Savage Coast Read online

  I was brought along on this particular raid because the Federal Intelligence Directorate has far less oversight than the Secret Service or even the CIA. Homeland wanted to make sure that Gallardo did not make it out of his mansion alive. I was sent along because—should the situation arise—I was the only one who could pull the trigger on an unarmed Gallardo and get away with it.

  I said my goodbyes to the team before I left the office early in the morning and invited Special Agent Cole to look me up sometime and said drinks would be on me. He was based out of Miami—less than an hour from my office—and promised to take me up on it. I had liked working with him for a couple of weeks. He was a consummate professional and an easy guy to put your trust in, something important when you’re in a firefight.

  The taxi pulled up to a packed-earth airstrip that looked like a brown pencil among the surrounding lush green hills. A Dassault Falcon LX business jet was already waiting at the head of the strip with the airstairs down. Grabbing my rucksack from the seat beside me, I handed up a generous tip to the driver and wished him well. He didn’t look much older than my thirty-five years and by the picture he had taped to the dashboard, he had a wife and four kids to take care of. He brightened when he saw the two one hundred dollars bills I gave him—not counterfeit—and thanked me profusely. Most people in the world don’t have it nearly as good as those in America, so whenever an opportunity came along to pass along some of the fortune, I did my best to be generous. In just half an hour he had earned what represented a tenth of the average person’s annual income in the poverty-stricken nation.

  I got out of the taxi, nodded a goodbye to the elated driver, and then made my way to the welcoming stairs of the aircraft. After a day like the previous one, I was glad I didn’t have to fly commercial. God knows I’ve done my fair share of it, and I’m certainly not above it now. But after taking down a man like Rico Gallardo and spending all night interrogating the tattered remnants of his crew, I needed a couple of hours of quiet to decompress and process before landing stateside. FID would have me back on something new within a day.

  Ducking as I entered the aircraft, I said hello to the pilot and copilot and then tossed my ruck on a seat and sat into the one across from it. I fastened my seatbelt as the stairs came up and the pilots performed their pre-flight checks. A couple of minutes later the engines whined into a stronger pitch and the aircraft lurched forward and pressed me back into my seat as we shot down the runway. There were no attendants on this flight. Just a quick two-and-a-half-hour flight to Miami.

  With my right hand, I mindlessly fidgeted with where my wedding ring used to be. I had finally removed it three weeks before. My ring finger still bore the white line from where the sun had failed to touch it for all those years. The ring was in a box in my nightstand at home. I would never get rid of it, I knew, but I had finally come to the point of acceptance by taking it off.

  Some days, I felt naked without it. And time still hadn’t diminished the pain like I’d thought it would.

  I worked my jaw to pop my ears as we gained altitude and soon enough I heard the captain’s voice over the intercom. “All right, Mr. Savage. We’re at cruising altitude. Please relax and we’ll have you to Miami shortly.”

  That was my cue. I unbuckled my seatbelt and made my way to the couch in the back. I laid down and closed my eyes, crossed my hands over my stomach. The cabin was quiet, almost sounding like the faint whisper of a passing car on a mountain road.

  The next thing I knew, my body responded to the slight change in cabin pressure as we began our descent. My eyes flicked open just as the pilot’s voice informed me of our arrival time. I stretched out for a few minutes and then returned to my seat.

  The wheels were on the ground twenty minutes later, and after thanking the pilots I stepped into the doorway and to the top of the steps. I closed my eyes and took in a deep breath of Florida’s salty, humid air. It was good to be home.

  “Oh, come on already!” I heard from below. “I’m hungry.”

  I opened my eyes to see Brad Pierce, my best friend and fellow FID agent, leaning back against a glistening apple-red Jeep Gladiator—a hybrid truck and Jeep in one. Brad was just under six feet and had blonde hair that he kept in a perpetual high-and-tight, reminiscent from his time in the Corps. He had a strong nose that hooked slightly to the left and piercing green eyes. I made my way down the steps, and he clapped a hand on my back. “You look like you might need a beer.”

  “Or three,” I said and then opened the back door and tossed in my ruck before sliding into the front passenger seat. Brad went around and got in, started up the vehicle, and pulled out. He nodded toward the back seat. “You got his head in that bag, right? You’d better.”

  “Couldn’t get it through customs,” I said.

  Brad lowered his voice as if Gallardo might be able to hear. “Was he as fat as they say?”

  “Fatter. A real tub of guts that guy was.”

  Brad patted his own growing midsection. “Nothing wrong with that,” he said proudly, merging onto the ramp that would take us out of the airport. “The ladies like a little insulation.”

  “Call it what you will, but you’re starting to let yourself go, Marine.”

  He waved me off. “It’s temporary. Just temporary.”

  I grinned and looked out the window. Brad had been saying the added weight was temporary ever since he had gotten out of the Marine Corps three years before, but each year he added another six or seven pounds to the scale. He wasn’t fat—not yet. It was just a slowly expanding midsection.

  His last four years in the service had seen Brad doing what many Marines dreamed of: he was a Marine Raider, with the Corps’ Special Operations Command—MARSOC. As a special forces soldier, Brad had seen intense fighting in Iraq, rescued hostages in Mali, and assisted in liberating Marawi from ISIS militants. As a Raider, he was one of the best-trained warriors America had ever produced. It was a firefight in the mountains of Afghanistan that finally sent him home for good. A sniper’s round shattered his left ankle, and the military doctors were unable to get him combat-ready again. It broke Brad’s heart, knowing that he would never see battle with his men again, but he was a Marine, and he took the news as best as could be expected.

  After several surgeries, Brad’s ankle healed up enough so he could pass Homeland’s agent physical, and then he joined FID. He still favored his ankle slightly when he walked, but if you weren’t looking for it you’d miss it most of the time. Like any Marine, his posture was always ramrod straight, and he remained a living embodiment of the MARSOC Raider creed: “Always faithful—always forward.” That, coupled with a loyalty that went far above what you would expect, made him the best man I know. I was lucky to call him my friend.

  We first met on the baseball field in Colorado when we were nine years old, and even though our careers had diverged as adults, we had stayed in constant contact over the years. He was the best man at my wedding and . . . well, Brad had yet to settle down and stay with a woman longer than three hours.

  As we put Miami behind us and began the one hour drive home to Key Largo, I filled him in on the details of the Guatemala mission. Brad was my partner within the FID—the one who plugged me to their higher-ups and convinced me to join them. He hadn’t gone with me to Guatemala because his ankle had started acting up two days before our scheduled departure date. So he was assigned desk duty until he healed up.

  In the west, the sun was dying out for the day, bleeding vibrant reds and purples against the darkening horizon as though it were writing its own obituary. I felt my muscles relax the further south we drove. Living in South Florida, I wasn’t much for leaving, and coming back was always sweet.

  Taking the Overseas Highway, we passed through Homestead before finally leaving the mainland behind, passing up Barnes Sound and entering Key Largo, the unofficial entrance to the Keys. Brad flipped his turn signal on and turned right at County Road 905, driving a couple more miles before turning into a crus
hed-shell parking area that carpeted the front of our favorite watering hole. It was generally more locals than tourists, rebels, or renegades, and that suited me just fine.

  We got out, and I stretched before shutting my door and heading toward the bar. Above me, palm trees were rustling dryly, and the spirited sound of live music came from the back of the building. There was no shortage of bars on the island, but the Wayward Reef was my hole of choice. We locals just called it The Reef. The building was formed of unpainted clapboard that had grown gray from years under the Florida sun. The simple tin roof was starting to rust in places, and along the front eave were mounted a couple of plastic dolphins that, oddly enough, looked right at home where they were. The door squeaked a familiar tone as I opened it and walked inside to the loud clamor of happy conversation and a cover of Bob Seger’s Night Moves. The place was packed to the gunwales, the loud din of conversation barely rising above the band playing in the corner. It was a Tuesday night, but it was March, and the place was filled with Spring-breakers and snowbirds. No better place to be.

  The decor inside was minimal but what was there was typical. Steel-legged tables and picnic tables filled the inside floor, and stuffed replicas of mahi, marlins, and a tortoiseshell adorned the walls, along with a few neon signs advertising various beers. One shaped like the Sunshine State. Fishing lines hung between the exposed rafters with clothespins clipped over them, grabbing onto iconic vinyl record covers from the ‘50s to the ‘80s. Around here, people were apt to believe that after the early 1980s, good music died, and I can’t say that I disagree. A shrimping net hung loosely from another section of the ceiling, and the back of the restaurant had a metal roller door that was always up when the bar was open. Tables spilled out onto a deck that merged into a narrow dock.

  I looked across the room and saw an old, round man with red, glowing cheeks and a snowy white beard behind the bar. He waved me over with a fleshy hand. Roscoe Green was about as close as you could get to a real-life version of Santa Claus. He even donned a suit and played the jolly old fella for the local kids a night in December each year. I approached the end of the bar. “You’re back!” he yelled. “How’d it go?”

  “It was a success. But I’m always glad to be back.” Brad was the only one who knew exactly where I had been these last couple of weeks, and why. Roscoe knew who we worked for, but specifics on investigations and missions were off-limits to anyone outside the agency.

  “Good,” he said. “Hold on.” He grabbed a couple of glasses and filled them with golden liquid from the beer tap. He came back and held them out to me. “You and Brad get started with these. I’ll send Amy over in a little while. You’ll be out back?”

  “Yeah. Thanks, Roscoe.” Amy was Roscoe’s twenty-six-year-old granddaughter. After working in the New York fashion scene for several years, she finally grew weary of the fast-paced, image-addicted culture up there and moved down to Florida for a slower way of life. That, and to be closer to her grandfather. Roscoe had given her a job as a waitress, and she had quickly become a little sister to both Brad and me. When she wasn’t here or spending time with her boyfriend, Amy could be found in the helm of a boat. She loved the water more than anyone else I knew, and she would spend hours in the Gulf exploring new cays and keys, many of which were no larger than a postage stamp.

  I turned and followed Brad across the crowded floor and out the back. We walked onto the dock, and the music grew a little quieter as it drifted out of the bar and dispersed across the water. Fishing boats and skiffs were tied off in slips on both sides of us. We found an empty slip and sat down on the edge, our legs dangling off toward the water, and sat quietly like that for a couple of minutes until I looked over and noticed two girls in halter tops and jean shorts headed toward us, each clutching a beer and giggling. They looked to be no more than twenty. They wore deep tans, making me think that they were probably Florida natives—maybe down from Gainesville or Tampa. I was certainly old enough to be a much older brother; in some contexts, I might be old enough to be their father. No thanks. I might have only been in my mid-thirties, but that kind of age gap wasn’t in my tackle box. They came and stood behind us. The brunette leaned over near my ear. “Want some company out here?” she asked sweetly.

  I sighed and looked off toward the water. Beside me, Brad winced and then looked back over his shoulder. He knew the drill. “Not tonight, ladies. Thanks, though.” I’ve been told by many that I’m a decent looking dude. Standing tall at six-foot-two, I’ve got a strong jawline and icy blue eyes. Brad thinks it’s my black wavy hair that seals the deal. I get hit on just about every time I come to the bar—even when I had my wedding ring on that didn’t seem to bother most of the girls. I’m out of season, though. It will be a long time before I’m ready to move on. And right now, I don’t think I ever will.

  The brunette didn’t get the message. “We’re only down here for two more nights if you’re looking to have some fun.” Her tone was more than suggestive.

  Looking down at my empty ring finger, I wasn’t in the mood for the routine. “Isn’t it past your curfew?” I said calmly. “Shouldn’t you call your parents and let them know where you are?”

  Behind me, I heard an angry huff. The girl muttered something about me being a jerk before grabbing her friend’s hand and storming back down the dock toward the bar.

  “Do they keep getting younger?” Brad said, watching them go. “Or am I just getting older?”

  “Both. How’s the ankle?”

  He looked down and rotated it. “Better. I think Kathleen might pull me off the desk now that you’re back.” He held out an arm and shook his head. “I think I’ve lost two shades of tan since you’ve been gone.”

  Another young woman’s voice came from behind us but this one I knew. “Hey, guys! Welcome back, Ryan.”

  I turned and saw Amy looking down at us. Her hair was naturally blonde, but she had recently put pink stripes in it. “Thanks, Amy. How’ve you been?”

  “Awesome. I decided to start working on my online degree studying marine ecology.” She looked out over the water. “I love this place and want to make sure we’re taking care of it. You guys want your usual?”

  “That would be great,” I said. “And that’s great about school. If you need any help studying, make sure not to ask Brad. He’ll run your grades into the ground.”

  Brad lifted his glass in a mock toast. “Hear, hear.”

  Amy smiled and nodded to one of the outside tables. “Looks like a table just opened up. I’ll get it cleared and call you over when your food’s done.”

  We thanked her, and she walked away with an energetic bounce in her step.

  I drained the last of my beer as Brad spoke up. “I hate to bring this up, but Kathleen is still pissed with you.”

  I sighed and set my empty glass down beside me. Kathleen Rivers was our boss at FID. “I figured. She hasn’t called me to see how things went in Guatemala.”

  “Yeah,” Brad said. “She got all her updates from a Special Agent Cole.”

  “Well, Cole’s a good dude,” I said. “I was kind of hoping you would have smoothed things over for me by the time I got back.”

  He huffed. “I’m not fighting your battles. I’m just glad you didn’t drag me down with you on this one. You’re lucky she didn’t make you ride commercial coach on the way back.”

  He had a point. “How’s the Barker case going?” I asked.

  “I’ll fill you in tomorrow,” he said. “I’ve made some progress, but we’re still missing a connection somewhere. Even the FBI can’t nail it down.”

  Seven weeks ago, Jim Barker, a Miami businessman who owned a commercial trucking fleet, was found murdered in his vacation home on Plantation Key. This was after his business was raided and his trucks were found to be transporting cocaine and marijuana with destinations to Atlanta, Birmingham, and as far away as Denver. After Barker hinted to the DEA that there was more going on within his operation than they knew about, the agency offered
him a deal for him to talk. Barker was going to crack something wide open, exposing a stream of revenue that, according to him, had nothing to do with drugs. He had been released on bail and was under house arrest at the time of his murder. Brad and I were given Barker’s file when it became apparent that his murder was connected to the information he was about to give up. Someone, somewhere, didn’t want him spilling the beans.

  I was pulled off the Barker case to go to Guatemala. Now that I was back, my attention would return to the case until we solved it. Like the Federal Intelligence Directorate, the DEA was one of the component agencies beneath the Homeland umbrella, and the big suits in D.C. wanted to know what Barker was about to give up.

  I stood up and grabbed my glass. Brad finished his and handed it up. “Get me another, will you?”

  “Sure thing.” I went back inside and stepped up to the bar. A television was mounted in each of the two corners. One of them was tuned to SportsCenter, the other to CNN. Both had closed captions on; it was too loud to hear even if Roscoe turned it all the way up. The ESPN was showing highlights from the beginning of March Madness, but it was the newscast that gained my attention. It was displaying aerial footage of Gallardo’s Guatemalan compound. The news probably got wind of the raid overnight, and the footage looked like it was from early this morning as the sun was coming up. Federal agents were scattered across the acreage like tiny ants, and military vehicles from the Guatemalan National Army were parked in the circular drive like a child’s toy trucks.

  There was a lot of fake money in that mansion, but we all knew it wasn’t the only place Gallardo kept it stored. What we had seen at the mansion was his personal stash, money that he had slowly and methodically leaked into the system through channels that couldn’t lead back to him. The newscaster was saying that it was the largest seizure of U.S. counterfeit since a similar bust in Peru back in 2016. That raid had accounted for over thirty million dollars’ worth of illegitimate bills. I knew the room where I killed Gallardo would have held double that amount. Special Agent Cole and his team would be down there for a long time as they continued an investigation into where the rest of Gallardo’s cash was. Once—if—they located it, they would destroy it and move on to the next group of criminals involved in the same kind of dirty business. There was always a next one. Always.