Chapter 12

We made over one room into Cam’s own personal space, getting her set up with a phone, a television, a stereo, all the things a teen should have. I got her an iPad and an iPhone too, then we went to Miami and spent two days shopping. Some for her, lots of clothes; and some for me, lots of gun stores. I even got her a safe for her gold.

“Jacques, I do not understand, why do you give me gold?”

“I told you, Fayed had it on his boat. We took it when we rescued the girls. They all got a box to take home, I hid it in their luggage as a surprise. You get a box too.”

“But what will I do with it?”

“Keep it, save it, sell it, give it away, do whatever you want with it. It is hard to spend like that, but you can sell it to a broker, then use the money. It is almost a million dollars’ worth.”

“A million? Are you insane? You cannot give me a million dollars. What do I know about money like that?”

“If you don’t want the coins, you can have the money instead. We can get it invested in a secure mutual fund and it will make interest for you. Someday, you will want it or need it, and it will be there for you.”

“I want one coin, Jacques. One. You take the rest away.” she insisted.

So, I did. I left one French Angel in her safe and had Terry open an investment account in her name, funding it with a million dollars. If she wanted, she could add more to it from the award by the French government.

Now I was stuck with three boxes of coins! I decided to stash a bunch on the boats. I broke them down into ten-coin bundles, wrapped them in saran wrap and stashed ten bundles on the E-Key. I set aside ten more bundles for the E² too, for when I got her back. The rest I stuck into a safe deposit box in case, some day, I really needed something untraceable.

Cam and I spent time just driving around the Keys, getting her used to her new home, though I did tell her I wanted to go to college in Texas after I finished high school. That lead to a discussion about the difference between our school system and the French system. That discussion led to the talk of college for her and how she would go about it. I didn’t know, but we sure could find out.

When she said the dreaded words, I was like every other man in the entire world and I cringed.

“Jacques, we must talk.”

Aaaagh!

“Sure, Cam. What is on your mind?”

“Zis money, it will not last forever. It is not enough to be retired. I must work. Do I need a special visa to get a job in America? I want a real job, Jacques, not dancing for dirty old men.” she said with a sly look, giggling when I looked offended.

She had jokes!

“What would you like to do? We can get a newspaper and see if they have jobs listed, or we can look on the internet. If that fails, there has to be companies that get people hired right?”

“I don’t know, but I know mon loup will help me. Sniff out the prey, mon loup, hunt, hunt!” she cried dramatically. Once I got done rolling my eyes, she was hauling ass across the yard and I was loping after her, my fangs bared and my claws ... umm ... clawing? Ok, so I need to work on my wolf terminology.

Maybe I should read the twilight books. Or stick needles in my eyes, that would be less painful and just as educational.

One thing I insisted on was purchasing what she needed for now, having her save her money. I knew that someday she would want to leave, be on her own, and I wanted her to have a nest egg to lean on if she needed it.

Oh! We bought her a car too. The ugliest car on the market today but it is what she wanted and ... ugh. A bright pink Fiat 500. I even gave up my spot in the garage for her, parking outside in front of the stall where our weights were set up.

Dean just laughed and told me it was my fault. If I had built the pool house (or boat house, whatever) like he had suggested, we could have put the weights in there and I would have a parking spot. “Now, quit slacking and get back to work sanding that fender.”

We were doing really well on the bikes. We had the frames repaired or replaced, the new tins in and, now, in primer. I was going with a peanut tank but with these really cool quick disconnects so I could swap for a larger tank if I wanted to ride long distance. Neat huh? I had gone lower and longer on the frame and had taken the springer front end, salvaged from Dean’s bike, to put on mine. He was going for a cafe style Harley and had some upside down, GSXR forks for his bike.

I tried to tell him he needed a Sportster for that, but he would give me such a look!

Cam had been good since we got back from Washington, but that weekend, the one before I would go back to school, I found her in my bed again when I got out of the shower.

“Cam! What are you doing?” I asked, exasperated. I clutched my towel tighter and grabbed my shorts from the dresser top.

“You have a problem. At first, I did not understand. I thought maybe you and Dean? But no, he has a woman he sees and he never looks at you like that, like he sometimes looks at me. You, you never look at him like that, but you never look at me either. I watched all week and you look at no one!”

“Cam, I don’t want to talk about this. Now go to your own bed or I will have to sleep on the couch.”

“NO. I called the judge as he said I may. I talked to him. He is afraid for you. Dean, I talk to him, but he pretends he doesn’t hear me. He wants to be loyal to you, but he is afraid for you too.”

“Damn it, I do not want to talk about this.” I could feel my teeth grinding and my fingernails biting into the palms of my hands. My heart was beating and I was feeling like I did that day, the day in school when I dismantled the coach’s tackling dummies.

“ENOUGH!”

I left the room, slowing just long enough to get my shorts on and discard the towel. I was outside before I knew it, standing there in the grass of the backyard, looking out at the canal. There was nothing to hit, nothing to break there. Exercise. That was what Dean said, right?

I dove into the pool, not caring that it was midnight, not caring that it was unseasonably cool, only caring about the movement. I swam hard and flipped, moving back the other way and flipped, moving. Always moving. I swam until I could barely move my arms. I swam until my legs felt like dead weight. I swam until my lungs were on fire and there were spots in front of my eyes and ... and then I stopped.

Lucky for me, the water was shallow enough when I stopped that I could breathe. Just as lucky was the water streaming down from my hair meant no one could tell if I was crying or not. When I could move, when I could see again, I looked up and there sat Cam. Beautiful, terrible, tiny little Cam with the most expressive eyes and the cutest lips. Why was she so cruel?

She sat there silently watching me, the dried trails of tears on her cheeks. She was shivering in the cool air, but she still sat there watching. When it looked like I might actually get out, she stood and offered me a towel. Little shivering Cam.

“Let me help you, Jacques. Please?” she said, holding out a towel for me, holding out a hand.

I slept late the next day. When I woke, I could see the clock was showing it was ten in the morning, impossibly late when Dean was around. There was warmth and weight at my back, the faint tickle of breath at the base of my neck and a thin arm tossed carelessly across my hip.

I rolled over on to my back and Cam was awake, looking up at me. She scooted up and nestled her head into the hollow of my shoulder and let out a contented sign.

We were silent for a long time, even when she grasped my arm and pulled it around her. Eventually nature called and she seemed to know, only holding me back long enough to put a soft kiss on my chest, then lifting her head so I could climb out of bed.

After my morning pee, I washed my face and brushed my teeth, feeling more human again. My aching muscles told me I pushed too hard last night, but what alternative did I have? That pressure was still there, I could feel it and, when I looked in the mirror, I could almost see it, little jagged bolts of anger and frustration behind my eyes.

When I opened the door, I could see Cam still in the bed, waiting for me. She still had that mysterious look in her eyes and that smile on her face. She patted the bed beside her and gestured to me.

“Please, Jacques. Come and lay with me. Just that, no more and no less. Let me show you that you can cuddle, that you can touch and nothing bad happens.”

She was right. We lay there for an hour and it was nice. It was funny though, as long as I lay there, feeling her heart beat next to my own, I didn’t feel that anger inside, just ... contentment. It took me a while to puzzle that out. I was not sure I had ever felt that before.

We completely missed breakfast and, by the time we came down, it was already time for lunch. The weather was still not cooperating. It was in the fifties and raining outside, so it was going to be an inside Sunday. Lunch was tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches, and Cam laughed, calling that her favorite meal ever!

“We will have this on our anniversary for the rest of our lives, Jacques. It will be our special meal.”

Dean gave me a look but, when I raised an eyebrow, asking what that was about, he just shook his head.

That evening, we were sitting in the living room watching some brainless movie on the big screen, when something caught my eye. I would have sworn I saw something moving out by the seawall. Stretching casually, I asked Cam if she wanted anything from the kitchen and, when I was out of sight of the windows, I slipped into the office and turned on Dean’s wall of screens.

There, at the seawall and there, on the boat! Two more by the garage! There were shitloads of these fuckers. I hit the four-digit code on the safe in his office and pulled out two pistols, sticking them in my belt, then I grabbed a shotgun, a Kriss, two vests and two portable viewers. Dean’s office was right next to the office so I tapped on his door.

“Dean, red fucking alert.” I called softly, hearing him scrambling inside. The door opened and he had a gun in hand, his eyes still a little wide from sleep. I handed him the vest first and, after he had shrugged it on, a handgun for the chest holster, the Kriss on its strap and last, and just as important, the viewer.

“I counted a dozen, I need to get Cam.” I said and he slipped into the office to see the cameras.

“Cam, come to the office for a second please, I need to show you something.”

“Jacques, can it wait? This is a good part.”

“No, it can’t wait. It’s a Wolf thing.” I just hope that she figured that out.

She did, bless her heart.

“Jacques, what is it?” she asked, her eyes open wide.

“I don’t know, armed men outside. Get in the office, lock the door, it’s steel, a safe room. Call the cops, call the judge, call every number on that emergency list by the phone and no matter what happens, do not open that door for anyone you do not know. Me, Dean, Dave. Jake, the Judge.” I said shoving her through the office door and closing it.

Now that she was safe, I got down and low crawled into the kitchen, reaching up and grabbing the remote to the blinds. I had set it there when I opened them earlier, enjoying the occasional lightning. The remote would also close the expensive custom shutters I had installed. If they could stop a 2x4 in hurricane force winds, they should stop most small arms fire! Just as I hit the button, the power went off for all of two or three seconds before the generator cut in.

Ha! I bet that fucked up someone’s plans. It would take them a few seconds or a minute to break into the steel and brick enclosure. Even if they did, the battery backups would run the alarms, emergency lights and cameras for three days. I hit the button again and heard the shutters begin to close. Emergency planning, HO!

Dean was by the wall in the hall where he could cover the living room windows and the front door. From my spot, I could cover the front door and the hallway if they came in from that end or the garage. All we had to do was wait; they had to come to us.

The windows were all triple pane and bullet resistant so they would have to jimmy them - if they could get past the shutters, that is. The problem with making someplace really hard to get into was if they could not get in easily enough, they would try to burn it down or blow it up. We had one emergency exit, though it would be a cold bitch.

In the bottom of the hallway closet, there was a false floor that opened to a hatch. The hatch required a code but would let you into a thirty-six-inch-wide tube that ran to the boat dock. At high tide, you would actually have to swim out, but the grate over the hole showed at low tide, if you knew where to look.

We were both flipping through video channels, watching men trying to find a way into the house. They even did a human pyramid to try the second-floor windows. I could see they were getting frustrated. There was a loud bang as one guy got frustrated and kicked a door.

The argument between that guy and what was probably a team leader was funny to watch, even without sound.

The guys were all dressed in black with black paint on their faces, and they all had the AR-15s, but something was off. They moved like amateurs. We could see the frustration mounting and it wasn’t long before they grouped in back, several of them trying to start the boat. When we saw two guys with big duffle bags pulling out bricks of what looked like explosives, we decided that hiding inside was not going to be a viable long-term strategy.

“They are all out back right now, Dean, so we go out the front? I go left, you go right, we smash these fuckers.” He nodded and then did something that was either insane or brilliant, and only time would tell which was which. He stuck his badge on his chest.

“Ready when you are, Kemo Sabe,” I told him with a grin.

We checked the cameras one more time and then opened the front door. We had to disengage the electric shutter but they were designed for that. I pulled the toggle and we slid it aside, then slipped out the front door, locking it behind us and moving the shutter back. It was not locked but looked like it should be.

Holy shit it was cold out there! It had to be in the high forties, and the rain made my teeth chatter.

As planned, I moved left and Dean went right. We moved slowly and silently, already knowing where everything was around the house. When I got to the corner, I did like Dean had taught and got low to the ground. People would expect to see a head at head height, not at ground level. The coast was clear so I turned the corner and hurried to the next.

The boat shed was on my side so there was a blank wall in front of me and only a ten-foot opening between the house and the boat shed. That gave me a convenient little area to watch as I moved, shotgun up and ready. Right before I got to the corner, I heard Dean call out, “United States deputy marshal, drop your weapons and get on the ground.”

There was one gun shot, then I could hear Dean laying down some lead with the Kriss. I was around that corner in a heartbeat, firing 000-buck from the shotgun so quickly it sounded like one long blast. It took less than five seconds for the two of us to put ten men down. Wounded or dead, I didn’t know, but they were not shooting.

It struck me that the scene was surreal. There was light from the emergency lights on the boat shed, the ones lighting the pool area and from the neighboring properties. The light drizzle falling gave everything a shimmer. Then you had two guys, both wearing shorts, no shirts, but combat vests and both are soaked to the skin, standing over a pile of bodies in the grass. It was a scene from a bad movie with a big budget.

“Watch them, I am going on the E-Key” I called to Dean. I could see he didn’t like it, but it was my boat and I knew it better than he did.

“On the boat. You have two seconds to come out with your hands up or I will drag your bodies from the boat when I am done. Come out now!”

Talk about bad timing! Of course, the locals chose that second to decide to show up. There were sirens and lights coming up the street in front of the house and the lights were visible even back here. Just a couple of seconds more and there was a chopper overhead with a spotlight making the scene even more surreal, the loudspeaker demanding we put down our guns. Yeah, not going to happen.

The two in the boat must have decided to try to escape in the confusion. They came out with guns in hand and it was like I was shooting paper targets. Two shots, two kills. I had immediately moved forward under the boat cover when I had opened fire and was on the boat, kicking weapons away while Dean was dancing around in the backyard with his badge in hand, yelling at the chopper.

I wish I had thought to bring my camera. Or my phone, that would have worked.

It turned out that Dean was a freakin’ genius. One of the numbers by the phone in the office, the numbers that Cam had called, was the marshal’s office in Miami. Dean was able to keep the locals from shooting us or totally fucking up the crime scene in their haste to be relevant. Thankfully, the deputy marshals were there ten minutes after the cops finally showed up.

Two feputies and two FBI agents stepped down from a chopper as it hovered next to the sea wall in my back yard. As soon as they were clear, the chopper lifted again. They came in and tried to settle the local PD down, making them take their guns off of me and Dean. They explained that yes, he really was a federal deputy marshal and that whoever gave the order to take his weapons could find themselves up on federal charges.

Okay, that might have been pushing it a bit, but when a man had the badge and ID, they were supposed to check it out, not put the guy in cuffs. When they released him, Dean walked over and took the Kriss from where it lay and shrugged into the vest again. Then he walked over to one of the locals and held out his hand.

The officer he was staring at looked belligerent so Dean just got in his face and reached in to the officer’s shirt pocket for his badge case. When the cop reached to take it back by grabbing Dean’s wrist, Dean had him on the ground, his Kriss at the back of the guy’s neck.

“Dean. Don’t. Yes, you could get away with it, but Jesus, man, think about the paperwork.”

One of the other deputies was jotting notes in his book as he talked to Dean, like this was no skin off his nose either way. The cop on the ground wasn’t a badass anymore, he was probably pissing himself while thanking the lord for the rain so no one could tell.

Dean just walked away, but I could tell he was livid.

Since things seemed to be calm again, I was going to go in and get Cam but, son of a bitch, another local grabbed me. He actually put his hand on my throat, completely missing the G21 pointed at his balls.

I really thought Dean was going to shoot him. He had that Kriss Vector up and the barrel pressed against that guy’s eye so fast, I would be shocked if the man didn’t have a black eye tomorrow.

“Let him go or I will fucking kill you.” Dean’s voice was like ice. Appropriate since it was ... I did mention it was fucking cold out there, right?

The officer raised his hands slowly and Dean pulled back just far enough that he could rap the guy right between the eyes with the barrel. The man fell as if pole-axed!

“If you are not a federal law enforcement officer, you need to vacate the premises. Any nonfederal personnel on the premises in five minutes will be arrested for interfering with a federal investigation.” One of the FBI guys had his ID in hand and was herding the locals towards the front of the house.

“You can’t do that, you do not have the authority.” one of them, a sergeant, called out.

“You want to bet your pension? They don’t pay pensions to inmates. Now get the hell off this property. File a complaint if you want but leave or go to jail.”

There was grumbling, and they had filled the street out front, but they were off the property.

I keyed the code for the front door and Cam was right there, hugging and kissing me for only as long as it took for her to realize...

“AAKKK! You are freezing!”

She ran to the hall closet, came back with a stack of towels and tried to dry me. She was actually interfering more than helping but she was trying, so I just let her help.

Dean came in, also soaked to the skin, and I laughed through my chattering teeth when she just threw some towels at him and went back to drying me.

Dean flipped me off, now is that any way for a federal officer to act?

“Miller, you got to learn to play nice with the locals. We backed your play out there, but smacking that guy was a bit much.” One of the marshals from Miami was saying as he walked into the house. He had no more than said that last word that when there was the sound of shattering of glass and the report of a rifle.

“SNIPER! DOWN DOWN DOWN!” someone was screaming but I had Cam down on the floor, my body over the top of hers. She was screaming, but she wasn’t bleeding, so she wasn’t hit. Several more rounds tore through the living room glass wall, punching holes in the safety shutters too, big rounds, a fifty maybe.

I looked at Dean and he was looking back at me. It occurred to both of us at the same time.

Dean: “The canal!”

Me: “They came by boat!”

Dean: “Who secured it?”

Me: “No one secured the boat!”

Dean: “Coast Guard?”

Me: “Haven’t heard!”

Dean: “I go right, you go left, like before?”

I grabbed the carbine a deputy had abandoned when he dove to the ground and checked the breech, then nodded at Dean. We were out the door on our bellies and then running. I went the same way as earlier, hauling ass this time, zigging and zagging, tossing myself over the gap and onto the deck of my boat. A quick low crawl and I could see a fishing boat holding just off shore about ten yards. There was a man lying on the roof, rifle sweeping the rear of the house.

I got a good sight picture, squeezed off a shot and was gratified to see the man slump over the rifle. The rifle had fired in burst mode and I was certain that at least two of the rounds had hit him. I had been aiming down his torso from the head and shoulders end so there was no way that guy was moving again. I heard Dean open up and saw shattering glass on the deckhouse, but no return fire. Dean got off the ground and came over to me, his Kriss still tracking on the boat.

“Here, take this.” I said, handing him the rifle. He let the Kriss dangle, and checked out the rifle, smiling when he saw it was set on burst. Meanwhile, I got the hidden key and unlocked the boat. With it unlocked, I could use the batteries and lower the davit with my zodiac.

The FBI guys were out here now along with the other Deputies, one bitching about me taking his rifle though he looked like he was in shock.

As soon as the rubber boat was in the water, I was in and had the motor running. I looked up to see who was going with me; and saw Cam standing there, soaked to the skin.

“Escort her back inside and guard her.” I yelled, pointing at one of the FBI guys. He must have seen the look on my face because he didn’t argue, he just urged her to go back inside.

“Go with him, Cam. I will be back in a minute, I have to hunt!” I yelled to her, knowing that would make her smile. It did, or at least she tried, and she let the FBI agent herd her towards the house, so that is what counts.

Dean climbed aboard, having returned the carbine to the owner, and was followed by both of the deputy marshals. It took just ten seconds to reach the boat and, while I tied off, Dean and the Deputies were over the side and in the deckhouse. Dean had hit the guy behind the wheel, but he was alive. There was a shout from below and the Deputies eased down the stairs to the small space in the hull. We followed and saw that there was an older man, tied up and shoved in the bilge.

While they got him free, I went out on deck and then up to the top of the wheelhouse. The rifle he was using was not something I had seen before. The rounds it fired were big, about .50 cal big, but something was off about them. I grabbed the rifle and the spare mag next to it and took it down, setting it next to the wheelhouse.

Inside the wheelhouse was a case for the weapon and a box of ammo along with one more mag. In the light, I could see the headstamp on the rounds used by the rifle, and it was definitely that weird writing the Russians use, Cyrillic or something.

I was going to get in the zodiac and start the motor to steady it so they could lower the wounded man over the side and then stopped, shaking my head. Instead, engaging my brain, I put the fishing boat in gear and gave fuel to the motor, piloting the much larger boat to my sea wall, using the twin screws to turn it so the zodiac would not be crushed. The FBI guy was there to grab the rope I tossed him. He helped the deputy and Dean pull the old man, the boat owner, ashore, then the wounded man while I shut down the engine, pocketing the key.

From there, it was just a minute to untie my zodiac and bring it around to the E-Key again. Once it was hooked to the davits, I raised it out of the water, but not over the fantail because I wanted to wash it with fresh water first.

It took four hours to get an FBI evidence and cleanup team down there to Key West, but it was cold out and the bodies were not going anywhere. We managed to clean up and warm up, sucking down pot after pot of coffee.

The single live man captured was not talking at all, not even to ask for a lawyer, so there was little to do but wait.

Cam stuck by my side like glue. If I moved, she moved. Only when I went to the john was I alone and, as soon as I came out, she was there again, tucked under my arm.

When I asked, she just shrugged and said, “Mon Loup,” then buried her face in my shirt. If anyone had asked that night, I would have denied it, but I kind of liked it.

I missed school on Monday. I know, that sounds silly to say, but it was important to me. Maybe there is something wrong with me, but it was more important than the fourteen men we had killed the night before. At least to me, it was. I was sitting there, eating an omelet, and I realized that it really was important. Those guys were dead, I was still alive, I still had a future and that future needed a diploma.

Messed up world, eh?

“Morning, Jack.” a familiar voice called.

I turned around to look and Burt Dowdy, friendly neighborhood super fed, was in the entryway. He looked around, taking note of holes in the windows overlooking the back yard.

“Why do you think that guy opened up? With the shutters closed, he couldn’t have seen anything, right?”

“I don’t know. It had a big scope on it, but I thought it was night vision. Maybe it was, what do they call it, infrared? He was using a damned big rifle, not a fifty, but something similar. The rounds had black tips. Over here, we use green for armor piercing. What do soviets use? Chinese? That rifle is definitely foreign.” I told him, throwing up my hands. There was so much I didn’t understand about that whole thing.

“Huh. Mind if I get some coffee?”

“Help yourself, Burt.”

“These guys out there, they were Ukrainian, Jack. You do anything to piss off the Ukraine lately?”

“Not that I can think of. Do you think they are selling French slaves to Saudis?”

He looked startled for a moment, his head tilting as he thought that over.

“No, I don’t guess they would. They don’t much like the Arabs. They have a lot of problems over there with Muslim separatists and terrorists. I could see them selling Arab slaves to the French though.”

“Well, that is the only trouble I have gotten into lately. I am sure you read all about it.”

“Yeah, well, it never hurts to ask. You could have beat up a Ukrainian soccer player or something.”

Cam was watching this, her brow furrowed. “What do you want with Jacques?” she asked, sounding fierce.

Burt’s eyebrows went up and he glanced at me, but I just smiled.

“Um, just asking some questions. Why? Does that bother you?” Burt asked, leaning forward a bit.

“Our house. We ask the questions. Who are you to ask questions of Jacque. He is a brave man, killed many slavers.” I was watching her. When she got upset, her English would slip a bit and her accent would get stronger.

“It’s okay, Cam. Burt is a good guy, He is a troubleshooter for the FBI. They send him where there are big messes and he fixes things.”

“He is rude.” she said, then turned away and ignored him.

I had to cover my smile but Burt saw it, and just shook his head.

“So, you tell me, Burt. What are Ukrainian ... not soldiers, not the way they moved. Criminals? What do they want in the Florida Keys. Is it me? Is it mistaken identity? They were also trying to break into my boat out there. Was that the target?”