James Swain - Bad News Travels

Beth got in the car and slammed the door.

“My niece is driving me crazy,” she said. “Let’s go.”

He headed south on A1A. “May I make a suggestion?”

“Go ahead.”

“Take Nicki to a firing range, and spend an afternoon target shooting.”

“And what will that accomplish?”

“It will humble her. Hitting a target is hard, and most people can’t do it. She’ll fail, and it will bring her down to earth. Then you’ll be able to reason with her.”

She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “That’s not a bad idea. Thank you.”

The team from the FBI’s North Miami office was jammed into the harbormaster’s office in the Bahia Mar Yachting Center when they arrived. There were six agents, four males and two females, with sidearms strapped to their sides. The harbormaster, a bronze-skinned, chain-smoking lady named Camille, had an open log on her desk.

“This is high season. I’ve got two hundred and fifty boats docked here,” Camille said, her face enveloped in a bluish cloud. “You need to do better than the owner’s name if I’m going to find the one you’re looking for.”

“He’s Russian,” Beth said. “Does that help?”

“Do you know how many Russians have boats docked here? Fort Lauderdale is every oligarch’s playground during the winter. Over fifty have Russian ties, and they all use company names to rent slips. I need more information to find this guy.”

Lancaster thought back to their conversation with Lissette. She’d told them that Bogdan’s boat was named after his mistress, and he wondered if they’d misunderstood her. Taking out his cell phone, he typed the words “Russian” and “mistress” into Google. A long list of porn sites came up featuring Russian ladies engaged in female domination, and he scrolled down before finding a site with a literal translation. The word kira meant ruler and mistress in Russian.

“Is there a boat docked here named Kira? ” he asked.

Camille ran her finger down a column in the log. “Yes, sir. It’s in slip 142. It’s registered to a company called Kompromat.”

Another search revealed that the word kompromat was defined as damaging information used for blackmail and extortion. Bogdan had a warped sense of humor.

“That’s our guy,” he said.

The yachting center was so large that they needed a map to find Bogdan’s yacht, which Camille drew up for them. Lancaster inquired about the yachts moored to either side of the Kira , and learned that both were owned by Europeans staying in the hotel.

It was four a.m. when they left the harbormaster’s office, and the yachting center was dark. Night arrests were never easy, and Beth marched her team back to the parking lot and had them suit up in body armor, in case Bogdan decided to go out in a blaze of glory.

She offered Lancaster a vest, and he declined.

“It will only slow me down,” he said.

“Put it on, anyway. I don’t want you getting shot on my watch,” she said.

Her voice was stern, and he reminded himself that Beth was in charge. As he suited up, she addressed the team. “Jon’s been here before, so I thought it would be best if he explained what to expect,” she said.

The six agents turned to face him.

“The yacht center is forty acres, and it’s easy to get lost,” he said. “There’s a three-thousand-foot parallel dock, and another five thousand feet of floating docks. Based upon the harbormaster’s map, Bogdan Sokolov’s boat is moored on the parallel dock, which isn’t well lit. I’ll lead the way, if you want.”

The team seemed good with his offer.

Beth said, “You’re on.”

Everyone drew their firearms, and headed down the dock. Over the years he’d experimented with different makes of concealed weapons, and kept coming back to the Glock 26. It could be hidden anywhere on his body, and packed a mean punch.

The dock’s boards groaned beneath their feet. Where was a loud, annoying sea gull when you needed one? Many of the vessels were of the mega variety, with interiors larger than most homes and full-time crews. Living in Fort Lauderdale his entire life, he’d been exposed to the rich and famous, who vacationed here during the winter to escape the cold. He’d never experienced wealth-envy, except when he was around yachts like these. They cost more than a private island, yet from what he’d seen, they were hardly used. He wondered who the owners were trying to impress, or if they just liked squandering their money.

They passed a yacht where an all-night party was underway, complete with waiters in tuxedos serving drinks, and a woman in a white evening gown plucking a harp. The music was soothing, the notes dancing lightly across the water. There was enough light coming from the vessel for him to read the slip’s number.

“We’re getting close,” he said under his breath.

Beth and her team were right behind him.

“Have you ever boarded a boat during a bust?” she asked.

“I once boarded a boat owned by a drug dealer, and nearly got shot,” he said. “My footsteps gave me away. The harbormaster said that the yachts adjacent to the Kira are empty. I suggest we board them, and see if we can spot Bogdan inside his vessel. That way, he won’t be able to blindside us.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

They soon reached the Kira . He’d been expecting a yacht with all the amenities, and was disappointed to find an old houseboat. They were a familiar sight on the Intercoastal waterways, and usually filled with partiers. This model was sixteen feet wide and sixty feet long, with a rooftop bar with a canvas top, a flybridge, and twin 90-horsepower Yamaha outboard engines. The windows were dark, with no signs of life.

Beth split her team in two. The agents boarded the adjacent vessels, and used small flashlights to peer into the Kira ’s interior. The intrusion of light was greeted by a soft crying sound, which everyone heard.

“Sounds like a dog,” Beth said under her breath.

“Can’t be,” he whispered back.

“People that own boats don’t have guard dogs?”

“Some do, but they take them with them when they go on shore. If they don’t, the dog might jump in the water, and drown.”

The crying grew louder. A word became discernable. Help.

“Where is that coming from?” she asked her team.

One of the agents pointed at an open window in the center of the boat.

“It’s coming from here,” the agent said.

“Can you see what’s inside?”

“No. There’s a sheet over the window.”

“We’re boarding. Cover us,” Beth said.

They hopped over the guardrail onto the flybridge, and cautiously approached a sliding glass door covered by a curtain. The door was locked, and Beth used the butt of her gun to break the glass. She fitted her hand through, and unlocked the door.

“Going in,” she announced.

Jon followed her, and hit the light switch. They were in the galley. The sink was stuffed with dirty dishes, the garbage pail overflowing. The crying had stopped.

Beth walked out of the galley down a hallway. It had doors to either side, and she opened the first one, and flipped on the light. It was a small room with a queen-size bed and a night table. Like the rest of the boat, it had zero personality, the walls without photographs or artwork.

She opened the other doors off the hallway, revealing more bedrooms. The last door was locked, and she put her ear to the wood.

“I hear something. Sounds like a moan,” she said.

“Want me to take the door down?” he asked.

“Be my guest.”

He threw his weight against the door and popped a hinge. The rest was easy, and he removed the door and placed it in the hallway. Beth entered cautiously and turned on the light. The room was empty save for a woman bound to a metal chair. Chains circled her ankles, and were attached to thick concrete blocks. A plastic bag covered her, held down by a bungee cord. Self-preservation is our greatest instinct, and the woman had sucked the bag into her mouth, and gnawed holes into the plastic with her teeth. The holes were tiny, and she was barely breathing.