W. Griffin - The Last Witness

PHILADELPHIA, ATLANTIC CITY, NEW ORLEANS, BILOXI

The boats in the pack were of a variety of sizes and styles-but all designed for speed. A few had simple solid-color hulls. Most, though, like the Marauder, featured wild graphics covering their enormous decks and hulls-everything from stylized U.S. flags to skull-and-crossbones to racing motifs with black-and-white checkered flags and circled numbers. The boat running directly ahead of Perez’s resembled a giant can of the energy beverage NRG!

As the pack of go-fasts-most of which also had attractive young women aboard-followed the island chain northward, Perez had the Marauder running not even at half throttle. The speed readout in the corner of the Global Positioning Satellite screen indicated forty-six miles an hour.

With three 1,075-horsepower Mercury Racing engines, the Marauder could hit a cruise speed of seventy-five miles an hour and a top speed of 124. In addition to the cockpit seats, the area below deck had room for another eight passengers. The nicely furnished cabin, heavily insulated and air-conditioned, resembled what one would expect to find aboard a private jet aircraft, complete with plush leather couches, a high-end entertainment system, and a flat-screen television.

In the cabin were two sunburned, balding, olive-skinned, middle-aged men, both wearing khaki shorts and baggy Cuban guayabera shirts that didn’t conceal their paunches. Each sat with an attractive twenty-something bikinied blonde in his lap. They all were watching the Poker Run on the TV as a bikinied redhead poured them more frozen pina coladas from a blender.

Perez grabbed the handheld and keyed the mic.

“Go, Tin Can.”

“Just saw your first wave of boats pass. Over.”

“Roger that. I’m running near the middle of it. And L-Five is about ten minutes back in the second wave. Over.”

“Got it. I’m tracking your positions on GPS. We just started the first off-loading. Should be complete in twenty. What about the Red Stripe? Over.”

Perez sighed, then keyed the mic again.

“Stand by, Tin Can.”

Jorge Perez then said impatiently into his Motorola radio: “Lucky Five, Lucky Five. Lucky One. Did you copy Tin Can? Over.”

Lucky Five was Perez’s cousin Carlos, a diminutive thirty-year-old who Perez occasionally taunted by accusing him of having a Napoleon complex. He was at the helm of a forty-eight-foot Fountain Express Cruiser, one of the Poker Run boats without any graphic design. Its low-profile deep blue hull practically blended in with the sea.

Riding with Carlos was just one twenty-something, an amazingly attractive brunette whom Perez said he was sending along “so you won’t look like a fucking maricon -despite your pingita .”

Carlos had wondered if the girl spoke, or at least somehow understood, Cuban-she had smirked at Perez’s accusation that he might resemble a homosexual with a tiny prick-and that was only compounded as she wordlessly spent the day sunning and sipping the French champagne she found in the galley of the luxurious cabin.

Being ignored really pissed him off.

“L-One, L-Five,” Carlos replied, sounding annoyed. “I heard it. No problem hooking up with Tin Can in twenty.”

“But will you be alone?” Perez said pointedly, letting his Latin temper slip. “What the hell is up with Red Stripe? Over . .”

Red Stripe, the beer brewed on the Caribbean island of Jamaica, was one of Perez’s favorites. He had a case of it iced down, along with a variety of other imported cervezas , in the aft cooler. But “Red Stripe” also was the code name that Perez had picked to mean any United States law enforcement asset, in this case particularly that of the U.S. Coast Guard, which emblazoned its boats, helicopters, and airplanes with its crossed-anchor logo within a crimson-colored forward-slanting stripe.

Fifteen minutes earlier, Lucky Five had radioed-somewhat hysterically-that just as his pack of ten go-fasts droned past an idling Coast Guard SPC–LE-a thirty-three-foot-long aluminum-hulled “Special Purpose Craft-Law Enforcement”-the boat had immediately throttled up and begun chasing the pack.

And chasing him. Or so Carlos had feared.

Lucky Five was running at the back of the pack, which was some fifteen minutes ahead of the third group of ten that brought up the rear of the entire line of thirty-one Poker Run boats.

Perez really had had no choice but to order that Carlos keep the Fountain at the back, because there it would attract the least attention. But it also made Lucky Five the easiest to cull from the herd if, for example, the Coast Guard wanted to perform what Perez derided as a “courtesy inspection.”

Enforcing maritime law on the high seas-from looking for drug smugglers to counting life jackets-was a mission of the Coast Guard. Captains whose vessels were stopped and found to be in compliance would suffer only a short delay, generally from a courteous but professional boarding crew.

Perez more or less sneered at the thought of the Coast Guard SPC giving chase. Powered by three 300-horsepower outboards, the lightweight SPC would have to run hard to catch the fast Fountain. And the Marauder, with triple 1,075-horsepower engines, would easily leave the SPC in its wake.

But not for long.

Perez was acutely aware that all that the Coast Guard had to do was call in for support-including scrambling aircraft, if necessary-and there would be nowhere for anyone to run.

Perez had made sure that, like his Marauder, Carlos’s Fountain was completely in compliance with all laws.

If only for the moment, he thought.

It was common knowledge that if the cops really wanted to stop him-or, for that matter, any vessel operating in U.S. waters-they only had to declare that the vessel was operating in an unsafe manner.

The Coasties could easily board his boat with any excuse. They could say they saw the shitter discharging overboard, then tell him, “Guess it’s okay after all. Better safe than sorry. Have a nice day.”

But if they pick up on his nervousness, and keep an eye on him, we’re totally screwed.

“L-One, L-Five,” came Carlos’s reply after a moment, his tone sounding relieved. “All clear. Red Stripe turned toward shore. Looks like he’s headed for Looe Key.” He added, “Maybe some tourist got a snorkel full of water on the reef. Over.”

Perez grunted. He shook his head as his eyes scanned the speedboats in his pack, then the waters beyond the pack where the coral reef was. He did not see the Red Stripe.

Looe Key? You better hope not.

That’s close to where we’re headed, you fucking idiot!

“Stay focused!” Perez snapped. “L-One standing by.”

Perez dropped the handheld into its holder beside where the in-dash VHF radio was mounted. Wedged in the lip of the VHF faceplate were four playing cards, a pair of diamonds and a pair of kings. The readout screen on the faceplate cycled, showing the radio was monitoring channel 16-the international frequency for distress and general calls-and channel 79.

The display then locked on 79, and the loudspeaker came to life with an excited young female voice.

“Attention all Poker Run captains,” she announced, her tone over-the-top chipper. “Headquarters station calling. Wave one is about to arrive at our fifth stop, Lost Key Resort, where boats get their last playing cards. Wave two is approximately ten minutes behind, and wave three, the last wave, left Key West fifteen minutes ago. So far only one boat’s dropped out, due to a mechanical problem. Keep safe out there! HQ headed for Lost Key and we’re standing by on channel 79. . ”

Perez sighed, then reached to the helm and turned down the volume on the VHF. He looked back and watched the lumbering cargo ship fading into the distance.