James Swain - No Good Deed

Sea Sea Riders restaurant was housed in a Key West — style cottage just off the main drag. He found Lynch at the bar drinking a rum and coke and chatting with a pretty bartender half his age. A border collie sat by his feet, licking its paws.

“Captain Lynch? My name is Jon Lancaster, and I work with a law enforcement agency called Team Adam,” he introduced himself. “I spoke to your roommate, and he said I might find you here. May I have a few minutes of your time?”

Lynch spent a moment reading his Team Adam business card. His face was a burgundy color, his mop of hair snow white. His hands were the size of small dinner plates, and were scarred from countless cuts and scrapes.

“What’s this about?” Lynch asked.

“I’d like to talk to you about the Outlaws,” he said.

His eyes flickered. “What about them?”

“You sold your charter fishing company to them, is that correct?”

Lynch tossed the card on the bar and frowned. “Yes, I did. I knew something was wrong with those guys, I just couldn’t put a finger on what it was. Sure, I’ll talk. You want something to drink?”

“A club soda would be good.”

“Hey, Amber, get me a refill and my friend here a club soda.”

They went outside for some privacy. The patio was empty, and they took a table beneath a large oak. The border collie dutifully followed, and parked himself at Lynch’s feet. He was rewarded with a dog biscuit, which he happily chewed.

“What’s your pup’s name?” Lancaster asked.

“Ruddy. He’s a rescue. They’re the best kind,” Lynch said.

“I’ve heard people say that. The things I need to ask you must stay confidential.”

“This sounds like trouble.”

He let the comment pass and took a sip of his drink.

“Will my name be kept out of this?” Lynch asked, sounding anxious.

“Of course. I won’t include your name on any of my reports.”

“Fair enough. What do you want to know?”

“How did you come to sell your business to the Outlaws?”

“In the beginning, they were customers,” Lynch said. “They booked a charter trip, and four of them showed up at the marina on their Harleys, so I took them out. We’ve got a lot of bikers around here, most of them lawyers and stockbrokers who ride on the weekends, so I didn’t pay it much attention.

“Everything went fine at first. We threw lines in the water, and my first mate served them beers. I tried to strike up a conversation, but they weren’t in the mood. A lot of my customers are celebrating a birthday or a reunion, but that wasn’t the case here. I thought it was strange, but what was I going to do?

“An hour into the trip, one of them asked for a tour of the boat, so I showed him around. He asked a lot of questions, and I started wondering if he was going into the charter business himself.”

“What kind of questions?”

“He asked about maintenance cost, cost of gas, the licenses I needed, that sort of stuff. He asked if the coast guard ever bothered us, which I found sort of strange.”

“Had they?”

“Nope. The coast guard didn’t hassle us, and had never come on board. I told him I’d been in business a long time, and had a clean reputation.”

“Do other charter captains have bad reputations?”

“Some of them do, sure. They let the partying get out of hand, if you know what I mean. I never let that happen.”

“Did he offer to buy your business then?”

“That happened a few days later. I came to the marina one morning, and the guy was waiting for me. His name was Hawk. He offered to buy my boats, and he also wanted the business name, which is incorporated.”

“So he wanted to buy your reputation.”

Lynch rubbed his chin. “I suppose he did. Never thought of it that way.”

“And you agreed.”

“Not at first, I didn’t. It was obvious that Hawk and his friends didn’t know squat about fishing or running a charter business, so I asked him to his face if he was planning to use my boats to run drugs. Hawk said he’d swear on a stack of Bibles that he wouldn’t use my boats for that, which I found funny as hell.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because that guy hadn’t been near a Bible in his life. Anyway, I was still on the fence, but then he made his offer. The number blew me away.”

“He offered you a lot.”

“That’s right. The recession hit me hard, and I was drowning in debt. I couldn’t say no, even though I had reservations about the guy. We closed the deal a week later, which was another eye-opener.”

“Why was that?”

“Hawk came to the closing with two duffel bags filled with cash. I’d never seen that much money in my life.”

“Would you mind telling me how much money?”

“I’d rather not. I didn’t report all of it on my taxes.”

“This won’t go into my report. I’m just curious.”

“It was over seven figures.”

One of the worst mistakes an investigator could make was to make assumptions, because it often led to false conclusions. He’d assumed Lynch was a small-time operator, which Lynch had just shattered by admitting that he’d made a killing selling his business to the Outlaws. There were boats, and then there were boats , and the vessels that Lynch had sold to the bikers had fetched over $1 million. That was a huge investment, and it made him wonder how big the boats really were.

Lynch had gone back to petting his friend, who’d rolled over on his back. He looked up at his guest and said, “It was a deal with the devil, wasn’t it?”

“You couldn’t have known what they were up to,” he said.

“But I felt it in my gut. They were bad news.”

“If they hadn’t bought your business, they would have bought someone else’s.”

“So I should stop flogging myself, is that what you’re saying?”

“You did nothing wrong. Would you by chance have photographs of the boats you sold to them? It would help in my investigation.”

“I’ve got a few photos on my phone. I look at them sometimes when I get nostalgic. Give me your email, and I’ll send them to you.”

He waited until he was in his car before looking at the photographs. It confirmed his suspicion about why the Outlaws had spent so much money for a business that they hadn’t intended to run, and he spun his wheels leaving the lot.

Back at his hotel, he killed the engine, and then sipped the double espresso he’d bought from the Starbucks down the road. It snapped back his eyelids, and he became wide awake. That was good, because he didn’t intend to go to bed anytime soon.

Two plans had been forming in his head, each independent of the other. First and foremost, he needed to rescue the gang’s victims. He could let the FBI handle that, but had decided it would be best to do so himself. Rescue missions had been his forte in the military, and the odds of the mission being successful were greater if he was in charge.

The second plan was to pay back Dexter for murdering his brother. Sending Dexter back to prison would not bring him any satisfaction. Dexter needed a bullet put in him, and he had to figure out a way to accomplish that, without being thrown in jail.

Behind the hotel was a courtyard where a fountain spewed colored water. He took an empty bench and sent a text to a dependable ex-SEAL named Carlo, who, along with his partners Mike and Karl, had done jobs for him before. Carlo quickly replied, saying the team was on a hush-hush assignment overseas, and wouldn’t be home for a month.

He decided to take another route. The Navy SEAL program had started in Florida during World War II, and today there was a museum that celebrated this. Located in Fort Pierce, it was called the Navy SEAL Museum, and it resided on the training grounds of the original navy frogmen.