LITMIR.BIZ

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Money talks and it’s estimated DeCristo is worth over a billion dollars.”

      Scott pushed eggs around on his plate. “How substantial are these rumors?”

      “Substantial enough that I’m bringing this to you.”

      “Details.” Scott pushed his plate away, steepled his fingers, leaned in closer. “What have you heard?”

      “We arrested a tourist last week who had two grams of the high-grade coke on his boat. He was looking for a plea deal and claimed to have gotten the stash from a young woman working for DeCristo.”

      “How credible is the guy?”

      Carl shrugged. “Typical small-time drug dealer, but his story is just outlandish and detailed enough to have credibility.”

      “What do you mean?”

      “He says that the woman told him DeCristo is using a stealth drone submarine to transport the drugs and he’s using her and other young American women to help him.”

      “How does the operation work?”

      “Supposedly, DeCristo is dropping the submarine into the water off Cuba. It’s got a navigational camera that can get it through the open water, but it needs help maneuvering through obstacles in the mangrove channels. According to the source—which I admit is not terribly reliable—these young women go out in the estuaries at an appointed time, usually in the early morning or just after sunset, in skiffs with homing beacons on them and they guide the drone into shore. We haven’t picked up a damn thing on our radio, but if it is a stealth submarine, we wouldn’t.”

      If what Carl was saying was true …

      Scott’s gut tightened. It was possible. A savvy drug lord with the right connections might indeed be able to get his hands on stealth technology and make his own drone. And if he was hiring young American women to guide his drone in, no one would be the wiser. Key West was an open port just waiting to be abused.

      A rushing noise built in Scott’s ears, low and insistent. The hairs on his forearm lifted.

       Jackie Birch.

      Part of him said, no way, but another part of him, the suspicious part that had a degree in criminal justice and had worked drug interdiction on the high seas knew better. Anyone was capable of being a drug mule. From junior high school kids to grandmothers.

       Jackie Birch.

      It could explain why she’d been so unfriendly. Why she was in the estuary alone at dawn. Could she be a courier for DeCristo?

      Disgust hardened a knot in his stomach. How could he have been so stupid? So led around by his dick?

      Six months without sex, that was how.

      He felt like a damned fool. Your father’s murderer is turning the Key West mangrove channels into a devil’s playground and he’s using gullible young women to do it.

      Except Jackie hadn’t seemed the least bit gullible. She struck him as focused and very capable. A woman who knew exactly what she was doing. His stomach soured. The eggs smelled gelatinous.

      “We need to seriously look into this,” he told Carl.

      “I was hoping you’d say that, but I don’t have a budget for supposition. I have no proof beyond this small-time dealer who’s looking for a plea bargain. It could all be bullshit.”

      “But you feel it’s got a ring of truth to it?”

      “Considering DeCristo’s connections? Yeah, I think it’s not only plausible, but possible.”

      “Let me do some digging.”

      “But you’re on vacation.”

      “You know there’s no such thing as a Coastie on vacation.”

      “Your sister is getting married. You’ve got tuxedo fittings and rehearsal dinners—”

      “Next week. That’s all next week.”

      Carl shook his head. “I told you because you have pull in Washington and I thought that maybe you could get us a bigger budget for interdiction.”

      “In order to do that I’ve got to have something stronger to go on than a rumor. I’ll put my ear to the ground,” he said. “You just leave this to me.”

       3

      I will ensure that my superiors rest easy with the knowledge that I am on the helm, no matter what the conditions.

       —Surfman’s Creed

      WATER.

      It stirred Jackie Birchard’s soul in a way nothing else did. She’d been born in March, a Pisces. Sign of the fish. Not that she believed in anything as unscientific as astrology. Her father would never have stood for it if she had exhibited a budding interest in horoscopes.

      She sat cross-legged on the dumpy old sofa that came with the apartment she rented, her notebook computer nestled in her lap while she monitored the readout from her equipment submersed in the estuary. The conditions were perfect. She was determined to prove that her hunch was right.

      Up until a year ago, Starksia starcki, aka the Key blenny, could be found in only one location in the world. Just South of Big Pine Key. But then suddenly, the Key blenny had started disappearing from that area.

      Dr. Jack Birchard had been of the mind the Key blenny was on the road to complete extinction and he attributed it to a number of cumulative environmental factors in that region. Even though he cared deeply about the ecology, her father was also the most unsentimental man on the face of the earth. Stoically, he moved on to other more salvageable creatures, leaving the Key blenny to its fate.

      This was when the crack in their relationship—that had been there from the day she was born—expanded into an unbridgeable fissure. She couldn’t forgive him for writing off the Key blenny.

      Particularly, when he looked her in the eye and said, “It’s just one species of fish. We have to focus on the bigger picture. Let it go, daughter.”

      And she’d made the mistake of bringing up an old emotional argument that had no place in the discussion. She raised her chin, met his challenging stare with a razor-sharp glare of her own. “Just like you did with Mother?”

      He didn’t fight with her. He never fought. Just issued edicts and expected them to be obeyed. If you were rebellious enough to disagree with him, he froze you out.

      His eyes turned to glaciers. “You’re never to mention her name again. Do you hear me?”

      Okay, she shouldn’t have brought up her mother. Ancient history. Water under the bridge. It wasn’t as if they knew what had happened to her, although if Jackie had been truly interested, she could have called her half brother, Boone. But it had been easier to let things lie.

      “You’re wrong,” she said, dropping the whole issue of her mother. It would always remain a sore spot between them. “About the Key blenny.”

      “Wrong?” He arched a skeptical brow, sent her a glower that made her wish for an overcoat. He adjusted his glasses, narrowed his eyes.

      “The fish isn’t extinct.”

      “You have empirical data to support this assertion?”

      “No, not yet—”

      He dismissed her with a curt wave of his hand. “The Key blenny is a lost cause and our time is too valuable. Let’s not bawl over spilled milk.”

      “They’re not dead,” she insisted. “I’ve tracked the current and the minute changes in temperature and I think they’ve simply migrated to Key West.” She’d pointed to the ocean map on the wall of his research yacht. “I believe they’re here.”

      He

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