Bobby Akart - Devil Storm

Finally, out of frustration, she muttered a profanity under her breath. She whispered to Mike, “You know what, Detective, this whole paper trail thing is a waste of time. Only half of us fill it out, and then who the hell knows whether it’s getting logged in. Do you have an idea of what you want?”

“Yeah.”

“Where do you wanna start?”

“Communications and then the armory. Also, I’ll need a set of wheels together with a few things from the motor pool. It doesn’t have to necessarily be our equipment. Seizures will work.”

The woman nodded. “Let’s get started. I could use the fresh air, if we can manage to find any.”

Pleased with himself, Mike followed the young woman down the corridor into the bowels of the sheriff’s department’s complex of buildings. The stars had aligned for him to take whatever he needed, assuming he didn’t go nuts and unduly garner someone’s attention.

A quick hour later, Mike pulled out of the MCSO complex with a black, four-door Suburban that had been seized in a drug bust together with a six-by-twelve enclosed trailer from a cabinet maker who’d skipped town after taking his customer’s deposit checks. Both the Suburban and the trailer were full of weapons, ammunition, and a myriad of supplies Mike considered to be essential to his family’s survival. The six five-gallon gas cans strapped to the roof of the Suburban served as the icing on the cake of his retirement present. The only thing he forgot to do on the way out was give notice of his retirement, by design, of course.

After he drove past Stock Island, it took Mike over two hours to reach Seven Mile Bridge. Stranded cars and pedestrians constituted the biggest impediment to traveling across the long span of A1A. Prior to that, fallen trees and parts of buildings still covered the highway following the hurricane.

Big Pine Key had been hit hard. There, A1A made an S curve through the retail district along a stretch where the highway ran through the hammocks that were barely a few feet above water. Sand, vegetation, and the metal fencing that acted as guardrails had become melded together. The tangled mess swept across the road, making it difficult to differentiate between the highway and the rest of its surroundings.

Apparently, clearing the road of debris was very low on Mayor Lindsey’s list of priorities. That was fine with Mike. The undersheriff’s near slipup had confirmed what Mike suspected would be happening throughout the Keys very soon. Lindsey planned on tightening her grip on the county’s residents and businesses. Mike had two options. One, which he’d set into motion today, was to appear to join them or be a loyal participant when she consolidated her power. The other was to show his cards only if forced to. It would be a dangerous game that required a clear mind.

Standing up to an angry mayor and her puppet sheriff was a deadly proposition Mike didn’t want to contemplate. He leaned back in the seat of the Suburban and relaxed once he exited the bridge and arrived in Marathon. When Hank and Jessica left, he’d told them to stay away until the storm had cleared and they’d taken care of Driftwood Key first. From what he’d observed on the drive up, he suspected they had their hands full.

Saturday, November 9

Aboard the Cymopoleia

Gulf of Mexico

As expected, the brief glimpse of the sun peeking through the clouds was soon lost, and the depressing hazy skies returned. That didn’t dampen the spirits of Lacey and Tucker. For the first time since they’d left Tarpon Springs, they could make out land in the distance. More than land. It was home.

They were moving at a steady pace and expected to make landfall within hours. That was when they encountered something unexpected. The United States Coast Guard.

It was not just a single patrol vessel. It was an armada that stretched as far as the eyes could see to the north. Tucker found the binoculars and counted the ships, although he was unfamiliar with their nomenclature. He described them as one large boat with a helicopter pad on the rear; then there were four or five short boats with orange railings that looked like rubber. Two grayish boats with their drivers on top flanked the group. Bringing up the rear was a boat the size of a cruise ship. Tucker described it as being five or six times larger than their fishing boat.

He returned to the open window of the wheelhouse next to the helm and described what he’d observed. “Mom, there aren’t any to our right. I think if we hurry, we can cut across their path before we get stuck. I’d hate to run out of diesel waiting on these guys to pass us.”

“Agreed. Come back in and let’s open her up until we’re clear.” She glanced down at the fuel gauge. There was no time for calculations. Let the chips fall as they may.

Lacey’s decision to take the Cymopoleia at full throttle to avoid contact with the Coast Guard was a wise one. The contingent had been dispatched on the president’s orders. Like its counterpart on the Atlantic side of the Keys, it was moving at a steady pace with one ship at a time dropping back and settling into a fixed position. By late that afternoon, the Coast Guard would have created a blockade that included orders to board and search every vessel coming in or out of the Keys.

After the encounter with the Coast Guard was behind them, Lacey and Tucker became more excited as they approached. Their eyes darted between the boat’s fuel gauge and what lay beyond the bow. The chain of limestone islands extending from Key Largo to Key West and geographically all the way to the Dry Tortugas were beginning to reveal themselves through the haze.

The calm seas and very little in the way of surf made their final leg of the journey uneventful. That didn’t stop their pulses from racing in nervous anticipation. Lacey turned giddy as the largest cluster of islands making up the Lower Keys could be seen off the stern. The large gap between the islands was clearly Seven Mile Bridge. As they got closer, she pointed out the various keys by name. Big Coppitt. Cudjoe. Big Pine.

And then Marathon.

Lacey began to cry tears of relief and joy. Somehow, in the back of her mind, there was still doubt whether the Florida Keys still existed. Her home in Hayward had likely been destroyed. She certainly expected Peter’s had been as well, or at least was uninhabitable. Would the devilish people who’d ordered the release of the nuclear weapons set their sights on a place like Miami as well? Maybe. And if so, had the Keys been spared?

Trepidation turned to elation as the dock came into view right where it should be. Her dad’s boat along with Jessica’s WET team vessel were tied off to the cleats.

“We did it, Mom! I knew we could!”

Lacey got emotional as she approached Driftwood Key. Thoughts of Owen filled her head. They should’ve made it together as a family. A freak winter storm event had taken his life, just as a devilish hurricane had tried to take theirs. She sighed and closed her eyes for a moment, speaking to her husband as if he were by her side. She told him how much she loved him and how much he would be missed.

She thought of his cremated remains secured in a thick, tightly sealed equivalent of a Ziploc baggie. During the shooting at the dock in Bay St. Louis, Lacey had made sure her small duffel with his remains made it on board the boat. She was glad she’d had the forethought to secure it away in the galley so Owen’s remains wouldn’t be disturbed. She’d find a special place to bury him on Driftwood Key, a place Owen had loved as much as he’d loved her family.

“Mom! Is that Sonny?”

“It is!” Lacey began to press the button on the helm to sound the air horn. She pressed it several times so that long, drawn-out blasts filled the quiet, still morning.