Bobby Akart - First Strike

When he found his way to the local Harris Teeter, his shopping cart screamed bachelor . Red Bull. Pretzels. Several bottles of Jack Daniel’s Honey Barbecue sauce and a few frozen pizzas from California Pizza Kitchen to dip into it. If he was gonna be in town for more than a couple of days, he’d splurge on a box of Entenmann’s doughnuts.

With his horrific eating habits, Peter could’ve easily packed on the pounds. However, he was fortunate to have his father’s genetics and his mother’s love for running. Every morning, without fail, Peter would strap on his Asics running shoes and pound the pavement. He’d set his Apple AirPods in place and pick out a couple of podcasts to listen to. Or he’d select the playlist full of beach songs performed by his favorite country music performers.

Considering the strain placed on his body from traveling coupled with a diet that was more college frat boy than adult journalist, Peter remained well-toned and healthy.

He was exhausted and looked forward to crashing in his own bed for a change. He’d popped open a beer and mindlessly surfed through the cable news channels to see footage of the aftermath of the terrorist attacks. A couple of the networks had created graphics quoting him and even used his picture to put a face with the quotes. It was a proud moment for him, although he couldn’t relish it. He was genuinely glad to be alive.

Once his pizza was ready, he cut it up and poured a small mound of barbecue sauce in the middle of the plate. It was a routine he’d repeated a hundred times during his years in Washington. To some, it might exhibit loneliness. One could easily feel sorry for the young man who’d devoted his life to journalism. For Peter, eating was the least important part of his daily life. He enjoyed being in the thick of international affairs, even if it was as a reporter looking from the outside in.

He was on his third slice when his landline phone rang in the kitchen. Upon his return, he’d checked his voicemails and found numerous messages from television and radio producers hoping to interview him the next day. He didn’t take the time to write them down. The late evening call was unexpected, but most likely a persistent producer. He’d reward them with the first opportunity to score an exclusive.

Peter rose from the couch and headed to the kitchen. As he did, his personal cell phone rang. Then, almost simultaneously, the secure phone assigned to him as a member of the State Department’s embed press pool chirped as well. His tiny condo was filled with a variety of ringing sounds, the most annoying of which was the landline. It, however, was the least important.

Peter raced back around the couch and grabbed the secure cell from State.

“Hello.”

“Peter, it’s Jenna.”

“Hey. Um, wait. How’d you get this number?”

“It doesn’t matter. Listen—”

Peter’s eyes caught a glimpse of the television. He started shouting, “ Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. ”

“Peter! Peter!” Jenna’s voice was coming through the phone’s receiver.

“Yeah, I’m here. I see it on the news.”

“Listen to me,” she continued.

Peter turned his focus back to his longtime friend. She spoke for a moment, and then he pulled the phone away from his ear. He muttered the only words he could seem to grasp at the moment.

“ Oh shit .”

Saturday, October 19

Driftwood Key

After a long day, Mike and Jessica reached out to Hank by phone. He said he had a bungalow available if they’d like to come have a few mojitos and crash for the night. The childless-by-choice couple readily accepted and were treated to a hearty meal by Phoebe. The rest of the evening was spent on the beach, listening to the bongo drums and the steel drum band while a small bonfire shot flames into the sky near the water’s edge.

Hank was a social cigar smoker. On those rare occasions he was able to dig his toes in the sand and consume an adult beverage, he enjoyed lighting up his favorite cigar—the Island Jim. The torpedo-shaped smoke had been his father’s favorite, and Hank had acquired a taste for them when he used to sneak them out of the humidor as a teen. Shaped like a #2 pencil, the label featured the cartoonish image of a man who seemingly spent his entire life on the beach. Hank liked it for its rich, chocolatey flavor.

“Here’s the thing, Hank,” began Mike. “We don’t have enough warm bodies to beat the streets. Monroe County is not geared up for a murder investigation like this one. Miami-Dade has offered assistance, and of course, the FDLE is chomping at the bit to join in.”

Mike, who rarely smoked cigars, always enjoyed one when he was hanging out with his older brother. He’d always looked up to Hank as a kid and tried his best to hang with the big dogs , as his mother put it, when he was growing up. Seven years younger, Mike emulated many of Hank’s mannerisms and traits although the two men differed in career paths. Mike always wanted to be a cop, and Hank always wanted to be Island Jim. Hank kept a box of Rocky Patel cigars in the humidor for Mike. The Edge, as the cigar was called, was much milder than most smokes. It provided a nice, robust flavor without the strong knockout punch that most cigars hit the casual smoker with.

Hank took a long draw on his cigar and allowed the smoke rings to float into the night until they joined the flames from the bonfire.

“So let ’em,” said Hank as he sipped on a mojito. The Driftwood Key Inn was known for several signature traits or amenities. In addition to being the only resort on its own private island, guests raved about their signature cocktail, the mojito.

The Florida Keys, thanks to Jimmy Buffett and his Margaritaville restaurant in Key West, was often associated with margaritas. Margaritas, a tequila-infused lime drink, was first introduced near Tijuana, Mexico, in the late 1930s. Associating it with island living was a direct result of Buffett, his music, and extensive branding.

Since the Florida Keys were first inhabited, and probably because of their close proximity to Cuba, the mojito cocktail had been the drink of choice. Originally a medicinal drink used to curb disease in Havana, it was created with bootleg rum mixed with readily available mint, lime juice, and sugar cane syrup.

The Albright family, like the other early settlers of the Florida Keys, had imbibed in the tart yet tasty drink since the turn of the nineteenth century. At the Driftwood Key Inn, they followed the recipe used by most, except the Albrights insisted on using key limes grown on the property and white rum made by Havana Club, a Cuban rum now available because the embargo against the nation had been lifted.

While Hank and Jessica enjoyed their mojitos, Mike, always the exception, sipped a Jack Black on the rocks.

Hank turned to Jessica. “How about you? Anything exciting on the water today?”

As part of the Water Emergency Team, Jessica had to respond to all manner of emergencies, from people who’d been injured to divers in distress.

“You know, it’s hard to compare what I do to Mike. I’ve watched him tackle these murder cases and take them on personally as if he were a family member of the dead person. I don’t have that kind of excitement.

“Today, I had to respond to a family on the water who thought their father was having a heart attack or a stroke. We raced out there only to find out he was toasted inside and out. It was nothing more than pickled innards and dehydration.”

Hank nodded his understanding of where she was coming from. “These people are here to have a good time. They wanna drink, get some sun, and do all the things they can’t do up in Illinois or Ohio or Vermont. We try to politely warn them, and while they’re on our property, Jimmy and the others are able to let them know when they’ve had too much sun.”