Wood's Harbor Read Online Free PDF Page A

thing getting rid of it, but there was a bag I stashed on it that might come in handy about now,” Mac said. He looked at his empty wrist. “What time is it?” 
    Trufante took his phone from the pocket of his cargo pants and glanced at the screen. “It’s almost eleven. Figure this time of day it takes an hour and a half to get back to Marathon. Can’t afford any bad blood with my favorite barmaid.”
    He almost laughed. The only time Trufante was punctual was when there was alcohol involved. “Where am I going?” he asked.

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    FIVE
    Mac followed Trufante’s directions and pulled onto North Roosevelt, heading east towards Stock Island. Trufante directed him past Garrison Bight, the largest marina on the island, and they drove another quarter mile or so before pulling into the parking lot of a vanilla-looking commercial building. Mac drove slowly around back, cautious that he didn’t get too close if someone was still there. Despite the reputation of chop shops as being late night businesses, he doubted there was work going on this time of night. The noise would carry and attract attention. Parked in back were several boats on trailers by a large roll-up garage door. A sign above declared the business as Custom Boats and Watersports. There were no lights or cars, so they parked, got out of the car and walked to the office door, careful to stay in the shadows of the trailered boats, in case there were surveillance cameras. 
    “They don’t just tow these to the public ramp. It’s too visible.” Mac said, wondering how the operation worked.
    Trufante pointed to a camouflaged gate across the parking lot that looked like it went nowhere. “That there goes back to a lagoon. You got to run the bridge at the bottom of the tide, so no one thinks you can get in or out of here. They’ve got a forklift inside,” he pointed to the garage door. “Ain’t but a hundred yards to the water. The clean boats go out the front door on trailers, the dirty ones out the back, into the lagoon, where they can disappear in the back country.”
    Mac slid against the building to the office door. It was solid glass, allowing him an unobstructed view of the interior. In the dim blue light from the computers he saw several desks and the usual assortment of office furniture. There was no sign of life. 
    “How we gonna get in?” Trufante asked. 
    Mac pulled the handle on the commercial-grade door, finding the deadbolt in place. He left the storefront and walked to a solid door on the other side of the garage door used to access the workspace. The steel door had a single lock and he yanked the handle, finding it locked as he expected, but it was old, and anything made out of metal in the Keys had a half-life, its useful life shortened by the weather and salty environment. A cinder block lay to the side of the door, probably used for a door stop. Mac picked up the block and raised it over his head. With a quick movement, he brought the cement block down on the handle. He felt the lock shatter, and satisfied he could get in now, he set the block back and went to work on the lock. He picked up the handle from the ground and inserted it back into the mechanism. With a few jiggles, he was able to coax the door open. 
    “Open the garage door,” he called to Trufante and walked into the cavernous space. At least five boats were in the warehouse, many in different stages of assembly, or disassembly, in which this business specialized. None resembled Commando’s boat. The two closest to the garage door looked workable. A Hydrosport 33 sat on blocks, its three 275 horsepower engines gleaming in the moonlight. A stainless steel structure lay next to it. The boat would work, but would also stand out. Although he would have liked the speed and shallow draft, the go-fast boat would be too easy to spot. The three boats in the back had no engines so he focused on the Scout. The graceful but utilitarian lines appealed