Tuna Tango (20 page)

In minutes, they were past Sand Key and into the open Gulf. Will glanced at the rpm gauge, which was pegged right at the red zone, and backed off the speed slightly. It would do no good to blow the engine. The needle dropped into the green and he glanced at the speedometer. At 40 knots, the Middle Grounds were only two hours away. 

“Hey, Kyle. Take the wheel for a minute,” he yelled over the engine. Kyle shot him a
who me
look, but tentatively moved toward him. Will kept a hold on the helm until he was sure Kyle had a grip on it. Letting the wheel loose at this speed could result in the boat turning sharply and possibly flipping. 

As he moved out of the way, he yelled in Kyle’s ear, “Just keep the same course!”

He stepped aside and watched as the boy got the feel for the boat. A smile soon crossed Kyle’s worried face, and Will turned toward the GPS. The unit fired up and he waited as it acquired the satellites necessary to calculate their position. After several minutes, the screen changed and showed their location, bearing, and speed. 

He sat down on the bench seat and started to scroll through the screens, finally settling on the waypoint page. There he pressed one that he remembered as being in the cluster he had plotted several nights ago, and waited as the computer calculated the course. The bearing said 285, and he glanced at the compass mounted by the wheel. 

Then he stood up and took the wheel from Kyle, moving it to the right and waiting as the boat changed course. When it settled at 285, he showed Kyle the compass and told him to hold the course. 

There was no need to drive as long as Kyle could hold the course and speed. The Gulf was wide open and obstruction free, unlike the Keys, where you had to know the waters to avoid the shallows and shoals. He glanced over to check the course, and looked at the other instruments. A digital depth finder showed the bottom to be thirty feet under the hull. It would gradually deepen from here—no need to worry about shallow water. With the GPS showing the boat arriving at the waypoint in seventy-five minutes, he sat down to figure out what to do when they found them. 

He figured George would run close to the course they were on. Just as he went to check the GPS again, he saw a boat on the horizon. It was too far away to know for sure, but the profile was similar to George’s.

He took the wheel from Kyle, eased the throttle slightly, and changed course for the boat. As they closed the distance, he had no doubt it was George’s. But what was he doing here? This was miles from the Middle Grounds and the bluefin water he fished. 

He slowed even more, veering off the collision course they were on. It would do no good to threaten him before he could come up with a plan. The details on the boat soon became visible. Two figures, one of them surely George, were huddled at the transom, staring at one of the engines tilted out of the water. Will suspected they had entangled the prop in some debris, or were having engine trouble, but the boat was drifting. 

Sheryl was not visible, though, and he moved closer as he searched the deck for her. The men saw him approach. 

They started to wave him over and it took him a minute to figure out that they thought he was Lance. With an excuse to close the gap further, he idled toward the drifting boat, only wanting to get close enough to see if Sheryl was there. 

“Get down!” he called to Kyle and Dick. “I don’t want him to see anyone with me.” He started to circle the boat. With each pass, he closed the gap. She was still nowhere to be seen, but he was close enough to see the bare shaft on the lower unit of the engine. Somehow they had lost a propeller and he remembered Kyle’s story of untangling the fishing line. Somehow in the process the cotter pin must have come loose. The boat was crippled, not able to reach anywhere near its top speed with only one engine. Twin outboards were synced together, their propellers opposing each other to make the boat run true. With only one engine, George would only be able to make 15 knots, and have to fight the wheel the whole time to hold course. Will could easily keep an eye on the boat until the authorities arrived. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” 

Will heard the scream from George across the fifty yards separating them. “Where’s Sheryl?” he screamed back.

“You mean that bitch of yours? She’s right here.” George leaned into the cabin and came back with his hand full of auburn hair. Sheryl was forced onto the deck. “Here she is. What are you going to do about it?”

Will was shocked speechless. He looked around the well-appointed cockpit, but there was nothing close to resembling a weapon. “Check the cabin. See if there is anything down there,” he said to Kyle. 

Kyle reappeared and shook his head.

Will reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone, planning on circling the crippled boat to keep him here until help could arrive. But the screen showed no service, which meant he would have to get closer to shore. With George’s limited speed and decreased maneuverability, he should have the advantage, and started to move back and forth on the seaward side of the boat. 

George went to the helm. The maneuver was forcing him to move or risk a possible collision of which Lance’s larger boat would be the winner. Will moved closer with each pass until George started the remaining motor and turned to shore. He felt like a sheepdog herding sheep as he crisscrossed George’s wake, moving the slower boat in the direction he wanted. The shoreline soon became visible, and Will thought about his options. 

They would lose their advantage in the close quarters of the pass, and George knew those waters better. If he took Bunces Pass into Boga Ciega Bay, he could easily lose him. With his hand shielding his eyes, he scanned the beach, settling on a large pink building. The Don Cesar hotel was the most expensive and exclusive place on the beach, having housed everyone from rock stars to presidents. It was also the best landmark. 

With a few adjustments, he soon had George moving toward the building. Now it was time to get the police involved. He picked up the phone, hoping he had service now, and dialed 911. The reception was crystal clear when the operator answered. After explaining his situation, he had the operator confirm his number. She said that someone would call him right back. He put the phone on the dashboard so he could see it if a call came through, and continued his course. 

They were in green water, now, no more than a quarter-mile from the beach, when something jarred the boat. Will had been so intent on George’s boat that he had not even seen the speed boat pulling a para-sailer off the beach. The wake threw him off balance, and he was unable to catch the phone as it slid off the polished dashboard and landed on the deck. Once past the wake, he leaned over to pick it up, but the screen was shattered and it would not respond. With no way for the police to contact him, he threw the phone down and focused on George. 

His best chance was to drive him onto the beach and force a confrontation. If George had a gun, he figured he would have used it already. Will had the boys, so they outnumbered George and his deckhand, but he lacked fighting skills and feared a confrontation. What he hoped was that George would hit the beach and run, leaving Sheryl on the boat. As they approached the beach, the para-sail boat cut between them, allowing George a large buffer. 

The fishing boat hit the beach and he watched as George pulled Sheryl out and headed toward the Don Cesar. Swimmers scattered as Will plowed the hull of the larger boat onto the beach, but by the time he was off the boat, George and Sheryl had disappeared. He looked back, saw Dick and Kyle following behind him, and took off toward the building. 

Angry tourists huddled under blue umbrellas screamed at them as they kicked sand at them, but they didn’t slow down. They scaled the wide limestone stairs three at a time, and were quickly on the pool deck. Will saw George push past a cocktail waitress and enter the building. He skirted the pool and went for the door. The cool air and slick marble greeted him as he entered the building, and he slid several feet before gaining his balance, then ran straight through the lobby to the entrance.

Chapter 22

Lance leaned forward at his desk, staring intently at the computer screen. The red dot on the nautical chart was his boat, and it was moving quickly toward the beach. His key fob was clenched in his hand. The device automatically triggered an alarm that went to his phone whenever the fob was not in close proximity and the boat was moving. He had immediately called the marina when the app alerted him, and they described the three men that had taken it. 

It had to be Will and those two troublemakers he had working for him. George had called earlier, saying that he was going out fishing, and that he could expect him back the next day, hopefully with a couple of bluefins, and minus one problem. That would take care of the girl, at least. 

Surprised that Will had actually taken action, he wondered what his next move should be. Self preservation was always his priority, and he thought about sacrificing George to cover his involvement. The guy was a loose cannon, but he was also his biggest producer. Cut him out of the chain and it could cost him forty to fifty grand a week in season. 

And finding a replacement that he could trust would not be easy. 

Most fisherman, especially those open to working the black market, were not the sharpest hooks in the tackle box. George was both shrewd and a talented fisherman, but his behavior, governed by his greed, was out of control. And it would lead right back to him if he was caught. 

The dot on the screen was motionless now, hovering in front of the Don Cesar hotel. He watched it for another minute before picking up the phone.

“Brice here,” the Fish and Game officer answered.

“Hey, it’s Lance, from the fish house over in Pinellas.” 

“What can I do for you, Mr. Baitman?”

Lance called in several leads each year, mostly to sabotage his competition. His company also donated to several charities that benefited the Fish and Game officers, to stay in their favor.

“Got a lead on a poacher for you. Big bluefin tuna guy. He tried to sell to me last week. I bought one just to keep him on the hook. I expect to see him this afternoon.” He admitted to the buy to cover his tracks if the officer started asking questions about activity in the fish house.

“Well done. I can get you reimbursed for the fish if this pans out. Let me know when he calls.”

Lance disconnected and planned his next move. George's cell phone went right to voicemail. He assumed he was either out of range or unable to hear the ring over the engine noise. There was nothing further to be gained by sitting here watching a dot on a screen, so he shut down the computer and left his office, telling the secretary that he would be gone for the day. Outside, the sky looked ominous, like a rain storm was imminent as he walked downstairs to the SUV. 

Inside the car with the air conditioning cutting the humid air, he turned on his iPad and opened the same program he had viewed on his computer. The dot was still in the same place. From the parking lot he crossed the railroad tracks again, cursing the advent of air freight. His family had bought the building back in the seventies, before Federal Express started overnighting fish anywhere in the world. Back then, it was important to be by the tracks. Now it cost double the freight to get fish to and from the landlocked building. 

A few blocks later, he turned onto US 19 and headed south. A right on 54
^th
Street took him over several causeways toward the beach. Traffic was heavy, and he tapped the steering wheel anxiously, watching the iPad screen as he waited. Finally he reached the beach, turned left, and made a quick right into the hotel’s parking lot. He drove to the valet attendant, left the engine running, and ran up the steps to the lobby. 

Out of breath by the time he reached the pool deck, he scanned the beach. His boat was pulled up on the sand, apparently unharmed. George's boat was off to the side. 

He ran to the beach, slogging through the sand in his shoes. When he reached the boat, he winced as he went knee deep into the water before he could roll over the gunwale. Soaked from the waist down, he went to the helm and checked the ignition. The key was still there. The engine started right away, and he hit the blower switch, knowing he was lucky not to have blown up the boat. 

He closed his eyes and tried to steady his nerves. Too much could go wrong in the coming hours for him to make a mistake like that. Refocused, he looked toward the stern and put the engine in reverse. Not knowing if the stern drive was wrecked from grounding it in the sand, he pushed the throttle, hoping it would move. 

The boat didn’t react. Cursing, he gave it more gas and waited as the hull started to vibrate underneath him. Soon it pulled free, spitting a swath of sand in its wake. He drove carefully out of the swim area. Too many people knew him here to disregard common sense. Once clear, he turned south and pushed the throttle until the boat got up on plane. Five minutes later, he rounded the point and turned into the channel. He slowed the boat and pulled out his phone.