Authors: Steven Becker
The shark came back around, this time mouth open, heading straight for him. Mac pinched the fuse to an inch of the bottle cap, lit it, and pushed toward the surface. He looked back as the shark swung towards him, then flipped to face the open mouth and jammed the bottle in. Distracted and angry, the shark swam off and circled. At the apex of the circle, just as Mac broke the surface, the charge went off, causing the water to erupt. Blood and flesh were scattered along the surface as he climbed out.
“Get the anchor. Let’s get out of here.” He took the helm as the anchor chain locked into the bow pulpit. The boat shot forward as he pushed the throttles down. Seconds later, the water burst once, and twice more. He looked around to see if anyone was watching, but there was nothing to indicate anyone had the least interest in anything besides drinking beer and getting their limit of lobster.
***
Mac walked down the stairs from Heather’s apartment, the flash drive in his pocket, and went to the dumpster to toss the camera in. Heather had removed the SIM card and transferred the pictures to the flash drive. She insisted on keeping a copy to update the gang tattoo database, but that was a small cost for something he wasn’t equipped to do himself. He’d seen enough on her computer screen to get excited. The ancestral tattoos that covered the guy’s arm were high quality, the pictures good enough to show the intricacies in the patterns that he was looking for.
Mel was working at her laptop when he entered the house. She’d carved out a permanent space in his kitchen for her work station.
“Got what you need,” she asked.
“Yeah. Can’t wait to dive and see if I can piece this thing together.” He said.
“You going to tell me what all this is about?” Mel was getting frustrated by his elusiveness.
“I just want to add the next piece of the puzzle and it’ll make more sense. Something your dad and I were working on.”
She went back to the computer. “Hey, look at this.” She angled the screen so they could both see the article, and he went to her side, draping an arm around her shoulder as they both read. The blog showed a picture of Davies leaving the federal courthouse in Washington in handcuffs, his lawyer holding a sheaf of papers in front of his face. They both read:
“Indicted on counts of obstructing justice, reckless endangerment, and fraud, attorney Bradley Davies was sentenced to five years at a minimum-security prison today.”
“That’s not nearly enough for what he almost cost this country, and I still feel bad about Garcia. For a fed he was alright,” Mac said.
“I know, but from what I heard they didn’t have enough evidence to go for treason. They went for the sure thing.”
He shook his head. “At least he’s ruined. The power meant more to him than the money, anyway.”
“Amen.” She leaned her head up to him and they kissed. “Well, it’s over.”
He looked over toward the bedroom, hoping that was where this was leading, but turned as the door opened.
“Y’all sitting here playing on the computer? We ought to be out grabbing some lobsters or something. At least having a beer.”
Mac nodded toward the refrigerator, not that Trufante needed an invitation.
“Tomorrow.”
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