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Authors: Michael Haskins
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drugs.”
“Good point.”
“There may only be the smugglers and Cluny and they’ll go with the vehicle.”
“Then we take Cluny down,” he said excitedly.
I wondered if take down meant kill, his excited tone made me think he did.
“Cluny wouldn’t be alone,” he said. “He’ll have one or two people with him.”
“It’s still better odds than going after them all.”
“Okay, we’ll do it your way.”
I got my Glock out of its hidey-hole below deck and took the three extra magazines I had. One clip was too many and three wasn’t going to be enough. Coco Joe waited on the dock, by my dinghy, his backpack already on board. I wondered what kind of arsenal he had.
We got on, without speaking, I started the engine, and we moved through the black water, past the cut and into the Gulf of Mexico. Off to our right a large condominium unit raised up and I steered toward its docks. A false dawn was beginning as we tied off.
“When we come out,” I whispered, “we’ll be about three houses up and can watch when the vehicle leaves.”
We quietly moved toward the road and sat behind some shrubs. At 4 a.m., a white Cadillac Escalade left Cluny’s gated property. It had tinted windows, so we couldn’t see how many were inside. I caught the Florida license plate number and called Chief Dowley. He wasn’t happy to hear from me.
“Are you drunk?” He fought to wake up.
“Listen to me,” and I told him about the Cadillac and the drugs.
“Mick, how do you know this?” he was waking up.
“I stumbled across it by accident, but you need to get them before they cross Cow Key Channel or they belong to the sheriff.”
“I’ll talk to you later,” but it was said in an unfriendly way, and he hung up.
“Show time,” Coco Joe slapped my shoulder. He walked slowly toward Cluny’s, fumbling in his backpack. “Here,” he held out two hand grenades.
“What the hell are those?” We were almost at the gate.
“Equalizers.”
I didn’t take them.
“One is a flash grenade, the other,” he raised his right hand, “is a fragment grenade.”
I shook my head in disbelief and kept walking.
The gate was closed. Coco Joe took something out of his backpack, fooled with the lock on the pedestrian door, and got it to open. He racked his Glock. I racked mine and we crept through the door into a quiet front yard. We froze up against the gate and listened, but heard nothing.
I was about to say that maybe they all left, but he held his finger to his lips and we inched our way along the wall toward the backyard. He stopped at a green plastic Waste Management rubbish bin and opened it. Pieces of women’s clothing were tangled up inside. Coco Joe’s eyes were angry, but he let the top down quietly and just looked at me for a second, nodded and we kept moving. There were two motorcycles and a Jeep Wrangler in the carport.
We could see the marina’s lights as we entered the backyard. A large tree stood in the middle, between the house and back wall, a tipped over stool underneath and uncoiled length of rope spread out on the ground. My stomach knotted, because I knew Coco Joe had been right, this was where they had murdered Gabriela.
He took a hand grenade out of the backpack, indicating
one
with his finger and then handed me another and raised two fingers. He motioned me to stay there and indicated he would go around to the front.
I nodded my understanding.
Using his fingers, he pointed one finger toward the window and made a tossing motion, and then he pointed two fingers.
I nodded.
He held up one finger and mouthed ‘minute.’ I nodded as he headed back toward the front of the house.
I counted to sixty, saying Mississippi between numbers. I guess he figured I knew how these worked, or maybe it was in my
jacket
. After I said ‘sixty Mississippi,’ I pulled the pin out of the first grenade and tossed it through the window. In the quiet morning, the breaking glass seemed to reverberate. The grenade
“Good point.”
“There may only be the smugglers and Cluny and they’ll go with the vehicle.”
“Then we take Cluny down,” he said excitedly.
I wondered if take down meant kill, his excited tone made me think he did.
“Cluny wouldn’t be alone,” he said. “He’ll have one or two people with him.”
“It’s still better odds than going after them all.”
“Okay, we’ll do it your way.”
I got my Glock out of its hidey-hole below deck and took the three extra magazines I had. One clip was too many and three wasn’t going to be enough. Coco Joe waited on the dock, by my dinghy, his backpack already on board. I wondered what kind of arsenal he had.
We got on, without speaking, I started the engine, and we moved through the black water, past the cut and into the Gulf of Mexico. Off to our right a large condominium unit raised up and I steered toward its docks. A false dawn was beginning as we tied off.
“When we come out,” I whispered, “we’ll be about three houses up and can watch when the vehicle leaves.”
We quietly moved toward the road and sat behind some shrubs. At 4 a.m., a white Cadillac Escalade left Cluny’s gated property. It had tinted windows, so we couldn’t see how many were inside. I caught the Florida license plate number and called Chief Dowley. He wasn’t happy to hear from me.
“Are you drunk?” He fought to wake up.
“Listen to me,” and I told him about the Cadillac and the drugs.
“Mick, how do you know this?” he was waking up.
“I stumbled across it by accident, but you need to get them before they cross Cow Key Channel or they belong to the sheriff.”
“I’ll talk to you later,” but it was said in an unfriendly way, and he hung up.
“Show time,” Coco Joe slapped my shoulder. He walked slowly toward Cluny’s, fumbling in his backpack. “Here,” he held out two hand grenades.
“What the hell are those?” We were almost at the gate.
“Equalizers.”
I didn’t take them.
“One is a flash grenade, the other,” he raised his right hand, “is a fragment grenade.”
I shook my head in disbelief and kept walking.
The gate was closed. Coco Joe took something out of his backpack, fooled with the lock on the pedestrian door, and got it to open. He racked his Glock. I racked mine and we crept through the door into a quiet front yard. We froze up against the gate and listened, but heard nothing.
I was about to say that maybe they all left, but he held his finger to his lips and we inched our way along the wall toward the backyard. He stopped at a green plastic Waste Management rubbish bin and opened it. Pieces of women’s clothing were tangled up inside. Coco Joe’s eyes were angry, but he let the top down quietly and just looked at me for a second, nodded and we kept moving. There were two motorcycles and a Jeep Wrangler in the carport.
We could see the marina’s lights as we entered the backyard. A large tree stood in the middle, between the house and back wall, a tipped over stool underneath and uncoiled length of rope spread out on the ground. My stomach knotted, because I knew Coco Joe had been right, this was where they had murdered Gabriela.
He took a hand grenade out of the backpack, indicating
one
with his finger and then handed me another and raised two fingers. He motioned me to stay there and indicated he would go around to the front.
I nodded my understanding.
Using his fingers, he pointed one finger toward the window and made a tossing motion, and then he pointed two fingers.
I nodded.
He held up one finger and mouthed ‘minute.’ I nodded as he headed back toward the front of the house.
I counted to sixty, saying Mississippi between numbers. I guess he figured I knew how these worked, or maybe it was in my
jacket
. After I said ‘sixty Mississippi,’ I pulled the pin out of the first grenade and tossed it through the window. In the quiet morning, the breaking glass seemed to reverberate. The grenade
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