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Ezekiel Cameron's Wicked Sea Newly promoted Bahamian policeman Jeremiah McKay faces the challenge of returning fugitive Ezekiel Cameron, a man who once tried to kill him. Adding to McKay's troubles, a pair of Florida hitmen arrive in the islands to reclaim a stolen Mafia fortune at any cost. Finally, a rookie constable joins McKay's team, complicating his problems.

C h a p t e r  O n e  
The Florida Keys

Even in Key West, it’s possible to wear out your welcome.                                                    

Close to doing just that, Ezekiel “Zeke” Cameron was in the ninth month of his flight from Bahamian justice. Cameron, slight, blonde, with icy blue eyes and an easy smile, lived under an assumed name—Josh Curry. Scratching for a living in a city where he felt invisible, Zeke sensed time was running out for him. Too many clumsy attempts at pickpocketing made his face well known to Key West police. Backing off petty thefts for a while, Zeke picked up odd jobs—shor- stints as dishwasher, bartender, and pizza delivery driver. But easy pickings among cruise-ship crowds and mainland tourists was too tempting. Before long, he was haunting Duval Street and Mallory Square, trying his bumbling hands at thievery again. But things were beginning to escalate. Hunting for pairs of tipsy gay men on weekends; then shaking them down for spending money, was easy cash for a while. Like taking candy from big babies. Most of his victims were too scared to resist and afterwards, too ashamed to report the crime to police. Zeke always threatened violence, but never had to use it. But he got lazy, sloppy.                                         

A month ago, an encounter had gone terribly wrong. Working his usual flirting routine to lure two aging queens into the shadows, Zeke went berserk when the older of the two resisted his robbery attempt. Escaping that night with a gold watch and a bloodied roll of bills, even he had been frightened by his uncontrollable homophobic rage. Laying low for several days, Zeke surfaced only when his money began to run out. He crossed paths with a trio of muscular men sent by the queens to hunt him down. The three worked Zeke over until he could barely crawl.       Light-skinned Fatima, a stunning Cuban waitress with whom he shared an apartment, nursed him back to health. When healed, Zeke gave up his short-lived mugging career and went back to bartending at a renovated cafe in Key West’s New Town where he was not as well-known.       

Within a week though he was brazenly practicing his larceny right under the owner’s nose.    

Zeke started small—a dollar here, five dollars there, the occasional roll of quarters, but it was a bottom feeder’s existence, and he knew it. Eventually, the bar owner’s brother caught Zeke pilfering the till and walking steaks out the back door. After closing one night, the brother broke the Bahamian’s left hand as a warning.                                                                             

But Zeke was a slow learner. Word got around that the drifter was not to be trusted anywhere near a cash register. Even Zeke’s girlfriend, the Cuban beauty with a heart for strays of all kinds, finally grew weary of his lapses, and ordered him out for the last time.          

Cornering Zeke the next day, a burly cop hinted that the bar owner was going to file charges for the latest theft. The same officer said he knew of a sport-fishing boat leaving in the morning for Marathon Key, and he strongly suggested the Bahamian be on board. For once Zeke read the cop’s veiled suggestion for the threat it was and talked his way onto the boat as a deckhand, in exchange for passage north.                                                                                        

Morning found Zeke coiling lines as he watched Key West disappear astern. To keep Zeke moving up the string of keys, the same cop called a brother officer in Marathon Key, fifty miles up the chain, to let them know a troublemaker would be arriving in their small community.       

When the boat tied up at the marina, a patrol car was waiting. A brawny, unsmiling Monroe County deputy in crisp white shirt and dark trousers lounged against his vehicle. The cop’s pink square head, minus any evidence of a neck, sat atop a barrel-shaped torso made even larger by an armored vest. The deputy’s hair was buzzed short, military style, and he wore wraparound sunglasses that hid hard eyes. A black leather belt with keys, cuffs, mace, and automatic pistol—was cinched at his narrow hips. Twice Zeke’s weight and a foot taller, the officer was not in a welcoming mood. When the boat finally nestled against the pier, he was already barking into a radio pinned to his left epaulet.                                                                                                  

Zeke tied off the bow line, and then went to the stern to secure another. Finished with his tasks, he went below deck to retrieve a blue nylon bag packed with everything he owned. The boat’s skipper climbed down from the flying bridge.                                                     

“Thanks for the lift,” said Zeke.                                                                        
Shrugging, the man smiled behind his dark glasses, and went into the cabin, leaving Zeke alone on the deck. On the pier above, the deputy leaned against his cruiser, massive arms folded against his chest. When Zeke put his left foot on the ladder and began to climb, the cop moved to meet him.                                                                                                                    
 “Morning, officer,” Zeke said as he cleared the last step on the ladder.                            
 “Nice trip?” asked the cop in a flat tone.                                                             
“Can’t complain,” said Zeke, wary. He tried to go around the policeman, but the big man would not let him pass.                                                                                          
 “Excuse me, officer, is there a problem?”                                                                     
The cop’s sunglasses bored into the tanned youth in front of him. “Actually, there is. I’m here to give you a lift to the highway. You have a truck to catch, boy.” Glancing down at his watch, the officer added, “And you don’t have much time.”                                             
Over his shoulder, Zeke noticed the fishing yacht’s skipper had come back on deck but was deliberately ignoring the confrontation at the landing.                                                            
No help, no sympathy there.                                                                            
Turning to face the cop, Zeke said, “Where might this truck be going?”                 
Opening the squad car’s rear door, the deputy motioned to the back seat. “North. Gimme your bag and get in. I’ll give you that lift.”                                                                                

It was not a request. With no options to weigh, no alternative to the offer, Zeke handed over his nylon bag and folded himself into the back seat. The cop shut the door, placed the bag on the hood, and rifled through the contents before zipping it shut. Throwing the bag into the front seat, he got behind the steering wheel and backed from the dock in a shower of gravel. He turned sharply toward the only highway through the keys, US Route One.                                 

Sitting back, Zeke watched palms, pastel houses, and new condos race by the window. When the patrol car slowed at a crosswalk for a group of tourists on bicycles, Zeke felt a momentary regret that he was not one of them.                                                                      

In minutes, the cyclists were lost to view, and the policeman’s car pulled alongside a large panel truck. At the open tailgate, a pale lanky driver in brown sweat-soaked shirt and shorts, was scribbling notes on a sheaf of papers pinned to a clipboard. The truck was half-full of cardboard boxes of varying shapes. The deputy got out and walked to the truck, leaving a forlorn Zeke watching from the cruiser’s back seat.                                                                          

The cop and the driver talked. The deliveryman ran a hand through long black hair and looked over at the patrol car’s lone passenger. He said something to the officer and both men laughed. The two shook hands, sealing an obvious arrangement.                                     

Strolling back to his squad car, the deputy yanked open the back door. “Get out,” he ordered, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. Scrambling from the car before the cop changed his mind, Zeke felt relieved to be out of the cruiser.                                                                   
“Your ride is ready,” said the patrolman, holding out Zeke’s bag.                             
“How far is he going?”                                                                                    
 “What do you care? Just get in and don’t look back. Enjoy your ride, dirt bag.” Suffering the insult, Zeke shuffled to the elivery van, bag in hand.                                     

The driver lowered the cargo door; then locked and latched it. Saddled with his reluctant passenger, he said, “You can ride in the back or up front. Don’t make no difference to me, man.” A sign reading, “No Riders” were posted on the van’s dash, and only the driver’s elevated left-hand seat was cushioned. Tossing his bag into the cargo compartment, Zeke climbed in. “I’ll ride in back if it’s all right with you.”                                                                   
“Suit yourself.”                                                                                               
Shrugging, the driver started the engine, waved goodbye to the deputy and accelerated onto the highway.                                                                                                                             
“How far you going?”                                                                                      
“Florida City,” bellowed the driver, eyes on the road. “And I ain’t stopping for nothing!” he added over the noise. Resigned to his exile, Zeke sat back against the truck’s bulkhead. He pushed his bag into a pillow shape and lay with his head toward the forward doors where he could at least breathe cool air. He felt the van settle into a rhythm and was soon lulled to sleep. Finding its place in a steady stream of traffic heading north, the delivery truck rolled along the hundred-mile concrete ribbon linking the low coral islands and tangled mangroves of the Florida Keys.