There was a tense, cautious quality in the way he watched me. He made a single, brusque movement, and gripped the wheel of the boat tightly with both fists, like the gesture of some solemn pledge.
"I was still with the Bureau when the crash occurred. Max was involved with some top-secret work for the CIA in Central America. The NTSB asked us to investigate at the request of the CIA. That's when I got to see the Will. I thought it strange at the time, however we were looking for reasons an airplane crashed, not what a father left to his daughters. When the Renoir woman came to my office, I remembered the Will."
"You could have saved me a lot of work if you'd just told me all this up front."
His expression had a cracked hint of a smile, set and faintly suggested, but both veiled and purposeful. "No. It was better you dig it out for yourself. That way you might uncover something maybe overlooked if you had all the information to start with."
"Did you find anything unusual about the crash? Gene Arnold was a friend. I'd like to know if something happened he couldn't control."
"We didn't find anything. It appeared to be an accident. Look…" He pointed at the Sun Dog. "They're boarding the runabout. Two a.m., right on the money. We'll give them five minutes. Odds are they go straight for the sailboat."
We watched as two men boarded the small boat. As late as it was, there was no doubt what they were up to; the delivery operations at Treasure Cay had ended hours ago. Two people were silhouetted in the door of the Sun Dog. The curtains were partly closed, and there was no way of knowing how many people were left aboard. At least one person stood in the cockpit and watched the boat roar away in the dark.
We idled back out of the Bight of Old Robinson and followed, hugging the shore of the mainland until safe from being heard or spotted. Once north of Bridges Cay, Dave opened up the engine to full throttle. Ahead, maybe a mile, we could see the phosphorescent wake of the other boat. It would be a thirty-minute run to Man-O-War Cay. I got everything ready.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
There were two entrances to the harbor at Man-O-War Cay and we stayed close enough behind the men to see which way they approached. We wanted to give them time to board the sailboat and also to lessen the possibility of being spotted.
Once passing Pelican Cay, they took a heading straight for Man-O-War Cay. This was good, as we could run close to the mainland, hugging the shore. Dave decided to go around the north end of Dickie's Cay and come down through the north entrance to the harbor. It would bring us past the main part of the settlement, and out of sight of the men we were tailing.
Man-O-War Cay could be summed up in one word, paradise. A mere two miles in length and a quarter mile wide, it is oriented in a northwest-southeast direction. It lay like a sleeping goddess. The Atlantic Ocean washes her north shore and the Sea of Abaco her south side.
Idling through the harbor, we could see the outline of Albury's boat yard where the seventy-foot wooden schooner, William Albury, was docked at the pier. We passed Government Dock, Edwin's Boat yard, and Norman Albury's sail loft.
Ghosting by the main entrance to the harbor, Dave pointed out his sailboat. We could see the men's cigarette tied to the stern. There were only four other boats anchored in American Harbor, and all were dark and quiet. Dave cut the engine and we drifted silently up next to the hull. Easing into the cockpit, careful not to make noise or cause motion, we could see the two men through the open hatch. They would never be accused of being overly smart. Having found the cocaine, they were helping themselves to big snorts of the white crystal powder, forgetting all else. Their weapons lay on the cabin sole out of reach even if they had wanted to make a play.
The expression on their face made me feel sad. Maybe they were the two who sat on the overturned dinghy and drank rum on Family Beach. The men were frightened of Dave, had seen him kill before, or so they thought. The white powder caked around their nose and mouth appeared comical.
Dave went forward, rummaged around in the Vee-birth, and returned with two pair of handcuffs. It struck me as funny that he could produce handcuffs out of nowhere at three o'clock in the morning on board a sailboat anchored in a small harbor two hundred miles out in the Atlantic Ocean. He looked at me with dark, deadly eyes. Not given to frivolity, the humor escaped him. He could see further into the night than I. The present was hard for me to comprehend, much less the future.
We cuffed the two men together around the mainmast, where it runs through the cabin and down into the keel. It was the most secure place and there was no way they could get loose. We would leave them until the business was finished back at the Sun Dog. If for some reason we didn't make it back, then someone would find them, eventually.
It was now after three a.m., and we had to hurry to beat daylight. We retraced our route back to Sanchez. The plan was risky, but it was the only way.
As we approached the Sun Dog, two men stood in the cockpit. Since they were expecting a cigarette boat to return, they weren't alarmed when we idled up beside the sportfisherman.
We brought the two automatic weapons confiscated from the men on the sailboat along with the guns Dave furnished. We were ready.
Easing the cigarette around so that my side would pass close to the stern of the Sun Dog, Dave maneuvered to within a few feet of the two men. When one knows death is close it heightens awareness and the usual facts do not make sense.
There was a look of surprise and fear on the face of the man closest to me when he realized who we were. He snarled like an angry wolf as he raised his rifle to fire. Spraying both men with a full clip from the AR-15, I saw one fall overboard, and the other slump into the cockpit. Dave opened the throttle and we started a circle around the Sun Dog. The two women bolted from the salon door, one running around the portside, the other the starboard. Both were heading for the bow and carrying automatic weapons as if they were trained to use them. They were kittens at play, but tigers in battle.
Dave abruptly closed the throttle causing the cigarette to slow suddenly, settling bow first. We both fired at the two women. One of them got off a burst, hitting inches in front of the windscreen where I stood. If Dave had not shut the throttle off when he did…
The two women were dead before they hit the deck. Dave throttled up again, and we started another circle, expecting Barrel-chest and Sanchez to come out firing. Instead, to our amazement, someone waved a white cloth out the salon door. Emerging slowly, with arms raised, Barrel-chest threw his weapon into the water. I had expected more from the man.
"Careful, Dave."
"Damn cowards."
Most of the people behind these kinds of operations hire someone to do the dangerous and messy work. Sanchez was proving not to be the exception. We were still wary, though. My ears were ringing, my heart was pounding, and I could feel the adrenaline flowing into my bloodstream. Any movement, a blink of an eye, and I would cut Barrel-chest in half.
Dave yelled, "Get Sanchez out here. Do it now, or you're a dead man."
Barrel-chest turned, said something to someone inside the salon. Sanchez appeared in the door and threw his rifle overboard. I boarded the boat while Dave kept me covered. There was no one else on board. Dave tied the cigarette off and climbed into the cockpit.
"So it was you," Sanchez snarled. "I should never have trusted you. Very clever, pretending to kill your friend, here. Smart, extremely smart."
He appeared to be in his early sixties. The structure of his bones and the looseness of his clothes suggested that he had once been muscular. The lifeless indifference of his eyes hid the fact that some degree of intelligence resided somewhere in his brain. The overall appearance was one of a wasted man who'd been sampling his own product.