Fallen King: A Jesse McDermitt Novel (Caribbean Adventure Series Book 6) (22 page)

One of the gangbangers shoved me toward a small building on the outskirts of the small settlement. “In dere, white boy!”

Another man opened the shed door, which I noticed was solidly built, and I was pushed inside, tripping over a piece of wood and falling to the ground. The door closed and I was enveloped in pitch darkness as everyone walked away, laughing. All but Horvac. While I couldn’t make out what she was saying, I could tell by the sultry sound of her voice that Lavolier would be busy for a while. Maybe some of the others as well.

They’d neglected to tie my feet. I rolled over and got my knees under me, then managed to stand up. Slowly, my eyes became adjusted to the near total darkness. I could smell wood smoke. A tiny amount of light leaked through the eaves of the roof overhang.

First, I needed to get my hands free and then find some kind of weapon or a way to communicate. I looked around the shed and couldn’t see anything. I started to move toward the back wall and ran into something hanging from the rafters. It swung slowly back and forth.

I moved around whatever it was and nearly tripped on another piece of wood. The smell of smoke grew stronger and I realized I was in some sort of smokehouse. Probably a deer hindquarter was hanging there. I backed up to the wall and felt around. The boards and studs were smooth. I couldn’t find any protruding nails or splinters.

Dropping to my knees again, I slowly rolled to my left shoulder and lay down on my side. As kids, an old friend and I used to play Houdini and see if we could get loose from being tied up. My reach made it easy. At six three, my arms and legs are pretty long.

Rolling onto my back and lifting my lower body with my feet tucked close to my ass, I rolled my shoulders forward. It wasn’t easy, because they’d tied my hands very well, but eventually I worked my hips between my elbows and was sitting forward. After that, it was just a simple matter of rolling onto my side and working my legs, one at a time, between my outstretched arms.

That accomplished, I had my hands in front of me. Biting and chewing on the restraints, I realized it was leather and the knots were on the underside, where I couldn’t get to them with my teeth.

Nor could I get my hands in my pockets, but I could feel what was in them. As far as I knew they hadn’t searched me. A laser bore sight was in my cargo pocket with my wallet. It’s used to sight a rifle fairly accurately without firing a shot. Insert it in the barrel and where the laser pointed was where the round would hit. Just adjust the sights until they’re on the red dot. I wasn’t sure how I could use it. Maybe I could blind one or two of the gang whenever they came for me.

I dropped to my knees and began searching the floor of the shed. Odds were they used scrap lumber for the fire whenever they had any, along with hardwoods. Scrap lumber meant imbedded nails that would be burned out of the wood. It took a long time, nearly an hour, but I found a bent sixteen-penny nail and started to work on the bindings.

Getting the crooked, rusty nail point against one of the straps proved to be harder than I thought. I finally got the nail started through the strap and using a hunk of burnt wood on the ground to press the nail against, it poked through the strap, gouging my left wrist. I was bleeding, but couldn’t stop working. I’d have to be more careful and repeat the process over and over, poking holes as close to the same spot as I could to weaken the leather enough to where I could chew through it. Rope would have been easier.

An hour later, exhausted, covered in sweat and black soot, I parted the leather and I was free. Confined, but free.

Didn’t matter, I could fight. I went straight to the back wall of the smokehouse and tested each board in the vertical siding. It wasn’t regular siding, but a lot thicker. Probably made from pressure-treated two-by-twelves. Busting through that was out of the question. The corner posts were six-by-six lumber, buried in the sand.

I dropped to my knees and started digging, pushing the loose sand as far as I could, knowing it would fall back in. I stopped every few minutes to listen for the sound of approaching footsteps.

Finally, my hands reached the bottom of the boards. Enlarging the hole and working furiously, I moved more and more sand and soot. Middle of February and every square inch of my clothes and skin was drenched in sweat and covered with chalky soot.

After nearly an hour of digging and removing a few large hunks of limestone, I slid my head and shoulders into the hole. I had to lay flat on my back and wiggle my way through, but I got my head up on the other side. I kicked with my feet and pushed more sand away from the other side until my feet were low enough inside the smokehouse to slide my legs under the wall.

I quietly slipped into the dense forest behind the smokehouse. I was free. I had an idea how to communicate, but it relied on a few things that the odds were heavily stacked against. I grew up just sixty miles north of here and fished the Ten Thousand Islands many times with Pap. With Mam too, a few times, and later with several friends and girlfriends.

I knew there used to be a low ridge just north of here, about the middle of the island. It had been burned off in some long ago fire and the limestone made plant recovery very slow. I’d camped here a lot of nights. The ridge had been bare from the time I was eight to when I left for Boot Camp and would likely be bare still today.

If I could get there, I might be able to send a signal, if anyone was looking for it.
If there’s even anyone looking for me
,
I thought. I didn’t know what had happened on the island. There might not even be anyone looking for a couple of days. I pushed that thought to the back of my mind where it could kindle the rage I might need later on.

Deuce’s team has access to a multimillion dollar surveillance satellite. Chyrel told me about a year ago how it worked. It was actually designated for use by the FBI, but since all the alphabet soup agencies fell under the umbrella of DHS since 9/11, Stockwell could authorize the usage time and movement. Somehow, it could be held in a stationary spot above a fixed place on the ground, or moved around thousands of miles up in the sky. Chyrel explained how, but like with so many of her other explanations, my eyes crossed and I just nodded. I’m not a rocket scientist and don’t need to be. If she said it worked, it worked.

If everything was okay on the island, Chyrel would be given control of the satellite. I remember her saying that it took hours to get it in the right position sometimes, depending on where it was located. But once there, the computers could hold it in place so its expensive camera array could look straight down at a spot on the ground and literally count the blades of grass growing out of a crack in a sidewalk. I was hoping she was zoomed out a little further than that.

As the sky began to turn purple in the southeast, I reached the bare spot I remembered as a kid. The raw limestone sand prevented just about anything from taking root and was still bare. I found the most level spot I could and lay down on my back. This was going to be longest shot I’d ever made. But first, I had to find the right star to shoot.

Tony stood next to Travis, watching the monitors. Chyrel had a direct feed from the onboard cameras of eight helicopters now, and every few minutes one would come up on a boat. Some were smaller pleasure boats, heading out for a day of fishing. Those they skipped over almost immediately. Some were way larger than the boat they were looking for, cargo ships coming and going from several ports along the coast. Occasionally, the size was right, but not the configuration.

It was a process of elimination and each boat they eliminated had a corresponding light on Chyrel’s laptop that changed from red to green. Less than thirty percent were green.

“It’ll be daylight soon,” Tony quietly noted.

“I know. You’re anxious to get out there and help search.”

“Wouldn’t be much help, but at least we’ll be on the water and out there when one of the choppers finds the right boat.”

Travis glanced over at Kim and Linda. They’d been talking for the last hour and had fallen asleep, Kim leaning on Linda’s shoulder. When he looked back, Tony could see the dejection in the man’s eyes.

Only Deuce and a couple others knew Stockwell was planning to retire. He’d spent nearly forty years serving his country in one way or another. Every minute that passed reduced the chances of finding Jesse and both men knew it. It had already been nine hours and they were nearly mainlining coffee.

The guys in the choppers had it worse, staring at a small circle of light on the water for hours on end. As far as Tony knew, the Colonel had succeeded in every aspect of his professional career. Not finding a kidnapped comrade at the end of it was something he’d never be able to get over.

“Nobody expected this, Colonel.”

“No,” Travis said, quietly looking down at his hands. “But I should have anticipated every possibility. I failed him.”

Tony looked back at the video feeds as a boat entered the cone of light from one of the helicopters. It was Deuce and they were low on fuel again. Chyrel had joined the telemetry feed of each chopper to the video and they could see how much fuel each bird had. The boat in the middle of the light circle became larger. Again, it wasn’t the right kind of boat. It was another sailboat.

As the two men watched, something on the other screen to his right caught Tony’s eye. He leaned closer, not sure what he’d seen. Aside from a short nap and being knocked out for fifteen minutes or so, he hadn’t slept in over twenty-four hours.

He saw it again. One of the red lights that represented an uninspected boat flashed on and off. “What the…?”

Chyrel glanced to where Tony was looking and saw the flashing light. Her fingers flew across the keyboard as Travis stepped around Tony for a better view. “Not a glitch,” she said. “Everything checks out.”

“This is a real-time satellite image?” Travis asked. She nodded and he put his finger on the flashing red light. “If it’s not a glitch, why is this boat on dry land?”

The three of them watched the flashing light. Suddenly Travis exclaimed, “Morse code!”

“Standard SOS!” Tony added as Kim and Linda rose from the bunk and moved to join them in front of the monitors. “Followed by something else. Dot dash dash dash, then dash dash.”

“JM!” Travis exclaimed.

Linda’s hand flew to her mouth. “Jesse!”

The same series of flashes continued, but Travis was already in motion. “Chyrel, get the coordinates where that’s coming from.”

Reaching for the mic, he saw Deuce’s chopper pull off the sailboat. They were closest, only forty miles away. Then Travis realized they barely had enough fuel to make either Homestead or Marathon. Knowing Deuce the way he did, he knew he’d order the chopper to go in, even if it meant not being able to get back out. He scanned the other video feeds. Two birds were already headed to Marathon and two more would have to refuel pretty soon. Charity had just landed at Marathon and would be back in the air once they took on fuel. Only the two DEA helos had enough fuel to get there and get out. They’d just refueled at the Naval Station on Boca Chica and were currently west of Key West.

Travis ordered the DEA helicopters to head toward the southwest coast of the mainland, then read off the coordinates Chyrel handed him. They were more than a hundred and twenty miles away, checking out a large number of boats near the Dry Tortugas.

Travis turned to Tony and handed him the paper. “Get Paul up. You, him, and Art get ready. Take the Cigarette.”

As Tony started toward the door, Linda grabbed his elbow. “I’m going with you.”

“With all due respect,” Tony replied, “your handgun’s gonna be pretty useless where we’re going.”

“Dad gave me the combination to his war chest,” Kim suggested. “Where he keeps his guns. That’s what he calls it.”

“Go!” Linda said to Tony. “I’ll be ready before you get underway.”

He quickly left, leaving the door standing open. Linda turned to Kim and said, “I know you want to, but you’re not going. So get that out of your head. Now, take me to Jesse’s guns.” The two of them ran out of the bunkhouse after Tony.

Travis picked up the mic. He ordered the remaining choppers to pull off their search and go immediately to the nearest place they could refuel. He then ordered any of the surface craft who had enough fuel to make Marco Island to respond.

Deuce’s voice came back over the radio. “What do you have, Colonel?”

“A signal from Jesse. He’s on an island just east of Marco. I have two DEA birds headed there plus Tony, Art, and Agent Rosales in the Cigarette. I want you to fly to Homestead, refuel and get there as fast as possible, as backup. That’s an order, Deuce.” After a couple seconds, he quietly added, “Maybe the last one I’ll give you.”

Deuce didn’t hear that last part. Travis had released the mic’s key. After several seconds of silence, Deuce finally responded, but without conviction. “Aye, aye, sir. We can make Homestead and be near Marco in ninety minutes.”

One by one, the surface craft responded that they didn’t have enough fuel, except one.

“Colonel, this is Deputy Phillips. I can make it.”

“Deputy Phillips, are you alone?”

“Yes, sir,” the young man replied. “But I know that area really well and I’m less than an hour away. I can get there with fuel to spare.”

“Roger that, Deputy. Agents Newman, Jacobs, and Rosales are leaving here in just a minute in Jesse’s Cigarette. They’ll arrive there a little after you, along with two DEA helicopters. Tony Jacobs is in charge. You’re alone on the water out there, son. Your call.”

There was only a moment of silence. “Which island, sir? I’m throttling up and headed north.”

“Have you ever heard of Panther Key?” Travis asked over the mic. Releasing it he asked, “Chyrel, is there any way you can signal Jesse back from that thing?”

The deputy replied before he finished. “Yes, sir, good snook in the fall and a ridge perfect for camping. I’m on my way!”

Chyrel was already typing, while she said, “Depends on how clear Jesse’s eyesight and the sky are. It has lights that I can probably flash on and off.”

Travis sat down with a pad and pencil. It’d been a long time since he’d learned Morse code and he struggled, erasing nearly as much as he wrote. Finally, he handed her the pad. “Flash the lights five times, wait five seconds and send this twice.”

Chyrel bent over the keyboard and logged into the satellite’s mechanical system, which controlled the lights used in navigation should it ever need to be retrieved for servicing. When she finished, she looked up at Travis. “What did it say?”

“‘How many?’” Travis replied and bent toward the laptop’s monitor. The flashing had stopped. He picked up the notepad and waited. Suddenly, the light flashed five times again, stopped and began flashing another message. He wrote down the series of dots and dashes. It was a long message.

Travis sat down and started to work again. “Flash five times and wait while I figure this out and write the next message.” It took several minutes this time. When he finished, he handed it to her and she began manipulating the light system controls again. “I can’t believe this is actually working,” he said to himself.

When she finished, Travis sat ready to take the message when Jesse responded. The message was long, but he was remembering more and he recognized many letters instantly. When he stopped writing, he picked up the mic with a grave expression.

Charity’s voice came through the speaker, hailing Goodman on the radio. “We’re taking off in just a minute, Ralph. Where to next?”

Travis cut in. “Charity, we found Jesse. He’s near Marco Island and needs help. Get in the air as quickly as possible. Contact Tony and drop your passengers on his boat.”

Travis then advised the two DEA choppers that two boats would arrive at the coordinates given and that there probably wouldn’t be a landing zone when they arrived. They were to provide cover and support to the agents in the boats. Then he activated the earwig he’d been wearing all night. He’d turned it off an hour ago to save the battery.

“Tony, this is Travis.”

“Just about to leave, Colonel,” he heard Tony respond.

“Be advised, Charity is leaving Marathon momentarily and will rendezvous with you while underway. Deputy Phillips is already halfway there and will get there before you. Two DEA choppers can provide support, but Deuce has to refuel and will get there thirty minutes after you arrive.”

“Yes, sir,” Tony replied. “Any further communication from Jesse?”

Travis keyed the mic. “Yes, he said there are ten to twelve combatants on the island and more than twenty noncombatant refugees. He began to say something else, but it was interrupted. Nothing more in several minutes. Engage only if fired upon.”