Gulf Dreams

Contents Title Copyright Dedication 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 Other books by Douglas Pratt Gulf Dreams A Chase Gordon Tropical Thriller Douglas Pratt Gulf Dreams is a work of fiction. Any names, places, characters, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, either living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Copyright © 2023 by Douglas Pratt Cover art by Ryan Schwarz The Cover Designer www.thecoverdesigner.com All rights reserved. For Ashlee 1 The clouds overhead were light and fluffy, an off-white mix of cotton and cotton candy. They drifted from one side of the sky to the other at an unhurried pace. As they seemed to sway from side to side with an almost supernatural grace, their shade of white was a perfect complement to the deep blue ocean. I could faintly make out a few wispy tendrils that looked like smoke from a chimney. I felt the heat vanish as the thick veil shielded me from the rays of the Florida sun. I couldn’t see anything but the sky. I was lying on the foredeck of Carina, dozing slightly after finishing the last of the blue crab salad I made the night before. The mixture filled two pieces of toasted bread perfectly, and I washed it down with a cold bottle of Pacifico. It was a well-deserved meal. The nap after even more so. I’d spent the morning in the water. Not doing anything fun, like spearfishing or snorkeling. No, I was scraping barnacles off the hull of my forty-foot Tartan sailboat. The work was tedious, and I’d let the task go undone for too long. Luckily, I donned my scuba gear, making the undertaking easier than continuously diving below in a snorkel. After an hour and a half of chopping away at the little bastards with a putty knife, I surfaced, feeling I could now avoid this chore for a couple of months. That seemed like a perfectly good reason to lounge this afternoon. Besides, I had nothing on the agenda now. The ocean air was salty, with a faint hint of fish. The waves lapped against the hull of the boat, creating a gentle, hypnotizing melody. At the moment, I couldn’t think of a better place to be. Carina, my floating home, bobbed at anchor in nine feet of water just off of Rabbit Key, an island about twelve miles from Islamorada in the Florida Keys. I lowered the hook to the sandy bottom about four days ago. So far, the only signs of life I’d seen were three different fishing boats puttering around the mangroves in the early morning. Well, I guess when I said life, I meant people. A small pod of dolphins dropped by every evening to swim around the boat. I wasn’t sure I’d spoken a word in the last two days, partly because I spent a good portion of those days breathing through a mouthpiece attached to my regulator, hacking away at barnacles on the hull of Carina. The trouble with barnacles was that no matter how hard you scraped a diver’s pick at them, they still clung tighter than a crab clutching its shell. At some point I considered that an angle grinder would be faster. While cleaning the hull, I could only utter frustrated groans and bear it until it was clean. Besides, who was I going to talk to? That wasn’t a complaint on my part, though. I loved solitude. And if I could find that on the ocean, that was even better. Even those menial boat jobs like hull scraping seemed to be better out here. I rolled over onto my stomach and reached for the well-worn paperback I picked up from the book pile at the marina in Marathon. Its cover depicted a rugged character with a gun, standing on a rooftop in some European capital. I’d been reading it for a week now, following a burned ex-CIA assassin as he fought an intense battle across Europe. It felt thrilling and far-fetched, but then I supposed most fiction did. As I flipped open to the folded page, the cloud moved along, letting the ultraviolet rays beam down on my bare back. Since getting out of the Marine Corps, I’d spent most of my days on board Carina. If I wasn’t working up in West Palm Beach to fill up my bank account, then I was at sea. My bronzed skin was the result. I bought sunscreen by the case and kept it applied because despite my skin’s built-up tolerance to burning, I preferred to stave off any chances of skin cancer. It rained a lot in the Keys, but the rainfall never lasted more than a day. When it rained, the clouds rolled in from the Gulf like a slow-moving tsunami in the sky. The dark clouds were always welcome because they promised relief from the sweltering heat. The rain hit like warm, wet bullets, creating an excellent opportunity to collect fresh water. Since my four solar panels mounted on an arch over the stern of Carina powered everything but the air conditioner, I didn’t need to make my way to civilization anytime soon if I replenished my tanks. A cool, consistent breeze rolled between the islands from the Gulf. The gentle wind replaced the humid heat with a soft caress.In fact, a lot of newcomers to the area fell prey to the sun’s rays, mistaking the cool wind for milder weather than it actually was. I’d see them in the hotel lobbies and bars, their skin bright red and tight from their carelessness. I peered up at the clouds that seemed to gather like kids plotting some mischief. Eventually, they’d merge, bursting out in a quick shower. If it even got to me, the rain wouldn’t last five minutes—ten at