As the little center console skimmed the surface, its nearly flat bow slapping every roll, Deek wondered if yoga had a monkey pose. If so, Deek had been holding it for the last ten minutes. Right hand holding his ball cap on top of his head. Left hand clutching the broken zipper on his borrowed windbreaker. Thighs clenched, knees bent, and feet planted wide in a valiant effort to keep his seat.
The man at the helm, who had called himself Fish, seemed content to let his jacket flap in the wind and he ignored his own cap with the confidence of a man who spent his days in craft just like this.
Deek let go long enough to check the GPS pin his friend had sent the night before, and his cap took its opportunity to fly free and find its own way in the world. For a guy with a career in Maritime Administration, Deek didn’t do boats very well. Not well at all. He held his phone up for Fish to see. The man nodded, then eased the skiff into a wide arc to starboard as Deek’s phone rang.
Boss again. Deek hadn’t even taken the time to listen to yesterday’s voicemail. No point, he knew what his boss wanted, and he didn’t have a good answer yet. So he hit decline and watched as the little boat made a full lap around the spoil island without finding even the smallest part that could belong to a DHC-3 Otter. Until—
“Wait, there!” Deek shouted, his eye catching a flash of white tangled deep in a mangrove root.
Fish eased back on the throttle and the little boat settled down into the water. With the motor just above an idle, he nudged the bow around and motored toward the shore, stopping just short of the rocky beach.
“Here.” He pulled his flip-flops off and handed them to Deek. Deek looked back, his eyebrows raised.
Fish pointed to Deek’s loafers. “Can’t get ashore in those. These’ll keep your feet from getting shredded on the rocks. Go see what it is. It could just be trash—people dump anything and everything, and sometimes stuff just flies away like your hat just did. But it also could be something. See those fresh cuts on the stone over there? That’s about the width of a float-plane’s gear.”
Deek rolled up the cuffs of his khakis then removed his socks and carefully tucked each one into its corresponding loafer. He had one thought as he slipped his size ten feet into the size thirteen flip-flops.
He was not prepared for this.
But prepared or not, he was here. He had people who were taking his hunch seriously. Now wasn’t the time to let a little water—
Damn!
Everything shriveled and crowded up into his body as his feet dropped over the side of the boat and onto the rocky bottom.
“I thought the tropical waters were supposed to be warm?”
Fish laughed as he nudged the boat’s throttle to hold it in place. “Contrary to popular belief, it does get cold down here. This water’s so shallow, it gets cold too. Now, if you were here in August, it’d be as warm as a hot tub. But it’s not August. And you’re not on vacation. Now go get that trash so we can see what we’re looking at.”
Deek shuffled the flip-flops along the hard bottom and stumbled his way across the shore. He leaned over, gripping the mangrove root for balance, then jerked back, staring at his hand.
“Oh, yeah, I should have warned you. Those roots’ll cut a man. Might want to avoid scraping against them.”
Crouching as close to the tree roots as he could without touching them, Deek stretched into the cluster of roots and pulled out a wad of sticky white vinyl. He peeled back a corner of a narrow piece and spotted a bright blue stripe.
He stumbled backward, landing his tailbone against a pointed stone. Taking the vinyl in his left hand, Deek gingerly pushed up off the inhospitable little island and waded back toward the skiff. As he inched forward, he peeled another wider swath away from the bundle, where he spotted a very clear, large letter “N.”
“Fake tail number.” Fish concurred as he pulled Deek back over the gunwale.
Deek settled on a padded fish locker and peeled the vinyl apart as Fish guided the skiff back out to the channel. “This is definitely the same plane that attacked us in Fort Myers. My buddy tracked the transponder, but he said it went dark here last night. He told me he’d contact me if it came back online and I haven’t heard anything, so I’m assuming someone towed it… somewhere?”
“Unfortunately, that happens a lot around here. Sheriff’s putting a BOLO on the plane, but with as much coastline and as many islands as we have around here, we just don’t have the manpower to keep tabs on all the little guys who can zip in and out of here before our systems can throw up a flag and we can scramble a team.”
“We?”
“I’m with the Navy. I serve on a special border patrol task force. We watch guys like this, but with more coast than capacity, we have to focus on the big rocks.” He pushed the throttle up, and the little boat leapt to the surface like it was born to fly. Fish shouted over the wind and the motor. “This guy is on our list, but not at the top of it. But the weird thing is that the description of the guy you and Chuck and Kate all saw does not match the one we have for this plane’s pilot.”
“What do you think that means?” Deek dreaded the answer.
“We’re gonna need a bigger boat.”
* * *
Angler eased his stolen scooter beside a stack of empty pineapple crates near the end of the boatyard. Hulls in various states of disrepair sat on blocks all around. Workers climbed up and down ladders, spraying and scraping and painting. Captains and owners drifted in and out of the little office trailer, checking on progress or making payments.
They say they’re cleaning up Stock Island. You sure as hell couldn’t afford to buy a home there anymore. But there were still plenty of spots to do business if you knew what you were looking for. No security cameras. Enough people milling around that three more wouldn’t be noticed. Multiple ways out if a man didn’t mind getting wet.
Miami was a far better place to pick up a crew. Miami had air conditioning. He winced, brushing the knot on his head as he wiped a bead of sweat from his temple before it got lost in the stubble hiding his face. For this job, though, Miami was about the worst place to recruit a team. No, it was impossible to keep a contract quiet around there. They’d all go to their graves before they’d rat a guy out—well, most of them anyway—but talk amongst themselves? It was a small world. Despite every assurance, operational security lost the race to gossip and ego. No one wanted the routine gigs. Everyone talked about the big ones. Bragged they were on them. Shit-talked if they weren’t.
So here he was, in hell’s armpit.
He glanced at his watch then back up the wide lane that stretched the length of the facility. Thick seagrape bushes lined the west side of the drive. Angler could smell the shallow, briny marsh beyond it. To the east, a deep channel split Cow Key in two and led to a basin lined with marinas and dive bars. Across the channel, a web of power lines and massive storage tanks lined the seawall. Emblazoned on each tank was a wide logo, branding them all as property of Hildebrand Energy.
Angler bristled.
Most of his career, he’d worked for the highest bidder. Built a name for himself as objective, reliable, and most of all, discreet. He’d never gone in for the “true believer” stuff—emotions just clouded your judgment, and ops like his needed clear heads and balls of steel. But this job was different. Wasn’t even a job at all. This time, it mattered.
Angler was ready to trade it all in. This was a young man’s game, and as he massaged out the soreness that was creeping up his neck, he had to admit he wasn’t young anymore. Thankfully, he’d found some deep, albeit faceless, pockets to foot the bill.
Up the lane, he finally spotted them. He’d done enough past business with the man on the left. Solid. Reliable. Adapted well in fluid situations. But on the right? A lanky form ambled toward him with an unsteady gait. If this was his horse, he had a problem. Late, and lame.
No, this wasn’t going to do.
Angler could have just flipped his cap backward, climbed on his scooter, and gone for Plan B, but something about this kid made the hair on his neck stand up. He pulled Grady Foster behind the hulking hull of a sailboat resting in a cradle. “This some kind of joke?”
Foster pressed his lips into a flat line and shook his head.
“He’s not what we discussed.”
“The guy we discussed is no longer available.”
Angler growled. “I pay you to make people available.”
“You pay me to get a job done.”
“A two-man job. Two men I know. Two reliable men.”
“You threw money at me, and I got the charges you wanted. I got the detonation system you wanted. But no amount of money’s gonna solve this one, sir, so I had to pivot. You wanted me to get you a guy who could work under water. This is who I got. He’ll follow orders. Take him or leave him.”
Angler peered around the keel as a stack of pineapple crates crashed to the ground. The kid bounced beside the mess, rubbing his nose and looking around nervously.
“He’s not coming with us.”
“He’s paid up.”
“Whatever. Look at his pupils. He’s higher than Mount Everest. He’s not coming.”
“Copy that.” Foster strode toward the kid, then pulled him behind a dumpster. Angler heard a distinctive pop, then a thud. Four seconds later, the man strode back toward the sailboat, counting a wad of cash. “It’s our lucky day. Managed to get a refund.”
If he had more time, Angler would have been tempted to add a second body to the pile, history be damned. But unlike money, he couldn’t make a phone call to get more time. He had to work with what he was given.
Snatching the money from Foster’s fist, he pointed back to the rusting steel container. “Take care of that. We’re too close to let mistakes like this put the operation at risk.”
The man saluted. “Yes, sir. On it, sir.” Then he turned as he adjusted his shirttail to cover the lump at his waistband.
Angler glared at his back, then climbed onto his stolen scooter, and rolled up Shrimp Road before he could change his mind.
* * *
Deek left Fish to tie up the skiff and leapt onto the sturdy dock. He jogged over to the Island Hopper Too’s slip.
“Ahoy!” He waved as Kate popped her head out from inside a gear locker. “That’s what you’re supposed to say to a captain, right?”
Her wide grin fell as Deek stepped onto the Hopper’s deck. “Followed by asking the captain permission to board before you set foot on her ship.”
His eyes bulged until he spotted the twitch in her cheek. He wasn’t always good at reading when people were teasing him, but this time, he figured it out quickly and decided to play along. He scrambled back up to the dock, snapped to attention, and shouted “Permission to come aboard, sir!”
“Granted,” she laughed as Deek stumbled onto the deck, misjudging the gentle roll of the hull. “For a Maritime Administration agent, you don’t seem to have the best sea legs.”
“Economist. Cursed to live out my life as a basement-dwelling desk jockey. Closest I get to water in my daily life is the retaining pond in front of my apartment complex, and my experience with boats is limited to writing apps to track their movement. In related news, college freshmen should never be allowed to make life choices, full stop.”
“You write apps? You should definitely talk to Michelle—she’s a developer, too.” Kate stepped over Whiskey’s sleeping bulk, then slipped a faded BCD over a green and yellow tank and snapped its strap tight. “I think she’s up on the deck. I’ll be ready to roll in about fifteen minutes. Can you pop up there and check on the cooler Chuck was packing for us?”
“Ten-four, Cap’n.” Deek saluted, then clambered back up to the dock. He found Michelle sitting with her laptop in the shade of the outdoor bar. He slid into the chair opposite her. “So I hear you write apps.”
The woman grinned, her perfect white teeth glowing against her dark skin. “I dabble.”
Chuck passed their table towing a large cooler on wheels. “Don’t let her fool you. This one sold her last creation to that crazy spaceman for forty mil. Ask me, she should have held out for more.”
Michelle’s eyes dropped and she shrugged off Chuck’s praise. “It wasn’t even MVP, and it was more important for me to see their development roadmap than to get more money. I got more than I can spend anyway.”
Chuck patted her shoulder. “William’ll spend it for you fast enough. He’s going to the boat show this weekend, isn’t he?”
“The Knot is our home. He’d never.” She blanched. “At least not without me there.”
“The Knot?”
Michelle turned to Deek. “We live aboard our catamaran, the Knot Dead Yet. We bought it after I sold my first app. William thought the name was a clever nod to both our early retirement and his love of Monty Python. I spend every first conversation explaining it. Maybe it is time for something new, but I’m terrified he’ll come up with an even worse name for her.”
“Shut your mouth, woman. You love the boat, the name, and the man. Probably in that order.” Chuck winked at her and dragged the cooler off toward the Hopper.
“So, you dabble, eh? Dabbling is what I do, messing around with my little yacht-tracker because I like watching the traffic. Sounds more like serial entrepreneurship is your game.”
“I just get ideas. And when I can’t shake one, I make it. Some of them have been total duds. A few have had more potential than I can realize on my own. So when some rich mogul sees that and can afford to put a team on it…” Michelle shrugged. “Now tell me about this hunch you have. You think something is gonna go down at the boat show?”
Deek leaned forward. “How much do you know about the ongoing conflict between Armenia and Azerbaijan?”
“Are you referring to the border disputes or the problems the Azeri are experiencing with their pipeline through Georgia?”
Deek’s eyebrows shot up.
“We had a little run-in a while back with the CEO of a Chinese energy conglomerate. I’m good at research.”
“Well, that makes this conversation exponentially easier. And you’re the first person to even take me seriously enough to have it, so thank you.”
“Happy to oblige.”
“Okay, so yeah. The Azeri are, in fact, looking for backup plans, and I believe that Harold Hildebrand is arranging a private meeting with the Armenians to try to broker an arrangement.”
“But Hildebrand has been transporting LNG from here into Europe to make up for the disruptions. Why would he cut off his business?”
“Why, indeed? Especially when he’s building a fleet of new tanker ships so he can carry more?”
Michelle sighed. “Of course. Optics.”
Deek tapped his index finger to the end of his nose. “Exactly. He harbors no illusion that these guys could agree on what to have for dinner, let alone to negotiate and then actually build and manage a pipeline together, no matter how good the deal could be for both their countries. The bad blood runs generations deep, but the political capital he gets for trying to make it work would be priceless. Harold Hildebrand, statesman. Has the type of ring to it that guys like him crave.”
“And you think someone wants to… what?”
“I think he wants to have his cake and eat it, too. A guy like him has contingencies for his contingencies. An attack would be nothing but good for him.”
“And regardless of what he’s thinking, an operation like that can’t come cheap. So, we follow the money. Good thing I’ve got an app for that.” Michelle winked at Deek, then turned to her laptop and started tapping.