Redemption Key (A Dani Britton Thriller) (28 page)

Booker had no interest in the shouting man or the greasy little fellow tying his boat up but he was fascinated by Dani’s reaction. She
and her friend all but slithered toward him, their eyes glued on the fight breaking out on the dock in front of Jinky’s. Booker didn’t doubt there would be gunplay; tempers like that in this kind of heat usually led to explosive violence. What he wondered was how much Dani knew about the exchange.

She had certainly proven her knack for being in the thick of trouble.

Dani and her friend passed less than two yards in front of him, their backs to him while they watched the fight escalating on the dock. He almost risked ducking back into the thorny shrub but knew if he made any noise at all she might turn. How would he explain that? He felt stupid enough as it was wearing shorts in the first place. So he stayed still, watching her watch the men. He watched a rivulet of sweat slide down between her shoulder blades.

“Shit.” The word was a breath from her lips.

The men on the dock weren’t alone any longer. Two more men stepped out from behind the bushes that hung over the walkway at the edge of the water, the same walkway Dani had taken when she’d left him earlier. The two men, one in his late fifties, the other not much younger, didn’t look very happy to be taking their walk and it only took a second for Booker to see why. Behind them, holding a gun, walked a lumpy, leering man who, if possible, seemed even greasier than the little fellow who’d climbed from the motorboat.

“Huh,” Booker said under his breath. This looked interesting.

2:59pm, 107° F

Any doubts Oren might have had about the seriousness of the situation evaporated the instant he saw Joaquin Wheeler pressing the semi-automatic to Caldwell’s temple. The look in the greasy man’s good eye told him that Oren’s protected status with the Wheelers had
officially come to an end. Joaquin didn’t have to speak. Oren rose and joined Caldwell at the door, letting himself be pushed toward Jinky’s. It was then he saw the
Pied Piper
anchored fifty or so yards out in the channel. That made it almost ten hours early.

One look at Bermingham’s red face told Oren how well the Canadian had taken the change in schedule. Juan leaned against the dock post smirking as Bermingham yelled at him and at whoever he had on the phone. The Wheelers might have been intimidated by Bermingham when the deal began, but something had changed. Vincente must have decided to throw his weight around, reassert his dominance. Oren heard Caldwell sigh.

This was going to end badly.

“You listen to me, you slimy little fuck.” Bermingham pressed the phone to his ear, bending a bit as if his height could intimidate just by voice alone. “We had a deal. You know what happens to this merchandise in the heat. You think you can fuck with me? You think I’m just going to sit here and watch that ship bake? I’m boarding. I’m boarding and I’m taking the shipment. Your money will be there.”

Oren couldn’t hear the other side of the conversation—Vincente, he assumed. The Canadian shut his eyes to what he heard, pressing the heel of his palm against his forehead as if holding back a massive headache. When he opened them once more and saw Oren and Caldwell at the end of Joaquin’s gun, he scowled.

“One hour,” he said into the phone, his glare moving over the crowd on the dock. “You have one hour to get this straight, you hear me, you little . . . Shit.” Bermingham stared at the phone and then shoved it in his pocket. “What the fuck is this?”

“This,” Juan said, waving his hands over his brother and his brother’s hostages, “is the reason we showed up ahead of schedule. You think you can screw with Mr. Vincente? Huh? You think this is the first time some two-bit player like you has tried to run us?”

Bermingham shook his head. “The fuck are you talking about?
These guys are nothing. Randolph here was the set-up; I don’t know who the hell this other joker is. His boyfriend?”

“Let me tell you who this is.” Juan curled his lip. “That right there is Special Agent Daniel Caldwell of the FBI. Save your fake surprise. Mr. Vincente said you’d try something. Mr. Vincente thinks you’re a rat and when Mr. Vincente smells a rat, you know what he does?”

Oren could tell Juan wanted to insert a pause for dramatic effect. He’d seen the tweaker try it before. He failed as always, stumbling over his own words with spastic chatter.

“He shoots them. He shoots the rats. Mr. Vincente shoots rats.”

Only Joaquin appreciated his brother’s delivery, wheezing out a giggle of approval. Oren felt an odd sense of resignation settle over him. He knew the Wheelers; he’d been unlucky enough to be present for enough confrontations to know how this played out. Someone was going to get shot and very soon. He only hoped it was Bermingham.

Bermingham looked from Juan to Joaquin and back again, his scowl changing into a look of disbelief. “You think I brought in a Fed? You think I hauled my ass all the way down here from Montreal to bring in a Fed to break up the deal I’ve spent a month setting up?” He smiled at Oren as if the two of them were old buddies. “Can you believe this guy, Randolph? I mean, I’m the outsider here. I’m the one with my ass on the line if this deal gets busted and this beaner thinks I’m bringing in the Feds. Hey Randolph?”

Oren really wished the Canadian would leave him out of this.

“Randolph, what do you think Vincente would say—”

“That’s Mister Vincente,” Joaquin said with enough spit to make Caldwell flinch.

“What do you think Vincente would say,” Bermingham continued, eyes on Oren, “if he found out that the man he brokered the deal with, the man he sent his two idiot puppets to, was keeping a Fed tucked away in his back pocket? Huh? Who do you think this is going to blow back on? Me? I don’t think so. Hey, maybe not even
you, Randolph. No, I think if this blows back on anyone, it’s going to be on the guys who are running the deal, the flunkies, the lackies, the red shirts. You know what I mean?”

Oren didn’t bother to answer.

Bermingham looked at each Wheeler and laughed. “I’m talking about you morons. Juan, you. And your brother or whoever the fuck that fat walleyed bastard is with the gun. This is your turf, Juan. If anyone brought a Fed in, it was you.”

He waited for Juan to absorb the meaning of his words. Wisely, Oren thought, he didn’t check to see when Joaquin would catch on. It was hot out here and clearly Bermingham didn’t have all day. Once Juan caught up, he pulled a gun from his pocket and raised it to Bermingham.

“I didn’t bring any fucking Fed in. Mr. Vincente knows I’m loyal. Mr. Vincente said that we were supposed to check for any dirt. Mr. Vincente said that if we saw even a hint of anything shady we’re supposed to blow the boat.”

“Bullshit.”

“Bullshit, bullshit,” Juan said, fishing in his other pocket for a key fob. “See this? It’s wired to the engine. One push of this button and the whole boat goes boom.” He was bright enough to read Bermingham’s smirk. “And before you get any fancy ideas, know this. If I don’t call Mr. Vincente from the cell phone on the boat within two hours, he can detonate the bomb remotely. He had us rig up that boat real nice, just to be sure everyone holds up their end.”

Juan swung his gun wildly when he heard the heavy footsteps of Bermingham’s buddy Ned heading their way. It seemed the sight of the Wheelers with guns still didn’t unnerve the quiet, muscular man. He sauntered up to his partner, looked around the scene, and raised a questioning eyebrow.

Bermingham shook his head. “Seems Vincente wants to get ahead of schedule.”

“We moving the cargo early? Good. Get out of this freaking heat.”

“You’re not moving anything!” Juan waved his gun around, trying and failing to get Ned to notice it. “You and your buddy here are going to wait until Mr. Vincente gets his money. Anyone makes a move to get in that boat, I blow it sky high.” He jumped at the sound of another motorboat. “Who the fuck is this?”

3:03pm, 106° F

Booker shifted against the post. The acoustics in this inlet were terrific. It helped that the little greasy one with the high-pitched voice was facing the section of Jinky’s under the porch. His voice echoed back across the water. The big one and his muscular friend both spoke with deeper tones that carried nicely across the water. He could make out almost every word they were saying. He looked forward to seeing who would kill whom first.

What did they call this? A busman’s holiday?

Or would he have to do some killing to make that true?

Either way, Booker felt content to watch the action play out with no involvement from him. He did wonder what, if anything, Dani had to do with this. She seemed to have known very well to get clear of the action. He squinted to see the misshapen man holding the older men at gunpoint and grimaced. He hoped Dani never had to have any interactions with him. He looked unsavory to say the least.

He was relieved of the need to dwell on the thought by the arrival of another motorboat.

3:03pm, 106° F