broad shoulders, thick, corded necks, and barrel chests. The men had serious-looking faces and wore nearly identical crew cuts.
Heavy brass bookends
, Bradbury thought. The man sitting with the woman stood up and came across the room, extending his hand.

“Mister Bradbury, my name is Valentin Madic. I’m pleased to finally meet the brains behind this endeavor.”

Bradbury took the man’s hand, which nearly crushed his own. Madic was only slightly taller than Bradbury, who stood at five feet eight inches. A first guess would put him in his late thirties, but looking closer, Bradbury could tell he was older, probably in his fifties. He was trim and looked like he took great care in his appearance, though his cheeks were pocked with acne scars. His eyes drew Bradbury instantly. They looked like two vacant ice-blue orbs, never moving, showing no emotion. They fixed Bradbury with a steady, appraising gaze.

What Bradbury now had in his briefcase gave him the confidence his appearance didn’t otherwise show. He felt the confidence of knowledge grow inside him. The fact that Madic had called him the ‘brains behind this endeavor’ confirmed it in his mind. Finding what he’d found earlier in the day on his computer, Bradbury actually felt more confident than he’d ever felt before. And now, here was a man that looked like he could provide the means for him to finally get what he felt he deserved.

“This is my personal assistant, Tena Horvac,” Madic said as the woman rose and turned toward him. She was extremely attractive and also impeccably dressed in a black pencil skirt, light blue blouse and black jacket. She looked to be in her mid-thirties, but Bradbury had never been good at judging the age of a beautiful woman. She was fair-skinned, almost pale, but with a light coconut or olive undertone speaking toward mixed ancestry. She matched her boss in height and moved with a precise, athletic measure, flowing like liquid metal.
No, not athletic
, Bradbury thought.
More fluid and graceful, like a jungle cat, a jaguar
. Every movement she made seemed both calculated and graceful at the same time. It was a delight just to watch her cross a room. Her hair was black, piled into a bun on the back of her head, and her eyes were the darkest eyes Bradbury had ever seen, like lucid pools of India ink. “Very nice to meet you both,” Bradbury said, turning toward the two men on the couch, expecting them to stand and be introduced also. Both men met him with flat, expressionless stares, which he returned.

“These are two of my men,” Madic said dismissively.

“Have a seat, Mister Bradbury,” Conner said, walking toward the chair behind the desk.

Madic and the woman sat back down in their chairs, leaving Bradbury with the only other chair in the office, next to the woman. He sat down, placing his briefcase on his knees. “I thought it was just going to be the two of us, Mister Conner.”

“The two of us would never be able to do this alone,” Conner said. “And please, call me Chase. It’s Owen, right?”

“Yes, Owen is fine.”

“Owen, Mister Madic here is a local businessman. A very successful and busy local businessman. He has access to many of the things we’ll need if we’re going to have any chance of pulling this off. More than anything, boats and manpower.”

“So far,” Madic said with just a trace of accent, “I haven’t heard anything that would interest me in participating in anything. Perhaps you have something, Mister Bradbury.” Bradbury looked across the cheap desk at Conner, who nodded.

Madic didn’t seem the type to use first names. “Mister Madic, would fifty million dollars interest you enough?”

“Did you say fifty million?” Madic asked, his vacant, shark-like eyes showing brief surprise. Bradbury noticed the woman seemed not to react at all.

Bradbury opened his briefcase and removed a file. Opening it he said, “This is a manifest. The Spanish were very good at accounting for cargo transported back to Spain. This lists the cargo aboard the Spanish carrack
Nuestra Señora de Magdalena y las Angustias
, which sailed out of Havana on September third, 1566 and was never seen again. Among the hides, sugar, molasses, rum, and other assorted trade goods, she carried one and a half million pesos, two thousand pounds of gold, and three chests of uncut emeralds. The silver and gold alone would be valued today at fifty million dollars, just in commodity value. Intrinsic value and historical value could easily double that amount. And it wasn’t the only ship in the fleet, just the largest.”

The woman spoke for the first time, her voice as fluid as her movements. Resonant and businesslike, also with just a touch of an accent that he couldn’t place. “And you know the whereabouts?”

We finalized a loose plan by noon. Chyrel gave Rusty all the information she found that he’d need for salvage rights. Rusty, Deuce, and Doc went home by early afternoon to get started on planning the treasure hunt. Using his license as a salvor, Rusty made inquiries to learn more about salvage laws in the Bahamas. Deuce would decide on two more from his team to come along for security. Carl would use the
Cazador
to bring non-perishable supplies up from Big Pine and stow them aboard the
Revenge,
along with a list of equipment we’d put together over the next week. Chyrel dug through computer files for any reference to storms on the mainland and in the northern Caribbean in September of 1566 and found quite a bit of information.

A journal from a Priest, Father Lopez de Mendoza Grajales, who’d founded the first Catholic mission in Saint Augustine just a year before described a fierce storm that came out of the wilderness to the southwest and moved offshore in early September. A single Lucayan slave washed up on shore three days later. He spoke only his native tongue, but the Priest managed to find out that although the slave didn’t know the name of the ship he was on, he was able to convey that it had been one of ten ships in a fleet that left Havana nine days earlier. The Priest further described a second, even more powerful hurricane coming off the ocean from the southeast less than a week later.

“This is important information,” I told Chyrel and Tony over coffee in the salon that evening. “It could mean that the slave was on one of the other ships in the fleet and they sank in the storm about the time the
Magdalena
turned south.”

“Then the hurricane circled around the northern Bahamas as the
Magdalena
sailed south,” she added, “eventually driving the ship onto Elbow Cay, where the crew probably died from dehydration. There’s no source of fresh water on the island.”

“But not before salvaging the treasure and burying it on the island. I wonder how many people survived the wreck and why didn’t they turn north after the hurricane passed the first time.”

“The manifest said they had a crew of seventy-five,” Tony said. “Plus twenty-two passengers. Maybe they had damage and were looking for someplace to make repairs. The
Mag
was the largest. Ten ships? Maybe five to eight hundred people in all?”

“And only the one slave survived the wreck of the other nine?” Chyrel asked.

“Probably only a small handful survived the wreck on Elbow Cay,” I said. “Ever wonder why early sailors wore a gold ring in their ear?”

“I’m guessing it wasn’t a fashion statement?” Chyrel asked.

“Back then, few people knew how to swim, even sailors. Among Christian sailors, their greatest fear was drowning at sea and not getting a proper burial. The gold ring was to pay for one, if their body floated up on shore.”

“So, not knowing how to swim would mean most of the passengers and crew drowned.” Tony added. “With all the native Lucayans gone from the island, there wasn’t anyone there to help the survivors. I don’t know which would be worse, drowning or dying of thirst.”

“I’m taking the
Revenge
to the
Anchor
for a day or so in the morning. Either of you want some shore leave?”

“I’m fine,” Chyrel said. “Charlie and I are going fly fishing tomorrow.”

“I’m in,” Tony replied. “Seafood’s great, but I could sure use a steak.”

Early the next morning, with Pescador tagging along, we were up on plane, headed northeast up Harbor Channel. It took another forty-five minutes to reach the Seven Mile Bridge and the channel to the
Rusty Anchor
just around the tip of Boot Key.

Deuce and Julie were sitting in the cockpit of their Whitby as we came down the long canal. Deuce came over, helped us tie off the
Revenge
, and then came aboard.

“I was just about to call you,” he said. “Charity called this morning. I’d left a message on her cell last night to call me.” Charity Styles was one of Deuce’s team members. She’d been a martial arts instructor for Miami-Dade Police Department and an Olympic swimmer prior to that, before being recruited by Homeland Security as a member of Deuce’s team. Several months earlier she’d gotten close to a young Marine named Jared Williams who we’d all grown to like. He died in the attack at Deuce and Julie’s wedding, but he saved many lives that day.

“How’s she doing?” I asked.

“She sounded fine. She opened a private dojo up in Key Largo. Said she hoped we’d get an assignment soon, she was getting bored. I told her about what we had planned and asked if she’d like to go along as added security. She jumped at it. I also called Andrew. He’s in.”

Andrew Bourke came to Deuce’s team from the Coast Guard’s Maritime Enforcement, where he was a Senior Chief Petty Officer. A quiet and unassuming man in his mid-forties, he was looking at retirement and decided a change of venue might be better. He handled a lot of the cross-training in small boat boarding tactics for the team.

“When did you tell them to come down?” I asked.

“Charity will be here this evening and stay the night aboard our boat. Andrew got a lead on a mini LED infrared spotlight and is fashioning a receptacle for the
Revenge’s
bow light.”

“The
Revenge
doesn’t have bow lights.”

“It was a suggestion from the Director after reading our boarding practices report,” Deuce said. “It’ll be really small, hardly noticeable.” Retired Colonel Travis Stockwell was Deuce’s boss, the Associate Deputy Director, Caribbean Anti-terrorist Command, Department of Homeland Security. He was a former Ranger and we were in Somalia at the same time in 1992, though we’d never met until just a few months ago.

Tony and I sat down at the bar and Deuce went back to his boat. Apparently boats need to be cleaned now and then, and he and Julie had been neglecting it for a few weeks.

“Morning, Jesse,” Jimmy said from behind the bar. “Hi, Tony. Breakfast or beer?”

“Both?” Tony asked.

“Coffee for me, Jimmy,” I said. “I have to drive up to the mainland today.”

Tony looked over at me. “Was I volunteered to do something I wasn’t told about?”

I laughed and replied, “Only if you want to. I’m going up to Miami to see someone about supplies I ordered a few weeks ago.”

“What kind of supplies?”

“The loud kind.”

“I’m in,” he said, then to Jimmy he added, “Just coffee for me, too. And whatever Rufus recommends for breakfast.”

“Double that,” I said as Jimmy poured our mugs. “Where’s Rusty?”

“He went down island, to upgrade his salvor’s permit.”

“Upgrade?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Jimmy replied, “to international. And the Bahamas requires a whole different permit to salvage a ship’s cargo that’s found on land.”

We both ate quickly. I told Jimmy to let Rusty know we were going to be gone most of the day, but would be back by evening. Ten minutes later, we were passing under the gumbo-limbo and oak branches that shade and nearly obscure the entrance to the
Anchor
. I turned
The
Beast
north onto US-1.

My truck is a 1973 International Travelall, sort of an SUV on steroids. I bought it over seven years earlier, when I first arrived in the Keys after retiring. It just seemed to call out to me at the time. Since then, friends had chipped in and done a complete makeover while I was in the hospital last spring. They left the exterior just the way it was, scratched, dented, and fading to rust in places. They simply cleaned it up, shot it with clear coat to stop the rust from getting worse, and mounted a huge brush guard, winch, and oversized wheels and tires. It looked like a jacked-up junker. But under the hood, the tired old American Motors small block V-8 gas engine had been replaced with a monster Cummins supercharged diesel engine that produces four hundred and fifty horses and over eight hundred pounds of torque. The axles and transfer case were also replaced with heavy-duty Ford units. Inside, my friends had gutted the interior, reupholstered the backseat, and replaced the front bench seat with comfortable air ride seats. A console was added, with a completely new dashboard and gauges, air conditioning, and a nice sound system.

As the tires set up a hum on the highway passing Duck Key, Tony asked, “Where exactly are we going in Miami that’s gonna take all day to get there and back?”

“I lied,” I replied. “Didn’t want anyone in the bar knowing my business. We’re headed to a little town on the west coast. LaBelle, near Fort Myers. An old friend lives there who has access to just about anything.”

“That would mean something you can’t get locally, then?”

“Yeah, I think you’ll approve.”

The old International drove and handled like a brand new rig, the big engine not even breaking a sweat at highway speed, and we got to my friend’s place of business before noon. I’d gone to high school and later served with Billy Rainwater, a Seminole Indian who lived near where I grew up in Fort Myers. He loved four-wheeling and had a collection of off-road vehicles. He ran a business customizing other people’s trucks, and he also ran an import/export business on the side, with a very limited clientele. I’d called him several weeks earlier and told him what I was in the market for and he called back a few days ago to tell me my order had been filled.

I eased the big truck under the shade of an ancient cypress tree on the edge of Billy’s crushed-shell parking area. His shop was nothing more than an old steel building, with two garage bay doors and a small office. It had once been a gas station, back when we were kids. Billy came out of the shade of one of the garage bays, lazily striding toward us as we got out. He still wore his hair long in a ponytail and dressed like he probably had every day for thirty years—jeans, boots, and a western-style plaid shirt.

“That don’t sound like no AMC, Kemosabe,” Billy said, extending his hand. I took his extended arm, grabbing his forearm in the Indian way, then pulled him in for a slap on the back. I hadn’t seen Billy in over seven years, but it felt like it was only yesterday that we watched as a young woman put eight rounds into a man who had kidnapped her. He and I had been hunting the man, an escaped convict that nobody will ever find or miss.

“Good to see you again, brother,” I said, releasing the bear hug. “This is my friend, Tony.”

Billy turned and offered his hand to Tony and said, “Any friend of Jesse’s is someone I’d take a bullet for.” When Tony took his hand, Billy turned it and looked down where Tony was missing the first knuckle of his index and middle fingers. Without a word passing between them, Billy seemed to sense it happened in a violent way and wasn’t accidental.

Turning back to me he said, “Am I nuts, or did I hear a 6.7 liter Cummins pull in here?” I popped the hood and let him ogle the truck for a few minutes. Finally closing the hood, he leaned on the brush guard and said, “I have everything you wanted. All boxed up in the rear of the shop. Why don’t you back this beast in and we can get her loaded up.”

Tony and I got in the truck and backed it into the bay Billy had disappeared into. When we were clear, Billy pulled both rolling doors down and joined us at the back of the truck.

“Now that’s rare,” Billy said pointing at the back of
The
Beast
.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Barn doors on a seventy-three. Most of them had a tailgate.”

He walked over to where a heavy tarp covered some boxes and pulled it off. Sliding the crate beneath it over, he unlatched it and opened it. “Exactly like you specified,” he said. “I won’t even bother asking what it mounts on.”

Inside was a titanium mounting bracket that would fit securely into the deck mount where the fighting chair goes in the cockpit of the
Revenge
. It was three feet long but telescoped up to five feet in four inch increments, with large locking pins that slid through holes drilled in it. It had a folding tripod with rubber feet that extended out from the base post thirty-six inches and locked into place twenty-four inches up from the end of the base post. At the top was a swivel yoke. It was perfect. I closed the case and Tony helped me lift it and put it in the back of the truck.

Billy pulled the tarp back further, uncovering a second crate equal in size and shape to the first. “I’ve only been asked to find one of these five times. The other four, I pretended it was something I couldn’t get my hands on.”

When he unlatched and opened it, Tony laughed and exclaimed, “A Ma Deuce? Are you fucking kidding me?” Inside was a completely reconditioned Browning M2A1 .50 caliber machine gun, with two brand new lightweight quick change barrels, affectionately called Ma Deuce.

I closed the lid and latched it, and we loaded it into the truck as Billy dragged out three smaller boxes from under the tarp. Inside the first were a dozen hand grenades, and the second one held ten pounds of C4 plastic explosive. The last box, smaller still, held two dozen electronic blasting caps and two handheld transmitters. I carefully carried them to the truck, setting them inside, away from the C4. Billy put another box in, covered everything with the tarp, and said, “The box of ammo is complimentary, old friend.”