The Gift of the Dragon (20 page)

Alice’s stomach growled. “Yes, please.”

He tossed her a sandwich wrapped in plastic, which she tore off, and she began to wolf down the sandwich.
 

“Good to see Guzman’s drugs didn’t kill your appetite!”

She smiled sheepishly around a mouthful. “Sorry, other than some peanuts, the last time I ate was breakfast yesterday. Didn’t realize it until you said something.”

Jacob pointed at the Zittara. “All right with you if I stow that?”

Alice thought about it. If he had wanted to harm her, he would have done it while she lay unconscious. “Might as well, I’m not going to shoot you, and I don’t guess a man who shares his PBJs has murder on his mind.”

Jacob started to say something and then just saluted her. He grabbed the gun and went into the cabin. When he came out a few seconds later, he said, “It’s in a storage locker under the mattress. In case you need it.”
 

While they spoke, the boat drifted downwind toward the entrance to the little bay they were on. Alice could see land faintly in the distance.

“Hold on,” Jacob said and pushed the throttles forward. The engines that had been muttering quietly, roared, and the boat leaped up onto a fast plane. As they emerged from the sheltered water between the two keys and entered the bay, the twin hulls cut easily through the two-foot tall, closely-spaced waves.

Alice needed to shout to be heard above the motors, the waves, and the wind. “Where are we headed?”

Jacob pointed ahead. “Do you see that bridge?”

Alice looked where he pointed and saw that what previously, from a greater distance, had appeared to be a single expanse of green was separating into two islands with a narrow channel between them, crossed by a long, low bridge.
 

She nodded, and then seeing that his eyes were focused carefully at the water ahead, she said, “Yes!”

“Just under the bridge is a marina. We’ll get gas there.”

In the water she noticed numerous small white buoys that Jacob was steering to avoid.
 

“What are those?”

“Crab and lobster traps,” Jacob shouted.
 

Looking down, Alice saw the water was very clear, and she could see flashes of color from corals and bright green grass they passed over. Between these clumps of life, the sand shone with a startling white color, making the sea bottom seem as if it was only inches from the surface. Alice looked over at the dashboard-mounted depth sounder, relieved to see that it was reporting two- to three-foot-deep water.
 

As they pulled up to a gas dock, she saw several other boats tied up there already. According to a sun-faded sign, they had arrived at the Old Wooden Bridge Marina. A boat with no one in it sat blocking the gas pump, so Jacob put the motors in reverse and bumped the throttles a few times to bring the boat to a stop.

“How long ago was that built?” Alice asked Jacob, pointing at the bridge.
 

“Just a few years ago. It used to be all wood, but they replaced that with concrete recently. The marina was named for the old bridge. That store was built in 1943, back when the bridge was still wooden.”

She looked sideways at him. “Do you come here often?”

“My family used to have a cabin down here. I’ve spent lots of time in the keys. This is a good place to refuel.”

Boats of all sizes lay anchored all along the bridge, most with several fishing poles in holders or hands, their lines extending into the water.
 

Jacob noticed her looking at the boats. “They say this is some of the best bridge fishing in the Keys. I’ve only tried it once—caught a fine flounder and some jacks.”

At last, four loud, fat men appeared and loaded the long, blue boat in front of them with what seemed like a year’s worth of Budweiser and Doritos. They finally moved out of the way of the single gas pump. Jacob grabbed one of the metal tubes holding up the boat’s fiberglass hardtop and pulled the boat forward.

As he pumped the gas, Alice said, “You mind if I leave you to this and go find a restroom?”
 

Just then they heard a wolf whistle as the fat guys drove by, leering. Alice glared at them.

Jacob said, “Promise you won’t start a war with the locals?”

“Hey, I can handle the four fat-scateers if you can’t.”

“Yeah, well I’m worried that Guzman’s people might still be looking for us. A woman beating the pulp out of a boat full of fishermen will make the papers.”

“Got it.”

“Also, you might scare people.” Jacob pointed at the naked fishing knife still stuck in her belt.

“Right.” She took the knife and laid it on the gunnel. “Put this away, please.” Totally disarmed now, she leaped out of the boat. As she walked barefoot up the wooden dock toward the shop where a painted brown sign advertised “Bathrooms Here,” she thought about leaving Jacob Castellan and his beat-up vessel behind. She could find a way to the mainland, retrieve her rental car, and get back to hunting for Sara’s killer. However, Jacob seemed to be the best lead she had found so far.
Well, the best lead still alive.
She wanted to know more about the necklace Sara had died to give her.

The small unisex bathroom smelled of overloaded air freshener and other things she did not want to think about. She shook her head.
That didn’t help.
 

As she left the toilet, she smelled her hair, sure that some of the odor would linger. She wrinkled her nose. Several days had passed since she had washed it last. At least her hair didn’t seem to have picked up anything worse than sweat and boat-mattress smells.

Alice walked back down to the boat as Jacob finished up with the fueling. “The old girl had her fill?”

“Yeah, sixty gallons in each tank. She is a thirsty old gal. But that is enough to take us to my sister’s and then back to Miami.”

“Your
sister’s!
I thought it was ‘a friend.’”

“Well, my sister Nanette is my friend also, but yeah, she has been staying in her house on Sugarloaf Key while her daughter recovers from chemo.”

“Chemo?”

“For leukemia. She is a great kid. Not a lucky kid, but great. They’ve been down on Sugarloaf for several months. Anna loves snorkeling in the keys, and there are nice reefs off Sugarloaf. It’s been a good way for her to recover from treatment.”

For some reason Alice thought of the medical equipment in Moore’s offices. “Is she doing okay now? How old is she?”

“Ten. The chemo was really hard on her. She’ll go back to Bethesda next month, and the docs will see whether it’s in remission.”

“Sad for that to happen to a kid.” Alice suddenly remembered playing in a stream in the Oregon woods with Sara, the day before her tenth birthday. In her mind she saw Sara looking small and cute in blue shorts and a tank top, chasing minnows with a little net. Tears came to Alice’s eyes.
Maybe Jenny was right. Maybe some of the memories are still in my head, and some may come back.

She noticed Jacob looking at her oddly and blinked the tears away.

He said softly, “It is sad.” Then, after a pause, he added, “Thank you.”

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

Jacob restarted the motors and cast off the lines. They motored north, and then when they cleared the boat traffic in the channel, Jacob said, “Hold on.” Alice grabbed the metal pole holding the top of the boat up. Jacob pushed both throttle handles forward. The motors roared, smoke puffed, and the boat jumped up to plane. The wind blew her hair back as they flew up the channel.
 

Michel

Michel looked over his team as they lined up to board the Lear 31 light jet.
 

After Thorn, the team was nominally led by Sanchez, a former Delta operator, tough and fast, as well as opinionated. He might have a first name, but he no longer used it. Thorn looked up his sheet one time and then knew why. Second in line stood Johan Siegert, a large, dark-haired veteran of the Kommando Spezialkräfte, the German special forces. He was the youngest on the team and the least-frequent bather. Hence, his nickname, “Pigpen.” He was also desperate to show his worth and so a good choice for the point in a dangerous mission. Next to him stood Martin Almaribe, an Arab-Australian who rose as high as one of his heritage could in the Australian Special Air Service Regiment. Martin had a happy attitude and a never-fading suntan. He was quick with a joke and slow to anger. Just don’t suggest to him that he have a Foster’s, the idea that real Australians liked to drink Foster’s being the one thing Thorn found that would make Almaribe angry—every time he said it.
 

Last in line stood Alan Marsdale, former British Special Air Service. He had retired with just about every decoration available to a man of the SAS.
 

Laird Northwin often said that Apple Creek’s security force, known to Apple Creek customers as Guardian Security and to those within the company as
The Guardians
,
was made of the very best soldiers in the world. The reward for loyal service was nearly invaluable, after all. However, for a mission he expected to involve murder, Thorn preferred a team with skeletons in their closet. His files contained dirt on all these men but Marsdale, dirt that would be good enough for twenty to life in the USA if it became public.
 

Marsdale, Thorn didn’t worry about, the man looked forward to action as a drug addict looked for his next fix. He lived for the chase and the kill at the end.

Thorn looked them over. Each dressed casually, in shorts and short-sleeved shirts as ordered. Each carried a long duffel bag, which Thorn knew would contain black fatigues, flak jackets, and civilian clothes for travel. Each also packed a short-barreled SCAR assault rifle along with the various handguns and knives they preferred as secondary and tertiary weapons.
 

“Good job on the dress, men. In this movie, we’ll be fishermen until the action starts, so you’ll need extra short-sleeved shirts, shorts, and sandals. Anyone want to re-pack?”

Marsdale raised his hand. Without waiting for approval, he asked, “Will we need heavy weapons, or is this hand-to-hand?”

“Bring everything, but it will be stowed most of the time. We’ll use the heavy stuff only if we need it. If everyone has their stuff together, let’s get on the plane, and I’ll give you dolls the full mission brief.”

“Fuck you, sir!” said Marsdale with a grin. The others laughed, grabbed their bags, and trooped on board.
 

The men piled their duffel bags in the compartment behind the last row of seats and then sat down.
 

The plane was configured with four seats facing forward and two facing back. Thorn sat in the backward facing seat at the front of the plane and said, “Don’t fasten your seat belts yet, babes, this flight takes about forty-five minutes once we leave, but we have a fine private place here to talk about what we will do when we land!” Thorn looked each man in the eye in turn. “We’re after at least two dangerous gonks who disrupted a plan of Mister Northwin’s. He’s a little upset about it, which means we are all completely pissed off. Are you all pissed off?”

Sanchez looked surprised, Johan said “Yah!” Almaribe said, “Yeah,” looking bored, and Marsdale jumped in a bit after Pigpen with, “Definitely!”

“One is a deadly yet lovely female. She used to be part of the Apple Creek family, and then she became a traitor. The other we don’t know about, but he killed a couple of our brothers. Northwin wants them both alive. Got it? Armed, dangerous, trained killers, and we should bring them in alive.”
 

“If possible, sir?” Marsdale ventured.

Thorn grinned widely. “Yeah, as with all missions, ‘if possible’ applies.”

Northwin’s men knew their boss had been in the field himself. He respected his people and generally supported them if they went a bit above and beyond—or even a bit below and inside.
 

“There are two of them, then, sir?” Marsdale asked.

“Yes, two targets on a boat.” Thorn pulled out a bag of chewing tobacco and put a wad in his cheek. “Now, I’ve looked into this kind of boat, a power catamaran. Some idiot Somali pirates I took care of in the Indian Ocean used a similar boat. They pulled one off a hijacked transport and attempted to attack a ship my team was guarding. I found that an RPG round in the center of the vessel, between the two hulls, will split it apart.” Thorn laughed at the memory. “The two halves of the boat went in opposite directions, leaving screaming pirates in the water. Beautiful sight.”

Sanchez looked excited. “So we just need to find their boat and hit it with the RPGs!”

“No, Northwin felt this mission should be handled by small arms alone. It costs money to cover up domestic use of heavy weapons, he says.” Thorn glared at Sanchez as though that must be his fault. “We’re stuck with these pea shooters.” Thorn hoisted his personal weapon, a short-barreled shotgun. “We’ll have RPGs, but we’re not supposed to use them.
Unless we have to.”

“So in a running chase, best to shoot the motors, eh, sir?” Marsdale said.

Thorn sighed. “Yeah, that should work. The boat has outboards. They can be disabled with shots to the power-head.”
 

“Uh, sir, where is that?” Pigpen asked.

“It’s the big, square thing on top, Pigs,” said Almaribe.

Seeing that Pigpen looked even more confused, Sanchez jumped in. “Not the square thing on top of your neck, Pigpen. The tops of the motors… shoot them.”

“O… okay. I understand it.”

“Great, I’m
so
glad we are all on the same page on that.” Thorn spat into a paper cup. “Now, as for how we find them, our geeks have figured out how to track their boat.”

 
Thorn pulled out an iPad and tilted it so the team could see it. Its screen displayed an aerial view of the western keys on the screen, with a blue line on it. “This is real-time imagery from our Aerostar drone. The path looks like it stops at Sugarloaf Key.”

The team looked at the map where Thorn pointed. Shaped like a crooked finger, Sugarloaf Key sat with its fingertip pointing northward from Big Coppit Key. The line ended at the northernmost end, where the satellite image showed a few isolated waterfront homesteads cut out of a green forest.