The Girl Beneath the Sea (Underwater Investigation Unit #1)(32)

No such luck. There’re only a dozen or so photographs, and they’re almost all sunsets or sunrises, the kind of thing Run used to send to me.

One photo shows the sun breaking through a group of mangroves. There’s a canal in front of them with no seawall. I tap the photo, and it shows on a map where it was taken.

The location is southwest of Fort Lauderdale, a place I’m pretty sure there are no boatyards, only an RV storage lot and some tree nurseries.

Interesting.

As Carolina watches, I pull the location up in Google Maps and look at the satellite view.

Sure enough, tucked away from the canal and behind a dense forest of mangroves is a group of small warehouse buildings. They look like they were part of the nursery at one time.

I don’t know when this image was captured, but I have a pretty good idea of what the buildings are being used for now.

It’s the perfect location to work on drug boats, cars, and other clandestine ways of hiding contraband. It must be the secret boatyard.

I hand the phone back to Carolina. “Thank you.”





CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

INCURSION

The frogs are chirping as the sun sets, casting a pink glow across the sky. I paddle my kayak slowly, watching the mangroves on either side. Occasionally I spot the headlights of a car as it goes down the road to my right. In the distance behind me, I can see the glow of the city. Ahead lies the setting sun and its mirrorlike reflection in the canal.

A turtle bobs its head up and swims along with me for a moment before diving back down. Under the twisted branches of the trees and shrubs lining the shore, soft splashing things crawl in and out of the water.

Although there’s a perfectly good road leading to the mystery yard, it’s also a small one-lane path that makes it pretty obvious someone is coming—and an easy place to get trapped.

The kayak seemed like a more sensible way to scope out the place. For starters, this is public water, so I’m not trespassing—as long as I don’t leave the boat. Second, it’s easier to explain my presence as a kayaker out for an evening trip than if I pull up to the yard looking suspicious.

At least that’s my theory.

I have no idea what I’m going to find. Winston and Raul have to be long gone by now. What they left behind is the mystery.

I’m clinging to the idea that Winston and Raul used the site to install smuggler’s compartments in fishing boats and pleasure craft.

If they did, those boats would probably need to be trailered in and out. I can’t imagine anything floating through these canals with a keel more than a few feet deep.

Winston was a clever guy. It could be something else entirely.

But who knows? It could have been a drug storage and distribution site. Or perhaps there’s no connection at all—maybe this place has nothing to do with anything and Raul took the pictures while exploring like me.

My doubts begin to fade when I spot the gentle slope of a concrete boat ramp leading out of the canal and into a gravel yard surrounded by a tall fence topped by barbed wire.

The fence even crosses the end of the ramp, with a large metal gate secured by a padlock.

An intimidating sign says, PRIVATE PROPERTY. PATROLLED BY WESTGUARD SECURITY.

What’s even more intimidating is the eleven-foot alligator that has staked out the ramp as his personal resting spot. He doesn’t budge as I drift closer.

I once knew an old trapper who lived out in the Everglades. He had a shack on stilts in which he kept his shotguns and other prized possessions. As a security measure, he used to throw dead chickens into the water to keep alligators around.

If one got too close to him, he’d have alligator meat for a month.

Unfortunately, I don’t have any dead chickens to lure this one away, and he sure as hell does not look intimidated by a skinny broad in a rinky-dink kayak.

“Go away, beast!” I raise my voice at him, hoping it’ll scare him.

The alligator doesn’t move an inch. So much for that idea.

For a moment I wonder if he’s even real. There’s not much difference between a nonmoving fake alligator and one that’s resting. Until it decides to move. Then things get deadly.

I could try to push him away with my paddle, but that would put me in close proximity to the creature. If he decided to charge me, the paddle would be as ineffective as a flyswatter versus a lion.

I bring the kayak sideways to the ramp so I can get out without having to step into the water. There’s a better-than-even chance he’ll ignore me and move away mopishly.

There’s also a chance Jackie will see a news report about how some fishermen found my kayak and the partial remains of a stupid woman who got too close to an alligator.

“Okay, buddy. This is the way it’s going to work: I’m getting out, and you can just chill. But if you decide to get a little bitey, I’m going to put a nine-millimeter round inside your teensy dinosaur brain and then turn you into a pair of sandals. Comprende, amigo?”

I point my gun—Solar’s gun—at the alligator’s head while my left hand steadies me against the edge of the ramp.

Being careful not to slip and either fall into the water, making myself extra vulnerable, or drop the gun and shoot myself—making Mr. Alligator’s job all that much easier—I slowly move my weight onto the ramp, putting down first one foot, then the other.