Page 89 of Wild Fever
I gave her my card and told her to get in touch.
The tow truck came and hooked up the vehicle. JD and I left and headed back to theAvventura. It was reasonably close to dinner, and JD figured the Bluewater Bistro might be a good way to celebrate Kara’s new lease on life. But a call from Isabella changed our plans.
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“These guys screwed up,” Isabella said.
“Which guys?” I asked.
“The ones that hired Rick to kill Yan Zheng. They sent money to him from the wrong wallet, or they got careless. I’m not sure which. I was able to look on the blockchain and follow the wallet’s transactions. That same wallet sent money to Coconut Exotics. Some nitwit bought themselves a bright and shiny new Lambo. I hacked into Coconut Exotics’ network and cross-referenced sales. The car was purchased by Rowan Vale. I did some digging online. His social media feed is full of newly acquired luxury items. Lots of partying with champagne bottles and gorgeous women on a superyacht. Low profile is not this guy’s style. Several posts bragging about shorting the market. He left a bigger footprint online than he realizes. Goes by the name Zero Saint in hacker circles. Part of a hacker collective called Code Syndicate. From what I can tell, the Syndicate is him and his friend, Trent Kodak, a.k.a. HecticKinectic.”
“Nice work,” I said.
“These dipshits left bread crumbs all over. They created an international incident just to crash the market. What’s wrong with people?”
“I don’t know,” I said, shaking my head.
“They murdered someone to do it,” she said, exasperated. “Sorry. This just irritates me. This could have led to a global conflict. Still might.”
“You got any idea where I can find these scumbags?”
"I've linked them to an offshore holding company that owns several large assets, including a superyacht named Wave Theory,” Isabella said. “I've also linked them to a few burner phones. Right now, those phones are just offshore. It looks like they’ve got the AIS turned off. But I can give you the location of the cell phones. I'm sure you can find them."
I thanked her for the heads up, and she texted me the coordinates a few moments later.
As usual, I couldn’t use any of the information Isabella had given us. But if these numbskulls were out on the water, we could board the boat for a routine inspection. Who knows what that might turn up?
JD and I gathered our tactical gear and contacted the sheriff. We met him at the station and loaded onto a patrol boat. Daniels took the helm, and I cast off the lines. He idled us out of the marina, and another patrol boat followed. We cruised past the breakwater, and the aluminum patrol boat crashed through the inky swells, spraying mists of salt water.
I didn't bother to notify the feds, even though this was technically still their case.
It didn't take long to catch up with the superyacht. They were out doing an evening booze cruise. The aft deck was full of hotties in skimpy bikinis, drinks dangling from manicured hands. Pop music pumped through expensive speakers. Rowan and Trent were living the good life—at least for the next few moments.
We pulled alongside the superyacht, flanking it.
The sheriff hailed the party boat over the radio. "Wave Theory, this is the Coconut County Sheriff's Department. Heave to and prepare to be boarded for routine inspection."
The captain radioed back an instant later. "Copy that."
To my surprise, the captain complied. He cut the engines, and the boat slowed.
We pulled to the stern and boarded at the swim platform with Erickson and Faulkner, along with two other deputies from a second patrol boat. We climbed the molded-in steps to the aft deck as the party still raged.
It didn't take long for people to notice a squad of uniformed deputies standing on the deck. Jack and I were still in street clothes, but suited up with tactical vests, AR-15s, and tactical helmets.
A guy swept white powder from a tabletop.
Somebody cut the music.
I shouted across the crowd which was full of wide eyes and nervous faces. "Routine compliance inspection. If everything is in order, you can get back to your evening.”
This party wasn’t going to restart anytime soon.
I pointed at the guy who wiped the cocaine from the table. “You. Don't move," I said as I approached.
He was young, in his early 20s, with dark spiky hair, a square jaw, and brooding brown eyes. He looked like he could be on the cover of a teen magazine. He had a slim build and wore a T-shirt and black jeans. I recognized him from the DMV photos Isabella had sent and from his social media page. This was Trent.
Panic filled his eyes. He barreled across the aft deck, bowling over his guests.
