Merciless Charity: A Charity Styles Novel (Caribbean Thriller Series Book 1) (8 page)

Leaping the short span with both the stern and bow lines in hand, she pulled on both until the fenders lightly bumped the dock. The woman had reappeared, sitting alone on the fly bridge of the trawler. Charity finished tying the lines off, fore and aft, then stood and looked around.

“You made that channel look easy,” the woman shouted from the sundeck of the trawler.

“Thanks,” Charity called back. Remembering how cordial the cruising people she’d met in her youth had been she started walking toward the other boat. “The bow thruster helps. I’m Gabriela.”

The woman quickly descended the ladder and vaulted the low wooden rail that ran the length of the boat. Striding toward her in bare feet, she extended her hand. “Savannah. Savannah Richmond.”

Charity took the woman’s hand and said, “Gabriela Fleming. My friends call me Gabby.”

“Then that’s what I’ll call you, Gabby. Are you sailing alone?”

“Yes, for now. I’m meeting friends in Key Biscayne in the morning, but I don’t like crowds.”

“Same with us,” Savannah said. “It’s just me and my daughter, Flo. She’s over on the beach, looking for clams.”

Savannah was older than Charity first thought, by probably a decade. Tall and slim, with broad shoulders and a deep tan, she had naturally blond hair streaked by years of sun and water. Dressed in a pair of well-worn jeans and a lightweight white long-sleeved top, she was taller than Charity by a few inches, even in bare feet.

“Care to come aboard and get out of the sun?” Savannah asked. “I just put some beer in the cooler up on the fly bridge.”

Not wanting to seem uncordial, Charity accepted, and the two women stepped over the gunwale and climbed a short ladder to the covered sundeck. Besides the captain’s chair, there was ample seating and reclining room for several people.

Savannah handed Charity a cold beer from the cooler, then sat down on the full recliner aft the captain’s chair, stretching her legs out and nodding toward the recliner opposite. “Have a seat, Gabby. I like to sit up here, where I can see better. Last night’s sunset was spoiled by a storm out over the Glades. Tonight should be better.”

Charity sat down and relaxed a little. “Where are you from?” she asked casually.

“I’m originally from Beaufort, South Carolina. But since Flo’s first birthday, this boat and wherever we anchored has been our home.”

“Is Flo short for something?” Charity asked, already guessing what it was.

“Family tradition,” Savannah replied with a grin. “Mom and Dad are Madison and Jackson, my sister’s name is Charlotte and now we have Florence.”

Looking out to port, Charity could see the beach on the far side of the island and the little girl wading in the shallow water collecting clams. She surmised that the fly bridge was Savannah’s favorite spot so she could keep an eye on her daughter, more than to watch the sunset.

“Your boat is beautiful, Gabby,” Savannah said after taking a long pull on the cold beer bottle. “Looks like an Alden design.”

“It is,” Charity replied, keeping to her slight Cuban accent. “She was built in 1932, but recently refitted. I love this old trawler of yours.”

“Thank you. It’s a Grand Banks forty-two-foot Classic. Also, refitted recently. My husband and I split up several times, but for some strange reason, I always went back to him. The last time was just after Flo was born. While he was out sowing his oats again, I packed up and went home to my folks. Dad gave me
Sea Biscuit
and said if I stayed away from the asshole for a year, his words, he’d do a complete refit. I did, and when the divorce was final, Flo and I moved aboard and hoisted anchor. I don’t think I could ever go back now. What about you? Ever married?”

“No,” Charity replied. “A couple of boyfriends, nothing serious. I thought one might be the right guy, but he died several months ago.” She regretted saying it as soon as the words left her mouth.

Savannah sat up and looked deeply into the younger woman’s eyes. “I’m so sorry, Gabby.”

“It is alright. Perhaps one day, maybe.” Then, changing the subject, Charity asked, “Where are you heading?”

“We just returned from the Bahamas,” Savannah replied. “We’d been cruising there for two years. Now we’re heading to the Keys. Maybe look up an old friend or two.”

The faraway look in Savannah’s eyes told Charity that the
old friend
was a long-lost lover. “When were you last there?” Charity asked, sipping her beer.

“It’s been a long time,” Savannah replied. “Late 1999, but still hurricane season. My sister and I were on our way to Key West in our dad’s boat. We’d hired a captain, so we could just enjoy the cruise. Char ended up skipping out on me, so I decided to send the captain home and stayed over in Marathon for a while. Nice place, with friendly people. I wound up having to take refuge deep in the Everglades during a hurricane with some new friends.”

“Sounds very exciting,” Charity said.

“What about you? Where are you headed after Key Biscayne?”

“The friends I’m picking up are accompanying me to the Bahamas for a few weeks.”

Just then, Savannah’s daughter returned with a bucket full of clams, joining them on the fly bridge. A beautiful little girl, Charity realized she’d misjudged her age. She was tall already, but only about seven or eight years old, with sandy brown hair and a deep tan. Like her mother, she was barefoot.

“Will you join us for dinner, Gabby?” Savannah asked. “Nothing special, just grunts and clams.”

“Thanks, but I’ve already eaten,” Charity lied. “I was planning to go to bed as soon as I got into the harbor, to catch the morning tide.”

The three of them climbed down to the dock and said their goodbyes, before Charity returned to her own boat. As she started down into the cabin, she waved at the two of them, thinking that the little girl looked vaguely familiar.

Back aboard the
Dancer
, Charity sat down at the nav station and switched on the batteries. Though she’d been using some of the electronics, automated winches, and both the FM and weather radios during the crossing, the batteries still showed fully charged. Besides the gen-set, there were several small solar panels on the cabin roof and a wind generator aft the cockpit on a short mast. They’d produced enough electricity to keep the batteries charged during the short two-hour crossing.

She switched on the air conditioner, even though she knew the interior would rarely get hot. The waterline outside the hull was several feet above the cabin sole, and she remembered her uncle’s boat staying cool in the summer and warm in the winter, just from the surrounding water.

With the air conditioner humming quietly, she went around the salon and galley, turning on every light and appliance. She wanted to make sure the auto-switch turned on the gen-set before the batteries drained too low. The boat’s house load was on four deep-cycle marine batteries, with two separate batteries the engine, one a backup. All six batteries were charged through the gen-set, the alternator on the diesel engine, or the solar panels and wind turbine.

Going to the entertainment center on the forward bulkhead of the salon, she knelt and opened the CD cabinet. Choosing an old Coltrane CD, she inserted it into the stereo.

With the volume turned low, soft jazz emanated from half a dozen speakers located throughout the salon. Charity released the catch that allowed the slotted CD holder to swing out. Behind it was a plain black tactical rifle case. She pulled the heavy case out and placed it on the settee table, folding up both sides for additional room and support.

Opening the case, she first removed the Leupold scope and set it aside. She’d been training with this very rifle and scope for several months and knew the ATN night optics had a fresh battery installed and the Mark 4 scope was zeroed in at five hundred yards. Shorter than that, the trajectory was nearly flat, and beyond that it dropped very little to a thousand yards. The heavy weapon had an effective range of over a mile. Though she’d become very adept at employing the weapon, her skills still hadn’t matched its ability. But she was comfortable at a thousand yards.

Her rifle of choice was the new Barrett M82A1A, designed specifically to fire either a standard fifty-caliber BMG round or the Raufoss-manufactured Mk 211 incendiary round.

Director Stockwell had cautioned her that the round was intended for use against heavily-armored vehicles. She’d told him that she’d keep that in mind, but she knew that if she found an occasion with multiple terrorists grouped close together, a single round, fired into a man’s chest, could kill several others nearby.

In Charity Styles’s mind, there was only one way to deal with radical terrorists. Kill them. Better still if they became dead while vaporizing into many pieces. Gingerly, almost lovingly, she began to disassemble the rifle, knowing full well that it was already spotless.

A
fter the training exercise that morning, Awad Qureshi joined the others as the group gathered for lunch in the shade of the large boulders. While they ate, Hussein walked among them, talking to each man in turn, dispensing advice, praise, or admonition.

Awad sat with Majdi, slightly away from the others. This was done at Hussein’s direction. He felt the three leaders had to be separate but still a part of the group of fighters.

Finally, Hussein dipped into the cauldron for his portion of the midday stew and joined Awad and Majdi. “It was a good training session this morning. I think we can cut back on shooting practice to just once a day now.”

Majdi looked up at the leader. “Do you think that wise? Some of these men still can’t even hit the target.”

Fire flickered behind Hussein’s dark eyes. He didn’t like his orders or comments to be questioned in the least. Only Majdi dared do so, and then only on the subject of marksmanship. During his years in Texas, he’d joined a hunting club and was very proficient with a rifle.

“Our targets in San Antonio will be larger and closer,” Hussein said. “And we will be firing on full automatic. But, if one or two of the men still needs training, you may work with them.”

“I will,” Majdi said and returned to eating his stew.

Hussein watched him, his eyes still smoldering slightly. Awad pretended to be engrossed in his meal, but noted Hussein’s attitude and Majdi’s indifference.

Hussein glanced quickly at Awad, catching his eye for a moment. A calmness replaced the fire in the leader’s eyes. He spoke to Majdi as he watched Awad. “We depart this mountain in ten days, Majdi. Do what you can with them.”

The leader stood quickly and tossed the remnants of his stew on the ground for the foraging night animals then disappeared up the trail to the rim of the volcano.

“You shouldn’t antagonize him,” Awad said. “He is like the lynx, very unpredictable.”

Majdi looked up at his friend and whispered, “He is a fool. His rash actions may bring failure to our mission before we kill more than a handful of the infidels. Ten more days is simply not adequate.”

Awad went back to eating his stew and thinking. Part of what Majdi said was true. In the early days of the current war with the infidels, the name Hussein Seif al Din Asfour had been known all across the northern provinces. Yes, his actions then could be seen as rash, even reckless. But he had been known as a fighter who gave no quarter, nor asked any, and always came out on top. Right up until he was wounded and captured by the American Army.

Awad prided himself on his intellect, and Majdi, though only an engine mechanic, was wiser than he. Majdi never did anything fast. Some saw him as lazy, but Awad knew that every movement the man made, no matter how insignificant, was calculated and thought out well in advance.

Majdi spoke to Awad of his engines from time to time, whenever he was bored. How simply, yet perfectly, all the parts worked together for a common purpose—but only if they were assembled correctly and meticulously, he’d said.

Awad could see in his mind exactly what his friend meant, in comparing his engines to this group. Awad knew next to nothing about machinery. He’d get into his car, turn the key, and the machinery worked or it didn’t.

Football was Awad’s passion. Not the wild and deranged sport Americans called football, but the game he’d played in college. Moving his teammates down the field, with nothing more than a glance. Passing the ball with the side of his foot to another player, while making the opposing team think he was doing something else.