Florida Firefight (16 page)

“Good,” said Guillermo with a laugh. “I would much prefer we remain friends, for I fear you would be a difficult adversary.” He rubbed his hands together as if about to eat. “You have come a long way, my new friend. Let us hear your business.”

“It's probably small on your scale of operation. But, as I said, we are just getting started. I can promise the future will hold bigger and better things for both of us.”

“I quite understand. And what is it you offer?”

“Cocaine. Forty pounds of it, uncut, eighty to ninety percent pure. A friend of mine from the organization was an operative in South America, and we are setting up a coca plantation, using two bogus missionaries to front for us. I've spent years studying the cocaine trade, and I think I've finally found a way to transport it in complete safety from South America to this country.”

“And how is that?”

Hawker shook his head. “Perhaps I will tell you later—if our business dealings together are satisfactory. The forty pounds of cocaine was only an experimental shipment. We wanted to make sure my method would work. It did. Flawlessly.”

“But only for small amounts, I suppose. Really, forty pounds is hardly worth the danger—”

“We can move as much as half a ton at a time using my method.”

“Then why didn't you, Mr. Thornton?”

Hawker smiled. “As I said, the operation was experimental. I've now proved that it works.” His smile broadened. “Plus we lacked working capital. We still do. That's why I've come to you.”

“Again you intrigue me, Mr. Thornton. Of course, we have our own sources of cocaine. But if you will agree to share your method—”

“If our dealings are equitable, I will quite willingly sell it, Mr. Guillermo. No one with any brains deals in drugs for long. The odds catch up with you. I admire your very wise decision to stay safely on the outskirts. Personally, I plan to move out of this country within a year. But now I have forty pounds of cocaine for sale. Interested?”

“More in your technique than in the drug itself.”

Which was exactly why Hawker had invented his imaginary fail-safe technique.

“I'll take that as a yes,” said Hawker. “Here's my offer: The street value of cocaine, heavily cut, is about ninety thousand dollars a pound. Forty pounds is worth close to two million dollars.”

“Which, of course, no one in the business would ever pay.”

“Of course. The common wholesale price would be about eight hundred thousand. But since this is our first negotiation, as a sign of good faith, I would be willing to sell it to you for half that price.”

“Four hundred thousand? Very fair,” said Guillermo. “Too fair. What is the catch?”

“I want the money in foreign currency. Preferably in Venezuelan, since that is the most stable of your countries, but Colombian currency if need be. My reasons should be obvious. I can't account for large sums of money in this country as easily as you. Also, I want to make the exchange tonight. At two
A.M.
, off an island called White Horse Key. Your people will know of it. I will be with two other men. We will be in a forty-foot fishing boat, the
Castaway
. We'll be anchored. Tell them not to attempt radio contact. Tell them to anchor Medelli's boat off Panther Key. Do you have that? It's important: Panther Key. Tell them to send one or two launches, without lights. They may send as many men as they want.”

Guillermo nodded. “It is all very clear. But we would be willing to pay you twice as much money in U.S. currency.”

“Absolutely not. I'm selfish, remember? I have no interest in being traced.”

“In Colombian currency, then. But I must make myself plain on this point: Your revolutionary method of transporting cocaine had better be revolutionary. Without the promise of that, I would never have made this deal.”

“I understand exactly what you mean,” Hawker said, enjoying, for the moment, his private joke.

Hawker stood and opened the door. “One more thing, Mr. Guillermo. Your people on Mahogany Key have been riding roughshod over the villagers, who are sick of it. In fact, they're planning to raid your stronghold. Tonight.”

Guillermo looked interested. “Is this a bit of free information, Mr. Thornton?”

“I think you know better. Nothing will bring the feds in faster than a mass killing on some remote Florida island. Tell your men not to use firearms. Fight them, sure. But if Medelli's people use guns, we're both in trouble.”

Guillermo shook his head. “I quite agree, Mr. Thornton. Oddly enough, I expressed that very same feeling to Mr. Medelli only recently. The time will come when we will kill a great many of your silly race. But for now, killing only brings trouble.”

Hawker forced himself to remain expressionless. “One more thing, Mr. Guillermo,” he said evenly. “Did you have two men following me in a black Chevy?”

“Following you? Certainly not.”

Hawker wondered if he was lying. “Good,” he said. “It saved you some bail money.”

Two hours later Hawker was on a plane, headed for Florida.

eighteen

It was nearly six
P.M.
before he drove across the bridge onto Mahogany Key.

It was a silver winter dusk, and a balmy wind blew from Florida Bay over the Everglades.

The place was like a ghost town. The streetlights were on, like little yellow moons, and houses were dark. Hawker guessed they must have sent the women and children out of town. It was a good idea. Hawker hadn't thought of it. Boggs McKay obviously had.

The parking lot at the Tarpon Inn was jammed with cars and pickup trucks. Lights blazed in the windows, and he could see that the dining room was full. Hawker took the back entrance to his cottage. He didn't want the men to see him. Not yet. He didn't want there to be any doubt about who was leading the assault on the Colombians.

The men of Mahogany Key wouldn't be men again until they drove the invaders out—by themselves.

Hawker tossed his duffel on his bed, stripped off his jacket and tie and went to work at the computer. It took him half an hour with RUSTLED to get the biography of James H. Thornton out of the Washington, D.C., data banks.

That done, he walked down to the docks to make sure the marina's old forty-foot fishing boat,
Castaway
, had been readied.

The boat smelled of diesel fuel and fresh paint. The tanks had been topped off, as Hawker had instructed, and one of the crates from his cottage had been loaded. The little yellow Bonefisher, with the 140-horsepower Johnson, had been tethered behind.

Hawker was just finishing his inspection when Logan came walking across the dock, surprisingly quiet for a man his size.

He held a revolver in his hand. “Hey!”

Hawker jumped. When Logan saw who it was, he lowered the weapon and grinned. “Christ, I thought we were being sabotaged. It's about time you got back. McKay's just about ready to lead the guys to Chatham Harbor, so you'd better hurry.”

“I'm not going. Not with the men, anyway. I'm going to take one of the skiffs and watch from the mangroves. I want to keep an eye on things.”

“What about later?” Logan asked. “I got the boat rigged just like you told me. The masks and fins and stuff are in the forward locker. And last night after the meeting, I spent about an hour with Graeme, showing him how to operate that hand-held missile launcher, the Stinger. Holy shit, you brought enough stuff with you to outfit an army. Where'd you get it?”

Hawker stepped onto the dock and patted Logan on the back. “Never mind where I got it. I just want to be sure you know what you're getting into tonight. It's going to be rough. And bloody. Some people are going to die—maybe us.”

Logan shook his head comically. “If I can survive three tours in Nam, this will be like going on a picnic. Honest to god, Hawk, sometimes the shit came down so heavy over there I used to wonder why they didn't issue us umbrellas.”

“You're sure?”

“Damn right.”

“Logan, I've had my suspicions that you might be a federal agent: FBI or—”

“Just a cook,” said Logan. “I'm just a cook.”

“I keep forgetting.” Hawker held out his hand. “Anyway, I appreciate it. Good luck. And I'll see you at midnight.”

Logan grinned. “Hope you enjoy the show. That Boggs McKay is something. One hell of a leader. I think the boys are going to kick some ass for a change.” Logan had started down the dock but stopped suddenly, snapping his fingers. “Oh,” he said. “I have a message for you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Graeme took it. From some guy named … Schmidt. Said he was calling from Washington. Said it was important.”

“What was the message?”

“All he said was, ‘It's fake.' That was the whole message: ‘It's fake.' Kind of strange, huh?”

Hawker's hands slowly became fists. “No,” he said. “It's not strange. It's exactly what I expected.”

Hawker returned to his cottage.

He pulled on camouflaged army duck commando pants and a black oiled wool sweater. He covered his red hair with a black wool watch cap. He used a charcoal stick on his face and hands.

Now he had some tough weaponry choices to make. He strapped on the Jensen quick-draw side holster and added his custom .45-caliber Commander. He had planted his Gerber Mark II knife on the Colombian, but he still had his best knife: a handmade Randall Attack/Survival, a masterpiece of steel.

He had three choices of field weaponry: the Remington 700, the Ingram submachine gun or a Colt Commando automatic rifle. Hawker decided on the Commando, which was really a shorter version of the M16. He knew most of the fighting would be in close, and the Colt's telescoping stock would be ideal. Also, the Star-Tron night vision scope could be mounted on it.

Hawker filled a half dozen of the twenty-round detachable box clips and shoved another into the weapon itself. Once the Star-Tron was fixed, he was ready.

Just before he left, he tried to call Winnie Tiger. He knew how stubborn she was, and he suspected she probably hadn't left town with the other women.

There was no answer.

Hawker was glad. As tough as the Indian beauty was, even she wouldn't want to be around tonight.

Hawker climbed into the little rowboat and pulled himself across the dark bay.

Night herons squawked from the mangrove shadows, and stars glimmered above.

There was a light wind out of the northwest, and the occasional flare of distant lightning illuminated sea clouds on the horizon. A storm was rolling toward them from the Gulf of Mexico, and Hawker was glad. The cover and noise of a rough sea would help.

At the edge of Chatham Harbor, Hawker steered the skiff into the mangroves and tied it against the tidal stream. Lights were on in the dozen houses at the edge of the harbor, but no music blared, and no men drank beer on the porches. A nervous silence seemed to hang over the settlement.

The warehouse was about fifty yards away, off to the right. The same two guards stood in the white lights of the dock. They didn't look bored now. They were alert, smoking nervously. They kept their rifles close. Hawker knew that Guillermo had warned them. He studied them through the Star-Tron scope, seeing their faces clearly. The Colt Commando had an effective range of two hundred meters. It was more than enough.

If they didn't follow orders, if they opened fire on the men of Mahogany Key, Hawker would kill them. There would be no waiting for orders from stupid little politicians on this night.

The
Demonio Del Mar
, Medelli's hundred-foot yacht, was gone. Hawker was surprised. He had gotten the impression that Guillermo would have them keep the yacht safely at dockside until it was near the 2
A.M.
rendezvous time. It worried him. What if Medelli had decided to double-cross Guillermo and strike out on his own? What if Hawker's warning to Guillermo was leading the local fishermen into an ambush?

Hawker tightened his grip on the Colt Commando and waited.

Finally he saw them through the Star-Tron: Boggs McKay leading the initial strike force through the bushes. Boggs carried the explosives in a backpack. It took Hawker a moment to recognize the stocky, bullnecked older man behind him: Buck Hamilton, the real owner of the Tarpon Inn.

Hamilton had made good on his promise. He had returned to Mahogany Key in time to fight the Colombians again.

It was a simple plan. Boggs and his men would hit them straight on. When the Colombians rallied and the fighting began, two other groups, led by Mellor and Logan, would hit them from each flank.

Even though most of the men carried handguns, both McKay and Hawker had agreed they should not fire unless their lives were in danger. They wanted to help them win back their self-respect, not turn them into killers. As Hawker well knew, for every human life you take, you die a little bit yourself. And these men had already suffered enough.

As McKay led his men onward, Hawker could see the patrol of Colombians heading toward them. There were about twenty of them, carrying clubs as heavy as ax handles.

Hawker wanted to shout out a warning. He didn't. It was up to the fishermen now. They would have to win or lose on their own. Hawker waved some mosquitoes away from his face and did nothing.

McKay saw the Colombians before the others. He gave his men a hand signal, telling them to spread out. Then, with a rebel war whoop, he charged right at the Colombians. His men charged right behind.

Hawker had been afraid for the fishermen. His fears were soon put to rest. They fought like demons. With the initial charge, the rest of the Colombians poured out of their houses, swarming toward Boggs McKay's men.

The fishermen met them with their heads high, fists swinging. It was then that Logan's men attacked the Colombians from the bushes on the left flank, and Graeme Mellor's men hit them from the right.

They had the Colombians in the middle now. The fishermen were slightly outnumbered, and the Colombians seemed to have youth and strength on their side.