Wood's Wall (8 page)

The gunman glanced at one of the riflemen, communication unspoken, and the guy took off for a nearby shed. A motor started. 

“Just the chum machine,” Cesar said. “You’re a fisherman, you know how it works. Big things go in and little things come out.”

Trufante started to back away, hands in the air. “Lemme go talk to the dude.” He took a step back towards the car, tripped over a buoy line and landed on the ground. One of Cesar’s gunmen was on him instantly, barrel pointed at his chest. 

“You’re not going anywhere Cajun. Cover that guy in the car, too,” he yelled. 

Knowing that he was no longer invisible, Pete looked up and saw the gun pointed at Trufante, still on the ground. His heart stopped beating when he saw the other gun pointed at him. Panic took over and he started the car. But instead of reverse, he stuck it in drive and hit the gas. The car shot forward. The brakes engaged right above Trufante’s body, and the gunman jumped to the side. It took a second to react from his mistake but he was quicker than the gunman. He slammed the car in reverse and floored the gas pedal. The car squealed backwards into a trap pile, causing an avalanche. Some of the higher traps fell on the car, though most of them blocked the road.

Gunshots blazed through the traps — the only obstacle between Pete and the drug runners and he floored the gas pedal again, continuing in reverse, until he hit the main driveway. There he swung back and into forward, tires screeching and shooting the crushed coral surface into the air.

One headlight was shot out, but he didn’t think the radiator had been hit. At least he hoped not. He hit the gas pedal again and accelerated out of the fishery’s entry, terrified. Behind him, he saw the truck’s headlights coming after him.

***

Trufante lay on the ground in disbelief. How could easy money go so wrong? The barrel of a pistol looked down at him, Cesar’s right eye lined up behind it. 

“Get up, you piece of Cajun trash. Let’s take a little walk.” 

Cesar kept the gun pointed at Trufante as he got up, and brushed himself off. He motioned for one of his guys to pick up the package. Then he motioned Trufante toward the shed, the motor getting louder as they approached. As they entered the shed, he caught the glint of gold from the mouth of a very large man, wearing a rubber apron and gloves. 

“You got two choices,
amigo
. You go in live or you go in dead. Either way, you’re going in. Be feeding yellowtails for fat
touristas
on the reef in a couple of days. Now, tell me a story.”

12

Mac watched Mel’s face as she slept. This was the only time she wasn’t full of vigor and passion, and she looked almost angelic. She had showered and fallen immediately into bed, a towel under her still-wet hair. It was the best possible outcome — sleep. She could handle a glass of wine, but sharing his glass was usually enough. Her little binge earlier was way past her threshold, and it had knocked her out cold. He covered her with a light blanket and left the room.

Downstairs in his shop, he went to the workbench and turned on the magnifying light. The box, recovered from the office safe, sat on the table. He stared at it wondering what to do. It would have been too easy to turn it into the authorities. He knew Trufante was a magnet for trouble, either through karma or desire he wasn’t sure. In any event, he realized that he was here now and he had to help his friend. His brain swirled with the task ahead. The radioactive material in the box was more than dangerous. If it was what he thought, it could blow Marathon and half the Keys with it. He took a deep breath and took control of his thoughts. His first priority was to make sure the terrorists didn’t get the real material.

A welding apron, gloves, and mask protected him as he clamped the box in the vise and drilled a larger hole in the same spot as the pilot hole he’d drilled earlier. He poured the contents onto a plate. 

Lead was the preferred medium to protect against radiation. He scrounged around the shop and found a milk crate with an assortment of diving weights, then pulled out a large propane burner he used to cook stone crabs and took them outside. He stood over a large burner, moving an old pan back and forth over the flame, watching as the two sacrificial weights melted into a puddle. Then, the heat adjusted to keep the lead molten, he went back inside, searching for something to make a mold.

A crab buoy caught his eye. Worried that the styrofoam would burn away, however, he tested a small piece. The lead smoked against the styrofoam, but didn’t burn it. He sawed the buoy in half and scooped out an area large enough to hold the material, half from each side, then whittled the buoy so there was a half - inch of material around the chamber. That should be enough of a shield to encase the plutonium. Put together, it was now the size of a softball. Back at the bench, he poured the material into the chamber and joined the halves, holding them together with hot glue. 

The ball rolled in the pan, slowly turning grey as the lead adhered to it. He rotated the ball until the molten lead was used up and set it aside to cool. Geiger counter in hand, he ran it over the lead cased ball. The needle stayed in the green, indicating that it was safe. That was good enough for now, he thought. Next, he needed to fill the lead box and reseal it.

The space below the bench was full of gear. Mac was on his knees, pulling out tools, wondering why he could keep a boat so organized while his work space was a disaster. The compaction tester was all the way in the back, dusty from the years it had sat there untouched. He hadn’t needed the tester since he retired from commercial diving ten years ago. He lifted the compactor onto the bench and started to take it apart. The tester, called a nuclear densitometer lay in pieces. It held a small amount of radioactive material in it to test for soil compaction. The radioactive material removed from the unit, Mac lay the parts of the tester aside. The material from the tester was impotent compared to the brick, perfect for a red herring. A geiger counter reacted to radioactivity. It didn’t specify the type. The material from the tester would cause a reaction. It would take a nuclear engineer to realize it wasn’t the more potent plutonium he’d removed. 

Relieved, he cleaned up and took the lead ball out to the boat. He’d dispose of it in the morning. He was just placing the box back in the safe when Mel startled him.

“Hey, whatcha doing?”

“Oh, it’s nothing.” 

“My head hurts.” 

He went up to her, hurrying before she had a chance to come down. “Quite the binge for you. Surprised you’re even up.”

“Sorry about that. I was so pissed at my boss. I came back and ran the old bridge to Pigeon Key and back. Still pissed.”

“Four miles in this heat, and I know you didn’t take it slow. Just glad you made it back. Want to talk about it?”

“Not now. I’m cool, don’t want to get all worked up again. Tomorrow.” She kissed him and headed upstairs. 

Still a little shaky from the work, he poured himself another Scotch and went out on the back deck. He was in over his head and he knew it. With any luck, Trufante could pass off the bricks without incident. He assumed the material was headed to a terrorist group. Who else would smuggle in plutonium? These groups were seldom highly trained. He hoped they wouldn’t notice the less potent material. Whatever they made with it would be harmless. He would hide the lead ball with the real material where no one would find it tomorrow morning. 

The phone vibrated on the counter, but he ignored it. 

***

“Where is the last brick then? I’ll deal with the gringos about what they have stolen and snorted.”

The man in the apron dragged him closer to the chum grinder. He hit the power switch and the motor whirled.

“Cajun. You going to answer?”

Before he could answer the man grabbed his hand and stuffed it into the inlet. He struggled, but the man was more powerful. His wrist was buried in the intake when the blades found his index finger. 

“
Alto
.” Cesar yelled over the noise. The man started pushing harder - then restrained himself. He backed away, allowing Trufante to extricate his hand from the machine. It came out dripping blood. He grabbed for a towel and fell to his knees.

“Well Cajun, do you have something to say?”

“Shit, I would have told you without this.” He held up the mangled hand.

Cesar ignored him. He said something in Spanish to the butcher, who quickly left, flashing a quick smile at Trufante on his way out. 

“Well?”

“Give me my phone.” Trufante was sweating, dialing with his right hand as blood dripped from his left. He writhed in pain, waiting for Mac to answer, his pinkie finger missing to the knuckle.

“Better find your friend there, or we’ll have to go deeper.”

“He’s not answering. I don’t know what’s up. I need a freakin’ doctor.” He whimpered.

“When I have my property back I will dump your sorry Cajun ass at the hospital”

Trufante was desperately trying to save his remaining digits. Torture was
not
in his wheelhouse, and he would have caved in before losing the tip of his finger if the sadistic bastard in the apron hadn’t wanted to draw blood so badly. “We can just go over there.”

“What about the driver, how do we find him? First we take care of that loose end, then we can go see your friend.”

“Yeah, whatever, just get me away from this butcher shop.”

***

Pete pulled into the parking lot of the bar where he’d met Trufante the other night, still shaking. He sat in the car, not knowing what to do. The deal had gone south — no money, no drugs, and some serious badasses were after him. He didn’t think they’d look for him in a bar, but he had to hide the car. He pulled out and headed around the back of the building, the driveway running parallel with the dock that serviced the charter boats. He carefully selected a space not visible from the road, parked, and headed into the bar.

13

Trufante’s finger, or what was left of it, throbbed. He’d controlled the bleeding by tying a piece of monofilament fishing line he’d found on the floor of the bait house around it and cinched it tight. A dirty rag was clutched over it, absorbing any wayward blood.

“Don’t bleed in the truck, Cajun. I’ll make you ride in the back,” Cesar snorted from the front seat.

Trufante didn’t answer. He had no idea how to get out of this. He’d willingly given up the address where Pete was staying — how else did you deal with these psychos, who cut off body parts first and ask questions later? Besides, Pete had ditched him as fast as he could, saving his own skin, and he figured that meant he had the right to do the same. 

They pulled up to the rented house and parked next to the Excursion in the driveway. The house was dark and quiet as they walked up the path. Trufante had begged to stay in the truck, but Cesar opened the door and grabbed his good arm, dragging him towards the house. 

“Knock.” Cesar ordered as he ducked out of view. Trufante knocked on the door and waited. 

“Maybe no one’s home.”

“The car is here, and it’s not the same one as the guy who was with you. That means someone’s here, and I’m betting they know where my drugs are.” Cesar knocked harder, with the butt of his gun. Still no answer. He signaled one of his men to go around back while he waited in front. 

“Back door is open.” The guy’s voice came from around the corner. 

Cesar pushed Trufante in front of him as they made their way around the house. Cool air escaped as the sliding glass door opened. They entered slowly, the two men fanning out, checking the kitchen, bathroom, and garage. They concentrated on the bedrooms next. A closed door appeared on the right, two others on the left. One door was open, the room empty. They moved past the bathroom to the two closed doors.

One swift kick from Cesar’s boot left the door hanging on one hinge. Two lumps in the bed shifted, but didn’t wake as they entered the room. Trufante stayed behind in the hall.