Fallen Angel: A Jesse McDermitt Novel (Caribbean Adventure Series Book 9) (11 page)

“Colonel, see if you can reach that Army CID guy, Dave Parsons. He lives not far from the port. He’s probably retired now, but might still have some juice. Maybe he can expedite entry and refueling.”

“I’m on it,” Stockwell said. “We need to be in place well ahead of any time frame that Whyte could possibly match.”

“We’ll be there shortly after sunrise tomorrow,” I said. “It’s a hundred and fifty miles from Cat Island back to Henry’s place. Let Chyrel know to have Pat and Chrissy ready—we’ll pick them up in four hours.”

Pushing the throttles to the stops, the
Revenge
surged forward, the high-pitched whine of the four superchargers rising before leveling off when she reached her top speed of forty-nine knots.

“Can she take this for sixteen straight hours?” Andrew asked.

“If not,” I replied with a sideways grin, “I’ll just put a pair of bigger and more powerful engines on the Colonel’s credit card.”

F
our hours later, having cleared out with Bahamian customs in Nicholls Town, we entered Henry’s little lagoon. I saw him waiting on the dock, along with Chyrel, Pat, Chrissy, and Angelique. We tied off quickly and I shut down the engines.

“Stow your gear in the forward cabin,” I shouted down from the bridge. “Sorry, Henry, but we have to shove off as soon as we refuel.”

Pat turned to the old man and kissed him on the cheek before she and Chrissy stepped down into the cockpit and disappeared into the salon. Henry reeled out the fuel hose and handed it off to Tony, while Art and Andrew installed the fuel bladders in the fish boxes. They’d only been used a few times and added a couple hundred miles to our range.

“Jesse,” Chyrel said, “I need to talk to you privately.”

I quickly joined her on the dock, and we walked away from the group toward Henry’s old Bertrams. “What’s up?” I asked.

“Do you know who Rene really is?”

“I know he’s former CIA and laying low.”

“The Agency doesn’t have a ‘Most Wanted’ list like the FBI, but if they did, Victor Pitt would be at the top of it.”

“That’s his real name? What’d he do?”

“He became very good at his job,” Chyrel replied. “It’s rumored that Pitt is one of the few who knows where the bodies are buried. What he knows can hang a dozen politicians out to dry, as well as quite a few Agency executives.”

I gave that a moment’s thought. I hate what the political process in our country has become. More and more often, people are being elected based on money rather than ability. Whoever can spin the most lies per hour on network television commercials is usually who wins the election.

“Does he know you know?”

“Yeah,” she replied. “And I dang sure don’t want to be here alone with the guy, if you know what I mean. Henry’s all set up, but my flight out isn’t until morning.”

“Grab your gear,” I said. Though I had a good feeling that Rene wasn’t any threat and believed he also thought that we weren’t a threat to him, I wasn’t about to try to convince Chyrel of that. “Accommodations will be tight.”

“Not as tight as a shallow grave,” she said and patted her computer bag. “I got everything I need right here.”

We returned to the group, and Chyrel climbed quickly aboard, going through the hatch into the cabin as Pat came out.

“Where’s Rene?” I asked Henry in a casual tone.

“Took that client out fishing again this morning. Thought they’d be back by now, though.”

“Well, we don’t have time to wait around to say goodbye. Tell him I said it was a pleasure meeting him and I hope he and I might be able to take that little skiff of his out fishing one of these days.” I shook the old man’s hand, then stepped down into the cockpit, just as Andrew finished filling the last fuel bladder.

“You be careful, old son,” Henry said as I climbed up to the bridge and fired up the engines.

“You should come to Marathon for the Fourth,” I called down to him. “Tony’s putting on a fireworks display that’ll likely put New York’s to shame.”

“I just might do that,” Henry shouted as I engaged the transmissions.

Minutes later, we were up on the step and accelerating away from Andros toward a cut in the reef line at the edge of the TOTO. With the sun near the western horizon, Andrew laid in a course for Canaveral Inlet, where they once shot rockets at the moon. Rather than engage the autopilot, I steered a course a couple of degrees west of what was shown on the plotter.

“Add a waypoint, Andrew. Ten miles off the coast of West Palm Beach.”

“That’ll add a few miles to the trip,” Bourke said, finding the approximate location on the chart plotter and dropping a waypoint.

“The Gulf Stream flows north at six knots,” I said. “The quicker we get in it, the faster we can go. The added speed will more than make up for the added distance.”

“Ah, of course,” he replied, updating the plotter.

The others joined us on the bridge, taking all the available seating and leaving Tony to stand by the rail, which he preferred anyway. “It’s about two hundred and eighty miles to Port Canaveral,” I said, glancing at the plotter. “We’ll get there about zero two hundred, maybe a bit earlier. What’s the status on entry, Chyrel?”

“Mister Parsons replied that he’d meet us at the dock and arrange for a quick process through Customs right there at the fuel dock. He assured Deuce that we wouldn’t be detained any longer than what it would take to refuel.”

“Good,” I said. “From there it’s about the same distance to Port Royal Sound. We should get there shortly after sunrise. That’ll give us more than a day to get everything set up.”

“Beaufort?” Pat asked, alarmed. I took a quick look at her and then Chrissy, who looked hopeful.

“Yeah,” I replied. “You’ll be safe.”

“The waters there are pretty treacherous for bigger boats,” she said, apparently accepting my word on her safety. “Are you sure you want to risk that?”

“This won’t be my first time there,” I replied.

Pat noticed the Force Recon tattoo on my forearm for the first time. “You were posted to the air station?”

“Nope,” I replied. “Two years on the grinder at PI. Spent a lot of my free time out on the sound.”

“How long ago was that?” Pat asked.

“Twenty-five years ago,” I replied, remembering back to my days as a Marine Corps drill instructor. My oldest daughter had been only a few months old when I was transferred there in the spring of ’84. My first wife, Sandy, had liked the area and wanted to stay there. After a year as a junior drill instructor, I’d been promoted to staff sergeant and received my black belt as a senior drill instructor. Those were hard years for us, probably tougher than the deployments. Full of long days and long weeks, but it seemed to fly by. I look back on it as some of my best years in the Corps.

With the sun nearing the distant horizon, the
Revenge
rocketed across the northern edge of the Great Bahama Banks. The seas were calm. We had a slight tail wind, and the
Revenge
was able to run wide open at fifty knots. It wasn’t far from here that my first boat, identical to this one, had been blown out of the water, killing the two thieves who’d taken it.

Chrissy went below with Andrew to prepare sandwiches. At high speed, it just wasn’t a good idea to cook on the stove. We ate in silence as the sun turned a deeper red and began to slip below the horizon. I switched on the lights in preparation for the coming darkness. After eating, I assigned watch, leaving Tony and Art on the bridge while the rest of us turned in.

A
jarring woke me. “What the hell happened?” I heard Chyrel moan from the Pullman above my head. The
Revenge
was rocking, and as I rose, I could tell we were encountering some pretty big waves. I looked at the digital clock mounted on the bulkhead. It was nearly midnight and our turn on watch.

“Rise and shine,” I said by way of reply. “We just entered the Gulf Stream. We’ll be at the port in less than two hours.”

With a little effort, I made it to the galley, only to find the coffeemaker empty. When I checked the cabinet next to it, I saw that all three thermoses were gone. As Chyrel stumbled up the three steps into the salon, the hatch to the forward stateroom opened.

“Is everything alright?” Chrissy asked, fear evident on her face.

“We just entered the Gulf Stream,” Chyrel told her in a low voice so as not to disturb Art and Tony, who were sleeping on the converted couch.

“It’ll calm in a minute,” I whispered. “Andrew should be correcting course to stay in the middle of it. It’s nothing to worry about. Go ahead and get some sleep if you can.” I quickly made my way to the bridge. By the time I climbed the ladder, Andrew had turned to the north and the tossing subsided a little.

“Please tell me you have coffee,” I said, taking a seat on the port bench.

“Yeah,” Andrew replied, handing me a thermos and mug. “I filled all three and secured everything before relieving Art and Tony. Figured it’d be rougher in the Stream.”

“Chrissy woke up,” I said to Pat. “She was frightened.”

“I’ll go back down, then,” Pat said and rose, stepping around the back of the two seats to make her way to the ladder.

Chyrel joined us and Pat started down. “Thanks for helping,” I told her. “When we get to Canaveral, you and Chrissy stay in the cabin. We don’t want word to get out that you’re aboard.”

“That won’t be a problem,” Pat replied, climbing down. “I’m just about done in.”

Standing, Andrew started to follow, and I took over the helm, Chyrel plopping down in the second seat. “I’ve been listening to NOAA,” he said. “Hurricane Bertha is headed for England, but she’s dragging some weather up out of the Gulf. I checked the forecast in the Beaufort area and heavy rain and thunderstorms are expected in the morning, then off and on for the next two days.”

“Wonderful,” I muttered. “Can anything else go wrong on this mission?”

“See you in a couple of hours,” Andrew said as he went below.

Checking over the gauges, controls, and screens, I satisfied myself that everything was in order, both engines running at nearly full throttle now for almost four hours. I wasn’t concerned about the boat. The engines had been recently serviced and still had very low hours, since I rarely charter anymore. Looking at the chart plotter, I saw that we were only fifty miles from the outer markers for Port Canaveral, and we were traveling at an astonishing fifty knots, with throttle to spare.

I nudged the throttles slightly, feeling the stops and hearing the superchargers wind up. Seas were rough in the Stream, but nothing
Gaspar’s Revenge
couldn’t handle. When I glanced at the GPS again, it displayed the speed as fifty-seven knots.

“We must have a bit of a tailwind,” I said as Chyrel sat hunched over her small tablet.

“Yeah, fifteen knots out of the south,” she mumbled, switching screens. “Here’s a weather radar image out of Orlando.” She held the small device out in front of me. The red and yellow bands, indicating heavy rain, extended diagonally from the central west coast of Florida to Jacksonville.

“Can you put that in motion?” I asked, already knowing what it would look like. Chyrel tapped the screen a couple times, then held it out again. The loop showed the line of thunderstorms maintaining its southwest to northeast line, pulling moisture out of the Gulf of Mexico and dumping it on the peninsula. As the storms moved northeast, the line of storms steadily drifted, moving from the Keys to Canaveral and advancing northward with little change.

“When is it predicted to reach South Carolina?” I asked.

Tapping the surface to switch screens again, she said, “Tomorrow morning. About the time we get there.”

“Well,” I said, throttling back a little, “it should be an interesting ride come sunrise.”

An hour later, we were tied up at the commercial fuel dock, Tony and Art taking on the duties of filling the tanks as Andrew climbed up to the dock to meet with the Customs man. True to his word, Dave Parsons was there, dressed as though he was going into the office.

I quickly shut down the engines and joined them on the dock. “Good to see you again, Gunny,” Parsons said, extending his hand.

“I thought you were retiring,” I said, taking his hand.