Florida Firefight by Randy Wayne White Page B

Inn.”
    â€œAnd you were more than just a cook in the Marines.”
    â€œThat’s right. I was a very good cook in the Marines. So let’s drop it, huh? I don’t know who killed that greasy bastard, but I’d like to thank him.”
    â€œAnd I don’t suppose you’ve been slipping out at night, watching the Colombians from the mangroves in Chatham Harbor?”
    Logan stopped and jammed his fists on his hips. “Look, Hawker, I like you. And I appreciate what you’re trying to do for the people in this town. So let’s cut the bullshit, huh? I don’t want any part of your cops-and-robbers games. I’ve had a stomach full of that crap. I just want to cook, okay? Let’s leave it at that. I’m just a cook.”
    â€œNot tonight, you’re not,” Hawker said softly. “Tonight you’re more than a cook.”
    â€œAnd just what in the hell do you mean by that—”
    â€œI need your help, that’s what I mean. I’ll show you.”
    Hawker was surprised to see lights on in the Tarpon Inn bar. Graeme Mellor was still up. He wondered if someone had called and told him about the murder of Sandy Rand.
    He led Logan down the drive to his flamingo-pink cottage. Birds were making their first tentative morning sounds. They rattled in the dark trees.
    Hawker stopped at the Monte Carlo. “I saw two Colombians messing with my car tonight. They had the hood up.”
    Logan’s knees cracked and popped as he squatted at the grille. He looked at it without touching it. “You have a flashlight?” Hawker went into his cottage and produced a flashlight.
    â€œDid they close the hood like they were trying to be particularly careful?”
    â€œQuiet. But not that careful.”
    â€œDo you have a wife and kids—people who need you around?” Logan’s hand was under the grille, looking for the hood latch.
    Hawker smiled. “No.”
    â€œGood.” Logan swung the hood open. Both men exhaled loudly. They had been holding their breath.
    â€œIt’s a pretty simple device,” said Logan.
    In the white beam of the flashlight, Hawker could see two sticks of dynamite joined by electrician’s tape. Two lengths of copper wire ran to something in the engine.
    â€œIt’s an ignition bomb,” Logan continued. “The wire runs to the solenoid, then back to that blasting cap taped to the dynamite. Starting the car both provides the current and completes the circuit.”
    â€œI thought you were a cook.”
    â€œIn the Marines they blew up bad cooks. I had to learn about these things.”
    â€œBoom,” whispered Hawker.
    â€œ Ka -boom,” Logan said. “Two sticks of dynamite, remember? You want me to take it off?”
    â€œUnless you’re in the market for a Monte Carlo. I’ll sell it right now. Cheap.”
    â€œGet some wire cutters.”
    â€œI’ll get the wire cutters if you’ll help me when you’re done. I don’t like people planting bombs in my car.”
    â€œOh? You never struck me as the fussy sort.”
    â€œThe car has sentimental value. I’ve leased it for almost two months.”
    Hawker turned to go into his cottage. Logan called after him, “Thanks for killing that Colombian, Hawker.”
    â€œThank you for killing the Colombian, Logan,” Hawker said over his shoulder.
    Hawker and Logan removed the ignition bomb. Hawker wrapped it in canvas, and the two of them headed for the airstrip.
    It was 4:13 A.M.
    They could see two guards in the fluorescent glare of the Chatham Harbor warehouse. One sat with his legs over the dock. The other leaned on his rifle, bored.
    Moored at the deep-water quay was an oceangoing yacht. It must have been a hundred feet long. It had a white hull with blue superstructure. There were Boston Whalers on davits, bow and stern, covered with canvas.
    The stern of the vessel read: Demonio Del Mar, Bogotá