Fallen Angel: A Jesse McDermitt Novel (Caribbean Adventure Series Book 9) (24 page)

“Damien Ross,” Otis said. “That was him, just went under the bridge. His kin have lived here for over two hundred years, under four different flags. He knows it’s a no-wake zone under any moveable bridge. Whole family’s nothing but a pack of bilge rats.”

Looking east, I saw the boat come out from under the bridge, angling toward the northwest edge of a marsh and slowing. As the boat came down off plane, the man held a cell phone up to his ear.

I returned my attention to the rooftops and decks, resuming my scan. One restaurant had two people on the upper deck now, cleaning and sweeping.

“Old guy on the middle swing,” Manny said. “Something’s not right with that dude.”

I moved the scope down and watched the old man who had been watching the two young mothers. He had longer hair than was considered fashionable for a man of his age, unkempt and wild looking. I guessed him to be somewhere in his sixties. He was unshaven and his clothes weren’t the finest. Then again, I looked pretty much the same. Beside him on the bench was a small yellow pocket radio, a wire going up to an earbud in his right ear.

“What’s not right about him?” I asked.

“Not sure,” Manny said. “I can’t put my finger on it, but something about him makes him seem out of place. Not just his physical appearance.”

Manuel Ortiz had been an exceptional spotter, back in the day. He had a knack for picking up on a possible target’s subtle body language. I studied the old man again. He seemed fidgety and occasionally looked over his shoulder, as if he expected someone to come up behind him any minute.

“He’s another of them damned Rosses,” Otis said, looking through binoculars. “Got out of prison a couple years back. Did twenty-five of a thirty-year sentence. He raped a young tourist girl way back in seventy-seven. Name’s Marcel Ross. I was the one that put the cuffs on the pervert. The punk fishing the flats up there is his nephew, Damien.”

I turned around and looked to where the skiff had finally dropped anchor at the edge of the marsh. Moving the rifle around, I rested it across my arm on the back of the chair for a closer look.

“The old man seems to be arguing with someone on a cell phone,” Manny said. “I don’t read lips, but he definitely said ‘Fuck you’ to somebody.”

“The guy on the boat’s not fishing,” I said.

“What are you seeing?” I heard Deuce’s voice on my earwig. I’d forgotten it was even on.

“A guy in a boat east of the bridge, Deuce,” I replied. “Trying to look like he’s fishing, but he’s looking this way through binoculars.”

“Got him,” Deuce said. “Think he’s spotted you?”

“No, he’s not looking at us. His binos are trained lower, under the bridge, watching the park and marina. Thought you were ordered to stand the satellite down.”

“Yeah, well, you’re the only one that knows we’re watching. Travis called back and said to keep the bird deployed. Julie’s controlling it and the comm between you, Andrew, and us.”

“Old guy has binoculars, too,” Manny said. “Who listens to a radio with just one earphone?”

Just then, a voice came over the VHF on the desk, someone hailing the marina. The marina operator gave the captain a channel number, and as I watched, the guy in the skiff put down his binoculars and reached for the radio on his console.

“Found your watcher,” Manny said. “The old guy’s not listening to music—that’s a handheld VHF.”

“They’re both watching the marina,” I said, as much for Manny’s benefit as Deuce’s.

M
orning wore on, the sun climbing higher in the sky. It was already hot, and the day promised to be even hotter. Manny and I continued scanning the rooftops, park, and marina, always returning to the old man sitting in the swing. Every few minutes, Manny would turn and check out the guy on the boat.

This would be a short vigil, compared to others that both Manny and I have been on. In Somalia and the first Gulf War, I’d spent days lying in the hot desert sun never moving and always watching, waiting for the chance of taking out a high-value target.

By midmorning, it was obvious to anyone paying attention that the two men were watching the marina and waiting, as we watched them and waited. Everyone else we saw at the park and marina seemed to be going about their normal day-to-day activities.

At ten hundred, the voices of the others came over my earwig, checking their communications. Andrew, Art, Sheena, and Craig were driving to the park in the FBI sedan, and Tony was shoving off with the two DEA agents, Dannell Burton and Keenan Ray.

By late morning, Travis had secured a warrant from a friendly D.C. judge to tap both Cross’s phone and the big mystery guy in the boat. Deuce was keeping an eye on the guy in the boat, as well as scanning the whole area using the sophisticated cameras onboard the satellite.

Tony’s voice came over the comm, saying that they had cleared the creek and were moving north on Beaufort River. Deuce told him about the two watchers who were listening on VHF radios.

“Is the old man in the swing the alpha dog of the pack?” I asked Otis. He seemed to know a lot more about the locals than Benton.

“No,” Otis replied. “Another of his nephews, a big old boy named Rafe, controls the family. Everyone calls him Swimp.”

“Swimp?” Manny asked. “What kinda name is that?”

“They’re a big family, scattered all over the Sea Islands. Mostly they live over on Saint Helena, where a lot of the Gullah people live. Swimp is the Gullah word for shrimp. When he was a kid, he was pretty scrawny.”

“So, this Swimp character,” I said. “Would he be the one calling the shots with his uncle and whatever relation the guy on the boat is?”

“Damien’s his second cousin,” Otis replied. “Yeah, if they’re up to no good, it’s a sure bet that Swimp’s behind it.”

There were still a couple of hours before noon, and I figured now would be as good a time as any to release Cross’s name to the sheriff and maybe Otis would be able to tell us more. I relayed that thought to Deuce and he agreed.

“You seem to know just about everyone on all of these islands, Otis,” I began. “Think this Swimp guy might have some tie to Congressman Nick Cross?”

Benton looked up quickly from his book. “Congressman Cross?”

“The older woman you said you thought you’d seen before? She’s Cross’s mother-in-law,” I explained. “The girl is his daughter.”

“You gotta be kidding!” Benton said. “I’ve known him most of my life. Worked construction for his dad before joining the department.”

“Never been involved in anything crooked?” I asked without taking my eye from the scope. “Back when he was a developer?”

“Took some shortcuts, sure,” Benton replied. “Nothing like what you suspect him of, though. Killing his daughter? No way.”

“We have evidence to the contrary,” I said. “And in a couple of hours, right down there on the boardwalk, he’s going to give two hundred thousand dollars to one of our agents to have his daughter and mother-in-law murdered.”

“They know each other,” Otis said. “But it’s not a very big town. Lots of folks know lots of others. They’re not exactly in the same social circle.”

“I’ll have to inform the sheriff,” Benton said, taking his cell phone from his pocket. “Cross is a prominent man around here.”

“You’ll probably get a busy signal,” I told him. “My boss is informing him right now.”

Benton held his phone up to his ear for a moment anyway, then ended the call. “Went to voicemail,” he said. “He’s not gonna like it. He and Cross went to high school together.”

Tony’s voice came over my earwig and the VHF on the console at the same time. “Dis be
Gaspah’s Revenge
tuh di Downtown Marina.”

“That’s our people,” I said, moving the scope to Marcel Ross on the swing. “They’re arriving on my boat.”

“Your boat?” Benton said, looking out over the marsh that Beaufort River curved around to the south.

Ignoring him, I watched the old man closely as the Dockmaster gave Tony a channel. “Switch to that channel, Otis,” I instructed.

Otis changed frequencies, as did the old man in the swing. We heard Tony asking for a spot at the east end of the tee dock. “How long is your vessel, Captain, and how long will you be staying?” a voice I recognized as the Dockmaster asked.

“Fahty-five feet, mon,” Tony replied. “Jes stoppin’ fuh a short time. I be movin’ on befo di sun go dohn.”

“Sunset’s at eight thirty, Captain. The full-day rate would be less expensive than the hourly rate after about four hours. The daily rate is eighty dollars.”

“I and I take dat,” Tony said. “Is di east end of di tee dock available?”

“Absolutely, Captain. Tide is falling, with a one-point-eight-knot current. Please tie off on your port side, into the current. For your own safety, please hold your bow just short of the end of the dock.”

“Rogah dat, mon. Back to sixteen.”

The old man in the swing took a cell phone from his pocket and made a short call. Once he’d hung up, he began to watch the water to the south through his binoculars, barely trying to be inconspicuous about it.

“Your boat’s being run by Jamaicans?” Otis asked.

“He’s a DHS agent,” I replied. “Former Navy SEAL. The two men with him are DEA.”

“DHS, FBI, and DEA?” Otis said. “You guys got a whole Scrabble game going.”

The
Revenge
came around the curve in the river and slowly came down off plane as Tony piloted her past the mooring field.

“That’s your boat?” Benton asked.

“Yeah,” I replied.

“You mean it belongs to the government, right?”

“No, it’s mine.”

Andrew’s voice came over my earwig. “We’re in the parking lot, splitting up. Sheena and Craig are going up to the deck of the restaurant on the west side of the park. Art and I will be on the back deck of the one on the east side. Sheena’s surveillance team just reported that Cross was leaving his house.”

“He’ll be early,” Deuce said. “Normal drive time of about forty-five minutes. He should be there in less than an hour. Everyone hurry up and wait.”

Though the air conditioner for the little tender’s house was running at full blast, with the window open it was beginning to get pretty warm. Down on the boardwalk, I was relieved to see the old man stand up and take off the light jacket he’d been wearing since sunrise. He didn’t appear to have a gun. At least not visible.

“What do you think, Deuce?” I asked quietly. “The old man doesn’t appear to be armed, and it looks like it’s only the two watching.”

“So why is the one so far away?” Deuce asked, working things out in his head. “There’s no way he can make a shot from that distance, standing on a boat. I doubt even you could.”

“You’re right,” I replied. “What are we missing?”

“My guess is the old man’s there to identify your boat to either the guy on the boat east of you, someone downriver, or both.”

Looking out the door to the south, I could see the sandbar I’d thought would be a good shooting position yesterday. Or at least where it was supposed to be. With the tide falling just past the high, it was completely underwater. Beyond that, down the west riverbank to the hospital, were a number of homes, none of which were within range of even my rifle.

“We have a pretty good view that way,” I said. “Haven’t seen anything out of the ordinary. The only hide I’d considered is underwater now.”

“Another boat down that way?” Deuce asked. “One north and one south, to follow Tony after the exchange?”

“Lots of boats,” I said. “On the water and tied up at docks.”

“So, they’re only looking,” Deuce said. “Planning to follow, maybe.”

“I’d go all in that Cross won’t take any action anywhere near the downtown area,” Sheena said.

“Once he’s under arrest, he’s not going to be able to take any action at all,” I added.

“Agreed,” Andrew said. “There’s probably a third watcher out there. Maybe in one of those homes along the riverbank. But I’d also bet he’d be on a boat, so he can follow Tony.”

I looked up at Otis, who was listening intently to my one-sided conversation. “It looks like deep water on the east side of the sandbar, Otis,” I said. “It’s been years since I was here last. Any idea how deep?”

“Yeah,” he replied, pointing at an opening through the marsh that reconnects to the river another mile to the south. “Through that creek right now, there’s a good ten feet of water. At low tide, only about five.”

“I heard him,” Tony said, over my earwig. “Saw it on the way up. It’s not marked, but the chart plotter shows a minimum of five feet.”

“That’s your out, Tony,” I said. “Andrew can take the old man at the same time they take Cross. You cut through there at wide-open throttle, like you’re running from the scene. It’s completely out of rifle range from the houses on the western shore. Keep the throttles against the stops all the way to Battery Creek. If the third watcher is on a boat, he’ll come after you.”

“Five feet doesn’t leave much margin for error,” Tony said.

“That’s at low tide. You’ll have at least that much under the keel once you’re up on plane.”

We continued to watch the old man and his nephew, occasionally scanning the rest of the area, as Tony and the DEA guys tied up at the dock. Tony went into the small shack at the cross of the tee dock and returned to the
Revenge
a moment later.