Rising Thunder Read online

  Copyright © 2020

  Published by DOWN ISLAND PRESS, LLC, 2020

  Beaufort, SC

  Copyright © 2020 by Wayne Stinnett

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without express written permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Library of Congress cataloging-in-publication Data

  Stinnett, Wayne

  Rising Thunder/Wayne Stinnett

  p. cm. - (A Jesse McDermitt novel)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-7339351-5-9

  ISBN-10: 1-7339351-5-0

  Cover photograph by Rainer von Brandis

  Graphics by Wicked Good Book Covers

  Edited by The Write Touch

  Final Proofreading by Donna Rich

  Interior Design by Ampersand Book Designs

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Many real people are used fictitiously in this work, with their permission. Most of the locations herein are also fictional or are used fictitiously. However, the author takes great pains to depict the location and description of the many well-known islands, locales, beaches, reefs, bars, and restaurants throughout the Florida Keys and the Caribbean to the best of his ability.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Epigraph

  Read More Jesse

  Maps

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  More from Wayne Stinnett

  Afterword

  In memory of my first boss, Fred Sicilia, Sr., who was recently reunited with his bride of sixty years. I grew up learning what a good work ethic was from my dad.

  It was through Mister Fred that I learned a good work ethic was something all dads had in common.

  Thanks for the lessons under cars and over sodas.

  “One should judge a man mainly from his depravities. Virtues can be faked. Depravities are real.”

  —Klaus Kinski

  If you’d like to receive my newsletter, please sign up on my website:

  www.waynestinnett.com.

  Every two weeks, I’ll bring you insights into my private life and writing habits, with updates on what I’m working on, special deals I hear about, and new books by other authors that I’m reading.

  Charity Styles Series

  Merciless Charity

  Ruthless Charity

  Reckless Charity

  Enduring Charity

  Vigilant Charity

  Jesse McDermitt Series

  Fallen Out

  Fallen Palm

  Fallen Hunter

  Fallen Pride

  Fallen Mangrove

  Fallen King

  Fallen Honor

  Fallen Tide

  Fallen Angel

  Fallen Hero

  Rising Storm

  Rising Fury

  Rising Force

  Rising Charity

  Rising Water

  Rising Thunder

  Rising Warrior

  There, you can purchase all kinds of swag related to my books. You can find it at

  www.gaspars-revenge.com

  I felt the heat of the morning sun on my back. It’d only been an hour since it had risen into the Western Caribbean sky, but mornings were short lived this far south. Feeling invigorated after a deck shower to rinse the night’s salt off, I let the warmth of the sun dry my skin. Its rays felt good, but I finally shrugged into a lightweight, long-sleeved shirt. Too much exposure could be painful, especially in the tropics.

  Salty Dog held a steady course toward the south-southwest, heeling only a few degrees on a beam reach. A near-constant eighteen knots of true wind speed had powered her through the night at a very consistent seven knots.

  In fact, the night had passed easily and not a single change in the sail plan had been needed. The Dog had added another eighty miles under her keel since nightfall and slightly more than that the previous day. We’d probably traveled 175 nautical miles since weighing anchor off the coast of Cozumel just over a day ago.

  It was hard to believe that less than two weeks had passed since Christmas Eve, when I’d taken my little Grady-White out on the Gulf of Mexico to meet up with Savannah and Florence. It seemed like a lifetime. We fit together better now than we had when we’d first met.

  The sun was hot on the left side of my face and I relished the cool feel of the fresh, easterly breeze. The sky was clear, and the air smelled clean, as if scrubbed by the sea.

  I checked the wind instruments. We had a true wind angle of 82° and in that direction, I knew there wasn’t anything—no land mass of any kind—all the way to the Windward Islands in the Eastern Caribbean, more than 1600 miles away.

  Temperatures didn’t vary a whole lot between seasons in these little latitudes of the Caribbean. The Tropic of Cancer was a couple hundred miles astern. In early January, when a lot of folks were putting on heavy coats and boots, I preferred putting on a mask and fins. Always have.

  South of the Yucatan, temperatures were in the low eighties by noon, and it rarely got below seventy at night. Add five degrees to both for summer and you had a year-round spread of only 15° between the coolest winter night and warmest summer day. With such perfect year-round weather, it was a wonder the beaches went unspoiled.

  Just over the horizon to the west I knew there were miles and miles of mostly desolate beaches, punctuated here and there by small fishing villages; pueblos, as they were called in the Yucatan.

  Exactly where we were didn’t matter all that much. I was living in the now and taking pleasure in every moment of it.

  The autopilot controlled our direction and the wind governed our speed. Savannah and I took four-hour watches through the night, with me taking the mid-watch from 2200 to 0200. I’d relieved her just before sunrise and both she and Florence would be rising soon.

  The course I’d laid in the previous evening took us through the middle of a sixteen-mile wide, two-thousand-foot-deep gap between the mainland and the atoll reef of Banco Chinchorro. We’d passed the narrowest part when I’d taken over, and I’d made a very slight course correction to reach our destination sometime later in the evening.

  I glanced at my dive watch. Based on our current speed, I knew we were somewhere between Mahahual, Mexico and San Pedro, Belize, and I’d guess twenty-some miles offshore.

  Finn came up from the companionway, followed closely by Woden. That meant the girls were up. Finn was my ten-year-old yellow Lab mix and Woden was a comparably ag
ed rottweiler belonging to my daughter and her mom. The two dogs were about the same size—big.

  Being on a boat with two large-breed dogs wasn’t easy. Fortunately, both of them were mild-mannered, due to their ages, they’d both grown up on boats and were well-trained. Like me, they’d mellowed as their facial hair turned gray. Also like me, they could, I knew, be very dangerous if provoked.

  “You had a call,” Florence said, as she came up the steps after the dogs. “And Mom wants to know what you want for breakfast.”

  She held my satellite phone out to me. Not my private one, but the one Jack Armstrong had given me. I was one of many problem solvers for his global corporation, Armstrong Research. I contracted with the company’s Mobile Expeditionary Division, otherwise known as ARMED.

  “Thanks,” I said, taking the phone. “Are there any of last night’s lobster tails left?”

  “For breakfast?” she asked, as she sat on the starboard bench and looked toward the invisible shoreline.

  “Ever had a lobster omelet?” I asked.

  Finn and Woden walked around the helm, then sat down on opposite sides of it, both looking forward. Florence stroked Woden’s shiny black fur, then turned toward me, her eyes questioning. “I like lobster and I like eggs. Are they good together?”

  “I like it,” I replied, looking at the recent call list on my phone.

  “Then I’ll like it, too,” Florence said confidently. “Who was it?”

  “John Wilson,” I replied, attempting to mask the concern in my voice.

  Florence’s face became grave. “You said he was your handler?”

  “I don’t think that was the word I used. He sometimes gives me assignments.”

  “Do you have to take them?”

  “No,” I replied. “I can say no, any time I want. I’m not an employee.”

  “There are two-and-a-half tails left,” Florence said, rising from the bench and putting an arm around my shoulder for a quick hug. “I’ll go tell Mom we’re having omelets.”

  After she left, I hit the redial button to call John back. He answered right away. “Where are you headed?”

  “Ambergris Caye,” I replied. “What’s up?”

  “Remember I borrowed Floridablanca?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “That was six weeks ago.”

  “There’s been a development,” John said. “Weller’s mission didn’t go as planned.”

  Ryan Weller was another contractor, like me, but he worked for Dark Water Research. Though I’d never met the man, I’d heard of him a few times, and knew that the two organizations worked together on occasion.

  “Is he okay?”

  “He’s hooked up with a bat-shit crazy woman,” John said. “Weller couldn’t make the shot; the target was holding a baby. The woman snatched up his rifle and emptied the magazine. They both got out, and I took them up to DWR’s headquarters in Texas City.”

  “So, what’s the problem?”

  “He’s going back to finish the job.”

  “What?” I said, surprised. “That’s suicide. His target’s bound to be ready.”

  I knew only the basics of what John had been up to these last few weeks, and that was only because I owned Floridablanca. I’d bought her from John several years ago, after he’d lost an eye in a submersible accident. John had been providing logistical support for Weller, getting him in and out of Mexico, somewhere about 250 miles south of the Texas border. Dark Water didn’t have assets in the area, so they called Armstrong. All I knew was that Weller’s target had been a drug cartel boss.

  “That’s why I’m calling you,” John said. “He might need some backup. A person who can reach out and touch somebody from a great distance.”

  “When?” I asked. “And how long?”

  “In two days,” he replied. “In and out in a matter of hours.”

  I didn’t want to. I wanted nothing more than to spend as much time as I could with Savannah and Florence. But my sense of duty tugged at my ear.

  “Contact Charity,” I said. “She’s in the Caymans. Have her pick me up at the airport in Chetumal tomorrow morning.”

  I ended the call just as Florence came back up the steps, carrying a water bottle in one hand and a Thermos in the other. Savannah came up right behind her, carrying a large, covered plate.

  “Scootch over,” Savannah said, smiling brightly. “Let Flo take the wheel. We already ate.”

  Doing as I was told, I rose and moved to the port bench. Finn looked up at the dish Savannah was carrying and licked his chops.

  “It’s on autopilot,” I said.

  “Is there a change in plans?” Savannah asked, handing me the plate. Our daughter put the water bottle in a cup holder and refilled my mug from the Thermos.

  “A slight change,” I replied. “I have to leave tomorrow, but I’ll be back in two days.”

  Both Savannah’s and Florence’s faces fell.

  “I know we talked about it,” Savannah said. “But I didn’t think something would come up so soon.”

  I removed the cover from the plate and smiled. “I never know when or where,” I said, picking up a strip of crispy bacon. “But they don’t come often. And this isn’t a real job. I just need to go help a friend.”

  “Someone like yourself?”

  “Yeah. But he works for a different agency.”

  “And what exactly will you have to do?” Savannah asked.

  Florence was pretending not to pay attention, but she didn’t have much of a poker face.

  “Provide support for a team that’s going after the leader of a drug cartel.”

  Savannah looked out over the bow. “Are these men…this team…are they friends of yours? Do you know them?”

  A very astute question. I didn’t actually know the men I had been asked to assist. I knew a little about them, had heard their names mentioned in quiet conversations with other operators, but that was it. What kind of allegiance did I owe?

  “I know of them,” I said solemnly. “But never met either of them. One’s a former SEAL and the other one’s a Ranger.”

  “So how do you know anything about them?” Florence asked.

  “Spec Ops is a small community within the military,” I replied. “Of the two-and-a-half million people in the U.S. Armed Forces, less than half a percent are Spec Ops. Of those, only a couple hundred would be in leadership roles. Exploits are talked about.”

  “What exploits do you know these men were involved in?” Savannah asked.

  “They’re men like I once was—snake-eaters—the pointy tip of the spear. They stand with clear minds and strong arms and say, ‘not on my watch.’ They are men who understand the true meaning of molon labe.”

  “That means ‘come take them’ in Greek,” Florence said, looking slightly bewildered. “I saw it on a car’s bumper once and looked it up. But I don’t get what it’s supposed to mean. Come take what?”

  I gazed up at my daughter. She was highly intelligent, just like her mom. She’d seen a good bit of the world—more than most seventeen-year-olds, and under Savannah’s tutelage, she had a better education than most college grads. But having been boat-schooled, as they called it, she’d led a bit of a sheltered life so far, naïve to the evils out there.

  “People who put it on a bumper sticker have no idea of the true meaning. They use it as a protest, thinking the government wants to take their guns away. They strut like peacocks and say, ‘come take them.’ Most couldn’t pour sand out of a boot with the instructions on the heel.”

  “What’s it really mean, Dad?”

  Could she understand? Could anyone who’d never had to fight for their life and the lives of others ever understand the kind of commitment it took to stand between the innocent, faceless masses and an enemy bent on destroying them, knowing that the best you could do was slow the inevitable?


  “Molon labe was the Spartan king’s response when Xerxes demanded they lay down their weapons and surrender during the Battle of Thermopylae about twenty-five hundred years ago. Leonidas replied, ‘Come take them.’”

  I saw her confusion as she frowned at me. “Who won the battle? Xerxes or Leonidas?”

  “Who ultimately won the battle is the reason the term is important,” I replied, studying her face. I bent and patted Finn on the shoulder as I looked out over the water. “The Spartans were vastly outnumbered,” I said, not looking at her. “At least two hundred to one, though some scholars say that number might have been more than a thousand to one. They didn’t have any chance of surviving the battle, much less winning it. That wasn’t what they fought for. The Spartans gave their lives, every single man, defending a pass to slow the Persian invasion and give the Greek army and navy time to fortify. The Spartans all died on that pass, yes. But their stand saved hundreds of thousands of their people. In the end, thanks to the time Leonidas and his Spartans provided, the Persians were turned back.”

  I could see her eyes moisten a little. “They fought knowing they would die?”

  “Yes,” I replied frankly. “They knew their sacrifice would save others.”

  “Will that happen to you?” Florence asked.

  I leaned over and put my arm around her. “No. Leonidas and his men had warrior hearts, of that we have no doubt, but today’s warriors have the advantage of a lot of technology. I’ll be back in a couple of days.”

  She looked into my eyes and nodded. “I believe you. You’re kinda scary-looking sometimes.”

  I laughed and pulled her head to my shoulder. “Scary worked for Blackbeard.”

  “I know you said these calls were infrequent,” Savannah said, sitting next to me, her bare thigh against mine. “I just thought we’d have a bit more time together before you had to go.”

  “It’s likely to be a good while before the next one.”

  She smiled, but I could still sense the worry. Finally, her eyes seemed to resolve. “You have to go,” she said flatly. “You’re the kind of guy who stands up for two sisters who drank too much. It’s one of the things I love most about you.”