Deadly Catch (30 page)

I wracked my brain for a minute and then decided to swim to the next dock where the now-silent crane sat. From there I could set the camera on telephoto, and hopefully would be able to get some decent shots. I might not even have to climb a ladder, depending on the angle once I got there. There were footsteps and voices above me, but the dock appeared to be deserted though still lighted. I could see I’d have to be careful to remain in the shadows. Backtracking well past the stern, I filled my lungs and headed down.

Again staying close to the bottom, I made it across with no problem. I located a piling, positioned myself on the backside, and surfaced. I rested a minute, making use of the time to survey my new vantage point. I was under the “T” section of the dock, the crane directly above me. It appeared to be deserted now, but I wasn’t taking anything for granted.

Another hour dragged by. My skin was turning into a prune. Then, just as I’d suspected, a small crew walked down the outer dock and boarded the boat that had been off-loaded of its catch. The angle from here wasn’t as good as I’d hoped. I’d have to take my chances and climb partway up a ladder to get any decent photos. Barely moving my fins, I eased toward the head of the dock. About halfway I spotted a ladder and made my way to it.

It was a good position, away from any direct lighting and with plenty of shadow for concealment. But then I discovered a new problem—guards on the pier opposite, standing near the end and shining flashlights around the water and out toward the “no trespassing” buoys about fifty yards away. From this distance I didn’t notice any weapons, but that was one more thing I wasn’t taking for granted. I had a much better view of the boat from here, but still not good enough. I watched the small crew and heard voices as they went about their business. They were making a lot less commotion than the larger crew that had off-loaded the fish.

I was mustering the nerve to climb a few rungs up the ladder when I noticed two men ambling down the dock toward the boat. As they passed beneath one of the dock lamps I got a decent look at the two. One was tall and lanky with dark hair; I couldn’t be sure, but he looked like Clayton Barfield. And damned if the other man wasn’t Chief Benjamin Merritt, in the flesh!

My adrenalin was pumping as I lifted a swim fin and planted it on the lowest rung of the ladder. Step-by-careful-step I worked my way up until I was halfway to the top. From there I had a good view of the boat and the off-loading activities. I wrapped an arm around a vertical rail of the ladder and made myself as comfortable as possible. Pulling the mask down until the strap rested around my neck, I reached down and slipped the camera out of the net and waterproof bags. I switched it on and set it to telephoto, then double-checked to be sure the flash was off; it was already set for silent mode and low light.

After a couple of minutes I was able to relax some. I was still in the shadows, and none of the workers or guards seemed to be paying attention to my dock. I was confident I could get what I needed and vamoose without being detected. So for the next few minutes I snapped shot after shot, hoping the dock lighting would be enough for the camera to do its job. I took several photos of crewmembers handing wrapped bales the size of suitcases out of the hold to others who loaded the cargo onto carts and disappeared at the shore end of the dock. I also made sure I got plenty of Merritt and Barfield, who continued to conveniently stand in the glow of a dock lamp and chat like they were at some Saturday night social.

After five or six minutes I figured I had all that I needed to prove Clayton Barfield was hauling more than fish with his fleet, and that Ben Merritt was involved up to his ears in it. I turned the camera off, clipped the lens cover back in place, and was about to slip it into the waterproof bag when I heard a creak above me. I froze, scarcely breathing. A minute passed, then another creak. Sweat popped out on my brow.

I waited another minute. Nothing. I started easing down the ladder when the unmistakable
click
of a hammer being drawn back rang in my ear. I froze again, hoping I hadn’t been spotted but half expecting to be shot from behind.

“Don’t move,” a voice growled, “and drop the weapon.”

“I’m not armed,” I said, a partial lie since I had the KA-BAR strapped to my ankle. “This is a camera.” Slowly, I raised the camera clutched in my right hand. As I did so, the protective bag slipped from my grasp and landed in the water.

“Higher, so I can see,” the man said, leaning over the edge of the dock to get a better look.

I did what he said.

“Okay, now climb on up here, real slow and easy. Try anything funny and you won’t live to see daylight.”

The way I figured it, they weren’t going to let me live to see daylight whether I cooperated or not. But right now I didn’t have much choice. I had to think fast. He’d told me to climb up slow and easy, so that’s what I did. On the way up, I repositioned the camera in my palm and used a finger from the other hand to slide open the memory card door on the bottom. Then I gave the card a quick press and it popped free. I wedged it between my index and middle fingers and slid the door shut.

“Over here,” he said, motioning to his right with the pistol as I pulled myself onto the dock and stood. I took a few awkward sidesteps in the swim fins, keeping my back to the dock’s edge. He was a burly, rough-looking character with a long beard and hair swept back in a ponytail. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see a Harley Hog parked nearby. He held out his non-gun hand. “I’ll take the camera,” he said and at the same time turned his head and called out to somebody I couldn’t see, “Hey, we got us a tourist over here!”

I’ve never been much of a poker player, but what the hell, my ass was already in the grinder. At this point I had nothing more to lose except my life. “I advise you to drop the weapon,” I said, trying my damnedest to sound authoritative. “I’m Special Agent Carson, FBI. The gig’s up. We’ve got this compound surrounded.”

The man grinned. “Oh, yeah? Well, I’m John Dillinger, and that’s Pretty Boy Floyd,” he said with a quick glance over his shoulder at another guard approaching from the shadows.

That’s when I flung the camera in his face and with one swift motion whirled, popped the memory card into my mouth, and dove for the water. The pistol barked twice as I hit the surface and disappeared beneath. I felt a sharp sting in my left bicep and knew I’d been hit. It wasn’t the first time I’d been shot, and experience told me this was probably nothing more than a flesh wound. I did my best to ignore it and swam for the bottom.

I dove as though I was heading for the buoys, but when I reached bottom I hung a left and swam for the dock where the boat was being unloaded. I hadn’t been able to get a good breath before I shoved the memory card in my mouth, and by the time I reached the dock my lungs were screaming. I popped to the surface underneath the dock, pulled the memory card from my mouth and grabbed some deep breaths. I took the time to reposition the mask over my face, and spit to keep my mouth as dry as possible. Then I gripped the memory card between my teeth and dove for the bottom again, this time heading for my guide piling on the outside fence. There was no way I’d be able to chance coming up for air once I reached it, but it gave me a certain amount of comfort knowing that that was my way out of this mess.

I was so intent on hauling ass away from there that I swam headlong into the fence, nearly knocking the mask loose. Only a little water leaked in, but there was no time to clear it. My lungs were already begging for air, and it took everything I had not to surface. I found the bottom of the fence, slipped underneath, and swam like hell, trying to get as far away as possible before I had to come up.

When I reached the point my lungs were burning and I thought I might black out, I pushed off the bottom, and my head and shoulders bolted above the surface. I grabbed the memory card and gasped for breath, filling my lungs over and over with dank salty air that had never tasted sweeter. I glanced over my shoulder. Somehow I’d managed to put about seventy-five yards between the fence and me.

Back at the docks flashlights were shining in all directions and people were scurrying about like worker ants. I heard the sound of outboards firing up and knew there was no time to waste. I dumped the water from the mask, put the card back in my mouth, and swam for all I was worth toward the twin palms where I’d left the road.

My luck was still holding when I reached the shallows not far from where I’d entered the water. I slipped off the fins and mask, took the memory card out of my mouth, and waded for shore. The card was fairly dry; I hoped my spit hadn’t been enough to ruin the chances of retrieving the shots I’d taken.

I made it to dry ground and was searching for my shoes when a light shined behind me and a voice called out. “Hold it right there! Don’t move, and get your hands up where I can see ’em.”

I froze in place, dropped my gear, and raised my hands, the memory card clutched between the fingers of my left hand. Only then did I feel something wet and warm running down my arm and remembered I’d been shot. There was something vaguely familiar about the voice. I turned around real slow to face it. Someone was walking toward me a few feet from the waterline, keeping the light in my eyes. Behind him, I caught the shadowy outline of a boat beached thirty or forty yards away.

“You’re trespassing, Mac. That’s private property you just left.”

The man with the light and familiar voice stepped a few feet closer, and then I recognized him. “Officer Reilly! Man, am I glad to see you.” I started to lower my arms.

“Keep ’em raised,” Dave Reilly said, none too friendly, his 9mm pistol pointed squarely at my chest.

“Look, Dave, I’m working with Sheriff Pickron. The Barfields have been using their boats to smuggle drugs into the area. Radio the sheriff, he’ll back me up on this.”

Reilly shook his head. “Can’t do it, Mac. Chief Merritt wouldn’t be pleased at all.”

Damn! So Merritt and Barfield had Fish and Wildlife working with them, at least Officer Dave Reilly, loyal public servant. I felt the noose tightening. I’d stepped into deep doo-doo this time and was sinking lower with each passing second.

“Let’s go,” Reilly said, waving his pistol toward the boat, which, by brilliant deduction, I now assumed was his F and W Mako. “And keep the hands up.”

We’d walked about halfway to the boat when a voice called out of the darkness, “Drop the gun, Reilly!”

I turned to see a tall, skinny silhouette scrambling down the embankment. Damned if it wasn’t the cavalry coming to the rescue in the form of one Patrolman J.D. Owens! From the corner of my eye I saw Dave Reilly turn and swing his weapon in J.D.’s direction.

“Drop it!” J.D. yelled, just as Reilly’s pistol belched flame, followed instantly by J.D.’s revolver. Somebody cried out, and both fell in a heap.

Everything was happening in a flash, and my years of combat training took command. I rushed to Dave Reilly, grabbed the pistol he’d dropped, and assessed his wound. He’d taken J.D.’s round through the gut, left of center. It was bleeding badly, but if I could get the flow slowed down, he’d probably make it. I slipped the memory card into a pocket and tugged off my T-shirt. I wrung it out and folded it into a thick pressure bandage, then placed it over the entrance wound and pressed tight. Reilly was groaning but was still conscious. I grabbed his hand and placed it on the bandage. “Hold this as tight as you can,” I said and then sprinted up the embankment where J.D. had fallen.

By the time I reached J.D. I’d put Reilly’s pistol on safety and shoved it in the band of my swim trunks. J.D. had both hands clasped to his chest and was rolling back and forth. “Can’t breathe,” he managed to whisper. My blood ran cold. I’d seen it too many times before, Marines shot through the chest, gasping their last. I dropped down and grabbed his hands and pulled them away so I could see how bad he was hit.

Relief nearly overwhelmed me. I actually laughed, though I’m sure J.D. didn’t think it was the least bit funny at the time. Reilly’s bullet had struck Patrolman J.D. Owens in the upper chest just above the heart, but the bulletproof Kevlar vest had done its job. He’d catch his breath soon enough and would carry a nasty bruise and be sore for several days, but the bullet hadn’t penetrated flesh or bone. “You are one lucky young man, J.D.,” I said, grinning down at him.

His eyes opened wide. “You mean I’m not dying?” he managed to gasp.

“Not for a long time yet, J.D.,” I said, patting his cheek, “not for a long time.”

Sirens sounded in the distance, heading east on 98. Several vehicles with flashing lights pulled in and around Barfield Fisheries. A few minutes later another vehicle came barreling down the causeway toward us, lights flashing and siren wailing. I ran up the embankment to the road and waved my arms to flag it down. The vehicle pulled to the roadside and stopped, blue still flashing from the portable rooftop light. The door opened, and a tall, husky figure climbed out.

I’d never been so glad to see Sheriff Bocephus Pickron in my life.