Copyright © 2021
Published by DOWN ISLAND PRESS, 2021
Beaufort, SC
Copyright © 2021 by Wayne Stinnett
Kindle Edition
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without express written permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
Library of Congress cataloging-in-publication Data
Stinnett, Wayne
Rising Tide/Wayne Stinnett
p. cm. – (A Jesse McDermitt novel)
ISBN: 978-1-7356231-5-3 (eBook)
Cover photograph by Alexandr Gerasimov
Graphics and Interior Design by Aurora Publicity
Edited by The Write Touch
Final Proofreading by Donna Rich
Audiobook Narration by Nick Sullivan
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Most of the locations herein are also fictional or are used fictitiously. However, the author takes great pains to depict the location and description of the many well-known islands, locales, beaches, reefs, bars, and restaurants throughout the Florida Keys and the Caribbean to the best of his ability.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Maps
Prelude
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Afterword
Dedicated to the memory of Ed Robinson, a great storyteller, friend, husband, and father, whose final voyage came far too early.
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January 5, 2021
I was on Singer Island, prepping for a billfish tournament, when Buck Reilly called me. He’d told me a couple of weeks earlier that he’d help me find a flying boat. I was surprised that he was calling so soon.
He wanted to make a deal: trade my services for a plane he found. The problem was, he needed me in the Bahamas with Floridablanca on Monday, two days after the tournament ended. I explained to my crew—Jimmy, Rusty, and Tank—what Buck wanted me to do. Tank and Jimmy were up for the adventure, but Rusty had reservations.
“I tossed him and another man outa the Anchor a few years ago,” he said. “Is what he’s asking you to do legal?”
I thought about it a moment. “It’s a fine line,” I said. “But I don’t think any laws will be broken.”
“Ethical?”
“You’re talking ethics about the people he’s trying to swindle?”
“Point taken,” he said. “Okay, I’m in.”
Six days later, after having had a great time in the tournament, we skipped over to Bimini, swapped boats, and met up with Buck and his partner, Ray Floyd. The meeting place was at a predesignated spot on the edge of the Bahama Banks, west of Andros Island. Checking my chart, I found that the location was in international waters. Barely. Buck and Ray arrived in a pair of Grumman flying boats—a Goose and a Mallard.
We’d dropped the hook on a dive site and anchored nearby, floated the two flying boats—one of which was soon to be mine. All we had to do was hoist some heavy cannons off the sea floor and move them somewhere else. I didn’t ask any questions. It was Buck’s find.
We’d already raised three of them onto the foredeck. They were heavy, but Floridablanca was all steel and displaced fifty tons when fully loaded. The water and fuel tanks, eighteen hundred gallons each, were half empty, so the weight of the cannons was negligible. We just weren’t going to be running real fast with them up near the bow, which was the only place they’d fit and the only place the large forward crane could reach.
Buck surfaced and gave me the signal to hoist. I used the controls in the pilothouse to allow Jimmy to maneuver the cannons onto the deck without having to deal with the remote control.
As he guided the cannon to the deck, Jimmy called to Buck over the side, “Dude, how many more of these pirate sticks you got down there?”
“Last one,” Buck yelled back. “Come get me at the plane once you have that one set.”
As Jimmy and Rusty covered the last cannon with a tarp, Buck swam back to his plane to get out of his dive gear.
A moment later, Jimmy started the outboard on the tender and headed over to the Goose to get Buck. We still didn’t know where he wanted us to take the cargo.
Jimmy killed the engine as he came alongside the Goose’s hatch, where Buck was waiting for him.
“Cool old planes, hermano,” I heard Jimmy say. “Like stepping back in time.”
Buck got into the dinghy and the two started back over. I went back through the salon and stepped outside to the covered cockpit, where I opened the transom door.
After Buck tied off the painter to a cleat, he stood in the dinghy, smiling up at me. “Permission to come aboard?”
I waved him on.
“Gentlemen,” he said, shaking hands with Tank and Rusty.
“Reilly,” Rusty said.
“Are we talking the Goose or the Mallard?” I asked, point blank.
“The Mallard,” Buck replied.
I turned to look at it and saw Ray Floyd seated in the hatch, watching us. He waved. Ray sometimes worked on my old deHavilland Beaver.
“That Ray Floyd?” I asked.
“Yeah, he’s my partner at Last Resort,” Buck replied.
“Let’s go check it out,” I said.
“Now isn’t the best time.”
Buck and I were the same height, though I probably had over thirty pounds on him. I peered straight into his eyes. “Then when?”
“Few days,” he replied. “Either you can come to Key West, or I’ll bring it up to Marathon. Ray wants to clean it up pretty for you.”
“Well, I’ve got your cannons,” I said. “But our deal was to drop them off today, not in a few days. So, you want me to drop them back in the water?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.” He lifted his phone and tapped the screen a few times. “I just sent you the numbers where I’d like you to drop them, just north of Vero Beach.”
“In the water?” I asked again.
He nodded. “Three thousand feet offshore in thirty feet of water. As soon as possible.”
I nodded slowly and glanced from Buck back over to the Mallard. I raised a pair of binoculars and studied the old flying boat. “Okay,” I agreed. “Vero Beach is nearly two hundred miles away, but the cannons will be dropped in a tight pile there by this time tomorrow. I’ll see you to collect the Mallard next week.”
We shook hands.
Buck glanced at Tank and gave a little two-fingered salute.
“Ooh-rah,” Tank grunted.
“Thanks, guys,” Buck said. “Let me know after you make the drop.”
Jimmy took Buck back to his plane as I started the engine and hoisted the anchor. Once Jimmy was back on board and the tender stowed, we were underway. The next few days would be busy and I didn’t want to wait around.
The two planes took off and were soon nothing but specks headed southwest as we headed northwest. My plan was to drop the cannons where Buck had asked, then head straight back to Bimini to pick up the Revenge before heading back to the Keys.
The whole trip would be nearly six hundred nautical miles and would easily take three days, running all night and taking watches for the next few nights.
The next day, we arrived at the prescribed spot and, with no other boats around, we quickly hoisted the cannons off the deck and lowered them to the sea floor.
For the return to Bimini, we disengaged the main engine and fired up the twin Mercedes powerplants, so the return crossing took half the time.
Upon our return to the Rusty Anchor, since it was still early enough, I climbed into Island Hopper for the short flight to Key West to meet with Buck and Ray.
Buck had warned me that Ray was less than thrilled about the deal to trade the Mallard. He’d asked me to sweeten the pot for his partner by asking Ray to do the restoration.
Ray was professional and walked me around and through the bird, pointing out the many things he’d already spotted that would need major attention or upgrade. He also pointed out locations where a stash might be hidden with a little modification.
I nodded my understanding. “You restored Buck’s other planes, right?”
“That’s right.”
Ray’s face lit up. “Absolutely. I’ve done a lot of research on where I…er…you, could get parts, and the optimal updated specs that should be included.”
I nodded at his enthusiasm. “I’m more interested in quality than speed, so why don’t you come up with a plan and budget, and then give me a call?”
He agreed and we shook hands. No contracts to sign, or lawyers to involve. That was just the way things were done in the Keys.
As Buck and I walked back over to Island Hopper, he covertly pulled something from his pocket and palmed it into mine as we shook hands.
“Thanks again for your help,” Buck said. “And for hiring Ray to restore the Mallard.”
“He’s the best there is,” I replied. “I would’ve hired him anyway but appreciate the token.”
What he’d put into my hand was small but heavy. I had a fairly good idea what it was.
“You got off easy anyway, Reilly,” I said, discreetly putting the coin in my pocket. “Or, should I say, King Buck, redux?”
After taking off and getting out over the water, I dug the thing out of my pocket. It was an eight-escudo Spanish gold coin.
I chuckled and put the $30,000 “token” back in my pocket.
April 13, 2021
The aging Ford Taurus drove slowly south on US 41 toward Pine Manor, an older neighborhood in the southern part of Fort Myers. The driver scanned the shadows, as if looking for someone.
Most of the homes in the half-square-mile neighborhood—known locally as Crime Manor—were small, one- and two-story apartment dwellings built in the late 1960s and early ’70s, though a few dated back to the early 1940s. A fourth of the residences were vacant; some abandoned and used as crack houses. The majority of the people who resided in Pine Manor were renters.
The businesses fronting the highway reflected the downward trend of the neighborhood. The old Ford rolled past a Mexican restaurant, a check-cashing place with bars on the windows and door, a used car lot full of older model cars, a florist, a pawn shop, and a convenience store, all with security bars. The car slowed at one of the few up-scale businesses, a furniture store that offered rent-to-own pricing.
The Taurus had been blue at one time, but the driver’s door and left front fender were white, having been replaced after a wreck. The rest of the car’s paint was faded and peeling. The hood, roof, and trunk were coated with surface rust, making the car look anything but blue under the orange glow of the streetlight on the corner.
“I’m hungry,” a small boy said from the backseat of the car.
“Me too, Alberto,” his mother replied, turning right at the furniture store. “We’ll eat in the morning. I just need to make some money first.”
The woman looked around nervously, but not because of the high crime in the neighborhood. She knew it well and was known by people in the area.
Her twitching and scratching were the result of heavy drug use.
The street she turned on was dark. Shattered streetlight housings gave blind testament to what happened below them. Lee County Electric Co-Op had given up repairing the lights a long time ago. The residents of this street preferred the darkness, and the lights were shot out as soon as they were replaced.
Carmel Marco pulled into a vacant spot at a one-story row of studio and one-bedroom apartments. She could feel eyes on her as she shut off the engine and turned to the boy in the backseat.
“You stay in the car,” she said. “And don’t open the door for anyone.”
Alberto Marco slumped in the seat, casting his eyes down to the floorboard. “Yes, Mama.”
Carmel got out and locked the doors. She looked back at the boy for a moment, then turned and followed the sidewalk along the left side of the water-stained, concrete block building. She’d only be a few minutes; then she’d drop Alberto off at a friend’s so she could work the streets.
At the door to apartment six, she knocked twice, then twice more. There was a faint blue light coming from a gap in the heavy curtains, which was quickly extinguished. She heard movement inside.
Finally, she heard the sound of the locks clicking and the rattle of the security chain. Then the door opened slightly, revealing a lean Hispanic man, shirtless, with gang tattoos from the neck down.
“What choo want?”
“The usual,” Carmel replied. “Just enough to get me through the night.”
The man, known on the streets as Razor, grinned lasciviously at her, revealing a gold-capped front tooth. He stepped back and waved her in.
“You know I don’t like doing small sales, Car.”
“I need it, Enrique,” she replied, stepping into the darkened room. “I didn’t see Bones out on the stre
et.”
Razor was a member of the ruthless MS-13 gang, which had chapters all over the globe. He sold drugs, and Bones was his street dealer. He and Carmel had known one another a long time and he didn’t mind her using his given name when they were alone.
The television came back on, but no other light emanated from anywhere in the apartment.
“How much cash you got?”
“Well, see—”
“You don’t got no varos?” Razor said, flopping down into a worn out recliner. “This ain’t no charity I’m runnin’ here.”
“I’ll get money, man,” Carmel pleaded. “But I gotta pay the sitter so I can.”
“We did this a few times before,” Razor said. “And I had to hunt you down to get my money more’n once.”
“She won’t let me leave Alberto unless I pay her up front,” Carmel said, eyeing the crack pipe on the table with a hunger that bordered on lust. “You know I’m good for it.”
Razor looked her up and down. They’d known each other since high school. Back then, she was buenota, a hard body, but now, at twenty-five, she looked twice her age, weary and worn out. Having a kid at sixteen would do that. Dropping out, living on the streets, and getting strung out on crack cocaine before eighteen would accelerate it and make a girl do things she never thought she’d do.
Razor took a small rock from his little sample bag and put it in the pipe. Then he handed the pipe to Carmel along with a lighter. “A little cloud to get your night started.”
She took it greedily and fired the end of the pipe with his miniature torch. The clouds swirled in the glass tube and she inhaled deeply.
The change was instantaneous. Her nerves settled and the light and low sound coming from the TV seemed different, as if she could see and hear it better. Even Enrique’s grin seemed inviting.
“Just leave the boy here,” he told her. “Then you can buy more.”
Carmel, her mind now swimming from the huge release of dopamine in her brain, thought that was an excellent idea. Alberto wouldn’t be in the way; he’d just curl up somewhere and go to sleep. She could come back two or three times throughout the night to check on him.
Later that night, after Carmel had turned a couple of quick tricks, she felt as if things were looking up. She’d gone back to check on Alberto around midnight. And to buy more crack.