Bobby Akart - Devil Storm

He’d been called hero more times than he could count as one person after another filed by the trauma recovery room, where he awaited a doctor’s final clearance to leave. His sutures had been torn open and continuously oozed blood throughout the ordeal. However, he was easily stitched up by one of the less frenzied nurses with a steady hand. He was thankful for that.

There was pain, but not the sharp, stinging pain he’d been warned about as a sign of trouble. After he’d been left alone, he did a self-assessment to determine if there was internal bleeding.

Weakness or numbness on the wounded side of his body? Nope.

Tingling in his extremities? Nope.

Headaches, impaired vision, or hearing? Nope, nope, and nope.

As far as Mike was concerned, he was good to go, and if he wasn’t released, he’d simply slip out the door in his street clothes.

After the shooting was over and the hospital erupted with activity, he had some time to clear his head in between visits by congratulating well-wishers. The world had gone to shit and would only get worse for years. The decision he’d reached with Jessica was confirmed by what had happened at the hospital. It was time to protect his family and Driftwood Key.

Mike came up with a plan, one that involved taking advantage of the chaos following the hurricane as well as the distraction of the MCSO at the moment. In addition, for his plan, he had another advantage. Political capital. Heroes garnered lots of political capital.

The moment he walked out the doors of the hospital, he was going straight to the sheriff’s office. He’d adopt an Action Jackson superhero crime fighter type of attitude when he arrived. He’d play the part of hero if that was what they wanted. He’d put on the cape and mask in order to do one thing.

Prepare to defend their home.

“Mr. Albright,” the emergency room physician announced, snapping Mike out of his daydream, “under any other circumstances, I would never consider letting you out of my sight, much less this hospital. That said, you have two things going for you. One, you proved that you can be mobile. That goes without saying. Two, we’ve got a flood of patients inbound from throughout the Keys who’ve been seriously injured by this devil of a storm that passed over us. Actually, you can thank the hurricane for me signing this.”

The doctor handed Mike a number of pages that included aftercare procedures. He only had to see the front page of the stapled packet to manage a smile. He’d been discharged.

Mike tried to control his exuberance. He had work to do. “Thank you, Doc. I appreciate you guys fixin’ me up.”

The physician looked down and studied the floor covered in crusty drops of Mike’s blood. He seemed to get emotional before he spoke. He slicked back his thinning hair and let Mike know what was on his mind.

“You know, in the heat of the moment and under harried conditions, one might not have the opportunity to study those around them. Mr. Albright, I was the physician standing over the GSW patient. I was wearing a surgical mask, and the lighting was not optimal. And you probably never saw my face. Nonetheless, I firmly believe you saved my life earlier.”

Now Mike understood his demeanor. “Doc, I was just doing my job.”

The doctor looked his patient in the eyes. His eyes were red and swollen, as well as filled with teary moisture. “Maybe. You could’ve been justified in sitting it out, too. There are a lot of appreciative people around here who’ll never forget your bravery.”

Mike smiled. He didn’t receive words of appreciation very often.

Suddenly, there was a commotion in the corridor. The doctor turned to take a look. It was a few of Mike’s fellow detectives. They’d come to check on him and heap praise of their own.

The doctor slipped out of the way, and the detectives joined Mike in the cramped trauma recovery room. He rolled up his discharge paperwork and used it as a club to playfully swat at the detectives as they entered. After some ribbing, they escorted Mike out of the hospital and to the sheriff’s office. He was told Sheriff Jock wanted to personally thank him for his valor.

Mike couldn’t have asked for a better opportunity to implement his plan. When he entered the MCSO facility, he was applauded like a rock star. He had to warn his fellow law enforcement officers that hugs and backslaps were off-limits. He didn’t need his sutures torn open again. The appreciative doctor might not let him leave the next time.

“Hey, Mike!” shouted one of the captains on the force. “Sheriff Jock would like to see you. But a heads-up. He’s knee-deep in the shit, if you know what I mean. He does wanna throw some kudos in your direction.”

Mike thanked the captain and made his way to the sheriff’s office. As he did, he formulated his pitch. He’d have only one shot at this, and he’d better make it a good one.

He waited outside Sheriff Jock’s office. Mike had a decent rapport with the rarely amiable sheriff. He’d learned early on after Sheriff Jock was elected that the man wished he worked for the FBI. Nobody knew why the sheriff didn’t pursue his dream of a career at Quantico or one of the many field offices staffed by FBI agents around the country.

He was certainly not a politician capable of slapping backs, shaking hands, or kissing babies. In his three elections thus far, he’d let voters in Monroe County know where he stood on certain issues, and they could take it or leave it. In a way, Mike thought, that had been refreshing. Full transparency should be a requirement of all politicians with no false promises.

When Mike was finally called into the sheriff’s office, he immediately noticed a change in the man’s demeanor. He usually remained stoic in a crisis. Sheriff Jock was the kind of field general who could lead his department through the worst of hurricanes or the rowdiest of Key West gatherings. He’d even provided Mike and the other detectives the support they needed while they pursued their serial killer.

Today, the sheriff seemed harried. Almost nervous. He was being hit from all sides with questions and demands from his staff. His secretary, the undersheriff, and two office personnel stood in a semicircle around his office, awaiting instructions. They parted slightly to allow Mike a path to approach the sheriff’s desk.

With a deep breath, Mike put on his politician’s hat and mentally put up his guard. Let the chess match begin.

Saturday, November 9

Aboard the Cymopoleia

Gulf of Mexico

The nightmare had mercifully ended. At least this chapter in the story. The Cymopoleia gently rocked back and forth as the remnants of the hurricane gradually moved toward the north, taking the energy of the atmosphere with it. It wasn’t the lack of turbulent air or thrashing water that struck Lacey as odd. It was the glimpse of sunshine.

She’d sent Tucker below deck into the forward cabin to sleep. Ordered was more like it. He’d fought the storm all night and managed to rescue her from certain death. As daybreak came, Lacey expected to see what had become the norm—a thick layer of grayish, sooty clouds blocking out the sky. This morning was different.

“Tucker! Tucker! We have sun. I see it!”

Lacey pulled back on the throttle and allowed the bow to dip down toward the water. She called out his name again before racing out of the wheelhouse onto the aft deck. The brightness of the orb hiding behind the thinning clouds forced her to shade her eyes with her right hand.

Tucker rushed up the steps into the wheelhouse and out the back to join his mother. He squinted, partly because he had been sleeping in the dark cabin and due to the unusual brightness of the sky.