Mac Travis Adventures BoxSet, page 63
part #4 of Mac Travis Series
Pulling the nylon line into place to support him, he swung from the exterior of the silo to the rocket casing and grabbed for the yellow line. He transferred his weight to the rocket and tied the end of the climbing rope to the line, then, with both feet planted firmly against the rocket, he leaned back and set the chisel end of the tire iron in the small gap behind the detonator and the rocket. With a deep inhale, he tried to pry the charge loose. It didn’t move. Cursing, he changed position and tried again. This time he was able to slide it along the casing. He took one more attempt and realized this wasn’t going to work.
Leaning back, he felt the seconds ticking away. Staring at the problem, he saw what looked like a row of smooth-head rivets a foot below the charge. Hoping that if he could slide the detonator to the rivets, they would protrude enough to catch the edge and prevent it from sliding, allowing him to pop off the magnet. Knowing it was his last chance, he started to move the device lower and toward the first rivet. It stopped on contact, and he took a deep breath before setting the bar firmly. He popped the bar and flinched, expecting some kind of sound or the trigger to fire, but the charge popped off the rocket and he caught it before it dropped.
Moving quickly, he climbed to the other two charges and repeated the procedure. With all three charges bulging from his cargo pockets, he slid the tire iron into a belt loop and started to climb. Despite the coolness, he was sweating. His hands slipped and his feet cramped as he worked his way out of the silo. Several times he had to stop to release the tension accumulated in his muscles before he could continue. He didn’t dare look at his watch—he knew by now he was on borrowed time. Finally he reached the edge and tried to haul himself to the surface.
His exhaustion and injuries overcame him and he fell backward. Hitting his head against the rocket, he dangled in the void between the wall of the silo and the casing of the rocket. The rope still wrapped around his waist was the only thing saving him from dropping to the bottom.
He screamed for Mel and tried to catch his breath, alternately tensing and releasing his muscles to relieve the cramping. Finally he saw a shadow fall over the opening.
“Mel!”
“Here. Where are you?”
“Just a few feet down over here.” She came into view. “Can you pull on the line?”
She grabbed the rope, and he heard a grunt, but there was no perceptible change. “I can’t get anything on it.”
He hung in space, only feet from the rocket, knowing if the charges were detonated now, they would probably still trigger the explosion. “Hold on, maybe I can help.”
There were voids in the concrete casing, from either the original formwork or from fifty years of water dripping into the silo. After checking the knot holding the line to his waist, he kept one hand on the rope and tentatively used his other hand to remove the tire iron from his belt loop.
Wiggling his hips, he was able to start swinging, at first only a few inches at a time. Inertia worked its magic and he was soon touching the outer wall with each swing. He pushed off with his feet and, when he hit the rocket, he kicked hard. The force propelled him back into the concrete wall. Just before he started to swing back to the rocket, he found the largest void he could reach and jammed the end of the tire iron into it.
“When I yell, pull!” he yelled up to Mel and hauled himself up on the iron like a mountain climber using a pick. He felt the rope move. Releasing the tire iron, he found another void a few feet higher. With each swing, he was able to pull himself further to the edge, and when he finally reached it, he grabbed her arms and with her help gained the surface.
He pulled the charges from his pocket.
“We have to get rid of them,” she said, looking around for a safe place to ditch them, not knowing how far away they needed to be.
Picking up one, he turned it in his hands. He was able to see it clearly in the light and thought he knew how to diffuse it. “It’s similar to some of the underwater charges we used to use on the old bridges. Just a different fuse.” He pulled the small receiver out of the clay-like substance and showed Mel the two pins that activated by cell signal would ignite the C4 explosive. “Harmless now.” He separated the detonators from the charges and stuck them back in his pockets.
“Great. Now you’re a walking time bomb. We need to get to Dusharde before he leaves the country,” Mel said.
Mac looked at her. “Evidence. Where is Dusharde going?”
“I heard him say something about the Bahamas,” she said.
32
Mac cursed the traffic as he drove east. He had spent enough time in Miami, picking up parts and materials over the years, that he knew the area, especially the commercial port. But first he had to make a detour and rid himself of Pamela. She and Mel were crammed together in the passenger seat, and neither was happy about it. To make matters worse, Pamela was wailing. Mac wasn’t sure if it was about the snake bite, which had clearly proven not to be fatal, or Trufante, who he had told her was all right.
“The hospital’s not far out. Let’s just drop her there. She can get treated and find lover boy,” Mel said.
“Just drop me there. I need to see him and get back to Cheqea. She can cure me,” Pamela said.
“You should see a doctor,” Mel said.
Mac had enough of the two women and accelerated, trying to block their bickering from his mind. The delay to drop off Pamela was the right move, but he still had to get to Dusharde before they left port—and the sugar magnate had a half-hour head start. They needed to stop him and buy some time for the authorities to follow their onerous procedures that would be complicated by a man of Dusharde’s wealth and power--and the team of lawyers on retainer sitting by their phones. This was also personal now, and he intended to see it to its conclusion. He wanted Dusharde and the woman to stand trial and suffer the public scrutiny of their failed plan.
Mel had located the Homestead Hospital on the navigation system built into the car. Mac followed the route, pushing through yellow lights and dodging slow traffic. The hospital came into sight and he followed the signs, pulling up to the emergency room entrance. “Take care of him,” Mac said as Pamela opened the door and climbed over Mel to get out.
“Rock on, Mac Travis. In another time, in another place,” she said, and walked toward the entrance.
He stared after her for a second, making sure she was really gone before putting the car into drive and taking off. “Hope she’s all right.”
“No worries about that one. She’s the Cajun’s alter ego. Where to?”
“Can you get me on the 836? The boat will be somewhere between here and Palm Beach.”
Mel worked the screen built into the dashboard. “That’s a lot of area.”
“What else can that thing do?” Mac asked, looking at the screen built into the dashboard. “We need Alicia.”
Mel started pushing buttons on the embrace system. A woman’s voice came through the speakers, asking what she could assist with.
Mac asked the lady with the sexy British accent to make a call, and when she responded that she would be delighted to, he recited the phone number from memory.
“I’ll bet it’s registered to Dusharde Sugar and he is writing it off,” Mel said, waiting for an answer. After a half dozen rings, she left a message and disconnected.
“What now?” Mac asked, tapping the wheel with his palm.
She didn’t answer. Engrossed in the screen, she was pushing buttons, panning and scrolling like it was a computer, which he realized it was. “Got it.” She pushed another button on the screen.
“What?”
“Dusharde Sugar took third place in the Miami boat parade of lights last Christmas,” she said, quoting an article. “The eighty-foot convertible is docked at the Miami Beach Marina.”
With only the voice of the navigation system telling him what to do, they drove in silence as he cruised up the Florida Turnpike and turned onto the 836. A few miles after they passed the airport, at the intersection of I-95, the road turned into I-395, and they saw the downtown skyline. Crossing the McArthur Causeway, he looked to the right at the new baseball stadium and then saw the cruise ships ahead.
Knowing they were close, Mac accelerated. They drove past the cruise ships and entered South Beach, where he made a quick right onto Alton. He stopped in a loading zone in front of a large condo on the right. “Come on.” He grabbed the shotgun and ran toward the marina. Standing on the seawall, he stopped, looking at a billion dollars in boats docked in front of him and wondering which was Dusharde’s.
“Any one could be his,” Mel said as she caught up to him.
Spread over a dozen piers, spanning almost a half mile of seawall, were close to five hundred luxury vessels, a mix of sailboats and powerboats. The largest were docked at the end of the piers, which each jutted a hundred yards into the Intracoastal Waterway.
“We can’t check each one,” Mel said.
Mac scanned the marina, looking for any sign of activity. There were a few empty slips, probably from boats that had already left for the day. Most of the rest of the yachts were deserted. Toward the end of a pier to the right he saw some activity, but it looked like a wedding party boarding one of the larger boats. The internal clock in Mac’s head was ticking, and he knew this was taking too long, but he also knew there were always last-minute things that came up, and there was still a good chance Dusharde’s boat was still here. You didn’t just drop a few lines and take out a boat that size—especially if they were leaving the country.
“Keep an eye out. I’ll be right back,” he said and ran toward a large three-story building with a turquoise-colored metal roof. He entered the building and looked for the maintenance desk. The marina had an office, but no facilities here. For fuel or any other kind of services, the boats needed to cross the Intracoastal to the more industrial Dodge Island.
He slowed and approached the desk. “Hey, I’m just down from Port Everglades and have a part for Dusharde.”
“Do you have the vessel name?” The man across the counter didn’t give him a second look.
“Darn.” He made a show of rummaging through his pockets. “The invoice is on my phone and I must have left it in the truck.”
The man looked sympathetic. “What did you say the name was?”
“Dusharde. Sugar guy, I think. Big eighty-footer.”
“Right. We just fueled and changed some filters on the Plantation. They might have left already.”
“This is kind of important. If you don’t mind, I’ll take a run out there and see.”
The man gave him the slip number and the code to the gate. “Better hurry, the captain looked like he was in a rush.”
Mac thanked him and ran back outside, looking around for the pier. Just when he reached the gate, he saw the name on the transom of a large convertible pulling out of its slip.
“Hurry, we may have one more chance,” Mac said to Mel. They took off down the sidewalk, catching looks from the tourists walking along the path, and he realized he still held the shotgun. Several put phones to their ears and were talking frantically, others were taking videos of him, and a general panic soon spread. That only helped them in the short term as the baby strollers and families on the congested sidewalk scattered, opening a large space for them to run through.
He could see the Plantation idling toward Government Cut, but it would be restricted to five knots until it cleared the first buoy. Hoping they could keep pace, they followed the pedestrian trail and ran along the waterfront. The marina ended and they turned a corner. His stomach was cramping, and his breath was ragged, but the end was in sight. They ran past a large restaurant and entered South Pointe Park. Expecting to be tackled by the police any second, he ran harder and they reached the end of the paved trail. There was nothing between them and the Bahamas except for a long rock jetty and a pier running next to it. It was narrow and he had to slow down to push through the fishermen clustered against the rail.
Reaching the end, he tried to catch his breath, knowing he would only have one shot. With a quick glance he saw the boat had less than a hundred yards to cover before reaching open water, and he pulled the last flare shell from his pocket. With trembling hands, he loaded it in the gun and chambered the round. The boat was approaching now. The captain had started to accelerate, and he could see the white water from its wake as it picked up speed. He grabbed the C4 from his other pocket and, with the shotgun under his arm, rolled it into a ball. He could only hope the gunpowder charge in the flare shell would take a few seconds to burn through before it ignited the flare which would trigger the explosive. It was only a matter of a second, but he knew as he placed the ball of explosives on the tip of the barrel that if it went off too quickly he was dead.
Putting the thought from his mind, he braced himself against the rail and took aim at the Plantation. It was still farther away than he would have liked. He needed a few more seconds, but out of the corner of his eye he saw a commotion at the end of the pier. The police were here, and two officers were running down the boardwalk. With no time to spare, he sighted the boat and pulled the trigger.
The shell left the barrel, taking the explosive with it. The C4 slowed the projectile, but the target was close enough. Just before it hit the bow of the boat, the gunpowder burned through and ignited the flare. A loud explosion filled the air. The boat stopped and in slow motion wallowed in the water. Flames were visible now and he saw the crew come on deck. Just as he saw two figures dive into the water, he felt the cold steel of handcuffs about to close on his wrists. Mel was behind him, screaming at the police to listen to her, and it bought him just enough time to vault the pier. He dove into the channel and stroked after the two figures. They had a hundred-yard lead, and he hoped he was the stronger swimmer.
The incoming tide carried them back inside the channel. He paused his stroke to get his bearings and saw the tip of Dodge Island emerge across the Intracoastal. The pair were headed directly toward it, but they weren’t reading the water and he saw his chance to close the gap. Changing his course to the right and farther into the channel, he swam at an angle to use the current to his advantage. They were swimming straight toward the island and would have to fight against the tide that was pulling them farther away from their goal with each stroke. His tactic was working, and he closed to within twenty yards, hoping the choppy waves hid him. Taking advantage of the moving water, he conserved energy, pacing the swimmers in front of him. He worked his stroke and breath together, regaining energy with each revolution as they approached the island.
The tide had pulled Dusharde and Jane past the point, and the current was no longer a factor. Mac wanted to get on land before them and focused on the row of huge black bumpers secured to the seawall to protect freighters when they docked. Picking the closest, he looked back at the water, cursing the small ferry running between them. Deciding it would be better to be on land, even if Dusharde continued in the water, he stroked hard for the bumper and grabbed the thick rope securing it to the dock. Once he had a firm grasp, he pulled his legs onto the hard plastic and used it as a step to reach the seawall.
Once he gained his feet, he looked back at the water. They were gone. He scanned the water again, not believing they could have escaped, when he saw two figures huddled near the transom of a tender running toward downtown Miami.
33
Mac stared into the dark hole, watching the headlights of the Dade County recovery team flash back and forth as they rappelled into the silo. What had taken him hours took them only minutes, and he heard the call over the radio to send down a body bag. Minutes later, Vernon Wade was unceremoniously dragged back to daylight. The group stood around the bag while the coroner opened the zipper and inspected the body, allowing Mac and Mel to move away unobserved.
“Wait,” he said.
Mel looked at him as he moved inland. “I remember something flew from Dusharde’s hand when I tossed the snake.”
“His phone!” Mel said. “He had just taken a picture of me with the signs.”
They quickly separated and started a search of the parking lot. Mac stood by the posters and closed his eyes, trying to remember the scene. He moved to where he recalled Dusharde had stood, mimicked the movement, then walked in the direction his hand had gone. A glint of glass caught his eye, larger than the other specks scattered on the ground from broken bottles and windows. He moved to a clump of weeds where he found the phone. The screen was shattered and black. With a hand signal, he let Mel know he had recovered it, and they moved quietly away from the silo in the direction of the canal.
They were quiet as he drove to Key Largo, allowing him time to reflect on what had happened. The adrenaline had faded, and he felt the accumulated fatigue of the past few days. Looking over at Mel, he saw the same worn look on her face. As with all life-and-death situations, it was hard to return to the real world. He was not even sure this was over. Jane and Dusharde were still at large, and he would probably have to make at least one court appearance in Miami.
After losing Dusharde and Jane, Mac and Mel had spent the rest of the morning with the Miami police. Word of the incident had gotten out, and a confusing fight about jurisdiction ensued between the alphabet agencies. Finally, after much pleading from Mel and a few calls to some well-placed, and not sugar-related, political contacts, they were released. The Dade County coroner’s office agreed to let them have another look at the abandoned Aerojet facility.
“Damn.” Mel was getting frustrated trying to power up Dusharde’s phone. She glanced over at Mac with a look that could have been defeat, exhaustion, or probably both.
