Nude Awakening (26 page)

THIRTY-NINE

Swagga began to panic when the U.S. Coast Guard ordered him to bring his vessel to a halt. He grabbed the throttle and made a hard emergency stop. The sudden action threw him forward as the big yacht slowed its speed. The digital speedometer glowed brightly on the console, 45 knots, 40 . . . 35 . . . 30 . . . 25 . . . 20 . . . 15 . . . 10 . . . 5 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . . 0.

Rushing out of the bridge, he paid no mind to the radio. The Coast Guard was giving him orders to comply with them fully. Someone was also asking about LaToria. Swagga knew what had to be done.

LaToria had managed to free her hands with the aid of a straight razor. Her emotions were high when the yacht began to suddenly slow. She moved to the window. Nothing but pitch black darkness greeted her. Why did this fool stop? She frowned when an odd humming noise filled her ears. The yacht was still slowing down. The humming grew louder.

Robinson nodded at the pilot when he heard the Coast Guard had gotten Swagga to stop.

“Closer, sir?” the pilot asked Robinson.

“No. I don’t want to spook him. Keep us out of visual range. The Coast Guard has it under control.”

The pilot kept a loose racetrack oval pattern orbit at 1,000 feet above the Atlantic waters.

“Think he’ll give up, sir?”

Robinson sighed. “I sure as hell hope so.”

“We can’t get any closer.” Menage turned his speedboats engine to a low idle.

“How far away are we?” Trevon asked.

“’Bout four miles. Here.” Menage reached down by his feet and unlocked an odd-looking pair of binoculars. “Use these. You should be able to see a bit of what’s goin’ on.”

Trevon took the thermal vision binoculars.

“Can you see his yacht?”

“Not yet,” Trevon replied, slowly scanning left to right.

“Look toward your right. He should—”

“Okay, okay, I see it! Damn, where the fuck is the Coast Guard?”

“Still movin’ in, dawg. Just watch. Trust me, I know how you feel.”

Trevon unfastened the harness belt then stood up. “Why did he stop?”

“He gave up. I’m sure he has a radar picture of the Coast Guard runnin’ him down. Plus, I bet they’re talkin’ to ‘im right now.

“Too easy,” Trevon murmured. “Something ain’t right.”

Aboard the U.S. Coast Guard vessel approaching from the Southwest stood Lieutenant Janayia A. Martin. She was one of the few African American women that held command of a Coast Guard vessel.

“What are our range and bearing on the stopped vessel?” she asked the navigation Petty Officer First Class. She rechecked what she heard with the radar overlay and the plotter. A large 20-inch screen displayed a thermal image of the sleek yacht floating dead in the waters five miles away. Stepping behind the coxswain, she nodded at the farthest symbol toward the north.

“Make sure that vessel stays out of this area until this issue is over.” The communications officer seated next to the coxswain acknowledged the order and made the second warning to Menage’s speedboat. Lieutenant Martin looked back at the thermal image of the yacht. She wanted everything done by the book.

“How far is the yacht from Cuban waters?” She already knew, but she felt it was a must to keep her crew on their toes.

“Uh, approximately ten and a half miles, ma’am,” the navigation officer replied.

“What’s our ETA?” Lieutenant Martin turned toward the coxswain.

Before the coxswain could reply, the Chief Petty Officer jumped out of his seat. “Bastard’s on the move again!”

“Ma’am, vessel is increasing speed quickly,” the coxswain stated.

“Course?” Lieutenant Martin calmly asked while making a mental note to speak to the CPO about his unprofessional outburst.

“Cuba ma’am.”

“Can we catch up before the vessel reaches Cuban waters?”

“Yes ma’am. But—”

“I know, Petty Officer First Class Neal. Catching him is one thing. But making him stop is another.”

“Lieutenant Martin. We got another big problem.” The CPO stood over the thermal monitor shaking his head. “Look.”

Lieutenant Martin gasped. Even though the image was a dull grayish picture, she knew it was the worse case to see red and yellow. The yacht sped toward Cuba with a bright glowing fire licking from its bridge.

“Get us there now!” Lieutenant Colonel Robinson ordered the pilot. Robinson felt his stomach shift when the ex-military pilot banked the helicopter in a hard turn. It was now a race. Robinson did not need the aid of binoculars to spot the burning yacht down on the ocean.

Back aboard the U.S. Guard vessel, Lieutenant Martin ordered to coxswain to steer as close to the burning yacht as possible. “Look for anyone on board. The suspect is a black male and we also have a hostage!” She ran to the port side window as a black and gray U.S Marshals helicopter buzzed overhead. “Where is the Coast Guard? Hello?” she shouted.

“Delayed, ma’am. The fuel lines have some sort of problem. Second helo’s ETA is twenty minutes.”

“Damn it! This will be over in five!”

“Second Coast Guard vessel is now on station.”

Lieutenant Martin looked out and saw the second U.S.C.G. vessel on the starboard side of the speeding yacht. The three vessels continued a course toward Cuba.

“Jesus!” Robinson muttered helplessly at the sight below the helicopter. The Coast Guard could do no more than escort the burning yacht. The helicopter’s powerful searchlight along with the two from the Coast Guard vessels played over Swagga’s yacht. All eyes were looking for any signs of life.

“Get us closer!” Robinson jabbed down toward the yacht. “And keep the light on the damn boat!”

Four miles to Cuban waters, ma’am.”

“I know!” Lieutenant Martin shouted back at one of her crew. She gripped the rail fitted along the port bulkhead as the vessel bounced in the burning yacht’s wake.

“Coxswain! Get us ahead of the yacht on its port side,” she ordered, turning to the CPO. “Put the searchlight on the bridge and turn on the loudspeaker!”

The coxswain glanced nervously at the speeding yacht with fire spreading quickly along it’s forecastle. Like everyone aboard, he knew their actions were useless. In truth, there was nothing else the two Coast Guard vessels could do. Their only plan of action was to hope someone aboard the yacht was alive. If so, they would be encouraged to jump. The loudspeaker boomed over the roar of the three boats and the helicopter.

“IS ANYONE ON BOARD?”

“Three miles to Cuban waters, ma’am!

Robinson slammed his fist in his palm when the Coast Guard vessels began to decrease their speeds. They were now a half a mile from Cuban waters.

“Sir,” the pilot spoke. “We’re too close to Cuban airspace. I don’t think there is anyone alive down there.”

Robinson could not peel his eyes from the yacht. “Shit!”

Seconds later the pilot began to slow, bringing the helicopter into a hover.

“Sorry sir.” The pilot nursed the controls. “I can’t go any further.”

Lieutenant Martin felt defeated as the burning yacht sped off into the night.

“It’s in Cuban waters, ma’am.”

She could not respond. Sighing, she turned to her CPO. “We’ll sit here until—”

“Ma’am!” The navigation officer looked up from the radar. “You might want to look at this!”

“What is it?”

“That speedboat we were tracking. It’s on the move again. And I mean moving!”

“Where is it heading?”

“Cuba, ma’am. Um, this can’t be right. Jesus!”

“Jesus what?”

“Ma’am, I’m reading the speed at 94 knots . . . 98 . . . .Uh . . . 100 ma’am! 110 . . . 115 . . . 1—16 . . . . One hundred sixteen knots and holding. Damn, he’s moving!”

“Whoa!” Robinson shouted at the sight of the speedboat ripping between the two Coast Guard vessels. All that was left behind was the wake.

FORTY

LaToria banged on the door, coughing and gagging from the smoke seeping around the door. “Somebody help me!” She kicked and pounded the warm door with her fist. She had screamed her voice out when the Coast Guard was around. They had to have seen me! Backing away from the door, she rubbed her burning eyes. “Please . . .” She sobbed. “Please! Somebody help me!”

Menage’s speedboat easily caught up with the yacht now engulfed in flames.

“You sure you wanna do this!” Menage shouted with the speedboat bouncing in the yacht’s wake. Smoke burned his eyes.

“I gotta get up there!” Trevon was free of the harness on the seat.

“Look, I’ma get as close as I can. You’ll have to jump on the swim platform!”

“What’s that?”

“That wooden flat piece on the back! Yo bruh, if you slip off . . .”

“I know, we only get one chance!”

“Ready?”

“Yeah.”

Menage eased the speedboat closer then slid alongside the port stern of the yacht. The ride was bumpy due to the water crashing against the speedboat. Menage misjudged his speed and caused the boats to touch.

“Shit!” Menage yanked the wheel to the left decreasing speed.

“C’mon, man!”

Menage gripped the throttle and turned back toward the yacht, matching its speed. “Okay, when I get close, you gotta jump quickly. I won’t be able to hold dis bitch steady this close to the yacht.”

“Okay, okay let’s go!” Trevon stood up in the cockpit. The heat from the fire warmed his skin twenty feet away. He placed one foot up on the edge of the speedboat.

“Wait!” Menage shouted. “Put on a lifevest!”

“Fuck it!” Trevon was focused on the jump. “Closer!”

Menage eased up closer. “Fuck!” Menage felt the wheel jerk in his hand . He could not hold the speedboat steady. Trevon fell back over the seat, knocking the .380 out of his waistband.

“A’ight yo!” Menage vented. “On three! One . . .”

Trevon stood back up. “Damn! The gun! Fuck.” He moved back to the edge.

“Two!”

The yacht continued to burn.

“Three!” Menage jerked to the right, purposefully crashing into the port stern of the yacht. “Jump! Jump!”

Trevon launched himself off the speedboat, landing hard on the wooden swim platform. He fastened a life holding grip on the rail lining the stern, then pulled himself up. Flames greeted him.

“LATORIA!” he shouted. Looking behind him, he saw the speedboat veering sharply away with a gaping hole from the crash with the yacht. Trevon was on his own. Taking a deep breath, he ran into the smoke.

LaToria could feel the heat building. Burning to death made her shiver. Smoke was now billowing around the door. Closing her eyes, she sat on the bed. Sobbing, she placed the straight razor on her wrist. A large wave caused the yacht to land hard in the water. She flinched, nicking her wrist with the razor. It drew blood.

Gripping the ivory handle, she allowed her tears to fall. The end. The razor hovered inches over her wrist. She bit down on her bottom lip. Mentally, she started to count.

Five, four, three, two . . .

“LaToria!

Her head snapped up. Slowly, she stood looking toward the door.

“LaToria! You in there!” The handle jiggled.

“Trevon!” She dropped the razor and ran to the door. “Trevon! Please get me out of here!” She pounded the door.

“. . . back!”

“Baby please!” She heard him shouting something behind the door. “I can’t hear you!”

“Step back! . . . kick it in!”

LaToria tried to piece his words together when a loud crack sounded. She jumped back as Trevon kicked the door in. Words could not match her relief when he stumbled into the stateroom.

“Come on! We gotta get off this boat now!”

Trevon grabbed her by the hand, yanking her off her feet. He did his best to shield her from the flames. They moved toward the stern and out in the open air. Behind them a small explosion rocked the yacht down below the deck. He gripped LaToria’s hand, edging down to the swim platform.

“We gotta jump!” he shouted.

LaToria cried. “I can’t swim!”

Trevon could not spoil her hopes by telling her the same. He could not swim. Squeezing her hand, he looked into her eyes.

“Do not! No matter what. Do not let go of my hand. I love you.”

Her scream rang in his ears as they jumped off the burning yacht and into the deep Atlantic.

FORTY-ONE

Friday 3:53 a.m.

Sugarloaf Key, Florida

Swagga rode the Jet Ski out of the surf without slowing. When it grounded on the sandy bottom, he was thrown off tumbling onto the dark private beach.

“Ahhh fuck!” He rolled over, holding his sore left wrist. Stumbling out of the water, he ran up to the back of D-Hot’s oceanfront estate. Swagga’s teeth chattered from the cold water that soaked his clothes. He kept running up the beach until he neared the back gate of D-Hot’s home. Before his hands could touch the gate, three vicious pit bulls charged the gate on the opposite side barking loudly. Swagga stopped, breathing hard.

“D-Hot!” he shouted, pulling out the Glock. “Better come get these gotdamn mutts before I—”

A sharp whistle issued by D-Hot calmed the dogs as D-Hot came running past the resort-sized glass tile pool.

“Hurry up, yo!” Swagga stared back out at the Atlantic briefly, assuming he would see the police or something. All he saw was the white caps of the surf easing back and forth on the sandy beach. D-Hot ushered him through the gate and inside his elegant 11,000 square foot home.

“I need some clothes, yo!”

“Bruh, I got all that shit ready! You gotta hurry and change. I got you a plane ticket leaving outta MIA on a private jet.”

“Where am I going?”

“Rabat,” D-Hot said, rushing Swagga into a bedroom.

“Rabat? Where the fuck is that?”

“Morocco.”

“Morocco?”

“Damn bruh! Did you even go to school? Rabat is the capital of Morocco. It’s a kingdom in Northwest Africa.”

“All you had to say was Africa.”

“Look. I got some good people over there that will look out for you. I’ma get your lawyer on this shit and wait”—D-Hot grabbed Swagga’s wrist—“Did you let that girl go?”

“Yeah fool!” Swagga said, yanking his wrist free. Swagga would not tell him about setting his yacht on fire after he lowered his Jet Ski in the water.

“Okay, change your clothes and let’s get out of here. The jet is fueled and ready.”

Swagga hurried with removing the wet clothes. D-Hot advised him to switch all of his assets to his account before the government placed a freeze on it. Swagga trusted D-Hot and sat down at his computer to do so. D-Hot stood over Swagga’s shoulder as he made the transaction.

“What’s that for?” D-Hot saw Swagga send $4.5 million to Kendra.

“Gotta look out for my seed, nigga, that’s what!”

“Oh. Shit, I was gonna see to that.”

“Yeah well, I wanna be sure that my firstborn is straight.”

D-Hot hid his resentment. He wanted all of Swagga’s money. D-Hot watched the screen closely as Swagga wired the high-end eight-figure amount to a new account. D-Hot’s account.

“Thanks yo!” Swagga later gave D-Hot a thug hug then ran out to the garage.

Swagga slid behind the wheel of a silver metallic Aston Martin Virage then sped off toward Miami. D-Hot stood on second wing grand view deck, watching the taillights of his Aston Martin fade into the night. D-Hot smiled, but then started laughing. Turning around, he pulled out his Vertu Ascent smartphone along with the calling card Lieutenant Colonel Frank Robinson had given him earlier.