Wood's Wall (22 page)

“What if it’s mine?”

“That’s different. I need some information from the phone, though. If you don’t have it, I can’t set it up in the computer.”

“I’ve got a program on my laptop that can find it. I’ve lost it enough to install the tracking software.”

“How’s finding your phone going to help us?”

Mac went back over the story as quickly as he could. He made an on-the-spot decision to trust this girl; the look on her face when she mentioned the sheriff being her friend had revealed enough. 

“Where’s the computer?”

“I’ve got it in the truck outside. I didn’t think about it needing internet to work.”

She looked skeptical. “You sure this is going to lead to them?”

“It’s the only thing I,” he paused, “
I
mean
we
have to go on.”

“OK, here’s the deal. I help you do this, I’m with you the whole time. This is important to me personally, as well as professionally. You ditch me, I’m coming back here and calling every number for every local and federal agency that can make your life miserable. Understood?”

Mac just nodded as he walked out to get the computer.

37

Trufante rode shotgun while Jeff drove and Pete leaned over the console from the back seat. He had a plan. But Jeff’s need for revenge and Pete’s waffling made him doubt their abilities. They were close to the Bahia Honda bridge, on their way south. The car had been quiet so far, but it was clear from Pete’s body language that he had something to say.

“Dude, you’re fidgeting like a teenage girl before the prom. Got something on your mind, spit it out.” Trufante leaned back and eyed him.

“I just think we should have some kind of plan. Maybe we should call Homeland Security or the sheriff of something. You two seem more interested in getting the coke than making sure that stuff doesn’t get in the wrong hands. I saw the guy he handed that box to. Definite terrorist.”

“You’re whining like a girl back there. We can do both,” Jeff said. “We take the guy by surprise and get our coke back. Then we can call the Feds or whatever and leave the plutonium and the other dude for them.”

“You two are giving me a headache,” Trufante said, cranky now, the pain meds almost fully washed out of his system. “What about the women he’s got for hostages? That’s got to be the first priority. That dude leans a little to the crazy side, if you haven’t noticed. 

“We got to get the coke. Make him pay,” Jeff said.

“Shut up, I got an idea coming.” He shook his head to clear it, tendrils of hair flying around and almost catching Pete in the face. “OK, here goes. The feds don’t know nothing about the coke or the boom stuff. It’s their deal to handle hostage situations. Maybe we call them in and let the SWAT team clear the house for us. Free the girls, take care of Cesar and anyone else around. Once they have what they want, we move in and find the coke.”

“Damn, that works for me,” Jeff said. 

“Yeah, I’m ok with that too. What about the bomb stuff?” Pete said.

 “I don’t know, but with Cesar gone we can just hide it or something.” Trufante was thinking big picture, details to follow.

“Deal, I’m in. What about you guys?” Jeff extended his fist for a three way bump.

Before their fists hit, a truck loaded with propane tanks pulled off ahead of them. Jeff braked as he saw something rolling towards them. The cylinder was picking up speed, bouncing wildly down the road towards them. Jeff tried to swerve, but the tank caught on the dangling head light, and the car skidded. Within moments, they heard the whoosh of the tank opening up. They had a gas leak directly under their car. 

“Dude, pull over!” Trufante screamed at Jeff.

“I can’t!” he returned, as he slowed to avoid another driver. Before he could get to the side, the shoulder disappeared as the road narrowed toward the bridge. Oncoming traffic made it impossible to pull onto the other side. 

Instead, he braked. The car slowed, causing the tank’s base to catch in the asphalt. It slid farther under the car. The wires from the broken head light separated and sparked, the 12 volts enough to ignite the air escaping from the tank. The small flare turned to a loud explosion as the flame was sucked into the tank. 

They looked backwards as the tank shot toward the propane truck, fire trailing it like a comet. The car shot forward, propelled by the blast.

“What do we do?” Pete asked.

“Forward,” Trufante pointed without a second thought. “I need a goddam beer.”

***

Mac and Heather saw the fire ball erupt from the top of the Seven Mile Bridge. It was still several miles away, and they were untouched by the explosion, but it still made them nervous. He wondered if he was too late, and Mel was in the conflagration. 

“That’s not good,” Heather said from the passenger seat.

“No, I think we need a change in plans. Even if it didn’t blow the bridge, they’ll close the road for hours.” He pounded the steering wheel, hoping he wasn’t right. With the only road through the Keys closed he needed a backup plan.

“There’s no other way through. What are we going to do now?” Heather asked.

“Boat. Only way around this mess.” 

Heather nodded and glanced at the computer screen. “The phone’s still moving. They must be on the other side of it.”

“Damn!” He knew Trufante had his phone. Figured he has something to do with this, he thought. Relieved that maybe Mel was still safe, Mac pulled off as soon as they hit Duck Key and turned around, facing back toward the bridge. First responders sped by, sirens blaring, and he waited impatiently, then floored the accelerator, the truck sprayed gravel behind it as they headed back toward Marathon.

Ten minutes later, they pulled into Mac’s driveway. He jumped out of the car and went to the house. “Around back. I gotta grab a few things. I’ll meet you on the boat.”

Mac entered the house and grabbed two jackets and the other gun from the safe.

38

Cesar was clearly agitated, snapping at Jose. He’d almost driven by the shuttered house when he saw the bathroom light blinking. He was looking for a dark, shuttered house. Realizing it was indeed the right house, he pulled over across the street and watched. How could Jose be so stupid? Several cars and a truck drove by as he watched. He pulled into the driveway as soon as the shutter was reinstalled and the room dark.

He opened the garage and pulled in, hitting the button to close the door before he was even out of the truck. “What the fuck was that?” He stormed into the house.

“What’re you talking about?” Jose responded.

“The bathroom. Who was just in there?”

Jose pointed towards Jules. “What’s the deal?”

“Oh nothing, you freaking moron. He stared down the women. So, I drive by the house and a light is on. She could have escaped if she wanted. You’re lucky she just tried to send a distress call.” He moved toward Jules. “Don’t think you’re going to get away with that anymore. I’ll watch you myself. Tie them up. Hands behind their backs.” 

Jose went to work on the restraints. He searched the drawers and pantry, coming back with a roll of duct tape. 

“You don’t need to tie us up. What you need to do is let us go. I’m sure there are half a dozen agencies trying to find us already!” Jules said.

“Put a gag in that one while you’re at it. And the other one, too. I’m tired of listening to them.” Cesar said.

They left the house, leaving the door unlocked. Cesar got in the drivers seat and watched as Jose pushed the girls into the backseat of the truck. He was impatient, but drove slowly now. It wouldn’t be a good idea to get pulled over for a speeding ticket. The truck pulled out onto US1, heading south. He had to pull over twice before they hit the Seven Mile Bridge, for emergency vehicles. His heart rate increased every time he looked in the rearview mirror and saw the flashing lights coming up behind him. Finally, he realized they were not after him and relaxed. The last group had markings from Islamorada, forty-five minutes away. Whatever was going on, it had to be big. 

The brake lights were visible as they hit the crest of the Seven Mile bridge. The lights stretched from the Bahia Honda Bridge back to Duck Key, and into the night. No headlights were coming in their direction, either — a sure sign that the road was closed. 

“Crap. We need another plan. Look at this shit.” He spun out into the empty oncoming traffic lane, executed a U turn, hitting the curb on the other side rather than using a tamer three-point turn, and sped back toward Marathon. 

“What you got in mind, boss?”

Cesar ignored him and drove back to the shuttered house. “Get them back in there. Watch everything. They don’t pee without you staring in the bowl.”

Alone now, he headed back north, an idea forming. He slowed as the airport came into sight on his left. Security lights illuminated the facility, housing mostly small planes. Another emergency vehicle blazed by as he waited to make a left turn into the service entrance. The access road led him to several hangers and he parked behind one, darker than the rest, its security lights out. Exiting the truck, he looked around for anyone watching and circled the building before entering through the open hanger doors. The building was empty. He went back toward where he assumed the bathrooms would be and found a changing room. Hanging on hooks by the door were several jump suits. He quickly put one on, then grabbed a screwdriver and wire cutters from the workbench on his way out to the tarmac.

His boots were the only thing that were incongruous with a mechanic, but he wasn’t losing them. He’d risk it. Planes were parked side by side, chocks under their wheels, a chain securing each wing to a tie-down secured to the ground. He passed by several small jets, looking for a single-engine craft in which he would be comfortable. 

The Cessna 172 with floats for water landings was just what he had in mind. Parked between two larger planes, it sat in the shadows, and he was able to do a quick visual inspection and remove the tie-downs. The lock popped through the thin sheet metal as soon as the butt of the gun hit the screwdriver. He climbed into the cockpit, searching for a flashlight. Most pilots carried a light in their flight bag, though sometimes a spare was left aboard. 

The access panel removed, he cut the wires, bypassing the simple ignition switch. Power went on and the instruments lit up. A quick calculation assured him that the fuel shown on the gauges was twice what he needed to cross the 45 miles to Key West. Once airborne, the flight would take less than thirty minutes. 

He would have liked to do a complete preflight, the habit ingrained even in smugglers and outlaws, but the quicker he got the bird in the air the better. The magnetos spun and fired the single engine. It sputtered, turned over and caught. He allowed the gauges to settle and pulled into the taxi lane, running lights out, radio off. He would be able to see anyone approaching and have plenty of time to react. 

Marathon, like most small airports, did not have an air traffic tower. The pilots relied on each other, calling in on standardized frequencies to alert other planes of their intentions. He scanned the sky as he pulled onto the runway and made sure the windsock was pointing towards him. No lights were on as he revved the engines and started his takeoff. The plane accelerated down the dark runway, only its shadow visible with its running lights off, and lifted into the air. 

Several minutes later he had reached cruising altitude and gotten acclimated to the plane. It was clear from the air that he’d made the right choice. He turned the plane 180 degrees, heading west, and could see the fire and emergency vehicles struggling to secure the site on the bridge. Traffic was backed up in both directions for miles. The plane was cruising parallel to US1 now, navigation made easy as he followed the overseas highway toward Key West. His problem now was where to land. Key West International, another small airport, did not have a controller at night, but ICE was located there and he wanted nothing to do with customs or immigration. If he approached the airport, he would be picked up on radar. A sea landing off Stock Island was his best option to go in undetected.