Wood's Wall (30 page)

“How?”

“Cesar got a gun?” Mac asked. Trufante shook his head, but Mac went to the body anyway, again glancing at the ink. He rolled the drug runner over and checked, but found no gun. 

“Slow down,” he called to Trufante. He pointed toward the shore. “There. That’s where we’ll make our move.”

Trufante swung the boat and headed for the stern of the cruise boat. There was a narrow opening there, where the cigarette boat would be forced to travel close to the ship on its way in. 

“We’re going to stay 100 yards off the cruise boat and wait. I don’t think either of those guys has the balls to drive that full throttle through the cut. We try and run up alongside them and toss a couple of tanks into their boat. I’m counting on them being slow to react.”

“What’s that going to do?” Mel asked.

“Just watch. Can you drive? I need Tru.”

Mac was on his knees, unlatching the clips that held the bench in place. “Tru, help me here.” Each bench was 8 feet long, with metal legs attached to the deck with clips so they could be easily removed. Behind each bench were sections of plastic pipe for the dive tanks to sit in. 

“Pull the tanks out,” Mac muttered. Trufante removed the six tanks from behind the bench, and laid them down on the deck. Then they pulled the first bench away from the gunwale, setting it to the side and going to work on the plastic pipes behind. The six pieces were secured to a piece of plywood that was screwed to the boat. 

Mac looked up at Mel. “Babe, are there any tools in that compartment below?” She bent over to search, and Mac looked out at the other boat moving closer. They would have to hurry. 

“Just a few screwdrivers.”

“Toss ’em over.”

Mac and Tru each grabbed a screwdriver and went to work on the screws. Once those were out, they pulled the plywood free and set it on the gunwale. The tank holders were on their side now, looking like portholes. Mac and Trufante smiled at each other.

51

“Time to go, my friend. Have you made your peace with Allah?” Patel asked.

“Yes, my brother. And you?”

“Paradise will be bountiful for the soldiers of Allah.”

Ibrahim pushed the throttle down half way and headed toward the cut behind the cruise ship. 

***

Mac grinned when he saw the boat start to move. Not only were they going to slow down through the cut, they were going to idle the entire way in. He wondered why they were not heading in at full speed. “Ready?”

“Yeah.” She applied downward pressure to the two throttles, and the boat slowly picked up speed. In a minute they would be even with the other boat. 

***

The two boats were closing fast. Mac was ready, a tank at his feet. Trufante moved next to Mac, a tank ready at his side.

The boat was fifty feet away when Mel turned the wheel slightly to the left, allowing her to draw parallel. She matched the other boat’s speed as they inched closer.

“Now!” Mac yelled. Both men simultaneously lifted the tanks and inserted them in a tank holder. They were facing the cigarette boat, valves facing toward the boat. Ibrahim and Patel glanced over, fear in their eyes. 

Mac picked up a weight belt, wound up, and smashed it into the valve. It shot backwards, almost taking him out. 

“Crap. Set’em the other way!” he shouted.

Trufante loaded the rack with five more tanks, valves facing out now, and Mac swung again. The valves released, hitting the other boat in the side. One penetrated the fiberglass and the other took Ibrahim in the stomach. The terrorist was thrown overboard, the velocity sinking him. 

The cigarette boat was listing toward them now, the deck leaning up to the sky. Mac went back to the tanks and raised the weight belts again. Two more valves flew toward the boat. Both holed the hull. The boat was taking on water now, and Patel fell backwards landing against the barrel, still strapped to the boat. 

Mac, Mel, and Trufante stood together on the dive boat and watched as the additional weight capsized the cigarette boat, the vessel disappearing quickly beneath the water. The barrel remained buoyant, but the weight of the boat dragged it under. 

The three exchanged glances, but there was no celebration. 

“Full throttle!” Mac yelled.

Mel gave him a questioning look.

“Now!” He glanced over at the sinking boat. “The vortex from the boat going down will suck us in. We’ve got to get clear.” 

She pressed down on the control, and the boat slowly moved forward, the outboards struggling against the pull of the water as the cigarette boat sank, along with its dangerous cargo. They could feel the suction break as the boat picked up speed, and the cigarette boat vanished. 

Mel slowed as the water settled. Mac looked around to confirm they were clear. He went to Cesar’s body, pulled him from beneath the bench and laid his arms out. “Toss me that camera.” He pointed to a dive camera hanging from the console

Mel gave him a questioning look, but tossed it to him. Mac caught it and flipped it open. He hit the camera icon and started taking pictures of Cesar’s arms. Once he’d gotten every angle, he examined the rest of his body. He checked the dead man’s pockets and pulled out the cloth bag that Cesar had taken from his safe, felt the contents through the fabric, and stuffed it in his pants. 

“What are you doing?” Mel asked. 

“I’ll explain later. We gotta get him over before anyone gets out here.”

He took the weight belt and wrapped it around Cesar’s waist. Trufante came over, and they dumped the body over the side. They were a quarter mile away from the spot the cigarette boat had gone down, and Mac was confident that no one would search here. 

“Head out at 180 degrees. Hopefully we can get caught up in the traffic heading to the reef and disappear.” The boat swung toward the heading. 

Suddenly Mel pointed over the windshield to the outline of a boat. “Mac, look, it’s your boat. It must be Jules and Heather.” 

“You’re right. Better be careful, though. We don’t know it’s them for sure.” Two Coast Guard helicopters passed overhead in the direction of the wreck, and Mac picked up the radio and dialed it to channel 16. The radio chatter was mostly law enforcement coordinating the cleanup. Even if Jules had the radio on, it was a bad idea to call on sixteen. He had an idea and went to channel seventy two. Jules answered on the private channel. Mac was sure their quick conversation on a side channel used by fishermen would go unnoticed. A smile crossed his face. He went to Mel and hugged her. She leaned into him as she steered toward his boat, and he keyed the mike again. “Follow us out. We’ll meet up in a mile or two.” He shut the radio off.

They were three miles out, patch reefs visible below the boat, when they met. It took the extra mile to satisfy Mac that they wouldn’t be observed. Jules slowed and tossed a line. Once aboard Mac’s boat, they stared at each other, no one knowing how to break the silence. 

“Come on, y’all, we saved the planet,” Trufante said.

A quiet snicker turned into full belly laughs all around as the stress fell from their faces. 

Mac broke the moment. “We gotta sink the dive boat. Leave no trace, as they say. Then we can head home.” He pulled the line, bringing the boat closer. The gas and dive tanks still onboard were handed over the transom and stored. One last look around, and Mac came back aboard. He went down to the cabin and came back with a waterproof dry bag. 

“Let me have the camera.” Mel handed it over, and he placed it in the pouch and pressed the air out as he rolled the top back on itself, closing the seal. He hopped back on the dive boat, reached up under the console, and came out with a handful of wires. The dry bag tied securely, he called for a hammer. Trufante passed one to him. He went to work on the pontoons, walking down the length of the boat and puncturing them with the hammer as he went. The boat settled lower in the water, the holes starting to take on water. Finished, he jumped back over the transom and untied the line. 

They watched as the boat disappeared from sight. Then Mac went to the helm and saved the GPS number before putting the boat in gear and heading east toward Marathon.

Epilogue

Sportsman’s lobster season — first chance at the spiny lobster before the commercial fisherman set their traps — was the busiest weekend of the year. It was rare to find a vacant hotel, the restaurants were jammed, and the traffic on US1 was suicidal. Mac picked this weekend on purpose. Only six weeks after sinking the dive boat, he was motoring back to the same site. He’d chosen this day for exactly what he loathed — people. Not sure if he was under surveillance, the only way to watch what he was going to do today was from a helicopter. And he’d be able to see one if it came after him.

They left shortly after sunrise, the time also picked to blend in. Mel and Trufante were aboard, sipping coffee as his boat cut through the flat, calm waters. Even the weather was in his favor this morning. Every conceivable vessel that could float would be able to get out today, making it a nightmare for the Coast Guard. Cruising at 20 knots the three-hour trip brought them in site of Key West at nine a.m. — prime time for the lobster divers. The GPS directed him to the site, which was fortunately vacant.

“You can see the damn thing from here,” Trufante said as he set the anchor on the 30-foot-deep patch of reef. 

“I don’t want anyone close to us. The flag should give us some space.” Mac ran the red-and-white striped dive flag up one of the outriggers, and started setting up equipment. “You and Mel do your best to keep everyone away. Whatever it takes.” He set the first stage of the regulator on the tank, tightened the knob, and turned on the air. Minutes later, he was ready to go in the water. Then Trufante came out of the cabin with a bag. 

“What’s that for? I’m just getting the burner phone.”

“There’s critters down there. You want to blend in. Lemme see you bring back a limit.”

Mac took the bag, set the regulator in his mouth, and checked for air flow. He gathered the gauges into his body with one arm and put the other hand over the mask and regulator. Then he rolled in, the water splashing around him. Mel and Trufnate watched him descend to the wreck from the boat above. 

The wreck had a layer of barnacles already — the first of the many it would receive as it became a reef. Small fish darted out of his path as he clipped the dive bag to a section of rail and went toward the helm. He was about to flip on his back when he saw the antennae poking from the cavity. He laughed as he went for the bag and plucked four lobsters from the compartment under the wheel. With them safely in the bag, he secured it and went back to the hole. On his back, he removed a small dive light from a clip on his BC and shined the light into the space. He slid his head in, scaring a school of bait-sized fish.

The light illuminated the space, the colors of the wires now barely visible, covered with sea slime. The dry bag dangled where he had tied it off six weeks ago. He breathed a sigh of relief as he went to work on the wires. Once loose, he pulled his body out of the hole and clipped the bag and his light to the BC. 

He broke the surface of the water, “Here you go. Only four.” He threw the bag to Trufante. “Hand me the blasting caps.”

Trufante went below and handed Mac the four sticks of dynamite stuffed into two liter soda bottles. Mac could buy the explosives in Miami under his commercial salvage license, and it was cheaper to use standard explosives with a waterproof fuse and rig them through a bottle than use the more expensive underwater brand. There were also fewer questions asked.

Back in the water, he set a charge in each pontoon and another in the compartment under the helm. He was looking around for a place to set the last charge when the six foot black fin shark cruised by him. He quickly lit the three fuses, set to detonate in ten minutes. He wanted enough time to get away, but not enough for someone else to anchor on the site. The shark cruised back again, nudging him as it got more aggressive. It circled again, this time with a tighter radius. Mac looked it in the eyes and knew it was keyed in on him. Swimming for the surface would only make him an easier target. He stood his ground.