“Suit up,” said the captain. “We’re going back out tonight.”
“But what if they’re there?”
Crack stood and grabbed the bottle by the neck. “I’m actually hoping they are . . .”
The night was moonless, and the wind howled.
A black cigarette boat with all the running lights off skipped across the waves at top speed. There was an element of stealth, but the prime strategy was a blitz attack. Come in dark and fast before they knew it.
From distance surveillance, Crack knew all the divers were in the water, leaving a single hand on deck. And from experience, Crack knew that the person would be monitoring the divers and sonar screens. The black boat circled for a downwind approach to cloak the sound of their engines until the last moment, which was now. The deckhand heard the distinct noise a hundred yards out and lunged for a shotgun.
Seconds later, another standoff.
“It’s three to one,” said Crack. “Give us your shit.”
“Go to hell!”
“Then we’re coming aboard!”
“I’ll shoot!”
“No, you won’t.”
Bang!
Crack’s eyes widened. He quickly looked down at his chest. No blood. He looked up at the salvage boat. Nobody standing. Crack peered down into the deck at the still body of the deckhand. Then he shot glances side to side at his henchmen. “Who fired?”
“It was an accident. My finger slipped.”
“Fuck it,” said Crack. “I’ll deal with you later. Let’s get aboard and off-load their haul before the divers surface.”
The gang efficiently began passing expensive baskets over the gunwales.
Naturally, the divers surfaced. “What the hell’s going on? Get off our boat!”
“You’re not in a bargaining position,” said Crack. “I suggest you just swim away.”
“Fuck you!” The first diver started climbing up the swim ladder.
“Screw this!” A henchman dropped his basket and grabbed a rifle. “I’m not going back to prison!”
“What’s that mean?” said Crack.
“One dead in a robbery gets you the same as four. No witnesses!”
Bang!
So the others got into the act.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! . . .
When the proverbial smoke cleared, three lifeless wet suits floated and bumped against the hulls of both boats.
“What do we do now?” asked the second henchman.
“What the hell do you think? Finish loading!” Crack went to the inboard motor station of the divers’ boat, lifted a hatch and pulled the gas line free, liberally splashing the stern and port.
When they were all back in the cigarette boat and drifting away, Captain Crack pulled out a Zippo and patiently lit an entire roll of toilet paper. It was hurled into the salvage craft. A yellowish fire flickered at first. Then blue flames violently shot out from any vulnerable aperture before a fireball billowed into the sky. Crack threw the cigarette boat in gear and took off.
After a couple hundred yards: “Stop the boat! Stop the boat!”
Crack pulled the throttle all the way back, and the boat settled. “What is it?”
A henchman stretched out an arm. “Someone’s coming!”
Crack grabbed night-vision binoculars, and all three crawled out onto the bow on their stomachs.
“What’s going on?”
“Shhhhh!” Captain Crack focused the binoculars on a wayward shark fisherman named Remy Skillet as he arrived at the burning boat and poked around, then inexplicably began firing a gun at the already dead. “Unbelievable.”
It became even more unbelievable as Remy turned his boat and, instead of motoring off in any number of logical directions, decided to come straight at them.
“Shit!”
The black cigarette boat bolted out of its path at the last moment, and the henchmen turned around just in time to see the physics of the spinning vessel.
“He got thrown overboard . . .”
Crack decided to set a course south, parallel to land, putting distance between his boat and the natural vector out to the murder scene. A few miles later, he cut the engine again and admired the far-off ribbon of lights defining Singer Island.
“Why are we stopping?” asked a henchman.
“To celebrate,” said Crack, reaching into a watertight compartment for three glasses and the bottle of Johnnie Walker he had dragged along. “I was planning to celebrate anyway, though I didn’t think it would be under these exact circumstances. We had a few bumps, but all in all a successful run tonight.”
He handed out the glasses and poured several fingers of the Black Label in each.
“We really appreciate the opportunity,” said the first henchman.
“Definitely,” said the second, sniffing his drink before sipping.
Crack clinked his glass with theirs. “Congratulations! We’re all rich men now.”
The first henchmen sipped. “I could seriously get used to this.”
Crack turned his back. “Then be quick about it.” He faced them again.
One of the henchmen’s hands opened, and a glass of Scotch shattered on the deck. “W-w-what’s the shotgun for?”
“Do the math,” said Crack. “Six dead is the same as four. No witnesses.”
“But—”
Blam! Blam!
The henchmen toppled backward into the water.
Captain Crack Nasty set the gun down and picked up a glass. He calmly finished his drink and headed back to shore.
Chapter 12
Northeast Florida
A Plymouth Satellite raced north along the shore of a formidable river.
“You know what really separates the United States from the rest of the world?” asked Serge.
“Cowbell?”
“Soccer.”
“How so?”
“We’re the only country that gives such a small shit about it that we deliberately call it by the wrong name.”
“I don’t know,” said Coleman. “I’ve heard of some pretty scary soccer riots.”
“How scary can it be when the rioters are called hooligans?” said Serge. “Visit Philadelphia after any championship game and watch tipped-over police cars burning. And that’s when they win. Soccer, on the other hand, has no upside, other than our women’s team.”
“What do you mean?”
“A little while ago I read where the U.S. national team narrowly defeated the island of Martinique three-to-two,” said Serge. “That’s like barely beating a Sandals Resort.”
“It’s just embarrassing.” Belch. Coleman looked out the window as a swamp gave way to vegetation that thickened and seemed to crowd the road. Pines, oaks, palmettos. Moss hung from branches in a canopy. “Where the hell are we?”
“On the William Bartram Scenic and Historic Highway just southwest of Jacksonville,” said Serge. “We’re in St. Johns County, named after that big river off to our left. I’ll save you the details on Bartram. Okay, I won’t. Born in 1739, Bartram was a groundbreaking naturalist known for his colorful drawings of birds and plants. In 1774, he entered Florida and sailed down the river, encountering alligators and Indians and otherwise exploring in a fashion that makes people want to put your name on street signs.”