Brigands Key Read online

  The boat was fifty yards away.

  At forty yards, Grant could see Charley, grinning and jumping up and down.

  “Hurry the hell up,” Grant shouted.

  Lost Expedition rumbled up and Charley turned its beam toward Grant. “Thought I’d lost you, Doc,” he shouted.

  Grant tossed his light onto the boat and swam toward the dive platform on the transom. Charley killed the engine as Grant neared the propeller, and rushed aft and swung the aluminum ladder out into the water with a splash. Grant reached out, caught the ladder, and pulled himself up.

  The shark hit his fin, bit down, and thrashed its head side to side, yanking Grant back down, shaking him like a toy. He was pulled free of the ladder and into the water. The shark headed downward, pulling him under. He stabbed downward with the knife and felt the blade sink into the animal. The shark flinched and released him and darted away.

  Grant wasn’t going to wait for the fish to change its mind. He lunged upward, caught hold of the platform, and hauled himself out of the sea. “Son of a bitch! Another ten seconds and I’d have been fish bait.”

  Charley hooked Grant under the arms and pulled him over the transom. He helped him into one of the twin seats behind the dash.

  “Easy, boy,” Grant said. “I’m a bit torn up.”

  Charley felt about, found the light, and shined it on Grant, stopping at the blood welling from his thigh. “Jesus,” he mumbled.

  Grant pointed. “Hand me the first-aid kit. It’s right under the console. And so’s a bottle of Dinsmoor. I’ll need that, too.”

  Charley fished out the kit and the vodka. Grant took the bottle first, unscrewed the cap, took a hard pull off it, and poured some over both sides of his wound. “Christ, that hurts.”

  “Find anything, Doc?”

  “Son, you’re not gonna believe it.”

  * * *

  Kyoko held her breath, tensed, waiting, waiting for the bastard to make his move. One shot. That’s all she would get. She listened intently, judging his movements.

  After an eternity, the man stepped back out the door and shut it. She heard the scrape and click of deadbolt and lock and she was alone in the dark once again. She gasped with relief.

  She listened for a minute. Satisfied, she rolled across the floor again. If she had to die here, it wasn’t going to be for lack of trying.

  Kyoko dragged herself around the perimeter of the dark room, learning all she could, feeling with bound feet, feeling the floor beneath her, searching for weakness. After twenty minutes, exhausted, she sagged and rolled onto her back, panting heavily. Sweat slicked her body and ran into her eyes, stinging.

  The room was quite small. It couldn’t have been much more than a storeroom when it was in use. She tried to recall what Hammond had told her of the old lighthouse. It hadn’t been in active service in years. More recently, it had been kept up as a historic site, but lack of funds had let it sink into a murk of disrepair and neglect.

  In the best of times, there was little chance of anyone finding her here. With a hurricane at the doorstep and the island in turmoil, there was no chance. She was on her own.

  Something skittered across the floor and brushed against her leg. She recoiled from the rat, kicking in its direction and making contact with the creature. It squealed and darted away.

  Her heart raced. She took a deep breath, gritted her teeth, rolled onto her stomach again, and resumed her search, pushing herself inch by inch.

  She suddenly felt a sting in her breast, pricked by something sharp. She shifted her weight, easing off whatever it was. She felt a warm trickle of blood slip down onto her stomach.

  She scooted up, bringing her bound hands even with where she thought the object lay, and rolled her back toward it. She settled down and felt about with her hands. After a moment, she found it. She gingerly gripped it between two fingers, dropped it, picked it up again, felt it. A shard of glass? No more than an inch long, but with a wickedly sharp edge. A glimmer of hope stirred in her.

  Her arms straining, she worked the glass upward between her clasped hands, bit by excruciating bit. It sliced the palm of her left hand. The pain was minimal through her numbness and the wound bled only a little. At last, she felt the shard come into resistance against the thick rope that bound her wrists. Slowly, a fraction of an inch at a time, the razor-edged glass lacerating her fingertips, she worked and cut at the ropes.

  * * *

  Randy Sanborn put his hands on Julie’s shoulders and looked her in the eyes. “Sure you’re ready to do this?”

  She nodded. “Now or never, Randy. Take a look around. The weather is getting worse. Celeste will be here before dawn.”

  He looked out at the burning wreckage of the Ellie June. “Things are out of control. We’ve got heavily armed troops doing a job they weren’t trained for, following orders they don’t believe in. They’re on edge.”

  “Let’s go,” Julie said. She pushed past him and marched toward the mainland.

  Sanborn caught up to her and kept pace. “Anyone wants off the island, follow us,” he shouted. “We probably won’t make it, but it’s better than waiting for the Cat-5 to drown us all.”

  Artie Blount stepped forward. “I’m with you, Randy. Folks, if we want out of this mess, we’ve got to force the issue.”

  Sanborn nodded his thanks to Blount.

  A murmur ran through the crowd.

  “Mayor?” Sanborn said.

  Johnson nodded dully and fell in behind him.

  “Thanks, Mayor. Don’t worry about it. A boat is just a material possession. If you couldn’t escape on it, it wasn’t going to last another day anyway.”

  Johnson scowled. “Save the homespun philosophy for your girlfriend.”

  “We’ll get the taxpayers to buy you a new boat.”

  One by one, the crowd fell in behind them.

  “Think this’ll work?” Julie whispered to Sanborn.

  “Not a chance. Will you go to a movie with me tomorrow?”

  She laughed. “You really should work on your timing, Randy.”

  “That wasn’t a flat-out no. Works for me.”

  They neared the barricade at the opposite end of the bridge. The National Guardsmen fanned out along the foot of it, gas masks on, weapons ready. Three search beams swung out onto the crowd. Sanborn raised his hand—slowly—to shield his eyes.

  When they’d come within forty yards of the barricade, a Guardsman held up a hand. “Close enough, folks.” His voice was muffled through the gas mask. “Y'all know you can’t come past us.”

  The crowd behind them hesitated. Julie didn’t. She continued straight toward the soldiers. Sanborn stayed right with her. She glanced questioningly at Chancy and his makeshift camera crew. Chancy nodded and hurried forward.

  The soldiers shifted nervously. The one that had spoken turned to his comrades and spoke softly. They raised their weapons, pointed them at her and at Chancy.

  She stopped ten yards from them. Chancy caught up to her, motioning his cameraman into position.

  “You in charge?” she asked, looking at the soldier that had spoken.

  “Yes, ma’am. Lieutenant Fisk. You have to turn back now.”

  “Smile, Fisk. The whole nation is watching you.”

  Fisk glanced nervously at the camera. “Don’t make this difficult, ma’am.”

  Julie took two steps closer. “Going to shoot me, too?”

  “Turn it around, ma’am.”

  Sanborn stepped forward. “Easy, Lieutenant. We’re unarmed. My men and I have left our weapons at the other end of the bridge.”

  “How do I know that?”

  “You can search us.”

  “Search you? I don’t even want to breathe the same air.”

  “Let us off this island,” Julie said. She took another step.

  Fisk straightened, held up a hand. “Close enough, ma’am.”

  A gunshot exploded nearby, from behind and to Sanborn’s left. He wheeled. Two more shots ca
me and Fisk staggered and fell, clutching his shoulder.

  Frank Walters, his eyes wild, waved a .38 pistol at the Guardsmen. He fired once more. People scattered.

  “Frank, no!” Sanborn cried.

  Too late. Bursts of automatic weapons fire roared. Walters was spun and thrown backward by the impact of dozens of bullets. His body hit the pavement.

  Screams.

  Sanborn grabbed Julie and yanked her backward. The crowd panicked and ran. The Guardsmen dropped to their knees, in firing positions.

  Fisk writhed on the pavement. A sergeant, a young woman, rushed to his side. Fisk shoved her aside, struggled to a sitting position, his hand clamped onto his shoulder. “Hold your fire,” he barked.

  Julie pulled free of Sanborn’s grasp. “We can’t lose our foothold,” she said. “If we retreat to the island, we’ve lost our last chance.”

  Sanborn nodded. “Chancy, Johnson,” he called. The men were crouching nearby. “Over the railing. Bring the camera.” Johnson shook his head, backing away. Chancy grabbed him by the collar and shoved him toward the rail. Johnson reluctantly dragged his bulk over the railing, followed by Chancy.

  Sanborn and Julie scrambled over the opposite bridge railing and crouched in the darkness under the bridge. His feet sank into the mud. “Stay down,” he whispered. “They saw us slip down under here.”

  Sanborn leaned out from under the bridge, paused, and gripped the steel beam above and pulled himself up. The citizens of Brigands Key were fleeing toward the island. A pair of Guardsmen stooped over the body of Frank Walters.

  A low rumble of vehicles came from the east. “Hold on,” Sanborn said. He eased out farther and craned his neck to see.

  The lights of vehicles appeared in the distance, approaching. The Guardsmen turned. “Who the hell is that?” Fisk said. “Ferguson, get Captain Garcia on and ask why we weren’t alerted to reinforcements.”

  A dozen military vehicles pulled into position behind the National Guard units and arrayed themselves, blocking the entire roadway and shoulders. The headlights bathed the confused Guardsmen in blinding light.

  The doors of the center vehicle opened. A dozen soldiers spilled out and took positions. From another Humvee a handful of civilians climbed out.

  A news van, WCMT in Tampa, rolled up. A camera crew leapt out and began panning the scene.

  Fisk rose shakily to his feet. “News media? How’d they get in? They’re not allowed past Checkpoint A, a mile back.”

  Governor Chase Crawford, dressed in camo fatigues and body armor, stepped out of the central vehicle, bullhorn in hand. He glanced at the news crew. He raised the bullhorn to his mouth. “This is Chase Crawford. You men are Florida National Guardsmen. Now listen carefully. This ends here and now. As you can see, I’ve brought more Guardsmen with me. The U.S. government illegally federalized you. I am hereby removing you men from the command of the President of United States.”

  Fisk’s troops glanced at him. He staggered to his Humvee and leaned heavily against it, wincing in pain.

  Crawford raised his bullhorn again. “I repeat; I am moving you to State command.”

  “The hell you are,” shouted Fisk. "You ain't commander in chief." He waved to his men. They trained their weapons on Crawford.

  The troops that had arrived with Crawford drew aim upon the Guardsmen on the bridge.

  Even in the glare of the lights and the gloom of the storm, Sanborn could see Crawford’s face turn ashen.

  Under the bridge, Mayor Johnson hustled through the mud to Sanborn’s side, panting heavily. “What’s happening up there?”

  “Just a civil war.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Grant raised his bandaged thigh and studied it in the beam of his dive lamp. The heavy bleeding had stopped, though a trickle seeped out through the red-soaked bandage. Charley, piloting through the churning Gulf, let the boat slam down coming off the crest of a wave. The impact jarred Grant and pain shot through his leg. He winced and grunted and glared at Charley.

  Charley looked down at him. “Sorry. Almost there. Coming up on the south end of the island. Smoother water ahead.”

  “Is the Coast Guard still there?”

  “Don’t see them. They must be at the bridge or still chasing Doc Hammond.”

  Not much chance of Hammond still eluding them, Grant thought sourly. Unless they wanted to be outrun, it wasn’t happening.

  They rounded the tip of the island.

  Two of the three patrol boats were nowhere in sight. The third prowled the middle ground between the bridge and the dock, its searchlights swinging across the bridge. One probed the shadows beneath the bridge structure on the mainland side. There was a shout. One search beam swung about and lit the Lost Expedition. The patrol boat’s engines revved and kicked up a wake and looped toward them.

  “Charley, forget the dock. Beach us in the mangroves. Do it now.”

  “Aye, Cap’n.” Charley rounded the tip of the island and entered the calmer waters. “Hang on.” He shoved the throttle forward. The engine roared and the boat shot forward. He turned the wheel and the boat rammed into the tangle of mangroves that lined the south end of the island, snapping the thin stilt roots and limbs before coming to rest ten yards in.

  The Coast Guard boat rumbled in the channel behind them. The searchlights set the mangrove thicket ablaze with light. There was no chance they weren’t spotted. Charley flipped a middle finger in the boat’s direction.

  “We’re being chased by angry men with cannons,” Grant said. “Was that really necessary?”

  Charley killed the engine and helped Grant to his feet. “Can you make it?”

  “Got no choice. Let’s get going.”

  Grant sat on the gunwale and swung his legs over the side. Charley hooked his hands under Grant’s armpits and lowered him into the muck of the mangrove swamp. Grant tried to catch his weight on the arching stilt roots of the mangrove, but slipped and sank into the mud, knee deep. The pain in his leg surged. He sucked in his breath and dragged himself from the mud and higher into the roots and moved ahead.

  Charley followed. In a few minutes of fighting the jungle, they emerged onto the cleared upland that was to become Bay View.

  The patrol boat idled just behind. A shouted discussion was taking place aboard it. The boat swept away in the direction of the bridge.

  “Something’s going on,” Charley said. “They’ve lost interest in us.”

  “A break at last.” Grant looked at his watch. “Let’s go.”

  Grant took two steps and stumbled, grimacing in pain.

  Charley hooked one of Grant’s arms around his neck and helped him up. “I’ve got you.”

  Two minutes’ walk netted fifty yards. “This rate,” Grant said, “it’ll take us all night.”

  A car approached from the north. “Should we run?” Charley asked.

  “I can barely walk. Let’s just hope it’s on our side.”

  The car drew near and pulled alongside. The driver’s window hummed open and Gerald Hammond leaned out. “Need a lift?”

  He parked the Benz, got out, and hurried over to Grant. He swung open the back door and eased Grant toward it. “I saw your boat enter the channel. Cripes, what got into you?”

  “Rusty steel pipe. German U-boat.”

  Surprise lit Hammond’s face. “Sounds like a hell of a story. You can tell me about it in my office.” He tossed the car keys to Charley. “You drive.”

  Charley climbed in behind the wheel, keyed the ignition. The engine purred. Charley put it in gear. The car lurched.

  “Easy there, leadfoot.”

  “Sorry.” He leaned forward stiffly and the car rolled out onto the street.

  “You eluded the Coast Guard,” Grant said. “Pretty slippery for a sawbones; I gave you a one in ten chance.”

  “I’m fine, thanks for asking. You’ll find Johnson’s boat in the dictionary under the heading ‘flotsam.’ Nothing bigger than a breadbox left of it.” He described t
he boat chase and the gunfire. “I bailed off the north end of the island just before the explosion and swam underwater a hundred feet before surfacing. Made my way back to the island. I don’t think I’ll be collecting my Christmas bonus this year.”

  “What’s going on out on the bridge?”

  “Not sure. I’m dying to find out but everyone thinks I’m dead. Figured that was some small bit of advantage, so I hid and kept an eye out for you. I heard gunfire, and people came running back to the island.” They pulled up near Hammond’s office. “Kill your lights and park on the next block, Charley. I want to stay dead a while.”

  Charley nodded and passed Hammond’s clinic. He parked in a dark lane behind an overgrown hedge.

  “We’ll use the back entrance,” Hammond said. He helped Grant out of the car and they crouched and hurried across the empty parking lot in the shadows.

  Hammond passed Grant off to Charley, fished his pocket for his keys, and opened a narrow back door and shut it behind them. He switched on a single light in the rear hall.

  “Someone’ll see the light,” Charley said.

  “Nope. Got my hurricane shutters up today. Not a single photon will escape this building.” He led Grant into an exam room.

  “No,” Grant said, shaking off Hammond’s arm. “We’re running out of time. Patch me later.”

  “You may not know it but that’s a nasty wound you’ve got there. And you’ve lost a lot of blood.”

  “Okay, grab your medicine bag and fix me up somewhere else. We need a computer.”

  Hammond grunted. “You make a lousy patient. Very well. My office. Second door on the right, Charley. Make him comfortable. I’ll be right there.”

  Charley helped Grant into the room and settled him into Hammond’s overstuffed leather chair. He brought up a stool and placed Grant’s wounded leg onto it. Grant gritted his teeth against the rising pain. “Boot up the computer, kid. Hurricane’s coming and we’ll lose the opportunity soon.”

  Charley nodded and switched on Hammond’s desktop computer.

  Hammond returned, loaded with medicines and bandages. He eased the fabric of Grant’s blood-soaked swimsuit above the wound. “Yow,” he said softly. “I’m going to get some industrial painkillers and antibiotics into you.” He soaked a cloth with alcohol and gently wiped the leg clean, front and back. He got out a syringe, selected a bottle of anesthetic, filled the syringe, and squeezed out a thin stream of the medicine. “This is going to hurt you a lot more than it hurts me,” he said. He pressed the needle into Grant’s thigh.