by Eric Douglas Douglas’ previous stories, including Cayman Cowboys, Flooding Hollywood and Guardian’s Keep are available on his website at, www.booksbyeric.com .

Chapter 1

Jackson Pauley was working hard. The bubbles from his exhaled breaths were rising quickly in front of his face, making it difficult to see very far, in spite of the exceptional visibility. He could see more than 100 feet in every direction, but neither Jackson nor his friend, Randy Littlebear, were thinking about the scenery. Or at least not directly. Jackson adjusted his own buoyancy as he swam forward pushing the load. Littlebear hovered about eight feet above him, controlling the lift bag’s buoyancy. They wanted to get the large concrete block into place. It was to be the anchor for a new mooring ball they were installing. Rather than risk dropping an anchor on the coral bottom, Jackson would only take divers to sites that had a mooring ball. Now that he owned the dive shop and could make the decisions for himself, he had gotten permission from the Coast Guard to place several more mooring buoys, so he would always have a good selection of dive sites. Jackson and Littlebear had already placed two anchors, but they had gotten an early start, so it was still just the middle of the morning. The concrete weight had to be heavy enough to hold a large dive boat in place against a moderate current. It was always possible the ocean conditions could change while divers were in the water, but the boat still needed to be there when the divers surfaced. Littlebear signaled to Jackson where they needed to go to set the concrete block in place. He could see better from his higher position. Both divers were careful to aim for a sandy area with plenty of room around it. They didn’t want the anchor to be dragged up against the corals. They made slow progress, feeling the gentle wave action from above moving them back and forth. Swimming forward, Jackson glanced up to check on his friend and saw exactly what he did not want to see. The strap connecting the weight to the lift bag was slipping. The bag itself was fully inflated, straining with its 500 pounds of lift. The concrete block weighed slightly more than 500 pounds, but the buoyancy from the water made it almost perfectly neutral. The strap continued to slip and Jackson knew it was going to come loose. He looked up at Littlebear and realized his friend had a firm grip on one of the carry handles on the lift bag while he pushed it through the water. The problem was Littlebear hadn’t noticed it slipping yet. He couldn’t see underneath the bag from where he was swimming. If Littlebear still had a grip on the handle when the anchor and lift bag separated, he could be ripped straight to the surface, totally out of control. This terrible realization rushed through Jackson’s mind in less than a second. His buddy was just out of reach, but he had to do something to warn him. He tried shouting through his regulator. No luck. The strap continued to slip; it was just barely connected. Jackson kicked with all his energy toward Littlebear. He couldn’t get the man’s attention in time so he had no other choice. He crashed into the larger man, hitting him in the mid-section, as the strap gave way. Littlebear’s instinctive reaction was to cover up and protect himself, releasing his hand from the lift bag. Startled by the assault from below, Littlebear had no clue what was going on. He rolled to one side, grabbing Jackson and pulling him with him. He yelled and frantically searched with his eyes to figure out what was wrong. Jackson pulled back from his friend and signaled for him to stop and get himself under control. Littlebear floated backward with a look and a hand gesture asking “What was that for?” Jackson just pointed up, indicating the large yellow bag bobbing on the surface more than 40 feet over their heads. Littlebear gave his friend a confused look, still not grasping the situation. Then Jackson pointed down. Directly below them lay the mooring anchor. Recognition dawned in the man’s eyes. Fortunately, the weight landed exactly where they hoped it would. It was squarely in the middle of a patch of sand, but within 30 feet of an attractive coral formation and the beginning of a new reef section. Jackson and Littlebear hovered where they were and tried to slow their breathing for a moment. Then they started laughing. Giving the signal, the buddies began their ascent and headed back for the boat. Littlebear collected the now-deflated lift bag. “OK, that’s a good sign that it’s time to take a break for the day,” Jackson said as he swam over and grabbed the swim ladder hanging from the side of his boat Daydreamer. “You’re right. I think we’re done for the day,” Littlebear agreed. Boarding the boat, the two men were still chuckling to themselves as the put away their gear and prepared to head in. Jackson turned his cell phone on to see if anyone was looking for him. It rang almost immediately. “Wow, they don’t give you a break, do they?” Littlebear said, surprised. “No, they don’t, but this isn’t the shop. Not sure who it is, but they have my private line,” Jackson replied. “Hello,” he said a bit cautiously as he answered the phone, then he listened. “Well, sure, come on down. I’ve got plenty of room. See you in a bit.” “What was that all about?” Littlebear asked. “An old friend of mine is coming into town. He is driving down and will be here in a few minutes,” Jackson said as he started the boat and headed back to the dock. “Just dropping in?” “He’s a news photographer for a magazine. His schedule keeps him moving around a lot, so he doesn’t get much of a chance to plan. I guess when he gets a chance to take a break, he takes it. His name is Mike Scott.” Mike and Jackson met on the day the world changed for both of them, along with much of the rest of the world — 9/11. Jackson was working as a firefighter/paramedic in Manhattan when the two airliners crashed into the Twin Towers. Mike Scott was at the Time magazine office, just having returned from a trip abroad, and watched the tragedy from a front row seat. Mike grabbed his camera and rushed to the streets. Mike ended up basing a lot of his coverage of the 9/11 attacks on Jackson’s engine company and the work they did, the struggles they went through and the aftermath. After Jackson retired from the department and moved south, he and Mike had stayed in touch. Just outside the marina where Jackson docked his boat, he eased off on the throttles and entered the no wake zone. Littlebear’s phone rang and he wasn’t watching what was going on around them. Jackson was guiding the boat toward the marina and not looking out behind them. Littlebear looked up, but it was almost too late. “Jackson, watch out!” Littlebear shouted. Jackson looked around just in time to see a large fishing boat come around the sea wall, barreling down on them. “What the hell?” Jackson said as he pushed Daydreamer’s throttles forward and dodged out of the way of the larger boat. “Hang on!” The fishing boat never slowed down or swerved to avoid them. “What was that all about?” Jackson said as he slowed his boat back down and entered the marina. “Those guys know better than that.” “Maybe one of them was late for a date or something,” Littlebear joked. “If I run into them, I’ll probably let them know I’m not pleased,” Jackson agreed with a laugh. He pulled into his slip and began tying the boat off. Littlebear coiled up the lines on the dock. “Hey Jackson, look up there,” Littlebear said with a nod of his head. “Very nice,” Jackson agreed with a grin when he saw where Littlebear was looking. Walking along the upper dock area was a woman. Her curly brown hair was tied up in a pony tail. She was wearing a bikini top and a pair of shorts. “Looks good from here,” Littlebear said with a nod. “I like the way she walks. OK, well, I’ve got to take off. The call earlier told me I needed to get to work.” “Sure, pal. Talk to you soon,” Jackson said. “Maybe we’ll meet up later for a beer or something.” “Sounds like a plan,” Littlebear said as he walked up the ramp to the parking lot. “And stay away from the hottie on the dock,” Jackson said with a smirk. Jackson had just walked inside his houseboat when he heard footsteps coming down the dock. “Permission to come aboard, Captain,” Mike Scott said as he walked up. An imposing figure at 6’2”, Mike’s dark hair and broad shoulders filled the doorway. Jackson pushed the lightweight door open with his foot and handed Mike a cold beer. “Good to see you,” Jackson said as they shook hands. “Good to see you, too. Looks like you’re doing pretty well for yourself,” Mike said as he looked around the lounge area of the 40-foot Pluckibaum aluminum house boat. “So, where are you off to, or back from, this time?” Jackson asked, noticing that Mike was traveling light. He was only carrying his camera bag and a single soft duffle — like always. “I’m on my way back home. I landed in Miami, so I thought I would take a couple days before checking back in with the office,” Mike explained. His magazine was based in New York, but he was able to work out of his home on Roanoke Island in North Carolina. Not that he saw the place all that much. “That, and a buddy of mine asked me to try out a new underwater camera housing for him. The conditions are pretty bad up north, so I figured I would have better luck down here.” “Dive conditions are great around here right now. We’re running trips to all the local sites both morning and afternoon. What kind of diving do you want to do?” Jackson said, motioning his friend inside the houseboat and out of the glare of the sun. “Nothing in particular, but to be honest, I’d like some quiet time, too. This last trip got pretty nasty. I need to decompress from the world a little bit, if you know what I mean? No phone, no newspapers, no deadlines,” Mike explained. “I was wondering if I could convince you to do a private charter for me for a couple days. Just you and me on the Daydreamer out there.” Daydreamer was a 28-foot Boston Whaler Outrage with twin 250-horsepower Yamaha four-stroke engines. Jackson kept the boat outfitted for diving at all times, but didn’t use it for paying customers through his dive shop. It was his personal boat. Jackson looked his friend in the eye for the first time. He could tell that Mike was uptight — not bad, but that he probably wouldn’t be all that good around crowds at the moment. “You can’t do that,” came a strange voice through the screen door. Both men jumped and spun to look at the door. Even silhouetted by the sun, Jackson could tell it was the woman from the dock that Littlebear had noticed earlier. Her hair was still tied up, but she had slipped on a loose-fitting t-shirt. “Friend of yours?” Mike asked with an amused grin. “Not me. I thought she was with you,” Jackson replied with a laugh. “I don’t know either of you, but I need your help. It’s got to be more important than whatever this rich playboy wants you to do,” the woman said, motioning toward Mike, but never taking her eyes off Jackson. “Well since you’ve interrupted, come on in and explain yourself,” Jackson said with a grin. The Keys attracted all types, so he was used to unusual approaches. This was probably the first time it had happened at his screen door though. Both men watched the woman as she walked through the door. Jackson realized his opinion from earlier was confirmed. Her brown hair was unruly, but it seemed to fit her personality. Her blue-gray eyes, and the fire in them, caught Mike’s attention. He simply watched her as she spoke to Jackson. He liked the way she moved and her shapely legs, but was even more impressed with her presence. Without saying a word or doing a thing, she commanded attention. “Someone is smuggling Queen Conch out of here. I’ve got information that they are being shipped into Miami as clams,” she began. “Fishing for conch in Florida has been illegal for 20 years.” “Talk to the Fish and Wildlife people. They have the boats you need,” Jackson asked, still curious, but growing skeptical, her physical appearance not swaying his senses. “Why would you need me?” “I made a couple calls to Fish and Wildlife already, but they said that without any proof they don’t have the manpower to investigate. They’re too busy dealing with the flagrant stuff. I know something is going on down here, and I need your help to check it out. I want to find the proof and make them take action,” she explained. Jackson shot Mike a questioning look, but Mike simply smiled back. He was interested in her story — not sure he believed it, but interested. Jackson took that as a signal to play along. “So, what exactly is it you need me to do, and why should that be more important to me than my playboy friend here?” Jackson asked with a laugh and a gesture toward Mike, which earned him a grimace in return. “Everyone on this island owns a boat. Ask someone else.” Seeing the shared look between the two men, Sarah paused to look at Mike for the first time. He was sitting on the arm of a chair, just watching. His gaze was intense and the woman turned away after a moment. “I know there’s something going on here, and I need help to find out what. Everyone in town talked about you, saying you were the kind of man who would help me out. They said you were the kind of man who wouldn’t back down from a challenge,” she said, challenging him in the process. “I know conch poaching isn’t very sexy. They aren’t going to get the attention that turtles or sharks do, but they’re just as important. We can’t let people take them and kill them off.” “What’s your name?” Mike said, quietly. “What?” she asked, completely thrown off. It was the first time Mike had spoken and she hadn’t expected him to ask that question. “I asked what your name was. Where I live, normally people introduce themselves before berating strangers,” Mike said. “My name is Sarah. Sarah Monet. Like the painter. No relation that I know of, but I do like his work,” Sarah explained. “Thank you, Sarah. My name is Mike. I like Monet, too, by the way. I visited his home in Giverny, France, on assignment once,” Mike said calmly, smiling. “Why don’t you start over and tell us what information you do have.” Mike was intrigued, both with the story and with woman who was telling it. He found her attractive, but that wasn’t it. Her passion for an issue that wasn’t “sexy” impressed him. Mike sat back down and motioned to her to begin. Jackson eased back against the bar stool in his kitchen and listened as well, amused at Mike’s interest. “The organization I work for got this tip a few days ago about fishermen illegally harvesting conch. The person on the phone said he saw boxes and boxes of conch headed for Miami, but they were labeled as clams,” she said. “We couldn’t verify the story, but he gave some pretty remarkable details. He even gave us coordinates to the exact spot where the fishermen were taking the conch. He also told us about seeing piles of conch shells on a beach like you see in the Bahamas.” “Okay, fair enough,” Jackson said. “So, what do you need me to do? Shouldn’t you go watch the fishing marina on the other side of the island and see what you can see? Like a stake-out or something?” “I tried that, but the fishermen are pretty tight-lipped to outsiders, so I couldn’t find much,” she explained. “I want to make a dive in the area where the tip said the fishermen were taking the conch. I need to get the proof that Queen Conch are even being taken at all. That’s why I need your help.” “Well, it just so happens that we were talking about going diving, so maybe we could go where you want to go and check all this out for ourselves,” Mike answered before Jackson could say anything. Jackson was so surprised by his friend’s answer he nearly fell off his stool. “You want her to come along with us and you want to go look at conchs?” he said when he collected his wits, looking at Mike and ignoring Sarah for a moment. “Sure, why not? Could be interesting,” Mike said with a laugh. “Let’s play a hunch. Besides, conch move pretty slowly. Not a lot of stress there.” “If you say so, Mike, but are you sure we can trust her,” Jackson asked. “She sort of blew in here a little out of control, don’t you think?” “She is still in the room guys,” Sarah butted in. “Don’t talk about me like I can’t hear you.” “I like her Jackson. Let’s give her a shot,” Mike said with a wink.

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