Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 46, No. 11, November 1982

Shayne pulled out his gun. Somehow it had never looked bigger to him. “See this,” he said. “It’s not a can of spray paint. If you get hit with a bullet from this, you can’t rub it off or paint over it. Whoever shot at me is liable to do it again, and I don’t want you around. You understand?”

The kid dropped his head and got out of the car. Shayne pulled away feeling lousy. He didn’t like chewing out the kid that way. Normally he would have taken more time to talk with him, but there was something more important he had to do immediately — on Mangrove Key.

Shayne wheeled the Buick down a dirt road that paralleled the bay. After a mile or so, he discovered what seemed to be a small public beach and pulled off. Mangrove key squatted on the water like a sleeping duck a good half-mile away. On its southern tip no lights were visible nor could he see any movement.

The detective stripped down to his shorts. He threw his clothes, shoes, and gun into a plastic bag he took out of the Buick’s trunk. Cutting a length of rope, he tied it to either end of the sealed bag, making a crude backpack.

The bay water was warm and smooth. The half moon provided just enough light to see by and not to be seen. A powerful swimmer, Shayne moved through the water effortlessly and gracefully. In other circumstances he would have enjoyed the brisk workout, but his mind wouldn’t relax its grasp on the question of what had happened to Tim.

Noiselessly the redhead pulled himself out of the water and slipped back into his clothes. He checked his gun — absolutely dry. Overhead a bird cried out and in the brush some night creature answered. Nature seemed calm, but Shayne told himself all wasn’t natural on the island. Somewhere on this isolated body were men who had gotten Tim into trouble and him shot at.

Sticking to the shore, he moved silently northward. The island provided him lots of natural cover, but it didn’t seem to matter. He saw absolutely no one or heard any human sounds.

Reaching a cove, he glimpsed his first unnatural sign. A light from behind some tall pines. As he headed toward it, he suddenly tripped. Lying on the ground he looked around. Driven into the sand were a series of pine stakes. The new Eden described in the brochure he had found must have been in its first day of creation. The only building he could see was one of those pre-fab metal structures you found at construction sites. Parked side by side in front were the unlikely duo of a brown jeep and a Rolls royce limo.

Like an alligator Shayne crawled toward the building. Still no sign of anyone. He crept closer to the light, which he could now tell was coming from a small window. Stepping on a broken orange crate, he peered in cautiously.

Sitting around a makeshift table were four men in silk shirts and golf slacks playing cards. One of them he recognized from the videotape as Edward McCord. What the hell was going on? This quartet hadn’t travelled across the state to sit in a metal shack and play poker.

Shayne felt the cold steel against his neck before he heard anything.

“Turn around slowly, senor. Very slowly,” commanded an unseen voice.

Shayne pivoted as ordered. The fact he had been sneaked up on successfully told him he was dealing with pros.

A light caught his face. He blinked a couple of times. When he could see clearly, he knew he was in trouble.

Staring at him were three Uzis held by a trio in green army fatigues.

VI

One of the captors shoved his Uzi into the redhead’s ribs. Another reached out and took the .38 automatic from Shayne’s belt. The third opened the door to their right. Like a steer in the stock-yards, Shayne was driven into the metal building.

For the first time Shayne noticed a fifth figure inside. Dressed in fatigues, wearing a full beard, and chewing on a big cigar, he looked like a young Fidel Castro. The figure was momentarily caught off-guard. He shot a glance at the four card players who had turned to see the source of the commotion. Then he inhaled on his cigar and his steel eyes shifted to Shayne.

“This island is very private, senor.”

“I was just out for a midnight swim, saw your light, and thought I’d drop in,” answered the detective.

The butt of a gun drove into his kidneys. He flinched but didn’t make a sound at the pain lancing his body.

“You have a smart mouth, my friend. It is too bad your brain is not its equal,” said the bearded man who Shayne concluded was the uniformed group’s leader. “Now tell me why a man would sneak onto this island at night with a gun?”

“A little snipe hunting, maybe,” came Shayne’s reply.

This time the gun butt struck the redhead in the back of the neck, sprawling him in front of the card players. Shayne had been in tight spots like this before. Instinctively he knew that anonymity was his best chance at self-preservation. What he needed most now was time — even if the best way to buy it was with pain.