Wood's Reach (26 page)

“You’re hurt,” Mel said.

“I’m good. Don’t let Hawk see you all over here. He’ll get suspicious,” he said, handing the first empty to TJ and taking a full one, which he clipped to the harness.

“Where’s Hawk’s man?” TJ asked.

“Shark bait,” Mac responded, switching the other tank out. “And I think I found it.”

Chapter Thirty

Mac had time to think now—a lot of time. According to the computer, he had an hour and ten minutes of decompression stops starting at thirty feet. To make it easier for him to maintain his depth, he held on to the weighted line TJ had dropped from the transom. Finally, the adrenaline started to wear off, his breathing settled, and he tried to get comfortable. He floated horizontal in the water, sipping air from the tank on his right side, holding the line with his left hand and checking the computer on his right wrist every few minutes. The time passed slowly, but there were some things he needed to work out.

First was Hawk. Without his two henchmen, he was partially neutralized, but he still had a least one gun aboard. Given the chance to get to shore, he would quickly hire more muscle and get the sheriff involved. A short-term solution came to him after he had been down for ten minutes. With another twenty minutes at thirty feet, he could easily slip over to Hawk’s boat and cut the anchor line. It wouldn’t do much except give the man something to think about, but it was a start.

Holding his depth, he remembered the heading he had taken before he got in the water. He left the line, and with the compass extended in front of him, he swam to the boat, careful to maintain his depth to continue his decompression. He looked up at the surface as he approached. The seas were two to three feet, high enough that the waves would conceal his bubble trail—unless someone was specifically looking for him.

A few minutes later, the hull of the trawler was visible above him and he swam toward the bow. At the anchor line, he reached into the rebreather vest and retrieved Ironhead’s knife. Slowly, he started sawing through the thick nylon line. It parted, and he held on to the section floating from the anchor and watched as the current took the boat.

The tide was outgoing, and with the wind from the northeast, the boat slowly turned abeam to the seas and started drifting toward open water. Soon, it disappeared, and he swam back to the line hanging from TJ’s boat to resume his decompression.

The next problem was the treasure. Provided he could take Hawk out of the picture, what should he do with it? He’d been in enough trouble with the authorities not to risk salvaging anything without a permit. He thought about diving at night, but as soon as the same boat was spotted on the same spot for more than a few nights, the locals would get suspicious. Any vessel anchored in one location for too long drew the attention of both the local fishermen, thinking it was a hot spot, or the authorities.

His time at thirty feet was up, and he moved up to twenty. As he got shallower, the swells above made holding depth more difficult and he was glad for the line. Something about the depth triggered his memory and he remembered the silver being cached in the canal by Flamingo Key. That might be his answer.

Before he could formulate a plan, he heard the distinctive sound of a boat’s propeller. It was impossible to tell direction underwater, but he could tell it was coming toward him. Clinging to the line, he waited as the sound got louder, and a minute later he was staring at Hawk’s boat, the distinctive hull and color visible under the water. The boat stopped and idled above him.

His computer showed he still had thirty minutes of total decompression time left—ten more minutes at his current depth and the final twenty minutes at ten feet. Every dive computer had a safety factor built into their algorithms, but they were brand-specific, and he was not familiar enough with the rebreather equipment to know its limits. But, in the end, it didn’t matter as he looked up at the two hulls within a few feet of each other. He had to know what was transpiring on the surface.

Releasing the line at the transom, he swam past Hawk’s propellers, wondering if he could sabotage the boat, but he decided the risks were greater than the reward. He might be able to disable one of the trawler’s engines, but with only the dive knife, he doubted he could do both. And that didn’t solve the problem of what was happening on the surface. Finning to the bow of Hawk’s boat, he saw the cut anchor line still attached and swaying in the swells. There were still five minutes left in his twenty-minute stop, but he had to act now.

One at a time, he discarded his fins and started to pull himself up the line. Just before he reached the surface, he released the clips on the side-mount harness and attached the tanks to the anchor line. Next he undid the clasps on the rebreather and wiggled out of the unit. Removing the knife, he slid it under the wetsuit on top of his wrist and worked his way up the line.

Things got interesting as soon as he was out of the water. The bow was rocking with the seas, taking the loose line with it as it bobbed up and down, throwing his body against the steel hull. In addition to the force of the waves, he was tired, and looking up, he saw the crux of the climb, where the line entered a small opening just below the deck. He would have to lift himself over that and onto the deck, almost impossible with his wounded arm and his current level of fatigue. He thought for a second, then gathered his breath and in one motion swung his legs over his head, grabbing the line between them.

With the added power of his legs, he was able to climb the line, but the swing of the ship threw him against the hull three more times before his feet finally reached the deck. With everything he had left, he tightened his core, lifted his torso, grabbed the bow rail, and hauled himself onto the deck. Breathing heavily, he stayed flat, inching his way back, past the wheelhouse and close to the aft deck, where he could see Hawk. He was standing by the rail, yelling something at TJ across the water, but more troubling was the pistol in his hand.

Mac moved back to the wheelhouse, crossed to the starboard side, opposite of where the action was taking place. Staying close to the bulkhead, he drew a breath and stepped lightly onto the deck. Hawk was fifteen feet away, only the beam of the ship separating the two men, but he was still unaware that Mac was there. The man was ranting, clearly out of his mind, waving the gun over his head. Across on the sportfisher, all heads were down except Cheqea, who was standing across from him ranting back.

Pulling the knife from his sleeve, Mac held it in his right hand and crossed the deck. His dive booties silenced his steps, and Hawk had no idea he was behind him until Cheqea called out.

“Mac Travis, you come to save me.”

Hawk must have seen her eyes move and turned to face Mac. Only three steps away, he saw the gun barrel come up. Mac lunged forward, grabbing Hawk around the waist, his momentum taking them over the side. They spun in midair, and before they hit the water, Mac heard a shot fire. The two men were in the water now, grasping at each other, but Mac had the advantage of the wetsuit, its buoyancy allowing him to concentrate on the other man, while Hawk was fully clothed and had to expend most of his energy to keep his head above the water.

Mac had him in a headlock, trying to subdue him. He didn’t want to kill him, just disable him enough to figure out what to do with him. But someone on the boat had other ideas, and he saw the reflection of the sun on a dive tank as it came slamming down on Hawk’s head. Immediately, the struggle ended.

“Who—” Mac started.

“Evil man,” he heard Cheqea screaming on deck.

Hawk was facedown in the water now, and carefully, Mac went to him. There was nothing he could do. The man was dead.

“Why did you have to do that?” he screamed up to the boat.

“Evil man,” Cheqea screamed back.

Mac knew he was fighting a losing battle. He needed to figure things out before another boat came over to investigate. Swimming the few feet to TJ’s boat, where Mel helped him aboard, he sat on the swim platform with his back against the transom, trying to catch his breath.

All three were dead. Ironhead’s body was over a hundred feet below the surface and would probably never be found. He suspected Wallace was still in the hold where he had left him.

“We have to get rid of this.” He looked at Hawk’s body, floating not five feet from him. He turned when he heard someone wailing behind him. “What’s that?”

“Cheqea got grazed by that shot. No real damage, but she’s carrying on about some kind of evil,” TJ said.

Mac was out of patience. He stood, walked through the transom door, and called to Trufante, “Give her whatever she’s got in that bag of hers. Have Pamela take her into the cabin. She seems to be able to communicate with her.”

Trufante took the women and went inside. It was quiet on deck now, with Alicia, TJ, Mel, and Mac staring at each other, wondering what to do.

TJ was first. “If Cheqea is all right, I say we tow his boat out a ways and scuttle it.”

Mac nodded, looking at Mel.

“He may be right. There’s no explaining our way out of this. Better to go missing. It’ll be dark in a couple of hours. I agree with TJ,” Mel said.

Alicia nodded her ascent. Mac turned and grabbed the boat hook from under the gunwale, extended it, and reached over the side for Hawk’s body.

“I’ll take it and his boat. You guys just follow,” he said.

Mel looked at him. “I’m coming with you.”

Mac gave the hook to TJ and jumped back in the water. “Hold on. I’ll get him aboard,” he called to Mel. TJ released the hook, and Mac grabbed the body, sidestroking to the trawler. He reached the transom, climbed out of the water, and dragged Hawk’s lifeless form aboard. Leaving the body on the deck, he went to the wheelhouse and started the engine. He looked back, then dropped the engine into reverse and backed down on TJ’s boat. When he was a few feet away, he called over for Mel to climb onto the gunwale and jump. She landed on the deck and came beside him, giving the dead body a wide berth.

Together, the boats ran out to the three-hundred-foot line, deep enough that Mac had no worries about the wreck being discovered. Mel had run the boat while he prepared to scuttle it. He dragged Hawk’s body down the stairs and stashed it in the same hold as Wallace. Then, he weighted the bodies, left the door open, and started to locate the thru-hull fittings, opening each one as he went. Water started to flood the lower deck, but he knew it would take an hour or so before it was high enough to endanger them.

The trawler was starting to list to starboard, drifting beam to the waves. TJ steered alongside, allowing Mac and Mel to hop off the sinking boat. He moved a few hundred feet away, far enough that his boat would be free of the inevitable whirlpool created when the trawler sank.

A cloud of smoke floated from the cabin when Trufante, Pamela, and Cheqea finally emerged to join them at the rail and watch Hawk’s ship take the first wave over her port side. The ship rolled, taking more waves. It wasn’t long after sunset that it finally disappeared below the surface.

Chapter Thirty-One

Despite having Mel next to him in the forward berth, Mac slept little after their watch. He had reversed the shifts from last night to mitigate any effects from the shortened decompression stop, but rest eluded him. Trufante and Pamela had taken the first watch, with TJ and Alicia on now. He couldn’t get comfortable after the beating his body had taken, and the knife wound throbbed incessantly, the ibuprofen he had taken earlier doing nothing to help the pain.

In the brief periods that the pain abated, thoughts of the three dead bodies they had left behind took its place. He didn’t take violence lightly, and although there had been no alternative, he regretted the killings. Slowly, he eased himself out of the bunk, trying not to wake Mel, and moved silently through the cabin, where Trufante, Pamela, and Cheqea were asleep. He climbed the ladder to the bridge and sat on the aft bench.

“No sleep?” TJ asked, turning to face him from the helm seats.

Alicia was typing something on the laptop, but looked up. “You okay, Mac?”

“Yeah. You’d think it would have been easy, but no,” Mac said.

“Want to talk about the dive?”

Mac looked out over the ripples on the water visible in the moonlight. They were back in Sister Creek, but instead of the main channel, they had taken a side canal and were surrounded by mangroves. The privacy was reassuring, but with it came the mosquitoes and black flies. He swatted at something on his forehead and tried to find the flaw in their plan.

“Sure. Pretty simple, really. No depth concerns, the deepest canals I’ve seen in here are twenty feet. With the scooter, we should be able to cover the two miles pretty easily,” Mac said.

“I’ve got a full charge on it,” TJ said. “Daylight’s in about an hour. We should gear up soon.”

Mac looked toward the east, willing the sun to rise. There was nothing dangerous about what they were about to do—he was just ready for this whole affair to end. “I’ll go down in a few and get the gear organized.”

They sat together in silence for a few minutes, the only noise the buzzing of the bugs and Alicia on the computer.

“What’re you so busy with?” Mac asked her.

She looked up, and he could see the shadow of the rings under her eyes in the reflection of the screen. “Filing the claim for the wreck. I want to get this in before there are any questions.”

Mac nodded. As he had expected, Mel had convinced everyone to do this legally. He had no expectations of getting rich even if it did yield. The silver he was hoping to recover this morning was going to be his payback. The sky lightened slightly, giving the first indication of dawn. “Ready?” he asked TJ.

They climbed down to the deck and worked in the dark, setting up their tanks. Mac was grateful for the simplicity of the standard BC and regulator setups that TJ had aboard as backups for his charter customers. After the last few days of technical diving, it was a welcome relief. Their plan was to get in the water just as the sun broke the horizon. They would be in the dark for the first section, but it would be easy to navigate the main channel with the phosphorescent light of the compass. They knew it would be a challenge without lights, but both preferred stealth to convenience, and once they reached the side canals, there should be enough sunlight penetrating the murky water.