Bluewater Vengeance: Mystery and Adventure in the Caribbean (Bluewater Thrillers Book 2) Read online

  The crossing from Mustique was short and pleasant, in protected water. He eased his nondescript skiff up to the beach in Landing Bay, a bit surprised that none of his guards had come out to check on the approaching boat. Running the bow into the soft sand, he tossed an anchor up onto the beach to keep the boat from drifting away. He leapt carefully from the bow, landing above the wet sand, and made his way to the shack where his three gunmen lived. Before he stepped up to the door, he could hear the buzzing of flies.

  "Hola!" he yelled. "Qué pasa, hijos de putas?"

  There was no sound but the buzzing. He shoved the door open and gagged on the stench as he saw the clouds of flies working over the three corpses in their beds. No stranger to such sights, he stepped back, closing the door. He would examine them later to see what he could learn, but right now he wanted to check on the women and their captive. He walked around the side of the shack and followed the trail up the hill, noticing as he passed that the canvas-covered pallets holding his merchandise appeared undisturbed. That was encouraging. His first reaction had been that someone had stolen his stockpile of drugs.

  More cautious now, he approached the long, low building where Rosa and her two assistants kept the women they were holding for future sales. Like an old-fashioned, cheap motel, it had a number of rooms used as cells that opened onto a long, shaded porch. He moved quietly along the dirt bordering the porch, noticing that the doors to the cells were all unlocked, including the one that held the girl. She was their only "guest" at the moment.

  He stepped up and glanced into the cell where they had kept her. It was empty. Then he saw that the hasp and lock that had secured the door to the girl's cell had been torn out of the wooden doorframe. Reaching to open the door to the room that Rosa shared with her two helpers, he saw that it was locked from the outside with one of the padlocks that they used on the cells. He frowned at the discovery; this door was normally not locked when Rosa was around.

  He had no key. Rosa kept the keys; he had no need for a set. He pulled an old but well-kept Colt .45 semiautomatic pistol from his waistband and blew the lock from the door to Rosa's room. He could have torn it off with his massive hand, but he was frustrated and angry. Pulling the trigger and feeling the kick of the old pistol was satisfying. He pushed the door open and entered the room.

  He saw the two assistants first. He would have thought they were dead in their beds, just like the guards, but they were both struggling, wild-eyed, against the cable ties that held their wrists and ankles to the metal bed frames. He looked around for Rosa and saw her about the same time as he noticed the flies on her putrefying carcass. His ears ringing from the gunshot, he couldn't hear their buzzing. He stepped up to the nearest of the two living women and casually ripped the duct tape from her mouth, asking her what had happened. Her mouth and throat were so dry after her long period without water that she was unable to make a sound above a whisper.

  "Agua, por favor, agua," she croaked.

  Chapter 3

  Dani's mind was occupied with thoughts of Phillip as she spread the first coat of varnish on the surface of the table in Kayak Spirit's saloon. Laying on varnish wasn't careless work; it required a steady hand and just the right speed of application. Too quickly and it didn't spread evenly; too slowly and it would begin to set before it flowed out, making a smooth coat impossible. A veteran of years of crewing on yachts, Dani applied varnish with the same instinctive care that most women used when polishing their nails. It was relaxing and absorbing, but it left her mind free to roam as she methodically laid on a flawless finish.

  She was glad that Phillip seemed to have found a soulmate in Sandrine. Some 20 years Dani's senior, he had always been a part of her life; he was the big brother that she never had. A former business partner of her father's, Phillip was in some ways the son that Jean-Pierre Berger had never had, as well. For the most part, though, J.-P. had raised Dani as if she were his son, at least when it came to leisure pursuits.

  Her father was an avid yachtsman, not averse to the occasional drunken brawl in a waterfront tavern, and Dani had learned the skills of a deckhand and a street-fighter at his side. He had taken her sailing at every opportunity, and their bond was a strong one. Her mother had no interest in yachting, and her brawling was done on an emotional level, not with her fists. She had been divorced from J.-P. as long as Dani could remember.

  While not overly protective of his only child, J.-P. had kept her well away from his business dealings. In that part of his life, Phillip had been his alter ego, his presence in the lucrative markets of the Caribbean and Latin America. Phillip had an awakening a few years ago after a close call involving illicit weapons and corrupt Latin American politicians. No fool, Phillip figuratively backed away from the table, counted his chips, and decided to withdraw from the game. Fortunately for their relationship, J.-P. understood. He had managed to move away from direct dealings with his customers himself. J.-P. operated his various enterprises from a safe distance, and he and Phillip were still close. When Dani had disappeared in the islands a couple of weeks ago, it was natural that J.-P. would turn to Phillip for help in finding her. J.-P. knew that Phillip carefully maintained his contacts in the islands; there was no one better suited for the job.

  Dani stood up, wiping her hands on a rag soaked in thinner. She stretched the muscles in her lower back and put the lid on the varnish can, wrapping the brush in the rag to avoid drips. The table had been in better shape than she thought. A light sanding and one full coat of varnish brought the finish up to her satisfaction. She stood, tilting her head from side to side, catching the reflected sunlight from several different angles, checking for flaws. She smiled to herself at the mirror-like finish, and took the brush up to the cockpit to clean it. That done, she put away her supplies and went below, reaching down into the refrigerator box for an ice-cold beer.

  She sat in the shade of the cockpit awning, relaxing as she pondered what she wanted to do with her life. She knew that she would tire of tinkering with Kayak Spirit in a few days; boat maintenance was therapeutic, but she wanted more of a challenge. As she had told Phillip, she had no wish to go back to France; her mother's controlling nature aside, she had fallen under the spell of the islands. Crewing on other peoples' yachts had just been a way to live here, but now that she knew this was her place, she wanted a life of her own. Boats and the islands were her love; the freedom of the open sea evoked a passionate response in her that nothing else had ever equaled.

  As she sipped the cold, refreshing beer, she was gazing at a big ketch tied up at the shipyard across the harbor, admiring the classic lines and gleaming brightwork. She could see the fine hand of L. Francis Herreshoff in the graceful sheer line, falling back from the clipper bow to the stern with its wineglass section. A replica of his famous Bounty design, she thought, as she noticed the yacht broker's 'for sale' sign hanging on the stern rail. She finished her beer and grabbed her shower bag. A long, cool shower before a tropical fruit salad at the restaurant just up the waterfront had a strong appeal. She cast a last, lingering look at the ketch across the harbor as she stepped off Kayak Spirit.

  ****

  "She said not, J.-P.," Phillip said, the cell phone in his left hand and a café au lait in his right. He was sitting on his veranda, gazing out over the anchorage at Ste. Anne, Martinique. He listened quietly to J.-P. for a few beats.

  "I don't think it's just her mother, J.-P. She's looking for the next step, if you want my guess, and it's not in Paris. She has too much energy to work at anything that would require her educational background. She likes action; you know that." He sipped the coffee as J.-P. responded.

  "No, I don't want her in our business, either. She might be good at it, but it's not what it used to be. Certainly not worth the personal risk, the way the world is shaping up. Give her some time; she'll figure out what she wants, and she'll tell you when she's ready. She's fine. Quit worrying." He picked up the carafe and refilled his cup.

  "Thanks, J.-P. I thi
nk so. Sandrine wants to meet you, too. Maybe I'll bring her over when she gets another holiday, unless you want to come out here." He paused, offering a wink to Sandrine.

  "You’re welcome, J.-P. Good-bye." He disconnected the call.

  "Come, Phillip. I am almost being late for the work. For the reality, you will taking me to Paris? Is that it, how you Americans say? It is not sounding okay to the ear, I think."

  Phillip shook his head, hiding a smile. He had missed Sandrine and her never-ending quest to master idiomatic expressions in American English. "Not quite, Sandrine. You would say 'For real? You're going to take me to Paris?' You hear the difference?"

  "Yes, Phillip. The way I say it, you are buying the tickets. The way you say it, maybe I am buying the tickets. I don't think so, if I am being late for the work."

  She giggled at the perplexed look on Phillip's face. "Come, come. I am making the wise crack, Phillip. I hear the difference, for real."

  They continued the discussion as Phillip drove her into Marin. He parked his Jeep in the lot at the marina and walked her to the door of the Customs office, receiving a quick hug and a peck on each cheek for his trouble. "I see you this evening, my love," Sandrine said as she slipped through the door. Phillip walked back to the car and drove home, a happy man.

  ****

  Mario Espinosa was holding court at his regular table in one of his favorite Cuban restaurants, this one on Calle Ocho in Miami's Little Havana. Paul Russo had indeed made it back in time to join his cronies for their weekly lunch. In fact, he had his days mixed up and had rushed from the airport to the restaurant yesterday, arriving out of breath to discover that the table was empty. Puzzled, he had called Mario on his cell phone.

  "It's only Tuesday, Paul," Mario had said, laughing. "You been down in the islands just a few days, and now you don't even know what day it is. That's boat lag, does that to you. Kinda like jet lag, but not so fast. You sit down and let Gloria bring you a nice medianoche and some papas fritas; drink a beer. Go home and get some rest, and meet us there tomorrow, okay?" They ended the call with a laugh, and Paul had taken Mario's advice.

  Now that everyone had a good laugh at Paul's expense, they wanted to hear all about his adventure in the islands.

  "So, how is Dani?" Mario asked.

  "She seemed no worse for wear to me. She stood watches on Phillip's boat with no trouble when we were racing up the islands. Had a little scar on her head, and her hair hasn't grown back over it yet. I knew for sure she was okay when I saw how angry she was that Mike Reilly was lost when his boat hit the reef. She was pissed. She had plans for him, if she'd gotten her hands on him. She's not very big, but I wouldn’t want her after me."

  All the men except Paul had known Dani and her father for years. They laughed.

  "When she was about 13, just a tiny thing, J.-P. brought her over here on a business trip. They spent a couple of days here, and then he was taking her to the Bahamas to do some sailing on a charter boat. While we were eating lunch, right here in this restaurant, she went outside to get one of those free newspapers that has the weekly entertainment guide. Right out there. You see the box?" Mario pointed out the window.

  Paul glanced through the window and nodded.

  "Well, these two punks backed her up against the newspaper box. One of them was waving a knife around. I got up to go help her, and J.-P. laughed and pulled me back into my chair. By the time I looked back outside, the kid with the knife was out cold. The other one tried to run, but she kicked his feet out from under him and smashed his head into the sidewalk. Then she got her paper and came back inside. Sat down like nothing had happened and started reading. Thirteen, she was. Probably weighed 75 pounds. You think she's something, wait 'til you meet J.-P."

  "Sounds like you got to the islands too late for all the fun, Paul," one of the others said. "I talked to Sharktooth the other day about something else we got going, and he told me about how he and Phillip sprung Dani."

  "Yeah, I'm sorry I missed that. At least I got to meet Sharktooth. What a name; what a funny character. I'd like to spend more time with him one day. Bet he has some tales to tell. What's his real name, anyway?"

  "He keeps that secret," Mario said. "Nobody knows any name but Sharktooth."

  "Well, at least I got to know Phillip Davis a little bit. I always heard about him when I was still with the cops. Every so often, when I got mixed up in something with the Feds, his name would come up. He was like a phantom or something. Never could figure out which side he was on, you know?"

  "So which side do you think he's on now?" Mario asked.

  "The right side, for damn sure," Paul answered. "No question. He's one of the good guys."

  Seeing the nods of agreement around the table, Paul continued. "I had a quick trip, and a fine, fast sail up the islands from Martinique to Antigua with Dani and Phillip, but that's about it. Fate took care of that Reilly character. We never laid eyes on Sea Serpent. Dani was almost as mad about him wrecking that Concordia yawl of his as she was about what he did to her, I think."

  "Yeah, probably so. She and J.-P. do love their boats," Mario said, just as Gloria brought two big platters of ropas viejas to the table, effectively ending the conversation as the men began to load their plates.

  Chapter 4

  "All they could tell me was that there were two men," Big Jim said, his hand trembling as he held the encrypted satellite phone to his ear. "One Anglo, probably, but he had camouflage face paint, so they weren't sure. Normal size. The other, he was a big Rasta man, real big. Rosa was about to shoot the one with the face paint when the Rasta man stuck her in the kidney."

  "What kind of accent did they have?" The man on the phone asked.

  "They don't say not a single word, the women say. Just look at one another and nod when they got the women tied to the beds and Rosa dead."

  "Sounds like they done this before, then. Why would they kill the guards and Rosa and leave? You got a shipment sittin' there, right?

  "Yeah. From Julio's last delivery. Full shipment."

  "You checked it? You know they didn't take none?"

  "All there. Don’t even look like they lifted the tarps to look at it."

  "And you ain't heard from anybody, Rodriguez? No strange phone calls or emails?"

  "Nada, Boss. Nothing."

  "You didn't have no women or a maricón there? Like maybe on your own account, you ain't tellin' me about?"

  "Ninguno, Boss. Nobody but the guards and Rosa and her two nurses." Big Jim had beads of sweat on his forehead. If the Boss found out about the girl he got from Julio, it would be rough, maybe fatal.

  "This don't add up to me, Rodriguez. You think it's the St. Vincent cops, lookin' for a bigger piece? You think they found out we're runnin' women and didn't pay their cut?"

  "I don' see no way that could happen, Boss. We been too careful."

  "That woman, Rosa, she was from Cuba, right?"

  "Yes. Army medic for many years. Russian trained. She was in Grenada, and Afghanistan, too."

  "You think she might have been tight with some of them Russian crooks workin' from Havana?"

  "I don' think so, but could be, I guess."

  "What about the other two, the nurses?"

  "From Venezuela. More likely would be Rosa. Those two, they never been out of the islands. Rosa, she been to Moscow for training, and she was all over with Castro's advisors down here and in Africa."

  "Yeah. Something stinks, Rodriguez. You hear about Julio?"

  "What about him?"

  "Dead. Cops in Grenada think he killed the engineer and then shot himself. Drunk, probably. The cops found him on that piece-a-shit freighter of his. Went out to see why he hadn't cleared in with Customs."

  "What about the crew?"

  "They don't know nothin'. What do you think? The Customs people in Grenada got Erzulie Freda impounded. Cops found some of those microwave ovens in the hold, the ones with the cocaine in the packaging. Julio must have held back a few from his last d
rop with you. You count that damn stuff when it comes in, Rodriguez?"

  "Of course, Boss. I count it all myself. He must get some extra when he take on the cargo. Hide it from us."

  "Maybe. Okay, Rodriguez. We'll go on from here, but we gotta be extra careful. I'll send you three more soldiers I can trust. You get rid of the two women. They know too much."

  Big Jim noticed the emphasis on "…I can trust."

  "But who take care of the next shipment of whores, then, Boss?"

  "We ain't shippin' no more women or drugs until we figure out what's happenin', you dumb bastard. Now, clean that island up. Get rid of the bodies and the two broads. For all we know, they're part of this. Else, why didn't they get killed with the others?"

  "Good question," Big Jim said, trying to keep the relief from his voice. He had been worried about how to explain that the women had died at his hand, trying to convince him that they really didn't know any more than they had already told him. The fish around Baliceaux were eating well.

  "You got anything else?" The Boss asked.

  "No, Señor, nada."

  "Okay. Ask around. We gotta find out who hit Baliceaux before we do any more business. Just sit on that shipment for now."

  "Okay, Boss, do you…" Big Jim paused, looking at the phone. The Boss had disconnected while Big Jim was still talking, the Cuban bastard. Big Jim put the phone down and pulled out a silk handkerchief. He wiped the sweat from his brow as he wondered whether the new soldiers would have orders for his 'retirement.' He knew he was under suspicion. El Grupo didn't take this sort of thing lightly. He was sure that the man he called Boss was even now answering some hard questions from Caracas. He reasoned that in any case, they wouldn't kill him until they had time to figure out what had happened.