Free Absolute Pressure by Sigmund Brouwer

Ian,” Uncle Gord said. “If it makes you feel better, I’m not into drugs.”
    I wasn’t sure anything could make me feel better. Judd was an FBI agent and I’d put him in danger. My uncle was pointing a gun at me. Three big guys were behind him to help. And a fourth guy had come out of nowhere.
    â€œEnough talk,” one of the big guys said.
    â€œWhat difference does it make?” Uncle Gord said. “I’ve got the gun. They’re notgoing anywhere. And this is our last run anyway.”
    To me, Uncle Gord said, “Cubans. That’s what we do. Help Cubans make it into the United States. We help them become citizens. We help them leave behind a terrible life.”
    â€œDon’t buy into that,” Judd Warner said. Coming out of the darkness beside me, his voice surprised me.
    â€œOh, really,” Uncle Gord told Judd. “If you’re so smart, you tell Ian.”
    â€œNot many Cubans can afford your uncle,” Judd said to me. “The man standing in front of us is a wanted criminal. He got his money by dealing drugs in Cuba.”
    â€œShoot this man!” the short Cuban shouted.
    â€œNot yet,” Uncle Gord said. “I want to hear more.”
    Judd didn’t say anything.
    Uncle Gord pointed his gun at my chest. “Tell us what you know, Mr. FBI, or this kid dies.”
    â€œI know it was me you were trying to kill with the broken valve on the scuba tank,” Judd said.
    â€œYes,” Uncle Gord said. “We’ve been onto you for a least a week. Ever since that letter came from the IRS saying your identification was phony.”
    Judd frowned. “What?”
    Uncle Gord ignored the question. “Plus you asked a few too many questions. We did want you dead before tonight, but it had to look like an accident. Too bad the wrong guy went down.”
    â€œ
You
wrecked the tank?” I said to Uncle Gord. “But, but...”
    â€œSorry,” he said. It didn’t sound like he meant it. “That’s the way it goes.”
    Sorry
? All he said was
sorry
? This was my uncle. My sister’s brother. The guy I had been visiting nearly every summer I could remember.
    â€œKeep going,” Uncle Gord said to Judd. “What else do you know?”
    The boat bobbed gently in the waves. A nice warm breeze crossed my face. Justa regular Florida night. It seemed unreal to be watching my uncle with a gun in his hand.
    â€œIt’s a simple way of doing it,” Judd said. “You’ve got a pilot in a seaplane who picks them up from a rowboat off the coast of Cuba. You know that airplanes are watched on radar and that it’s too risky to bring them into Florida that way. So the plane drops them into the water, and you pick them up. You hide them on the boat and bring them in. You have fake passports ready for them and you send them on their way.”
    â€œA hundred thousand dollars,” Uncle Gord said. “Cash. Divide it four ways. That’s twenty-five grand for each of us every Friday and Saturday night.”
    He shook his head sadly. “It was a great way to make money. Too bad it ends tonight. You work for the FBI. I’m sure you’ve been filing reports. Even after you’re dead, we’ll have trouble. So we decided this run is our last.”
    After you’re dead?
My uncle was going to kill a man?
    â€œAnd by the way, Ian,” Uncle Gord said. “We’ll have to kill you too.”

chapter thirty
    â€œAfter we drop the Cuban off at Key West, we’re going to the Bahamas anyway,” Uncle Gord said to the men behind him. “So on our way east, we might as well put weights on these two and let them go off the wall. That way, no one will ever find their bodies.”
    I felt my knees go weak.
    Off the wall.
    Uncle Gord was talking about the continental shelf. For about the first three milesfrom shore, the ocean didn’t get much deeper than 150 feet. The