Mac travis adventures bo.., p.25
Mac Travis Adventures BoxSet, page 25
part #4 of Mac Travis Series
“Here, watch it again.” She held the phone out and replayed the video.
“I got it now. Lift and jerk.” He went back to the door, and in ten seconds it was open. “That Internet shit ought to be illegal,” he said as he entered the large living area. “Damn, furnished and all. Let’s hit the couch and pop that cork.” He dove onto the leather sectional.
“I want to check it out first,” she said, activating the flash from her phone.
“Hey. Don’t be doing that. People’ll see the light. I’m betting that on a street like this, there are some nosy-ass neighbors.”
She turned off the light and came toward him. “I guess it’ll wait a few days,” she said and held out the bottle for him to open.
“Why don’t you come here first?” He reached for her.
Mac was about a mile offshore when he saw the boat coming after him. He pulled back on the throttle, turning hard to starboard, and steered an easterly course, away from Wood’s. If it was Hawk who had tipped off the building department, that meant he knew Mac was living at Wood’s and would look for him there. He had lost his house after the insurance company had refused to pay for the damages caused by the same CIA agent who had set fire to Wood’s. They had claimed it was terrorist activity and declined to pay, and Mac, unable to afford the repairs himself, had let the bank have the house. Now, although he hadn’t been by to see it, he had heard they had demolished the structure.
Hawk would surely check the island first, thinking that was where Mac was headed. With few boats on the water, he decided to run dark. Without the aid of navigation lights or even the GPS, he cruised over the familiar waters, fingering the thumb drive as he followed the shoreline a safe distance offshore to avoid the shoals and flats invisible in the dark.
He needed to do something with the data. The hours he had spent staring at the pictures on the drive over the years had revealed nothing to him, and he knew he needed another set of eyes. Someone he could trust and who had the skills to solve the puzzle. Alicia was the answer, and he was surprised he had not thought of her before. The former CIA agent was a legend with data. Now working on contract and living in Key Largo with her boyfriend TJ, she was the one person he could trust to figure out the puzzle of the tattoos on the drive. Reputedly, the puzzle dated back to the Mayans; the answer, he was sure, was passed down through the generations by their body art.
Between the cost of the fuel and the dangers of navigating the waters of the Keys at night, he tried to figure the easiest way to get the data to her. Although far from a computer guy, he knew the Internet was faster than a boat—he just needed to get access to a computer.
A glance over his shoulder confirmed that the boat with Hawk’s men was still on course to Wood’s island, apparently unaware that he had turned away. He changed course and headed toward land, where he pulled into a small cove and turned back to watch the stretch of water north of the Seven Mile Bridge. The boat was still visible, the LED running lights like neon signs on a gas station in the desert. He watched it until it was over the horizon before pulling out of the small harbor. Trufante’s apartment was only another mile up the coast.
Hawk was just able to catch his drink before it spilled when he felt the wake hit his trawler. He cursed the unknown boater running too fast through the canal. Buried back in the narrow channels behind the Sombrero Golf course, his sixty-five-foot steel-hulled trawler was tied off by a small house—his ex’s. It was the only deal he could cut after his house had been confiscated and sold in record time by ICE. He enjoyed the small cabin, just forward and down a few steps from the wheelhouse, that he used for an office. Sitting in an easy chair in the corner, where he could look at the bookcase that held a record of his finds, he drank. It was his own personal showcase, containing one piece from each of the treasures he had found. One single piece that he had held on to after selling the rest.
“What’d you mean he’s not there? Where else would he have gone?” Hawk screamed into the satellite phone. “Have a look around and see if he’s been doing anything out there besides rebuilding the hermit’s house, and then get your ass back here.”
“What am I looking for?” the voice came through the receiver.
He pulled it away from his ear and gave the device a look meant for the man on the other end.
“You’ll know it if you see it.” He hung up, knowing the man wouldn’t. Good muscle seldom meant brains, and Mike didn’t disappoint. He kept the men paired for a reason: one had the brawn and the other had the brains. But they were separated now, with Mike going after Travis, and Wallace, who had already lost the Cajun, on his way back now. Once Mike returned from the island, he had another job for them.
His paranoia had grown over the past few days. First, he’d had to bail his employees out of jail after they had run aground and lost a shipment of artifacts. The government had made it too difficult to sell anything legally. Everything he found was classified as an antiquity or deemed to hold historical or archaeological value, and they wanted it for themselves. All his goods were now discreetly sent to Miami, where they were shipped offshore. In order to make a living in his line of work anymore, you had to sell abroad.
And then, it was troubling about the auction. He hadn’t anticipated losing the house to another bidder. Most everyone in town knew the two men represented him, and most knew better than to bid against him. But Trufante didn’t represent any kind of majority, and the girl was a wild card. She was on his list.
Something remained in the house the woman had bought. After the property had been confiscated, there had been too many eyes on it to go back, but now that the woman had bought it, it might be off the government’s radar.
The phone buzzed, and he grunted at Mike to get back to Marathon. He wanted the unfinished business taken care of tonight.
With nowhere else to go, Mac changed course and turned towards land. Not sure if Trufante had a computer, or even if he could figure out how to use it to send the data to Alicia, he steered to the Cajun’s apartment. Mac’s relationship with electronics was similar to his ups and downs with women. They had to have a direct purpose and be easy to understand, the prerequisite eliminating most devices besides a GPS and just about every woman he met. Mel was an exception, but Wood’s daughter was in Virginia, swearing she would never come back to the Keys. He thought about calling her to let her know about the notice, but he rarely used his cell phone and in fact wasn’t sure where it was.
Mac navigated the mangrove-lined creek that led to Trufante’s apartment. His navigation lights and electronics as well as the beam of a strong searchlight were on now, the risk of being seen minimized by the thick brush closing in on either side of him. In reality, this close to land, he was less obvious lit up like a Christmas tree than running dark. The channel opened and he found himself in a small basin. As he turned to the right, it opened further. He spun the boat, skillfully backing it into an empty slip at the seawall servicing a small two-story apartment building. Tying off the boat, he jumped onto the dock, now well above the gunwales with the low tide. Passing the run-down craft next to him, he left the dock and followed the path to the stairs. Trufante’s apartment was on the second floor, and Mac climbed the back stairs, turning when he reached the landing to check on his boat. The Keys were the only place this level of housing would have a dock as an amenity, and it was well used, crowded with boats in all states of disrepair. He checked the dock, not trusting the residents with his boat.
Trufante was legendary for his open-door policy, and he was surprised when he found it locked. He reached underneath the moldy mat and pulled the key out, unlocked the door and put it in his pocket. If he was going to use the apartment, security needed to be improved.
The place was cleaner than normal, and Mac noticed several feminine items around. No wonder the door was locked, he thought; she just didn’t know about the key. In the kitchen, he poured himself a glass of water and picked up the old landline phone. Remembering the old days, before the Internet and cell phones, he dialed 411, wondering if it still worked. He was surprised when the call was picked up but grimaced when he heard the computerized voice. He got the number for TJ’s dive shop and dialed, doubting anyone would answer this late.
It rang half a dozen times, and the recorder came on. He was about to hang up, but with nothing to lose, he started to leave a message. Suddenly he heard a live voice on the other end.
“Yo, Mac. Wait a minute, and I’ll turn that thing off,” TJ said. There was a moment of silence, and he was back. “Charter’s slow this time of year, so I get the calls up here just in case. Can’t afford to be losing business.”
Mac had been to his place and knew “up here” meant his apartment above the shop. “Hey, man, I’m looking for Alicia,” he said.
“No worries. Here she is,” he said.
“Mac?”
He heard her distinctive voice and smiled. The once-timid former desk agent had become one of his most trusted friends—and there weren’t many. “Hey, girl. How goes it?”
“All good, but I know if Mac Travis is calling, it’s not to say hello. What’ve you got?” she asked.
“You’re right. I could be a bit more social. There’s some data on a thumb drive I’ve had for years. I thought it would be a good time to figure out what it means.”
“Broke?”
She had figured him out already. “I’ve had some interesting developments. Any chance you can have a look at it?” he asked.
“Sure, just email it over.”
“That’s a little beyond my reach right now,” he said.
The line was quiet for a few minutes, and he could hear her talking to TJ in the background. “We’ve got nothing tomorrow. How about we come down that way?”
7
Trufante woke with a start. He looked around the dark room, disoriented. It was quiet in the house, not like when no one was home, but deadly quiet—missing were all those background noises that blend together, only evident when the power is off. He raised himself an inch at a time. Moving Pamela to the side, he raised his head above the couch like an animal, sniffing for a predator.
Someone was outside, by the door he had broken into. He heard it slide and lowered himself when the beam of a flashlight played across the room. With a hand over Pamela’s mouth, he rolled them both silently off the couch and onto the floor, where he pulled the ottoman against them. Locking eyes with her, he tried to reassure her.
“You know where he stashed it?” a rough voice asked.
Trufante was on full alert now.
“Said it was in the back bedroom. Under the bed, there’s a plywood lid with a space below,” another voice said.
Keeping his eyes on hers, he removed his hand from her mouth and put a finger to his lips. She obeyed the command. It sounded like the men were moving toward the bedrooms.
“What’s going on?” she whispered.
“It told you this was a bad idea,” he whispered back, instantly regretting it. “It’s okay.” He gave her a reassuring look.
The sound of furniture being moved came from the back of the house, and then the whine of a cordless drill. He suspected they had found the stash.
“Is that freakin’ silver?” he heard one man exclaim.
“It ain’t candy,” the other man said. “Give me a hand, will ya?”
Trufante knew the accent was from up North; maybe New Jersey, he thought.
“You got it all?” New Jersey asked.
“Yeah, Wallace. Let’s get out of here,” the other man said.
Trufante pulled Pamela closer when he heard the man approach.
“I’m gonna call the boss and let him know we’re good. He was more than a little pissed about what happened earlier,” Wallace said.
Trufante felt the men moving toward them and tried to shrink, but it was too late. He could feel the couch sink as the man sat. If he swung his feet around, they would be discovered. There was nothing he could do but hope for some luck, something that regularly eluded him.
“Hey, boss,” the man said. There was silence for a minute while he listened. “Yeah, we got it. Be over there shortly.”
He thought they were in the clear until Wallace kicked the ottoman away. “We gotta go,” he said and stood up.
The man’s foot landed squarely on Trufante’s calf, causing instant and intense pain. He bit his tongue to prevent any sound from escaping. The man must have felt something unusual and kicked again. Fighting the pain, Trufante managed to remain quiet, but it didn’t matter—the beam of a flashlight caught him square in the eyes.
“Well, look here, Mike. We got that Cajun lover boy and his girlfriend. Must have been having a nice housewarming. Champagne and all.” He picked up the bottle. “Perrier-Jouët, very nice. Must be the girl that picked that out. Your sorry ass wouldn’t know that from warm PBR.”
Looking up at them, Trufante realized they were Hawk’s men. The same men from the auction and the bar.
“Get on your feet, you damn Cajun,” the man with the New Jersey accent said.
Trufante looked from man to man, then to the door behind them, wondering if there was any way out. Pamela was fidgeting beside him. He tried to hold her down, but she struggled to her feet. There was no stopping her.
“This is my house now. What are you guys doing here?” she said.
“Let me handle the bitch,” the larger man, the one Mac had called Ironhead, said.
“We got to get back to the boss. Take them in the back. I’ll try and find something to tie them up with,” Wallace said.
“Too bad they won’t fit in the hole in the floor,” Ironhead said, waving the cordless drill at him and pulling the trigger.
As the men debated his fate, Trufante looked for a way out. The open patio door was only feet away. He could probably get past them and jump to the ground, but he looked at Pamela next to him, clearly scared after they had rebuffed her claim of ownership.
Wallace was looking at them strangely. “Might work. Good idea.” He turned back to them. “Let’s go.”
“Serve them right for buying the house from under us,” Ironhead said and pushed Trufante toward the hall.
They were in the back bedroom. The bed was pushed to the corner, and the carpet was rolled up halfway across the room.
“I thought I told you to put everything back,” Wallace scolded the bigger man.
“Ain’t no matter now,” he said and pushed Trufante to the floor. “He might be a little long, might have to cut off another appendage.”
Trufante shot him the finger with his stub. He looked in the square space in the floor. It was about a foot high, the width of the joists, and three or four feet square.
“The Cajun first. I’m thinking we take the girl back to the boss. Let him have a go at her, you know, for buying the house,” Wallace said.
“I’d like a go at that,” Ironhead said and pushed Trufante toward the hole.
“Don’t,” Pamela pleaded.
“Come on, lover boy, get in,” Ironhead said and kicked him.
Trufante looked up at Pamela, pleading with his eyes. “Find Mac,” he said and put his body in the space. It was a tight fit, but he coiled up his lanky frame and complied.
“He’ll die in there,” Pamela said. “You can have your damned house. Just let us go.”
Ironhead was placing the plywood piece over the opening. What little light the streetlights cast into the room was gone, and Trufante found himself enveloped in darkness. He heard footsteps above him, and the whine of the drill as Ironhead secured the lid. The carpet was rolled out, and he heard the feet of the bed frame slide over him. He waited until he heard their car start before rubbing his butt against the wood. The phone was still in his pocket, but reaching it was another matter.
He felt around the dark space with his hands. The joists surrounding him were solid—at least an inch and a half thick. The plywood below him was encased in stucco, making up the ceiling of the open space below. The only way out was above. He had only counted four screws, but the lid didn’t budge when he tried to push his body against the cover. Lying on his side with his knees in his chest, there was no way he could generate the force required to pull the screws from their hold in the joists.
He was sweating now, the small space heating up quickly from his efforts. The air seemed stale as well, and he started to worry if there were enough cracks between the wood to allow air to circulate. The phone was his only way out, and he struggled to reach it. Contorting his body, he tried to roll onto his back, without success. He lay back panting, feeling light-headed, drinking in the last of the air.
Mac sat back on the couch, holding the thumb drive in his hand. He thought about staying here, but figured once Hawk realized he had disappeared, he would connect the dots and have Trufante’s apartment checked. There were not that many options open, his antisocial behavior having made him more enemies than friends. He thought about hitching a ride to Key Largo instead of waiting until tomorrow for Alicia and TJ to come to him, but the Keys were different now than when he’d thumbed his way down here twenty years ago. There was a better chance of landing in jail than getting a ride.
He got up and started pacing the living room. Feeling claustrophobic, he put the thumb drive in his pocket and left the apartment. There was a slight breeze coming from the southeast, probably less than ten knots, and he thought about protected anchorages. Not sure if Hawk would send his thugs by land or sea, he went downstairs to the center-console, released the lines, and started the engines.
He pulled straight out of the slip and retraced his route through the harbor. At the beginning of the mangrove channel, he cut the engines and drifted, checking for the sound of an approaching boat. He heard the whine of an engine, but it quickly passed, the sound dying with it, and he waited another minute before starting the engines and running the channel.
He exited the lagoon unchallenged and steered toward deeper water. Dropping the hook on the Gulf side, even with its small coves and lagoons, was not an option. The protected spots weren’t on his list of acceptable anchorages; houses surrounded them, and he feared a homeowner might call the police. The open water, although it provided good holding, was too exposed for his liking. Even with his white anchor light on the T-top lit, it wasn’t elevated enough to be visible from a distance, and he feared a casual boater or hungover fisherman would run into him.
