“No lo creo,” Bones said. “Whoever they were, they wiped out both gangs’ leaders, took prostitutas and narcotraficantes from both sides, and then just left.”
“That makes no sense,” Santiago said. “I would have continued the attack and taken over everything. Something I should have done from the start, instead of trying to play nice with Lake Boyz.”
“I learned that the man who picked up the putas left on a boat,” Bones offered. “With another boat following it. Each boat had a blond woman aboard.”
“Did you see the name of this boat?”
“Better than that, jefe.” Bones smiled, revealing a gold-capped tooth. “More than that. I know where the man who owns the boat lives.”
“The w-woman,” the black girl croaked between split lips. “She was his w-wife.”
Santiago cocked his head and stared at her for a moment, as if seeing her for the first time. Manuel moved away from her slightly.
Bones looked over at the side of her battered face.
Of course, he thought. Husband and wife, do-gooder vigilantes. That would explain why they’d just left when all the girls were rounded up and both gangs all shot to shit.
Santiago pulled open a desk drawer to his right, drew a silenced handgun and pointed it at the woman’s face. “You should have told me that before. It would have saved me time and you, much pain.”
The gun bucked in his hand, emitting no more sound than punching a heavy bag. A pink mist from the back of the woman’s head sprayed across the floor.
Santiago looked up at his bodyguard and spoke calmly. “Manuel, roll that thing out of here, get rid of it, and have the chair cleaned and returned.”
Reaching deeper water, I turned southeast, searching for the microwave tower on Grassy Key. There was no need of a chart plotter or depth finder; we’d just crossed the shallowest water we were going to encounter.
I finally spotted the tower and turned toward it, pointing. “See that tower sticking up way out in front of us?”
Alberto craned his neck and looked over the console. “That one?” he asked, pointing toward it.
“That’s close to Tank and Chyrel’s place,” I said, then opened the throttle a little more. “We’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
The two of us sat slightly hunched to absorb what little bounce there was and enjoyed the ride.
Finally, I slowed as we neared shore, angling toward the dock behind Tank’s place. He and Chyrel were waiting.
“Wasting daylight, Gunny,” Tank said, as I came alongside the dock. “I thought fishermen got up early.”
“I wanted to see the sunrise,” Alberto said in my defense.
Tank sat on the edge of the dock, holding the boat in place with his feet. “Was it worth the wait?” he asked, tousling Alberto’s hair.
“It sure was,” he replied. “And we had sausage biscuits.”
Chyrel handed me a small cooler. “There’s a few sandwiches and water in there, plus his meds.”
“Thanks,” I said, placing it with Savannah’s cooler.
How we were going to eat three sandwiches each, I wasn’t sure.
She leaned over and kissed Tank on the cheek. “You be careful and don’t forget when to take them.”
“We’ll be back in a few hours,” Tank said, scooting down to the gunwale and shoving off.
Tank took the little seat in front of the console and a minute later, we were up on plane, heading north. After several minutes, we passed Marker 9 and I angled toward the northeast. Channel Bank wasn’t all that far—within sight of Grassy Key and the bridge—but you still had a sense that you were in another world there.
I slowed as we approached the bank. “Dink was out here yesterday,” I called forward to Tank. “He said he was getting cobia at the north end of the bank.”
“Cobia?” Alberto asked. “Like we had yesterday?”
“That’s right,” I replied. “If we can catch one or two, we won’t have to worry about food for the rest of the weekend.”
“I like cobia,” he said.
I took the boat out of gear and shut off the engine. We drifted along the shoal in the current as I got the rods out. I hooked a pinfish through the meat just ahead of its tail and passed the rod forward to Tank, who moved up to the forward casting deck. Baiting another, I handed it to Alberto.
“Let’s see what you can do,” I said, as I prepped the third rod. “Try to get it close to the bank, but not too close.”
He gripped the upper part of the handle, getting the line between his thumb and forefinger, then flipped the bail arm over on the spinning reel. His cast wasn’t far, and the bait hit the water pretty hard, rather than arcing high. But he obviously knew at least the basics of what he was doing.
“You have done this before,” I said. “Not too bad. Give him some slack, and when he wakes up from that wallop you gave him, he’ll swim toward the shoal.”
I cast mine close to what looked like a ledge that ran along the bank for thirty or forty feet, then reeled in the slack so the pinfish couldn’t get to it.
“Fish on!” Tank yelled. “Looks like a red snapper.”
He quickly wrestled the fish close to the boat, then knelt down and grabbed the short leader, looping it around his hand and lifting the snapper aboard.
“Definitely a keeper,” I said. “You don’t even have to measure that one, even if we were over on the Atlantic side.”
Tank quickly unhooked the fish and put it in the fish box.
Alberto’s rod bent and he nearly lost it, but he quickly leaned back, raising the tip. “I got one!”
He moved closer to the gunwale, bracing his little body against the side for leverage. He worked the fish with some difficulty, as it dove and moved left and right.
“Keep your line tight, son!” I coached. “That’s right. Move your rod in the opposite direction the fish goes.”
Alberto looked over at me and grinned.
I suddenly realized I’d called him son.
