Fallen Pride (Jesse McDermitt Series) (34 page)

He reluctantly left, but didn’t go far. “How can I help?” I asked Tony.

“Almost got it cleared away. Looking for a det
on… Oh shit.” He looked up at me. “No time to diffuse it. The timer’s down to 35 seconds.”

“Can we carry it to the water?”

Tony looked toward the turning basin at the end of the canal, fifty yards away. “No time,” he said.

“
I’ll drive it off the boat ramp then,” I said and started quickly toward the front of the van.

Suddenly, the engine
roared to life and the van lurched forward then turned sharply onto the crushed shell road heading toward the boat ramp. Jared was behind the wheel.

The van increased speed,
crunching over several chairs and speeding down the shell road. “Jared!” Charity yelled as she ran up beside me.

Roaring down the road, the heavy van rocked from side to side in the ruts. Tony, Charity, and I ran after it.
He never slowed down, in fact he drove even faster. The van reached the ramp and swerved sharply to the left toward a shell mound at the concrete sea wall. It hit the mound and flew over the low wall, somersaulting and hitting the water almost vertically, nose down. When the grill hit, the van immediately flipped end for end and splashed into the water on its roof.

There was a sudden whoosh and a giant fireball erupted, blowing the sides
out of the van. Black smoke billowed in a mushroom cloud above it. The flames quickly went out as the van sank in the eight foot deep water.

I ran faster, pulling away from Tony and Charity. Reaching the sea wall, I didn’t hesitate, but dove headlong into the water which now had a layer of flames from the ruptured gas tank.
The water was clear, and I swam under the flames to the overturned van. I got to the driver’s door and tried to open it. It was jammed. I started to swim to the other side. The windshield was gone, so I swam through it.

I found Jared’s body floating against the floor
of the van. There was no chance he was alive. One of the slats from the pallet was thrusting out of his chest and back. I grabbed his shirt collar and hauled him out the open side door. I swam as hard as I could to get clear of the burning gasoline, finally surfacing twenty feet away on the ramp itself, gasping for air.

I heard sirens in the distance and could hear
people shouting and splashing down the ramp. There was nothing anyone could do. Jared was dead. Smith was unsuccessful at ruining his career in the Corps, but killed him in the end. Standing in the waist deep water, with Jared’s body floating face up, the plank sticking grotesquely out of his chest, I swore I’d find him and kill him with my own bare hands.

Jared’s funeral was
held three days later and was attended by hundreds of people, including Colonel Stockwell, Tom Broderick, Tank Tankersley, and Tex Latimore. He was buried right next to his friend, Pop. All the military members of the team attended in uniform. Stockwell stopped in Jacksonville, North Carolina and picked up Tom, Tank, and Tex, along with an Honor Detail of seven riflemen and a bugler, handpicked by Tank. Deuce and I folded Jared’s flag and I presented it to Dave. As I knelt before him and his wife and gave the standard grateful nation speech, I whispered in Dave’s ear, “I
will
find him.”

Stockwell ordered the whole team to take a month off after the funeral. The next day, Deuce and Julie
reluctantly left in their Whitby ketch to honeymoon in the Caribbean. Charity had a meltdown after the bombing, but was able to be at the funeral. She and Sherri went up to Miami together immediately afterwards.

Deuce and I decided we had to tell Cindy about Smith. She didn’t take it well, refused to believe us at first. Finally we showed her the redacted portion of his file, the news clipping of his wife’s murder, and the video of Kyle Parker’s interrogation, where he admitted
being hired by Smith to kill his wife. She took it hard and left the next day for Oregon.

I told Chyrel to take Franklin’s phone trace equipment home with her and to keep tabs on Smith’s account in the Caymans. If anything happened, I wanted her to call me immediately.
I spent the next three days on the island, working with Trent to get all the little details finished on the bunkhouses and their house.

On the fourth day, Chyrel called. “He’s in
Belize. He just withdrew $10,000 at the Cayman Bank branch in Belize City.”

“Can you freeze his assets?”

“What agency do you want it to show freezing it?”

“Make it the CIA,” I said. “He’s bound to know they’re looking for him and might not be aware that everyone else is on to him yet. Any luck with Franklin’s phone gizmo?”

“Actually, yeah. Smith has three burn phones that he’s used on occasion. I had to keep the Director up to speed on what I was doing, sorry. Each person he called using the burn phones has been picked up and are being held with no contact to the outside world.”

“So, the Colonel knows what we’re doing?”

“He surmises,” she replied and ended the call.

I already had the
Revenge
outfitted with provisions to last a month and reinstalled the bladder fuel cells. I left before dawn the next morning, not telling anyone. It was over 700 miles to Belize City and I had to stop in Cozumel to refuel. I arrived in Belize early the next morning and cleared customs. Chyrel gave me an address of a cantina where his primary phone was at every day for three days and I went straight there.

I showed Smith’s picture to a pretty bartender there and with a polite smile I asked, “Has visto mi amigo, senorita?”

She smiled back and said, “Si, senor. Meester Herrero come here three days. Nice man, Meester Herrero. Not so handsome as you, senor.”

Not very original, I thought. Herrero is Spanish for steelworker, or Smith. I ordered a cold Belikin and took a seat by the door, in the shadows. The bartender came over and asked if I wanted to see a menu
.

“H
uevos, salchichas, tomate y freír tomas, por favor.”

She smiled seductively and said, “You have been to our country before, no?”

“A few times,” I replied.

She turned and went to place my order. She was wearing a flower print, pleated skirt and a white blouse hanging off of her left shoulder. Easy to see why Smith kept coming back.

A few minutes later, she brought my eggs and sausage, with tomatoes and fry jacks on the side. I ate hungrily, then sat back and waited. I didn’t have to wait long. My satphone chirped an incoming message. It was from Chyrel and read, “Puerto Cortez, Honduras.”

I left a twenty on the table and walked out the door. The next five days, he stayed just ahead of me. It seemed like he knew I was arriving and left just before I got there. I went 120 miles south to Honduras, then to Puerto Cabezas, Nicaragua
, then almost 600 miles to Port Morant, Jamiaca. With only ten grand to his name and no access to his fortune, he would run out of money soon.

It was late afternoon when
I pulled up to the docks in Port Morant and got another text from Chyrel. “Tried to access account. Moving northeast now.”

I fueled up and left Jamaica astern, heading toward the Windward Passage, a very busy shipping lane between Haiti and Cuba. Two hours later I received another text, “Cockburn Town.” I plotted the distance to the capital city of the Turks and Caicos
on Grand Turk Island. Over 400 miles. I’d have to stay awake through the night, going through Windward Passage.

I made Cockburn Town
at 0200 and anchored in the shallow water on the west side of the island. I decided I’d catch a few hours of sleep and also avoid the overtime charge for customs.

I awoke at 0600 and called the Harbor Master on channel 16. He directed me to the pleasure craft fuel dock
on North Creek and said I could remain tied up there for 12 hours. I assured him I’d be long gone before then.

I fueled up
, paid the entry fee and cleared customs then started walking toward the Hispanic side of town. The official language of the Turks and Caicos is English, but there’s a lot of people that speak Creole and Spanish. By now, I’d gotten used to the kind of places Smith preferred. Little out of the way cantinas for drinking, and tiny restaurants, where the tourists don’t go, for eating. He looked Hispanic and spoke fluent Spanish.

I’d been just far enough behind him that I hadn’t seen what kind of boat he was using
and so far, Chyrel hadn’t dug up anything. She hadn’t texted me that he was on the move again. So, I was pretty sure he was still here. Somewhere.

I came to a small cantina set back down a narrow alley. The interior was dark, but the music coming from a radio and the pot of coffee on the burner told me they were open. I walked over to the bar and took a seat on a stool at the end. A moment later a large black man came out of the back.

“Que quieres?” he asked with more of a growl than a voice.

I looked him straight in the eye as I slid Smith’s picture slowly across the bar, with a twenty on top of it. “Cafe
y informacion.”

He poured a cup and set it in front of me then picked up the bill and the picture. He looked at it for only a second and said, “Si, he was here last night. A man running.”

“Any idea where he’s staying?”

“He is running from you, no? Estas con la polici
a?”

I picked up the cup and took a drink of the thick, dark coffee before answering. “No, I’m not a cop.”

A grin slowly came to his face. “I tink dis man might find big trouble today. Yes, I know where he stay.”

I slid another twenty across the bar, but kept my hand on it. “He here a
yer por la noche. Had drinks and ask about a cheap hotel. I send him to my cousin, she have rooms for rent.”

“Do
nde esta la casa de su primo?” I asked. He studied me for a moment, wondering how much a threat I might be to anyone other than Smith. “I want only the man.”

“Down the alley, senor. C
asa roja a la derecha.”

I removed my hand from the bill and picked up my coffee. I swallowed the last of it and said, “Gracias.”

I left the bar and continued down the alley, looking for a red house on the right side. I found it five doors down. A sign in the window said there were rooms available in Spanish and English.

As
I walked up the steps the door suddenly flew open. Smith stood there with a Beretta 9mm pointing at my face. “So, you came to me,” he said. “Makes things a lot easier.” I stood unyielding and said nothing. “No last words? How’d you find me?”

“Wasn’t hard. Your skills have dulled since you left the field. We’ve been on to you for over two weeks. You left a trail a kid could follow.”

“Move. Down the steps and toward the end of the alley.” I turned around and slowly walked down the steps and turned right. The end of the alley. “So, you think you know all about me, huh?”

“We know about Charlotte Downeger and your plans to do the same with Cindy Saturday,” I said. I sensed him stop in his tracks. I continued walking. “We know about
Stolski, Parker, and Darchevsky. Two are dead, one’s in Gitmo.”

“Keep moving,” he said. “Go through the gate on the right.”

I pushed the gate open, noting a slight movement behind it. I continued walking. “We know about your Cayman account, too.”

That was a distraction. “It was you that froze my account?”

“Well, Chyrel, actually.”

“I should have known,” he said as he followed me through the gate. “That’s far enough. Turn around. I want to see your eyes when I kill you.”

I turned slowly. “Sure, I want to watch you die anyway.”

When I was facing him, he had a puzzled look on his face. He had the gun and was beyond my reach. In a flash, a leg shot up, kicking the gun from his hand. Then another foot flew to the back of his head, connecting squarely with the fragile vertebra there. He went instantly down to his knees and fell forward onto his chest, his arms unable to break his fall. In an instant his attacker was on his back, pulling his head up by the hair.

I knelt down in front of him and said, “Jared Williams’s dishonorable was overturned and he reenlisted. Then you killed him with that bomb. But, before he died he at least had a chance to know love. Do you remember Charity Styles?”

In the next instant, Charity grabbed him under the chin and yanked
his head sideways, pushing his head downward with her other hand. The sudden wrenching motion severing his spinal cord. His lifeless eyes looked up at her.

“L
et’s go home, kid,” I said and picked up his Beretta.

The End

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