Florida Firefight (17 page)

But it didn't matter. The fishermen fought as a team now. They fought for their homes, for their women, for their young sons and daughters. Hawker had never seen anything like it. One of the fishermen, just out of his teens, got hit from the side with one of the clubs. He turned, grinning through his bloody face, then jerked the club from the Colombian's hands and beat him to the ground with it.

From the cluster of houses around the harbor, someone fired off a parachute flare, as if light might help the Colombians. For a wild minute the whole battleground was illuminated in the ghastly red glow. For the Colombians it was like hell. For the fishermen it was like the Fourth of July.

They were winning their independence; they were retaking their homeland.

Buck Hamilton had improvised an interesting method of attack. Because he was older and fatter than most of the other fishermen, the Colombians thought him an easy mark. Buck had wisely decided to use that to his advantage. He spent most of his time down on his hands and knees, crawling around on the grass. When a Colombian would trot up to give the final death blow, Buck would crack him in the shins with an ax handle, then all but decapitate the man as he bent over in pain. Hawker counted at least four men he'd put out that way.

Boggs McKay, Graeme Mellor and Logan were proving themselves equally tough.

Logan had found himself a good place to stand and fight: at the edge of the seawall, with a car at his back. The Colombians had to come at him head on, which was just what Logan wanted. One by one he would slap their clubs away with his left forearm, then pop their faces open with his sledge-size right fist. When they hit the ground, he would scoop them up in his bearish arms and toss them into the bay.

Hawker thought Logan had had it once. A towering black man made it through his defense and succeeded in getting around behind him and getting his club stretched across Logan's throat. He was being choked to death. Hawker was just about to jump out of the skiff when Logan jammed his elbow into the black man's ribs, spun, butted his face bloody, then added another body to the bay.

Graeme Mellor did his fighting at the base of a huge oak tree. He had obviously had a lot of karate training. He used spinning kicks and elbow blows to send his attackers unconscious to the ground.

Rather than standing and fighting, Boggs McKay roamed the grounds like a monster man. Whenever the Colombians began to gang up on a fallen fisherman, Boggs was there, his big fists working like hammers.

The Colombians were taking one hell of a beating. They began to fall back toward the houses, slowly at first, then in a mass panic.

The fishermen went right after them. Through the Star-Tron scope, Hawker could see Buck Hamilton leading the way. His nose was bloody, and he was grinning as he jogged after the Colombians. Every time one came within range, Buck hurried him on his way with a swift kick in the ass.

As he ran Hamilton began to dig something out of his shirt. Hawker finally realized what it was: a flag. An American flag. There was an empty flagpole in one of the yards, and Buck found it. He snapped the flag to the halyard and began to raise it. When it was halfway up, Hamilton's knees suddenly buckled and he grabbed his chest.

For a moment Hawker thought he was having a heart attack. But then he heard the compressed
thud
of the second shot and realized the Colombians had opened fire.

Hamilton's knees buckled again. He shook his head defiantly, and with tremendous willpower, he pulled the flag high and snubbed the rope to the cleat before collapsing to the grass.

It was no longer just a fight. It was a war.

Hawker's head swung, and he saw that it was the guards at the warehouse who were firing. Each man's rifle had a round, tubular silencer. Hawker switched the Colt Commando to automatic fire and swept the dock with a long burst. The two men jolted as if they had just touched a high-voltage line, and they fell kicking and screaming to the cement quay.

There was the sound of more fire now, automatic weapons fire. It was coming from the main house. It had the fishermen pinned down. Worse, they were sitting ducks. A couple of them fired back with their handguns, but with little effect.

Hawker waded to shore. He made his way through the bushes toward the house. There was a stretch of open yard, and he sprinted, drawing fire. He dove, rolled and came to his feet safely under the house. He dropped the Commando's spent clip and jammed a fresh one in.

He knew they'd be watching for him at the doors of the house. He slung the rifle over his shoulder and jumped up and grabbed the porch beam. He pulled himself up and slid under the railing onto the porch. With his back against the wall, Hawker peeked into the window.

There were three men in the room, all carrying strange-looking automatic rifles. Hawker finally recognized them: AK-47s, Soviet assault rifles.

If the Mahogany Key puzzle needed a final piece to be complete, this was it.

Anton Nuñez Guillermo wasn't kidding when he said his people would be ready for America's final fall. His organization obviously had a very powerful friend: the USSR.

The men stood at three different parts of the room, all watching a door. Hawker needed to get them all looking in the same direction. There was a potted plant on the porch near his feet: an aloe plant, good for healing burns. Hawker lifted it and gave it a high, arching toss toward the far door. The moment their heads swung, Hawker put his head down and rolled through the screen.

He came to his feet, spraying the Colombians with 5.56-millimeter slugs, slamming two of them dead against the wall and knocking the third out the door. The Colombian gave a final death scream before he hit the ground.

When he was sure the house was empty, Hawker went out onto the porch and waved the fishermen onward. They came charging out of the bushes, ready for more. But this time they wanted blood. Buck Hamilton was well liked on the island, and the fishermen wanted revenge.

The Colombians sensed it. They ran for their lives. Some of them dove into the bay. Others jammed into cars and sped away.

Hawker went down the wooden steps three at a time and sprinted to the flagpole where Buck lay. Boggs McKay, Logan and Mellor were already there, all kneeling over him.

“Is he dead?” Hawker asked anxiously.

And a testy old voice answered, “Shit, no, I ain't dead, you ol' coconut-headed boy. Them slimy devils just put a couple of leak holes in me.”

Hawker laughed at the sight before him. Buck Hamilton rested supine on the grass, his head propped, a crooked smile on his face. Logan was applying direct pressure to his shoulder while Mellor worked on his leg.

“Goddamn if we didn't pull it off, Hawk!” crowed Hamilton. “Hey, hey! All you boys gather 'round here. I got an announcement to make!”

Forty or more fishermen closed in to listen. They were sweaty and bleeding, but they were happy; to a man, they were grinning triumphantly.

“I got a couple of things to say before I let these boys cart me off to the hospital in Naples,” Hamilton continued, breathing heavily and obviously in pain. “First off, this ugly redheaded man standing beside me here, James Hawker, deserves a hell of a lot of thanks from all of us. Christ, when I left seven weeks ago, this island looked like a goddamn ghost town. Now it looks like a model city—my own Tarpon Inn included!”

The fishermen cheered and slapped Hawker on the back. Hawker didn't embarrass easily, but he was embarrassed now.

“And I got one more thing to say!” bellowed Buck Hamilton. He gave it just the right pause before adding, “Drinks are on the house!”

Hooting and bragging and joking, the fishermen headed off through the darkness back to the Tarpon Inn and their celebration party.

Hawker held out his hand to Boggs McKay. McKay's rugged face looked strangely at peace. “You're a hell of a leader,” said Hawker as the two big men shook hands. “Those men couldn't have done it without you.”

“Or you,” said McKay, a wry smile on his face. “It's not often I let myself be used, but this time … well, this time I was the one who benefited. Thanks, Hawker. I mean that. Another year as a hermit and I don't think I would ever have recovered.”

“Welcome back to the living, breathing world, Boggs. And if you decide you want to go back into business, or maybe even politics—”

“I think I can handle it from here,” McKay said with a laugh. “The offer is appreciated, though.”

Hawker nodded. “Good luck.”

After promising Buck Hamilton he would visit him in the hospital, Hawker took Logan and Mellor aside. “Do you fellows still want to go with me tonight? If you're not up to it, just say—”

“Have you noticed how I keep looking at my watch?” interrupted Logan.

“Your watch? Well, er, no—”

“Do you remember those explosives you gave Boggs to carry?” asked Mellor innocently.

“Right,” said Hawker. “I remember—”

“The warehouse is set to go off in four minutes and fifty-five seconds.… No, make that fifty-three seconds.… No, make that—”

“Boggs!” Hawker yelled. “Get Buck ready to move out or we'll all be joining him in the hospital! I'm beginning to think this goddamn cook of ours really is just a cook!”

When they were halfway down Bayside Drive, they turned and watched. Graeme did the countdown. “Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen …”

The warehouse erupted in a gush of orange light that shook the earth, illuminated the harbor and rained fire down on the bay.

From behind them at the Tarpon Inn, they could hear the fishermen cheering.

Hawker was not surprised at what spun down from the sky, floating soft as snowflakes.

It was money.

nineteen

Just after midnight Hawker, Logan and Mellor got aboard the
Castaway
and idled from the dock into the mangrove darkness of the bay.

The wind had freshened, coming cold out of the northwest, and lightning glowed in distant stormclouds over the Gulf.

The cruiser punched through the heavy chop of Chatham Bay, wallowing in the troughs of waves, cavitating, then dieseling onward through the blackness.

Behind them, the Colombians' warehouse still burned, and the party at the Tarpon Inn continued. An ambulance had come for Buck Hamilton. As he was lifted onto the stretcher, he had waved jauntily and asked for a dip of snuff.

Logan had been out enough with Harley Bates, the fishing guide, to know the water. He steered. Mellor sat beside him with the chart. They ran without lights, and it was up to Mellor to count the points of islands so they would not get lost in the jungled maze.

Hawker stood uneasily on the stern deck, going over their equipment and gauging the strength of the coming squall. It looked like they were in for some very foul weather indeed.

Hawker nodded, approving. It was good. The noise would provide them with cover.

Logan wound the boat through the treacherous backcountry. Twice the cruiser jolted, churning mud in the shallow water. Mangrove limbs scraped past the wheelhouse in the narrow channels. The deck was littered with limbs and branches.

Finally they broke into a star-glazed river of deep water. It was Dismal Key Pass. Logan took a deep breath and rolled his shoulder muscles, trying to relieve the tension of the difficult steering.

“This is it,” he said. “Graeme, you can take the boat into the Gulf from here. Just keep her right in the middle of the channel.” He looked at Hawker and smiled. “This is it, boss. Time to go it alone.”

“Let's get the gear into the Bonefisher.” Hawker gave Graeme Mellor a light slap on the back. “Don't forget—don't let Medelli's men get too close. And don't let them get a clear shot at you—they might take it. Use the bullhorn to communicate. Tell them to tie the money to a life jacket and set it adrift. Make them hold it up in the light first. Make sure it's Venezuelan or Colombian. You do the same with that plastic bag of baking soda. Throw it as far as you can. Once they get it, tell them to get the hell away. We should be ready by that time. And if they give you any trouble at all, lob a grenade at them. Or, if they're far enough away, use the Stinger. Got it?”

Mellor wiped his hand across his lips. He grinned. “My mouth's too bloody dry to talk.”

“Don't worry. If things go like I plan, we'll pull it off without a shot being fired. They think you're on their side, remember?”

As Graeme Mellor steered the
Castaway
toward the open Gulf for his rendezvous at White Horse Key, Logan and Hawker got the skiff on plane. The 140-horsepower Johnson blew the Bonefisher across the water as if it were a jet boat.

The wind blew hard over the bay, and they jumped the waves with jarring impact, taking spray over the bow.

One by one openings in the islands revealed themselves as Logan whipped the skiff through the narrow cut at Four Brothers Key and into the bay below Hog Key.

Ahead, the flour-colored beach of Panther Key looked gray in the darkness. There was a sudden explosion of lightning, like a flashbulb going off, and for a moment Hawker could see the black outline of
Demonio Del Mar
anchored on the far Gulf side of the island.

Logan pulled the skiff into a little harbor protected by mangroves, using the trim button to raise the engine as they grounded ashore.

Wordlessly the two men readied themselves. Hawker tied off the skiff while Logan unloaded their gear. They slung packs and weaponry over their shoulders and headed along the tree line at a heavy jog.

At the coral shoals of Gomez Point, waves pounded over the reef. Hawker pulled off his running shoes and adjusted the black Rocket fins.

“Looks like a good night for a swim,” he chided Logan.

“Shit, why can't we just use that rocket launcher and blow up the boat from here? It's as rough as a damn cob out on that sea.”

“Because I have a hunch there's something very important on board, something we can't risk looking for ever again.”