The Echo of Violence

The moon dappled undulating waves with shimmer as his slow-moving trawler navigated the Atlantic toward the Canal de la Tortue. Haiti and Port de Paix lay dead ahead. The crew of the
Aquilina
made ready for docking and had left Luc at the helm, alone with his thoughts. As captain of the commercial vessel, he normally took pleasure in the solitary feeling at this hour and drew comfort from being one with the sea. That feeling of serene isolation reminded him of the old days when he was a younger man—but not tonight.

He had other things on his mind.

To settle his nerves, he had smoked far too many cigarettes as he kept an alert eye on the horizon. He peered through the dim glow of the wheelhouse and beyond the reflection of the boat’s running lights on the water, searching for police on patrol.

Earning extra money for his family, he carried ad
ditional cargo in a special compartment known only to him and the men he worked for on the side. He played a small part in a smuggling operation with a splinter faction of a drug cartel, and his crew had no idea. His men knew nothing about any contraband on board.

For that matter, he didn’t know much more.

For the sake of his wife and children, he only cared about the money and merely played his part as blind courier between South America and Miami, Florida. What had been stowed below was none of his concern. And even though the Dominicans had cut into his action and ramped up their role by becoming wholesaler to many cities on the East Coast of the United States, Luc wanted no part in that.

On most nights, the limits he’d set made him feel absolved of the crime. A more palatable rationale.

When he first saw the city lights of Port de Paix—a distant glow that had robbed the skyline of stars—he had called in his position and estimated time of arrival using the special cellular phone he’d been given. As an agreed-upon security measure, he avoided using the high-frequency radio transmission, the equipment he had in the wheelhouse. Luc blew smoke from his nose and glanced at his watch one more time. When he looked up, he spotted a searchlight on the water dead ahead. The Haitian national police were about to intercept him.

After speaking to his South American contact, he had expected the marked patrol boat; but making it through an inspection at sea always made him nervous these days.

Luc only hoped his part would be over soon.

He breathed a sigh of relief when he spotted the familiar face of a Haitian inspector as the man boarded his vessel, an official he’d seen before and knew by reputation. The hulking man in uniform lumbered across the deck—Gerard Heriveaux—a big man with a pronounced slouch. He and his men knew how to look the other way. And knowing that allowed Luc to relax until the man pulled him aside.

“We must break protocol,” the inspector said in French. “I’m here to intervene on behalf of our mutual friends. Contact your man and confirm this. I will wait.”

One of the inspector’s men handed him a duffel bag. Luc had no idea why Heriveaux would need it.

“I do not understand,” he said. “What is happening?”

The Haitian officer looked over his shoulder and kept his voice low. “We’ve received word that the counternarcotics unit will raid your vessel when you dock. If you want to be held harmless, you will contact your man to confirm and let me do my part. Now is that clear enough?”

Luc stared at the older man, unable to control the escalating beat of his heart. Nothing like this had ever happened before. The threat of a raid would put him in the middle, between dangerous drug smugglers and an unforgiving Haitian government. Even the hint of an illegal operation would mark him by local officials. He had not been so foolish as to deny this possibility, but being faced with it turned his stomach sour.

God help him.

“Yes, very clear,” he nodded. “I will make the call.”

Luc headed for the privacy of the wheelhouse to use his cellular phone. When the man on the other end of the line made it easy for him to explain—offering his take on the raid—it made him more confident he would be doing the right thing and reinforced that he’d not be held accountable. His contact told him what to do.

When he returned to the Haitian inspector on the leeward deck, Luc made sure his crew was distracted by the official inspection and delegated the paperwork to one of his men before he waved the officer forward. “Come. Follow me.”

In privacy, he led Heriveaux to his personal cabin below. Behind a large wooden panel on the back of his bunk, he yanked at one side and opened a secret compartment. Bolted down and welded, a large combination safe was secured inside.

A safe he didn’t know how to open.

“If you have the trust of my contact, you will know how to access what’s inside. I do not,” Luc told the man. “And I have no wish to be involved. I’ll be outside my cabin until you have secured…whatever is in that safe.”

As he opened his duffel bag, Heriveaux acted surprised by his reaction, but smiled. “You are a smart man, Captain. Go. Do what you must. I will be with you shortly.”

Luc shut the door behind him and stood outside his cabin, waiting for the inspector. With the trawler adrift on the sea, the
Aquilina
pitched in the rolling waves, forcing him to widen his stance for balance. His stom
ach roiled with the motion, the start of nausea more attributable to the sudden change in plan. He wiped both hands over his face and waited.

Luc Toussaint prayed he’d done the right thing.

Once the
Aquilina
was moored to the pier at Port de Paix, Luc’s crew got to work unloading the documented cargo. But a familiar face on the dock below caught the eye of the captain. He quickly disembarked down the gangway and walked toward Inspector Gerard Heriveaux. The man barely glanced at him, as if nothing was the matter.

“Why are you here?” He shrugged as he stood before the Haitian official. “Has something else happened?”

“What are you talking about?” the inspector questioned. “I’m here to inspect your vessel and collect your port fee.”

Heriveaux scribbled on a document clipped to a board and prepared another inspection form—a form Luc already had signed and had in his possession, stuffed into his pocket. He retrieved the executed document, unfolded it, and pulled the man aside.

Lowering his voice, Luc said, “But I already paid you. And don’t you think it’s unwise to duplicate the paperwork? Someone might notice.”

With a confused look on his face, Inspector Heriveaux knitted his brow, cocked his head, and opened his mouth to speak. But the ringing of the private cell phone clipped to Luc’s belt distracted him.

When he recognized the number, he raised a finger and said, “Please…I must take this. Excuse me.”

Heriveaux grumbled and turned back to his paperwork with a show of indignation as the harsh voice of his South American contact stole Luc’s attention.

“Why have I not heard from you? You were supposed to call by now. What’s your position?”

Luc’s eyes grew wide and his jaw dropped. But as he stared at the annoyed inspector standing in front of him on the pier, it did not take long for him to realize—

He’d been pirated and put out of business by a slick operator.

“I c-can…” He choked on words he’d never believe himself. “…explain.”

The Haitian patrol boat set course for Tortuga Island, the historically infamous Pirate Island across from Port de Paix. En route, every decal, flag, and uniform that designated the identity of the boat and its personnel would be removed, bagged, and thrown overboard with weights. No evidence of their piracy would remain.

In his cabin belowdecks, Jackson Kinkaid stripped out of his uniform to his skivvies and stared at the age-ravaged face and thinning gray hair of Inspector Gerard Heriveaux in the mirror one last time. Being a chameleon, he admired his work. His best disguise to date.

What had taken him hours to create would be gone in minutes.

Kinkaid removed his brown-tinted contact lenses and dug his fingernails into the skin at his cheek, tearing at the latex until his own face emerged, dotted with adhesive. He bent over a small sink to scrub off the last
remnants of the disguise and wet down his dark hair. When he looked into the mirror again, familiar green eyes stared back. And he straightened his spine and shoulders to regain his youth…and attitude.

“You won’t have to worry about old age, Kinkaid,” he smirked at his reflection. “You won’t live that long.”

Before he dressed, he sat on his bunk with eyes closed and listened to a digital recording on an iPod. He needed to hear it like he was compelled to breathe, and he’d made this special time a ritual—a self-inflicted reminder of how much he had changed. The recording also never let him forget that his life hadn’t always been empty.

While he took his personal downtime, his team headed for Tortuga Island, where his men would separate, and a helicopter awaited him. Not too long ago, the island had served as the filming locale of a sequel to
Pirates of the Caribbean.
Kinkaid appreciated the irony, especially considering what he had just pulled off.

Forty-five minutes later

“Boss, we’re here.” The voice of his number one man, Joe LaClaire, called to him from on deck.

Kinkaid knew from the plan that they would be docking in a discreet cove on the island, away from curious eyes. For security reasons, they randomly selected the location, but this spot had a unique attribute. A helipad was nearby, and a Bell 210 helicopter awaited his arrival.

By the time he emerged topside, Kinkaid garnered his men’s attention when he came out wearing a navy Armani suit with a light gray shirt and burgundy-striped tie. The stark contrast of dress attire on board generated a flurry of whistles and verbal abuse he found hard to ignore.

“Cut the crap, you bastards,” he yelled. A rumble of good-natured laughter from his men made Kinkaid smile. He gripped the shoulder of the short, dark-haired man standing in front of him and lowered his voice. “Get the cash where it needs to go, Joe. You’re in charge now.”

He trusted Joe with his life, so relying on him to secure what they had plundered wasn’t an issue. The drug money taken off the trawler had been easy pickings, especially with an inside track to the drug cartel. Eavesdropping on the international maritime satellite communication network helped determine what cargo to hit and the level of risk involved—all part of their usual meticulous homework. And the anxious trawler captain had given him plenty of time to break into the safe when the man left him alone in his cabin.

But commandeering the trawler’s private cell phone—pretending to be the captain’s smuggler contact—had been a stroke of genius Joe had orchestrated. It had saved the trawler crew from having to face Kinkaid’s plan B if anyone had resisted.

“I’ll see you at the rendezvous point tomorrow morning. Eight sharp,” he said.

These days he had few friends. He’d severed ties and kept moving to avoid dealing with the baggage. Friends
expected too much. And they knew when he was lying and called him on his shit. LaClaire understood the way things were. He rarely pushed and didn’t take it personally when he drew the line. And that was okay, most days.

“Just watch your ass.” Joe narrowed his eyes. “I don’t want to dip into my hard-earned funds to bail you out.” He leaned in and whispered, “There was close to a half million in that safe.”

“Good haul.” Kinkaid forced a smile. “I gotta go.”

“I hate not leaving together after an operation. You sure you won’t need me to stick around?” Joe asked.

“No, I have obligations.” Kinkaid adjusted his cuff links, thinking about the second half of his evening. He was already late.

After his helicopter touched down, he had arranged for a taxi to get him to his next stop. A taxi service in Port de Paix was a high-risk sport. Most vehicles were nothing more than unmarked junk heaps without meters. But given his timetable, he didn’t want to risk not finding one.

The charity event he’d be attending was an affair put on by a determined Catholic nun.

“People are waiting for me, Joe.” He raised an eyebrow. “Hell, I’m the damned guest of honor.”

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