The Alex Troutt Thrillers: Books 1-3 (Alex Troutt Thrillers Box Set)

by John W. Mefford

  “He’s got a gun!” I yelled, diving at his feet.

  Jerry shot out of his stance and bull-rushed Maguire, slamming his back into the control panel.

  “I give, I give,” the weasel doctor shouted.

  Coated in sweat and blood, Jerry held his fist above his head as he gripped Maguire’s neck with his hand.

  “Get on the horn and tell the captain to stop the yacht,” he barked.

  “I can’t,” Maguire said, his voice sounding more like a kid going through puberty.

  “You’re full of shit. Do it!”

  “I can’t, dammit. We put a mechanism on board to block all frequencies and wireless devices starting about ten minutes ago. No one can reach the boat. Face it, Jerry. It’s inevitable. We’re going to watch two hundred people die.” His smile was wicked, pure evil.

  Jerry cocked his arm, ready to pound the arrogant doctor, but I grabbed his shoulder. “It’s not worth it.”

  “But what now?”

  I turned and realized the savior with the gun was Drake.

  “Coast Guard?” Jerry asked.

  I paused for a second and looked back toward the other yacht. It was probably a hundred yards away. “Who knows where they are? We need that captain to drop anchor,” I said, jabbing a hand toward the Double Barrel Two.

  I raced out of the bridge as voices yelled behind me, but I ignored them and circled around to the starboard side while kicking off my shoes and dropping my coat. Without hesitating, I leaped over the side, pulling my knees to my chest like a cannonball. It wasn’t until I slammed through the frigid water that I questioned what the hell I was doing.

  Too late to turn back the clock.

  I lurched to the surface and started swimming as hard as I could, angling my body to intersect the yacht, hopefully before it crossed the sewage line. I blocked the cold from my mind and focused on my fundamentals, cupping my hands to get the greatest push out of each stroke, compact, rapid-fire kicks, timed with a breath every fourth stroke.

  My brain was on autopilot as I cut through the rolling harbor water like a knife through warm butter. A quick glance up and I spotted the beacon on Deer Island off to my right, but I never stopped swimming. Images pinged my mind from when I was a youngster swimming off the bay in Port Isabel and against the strong summer current on South Padre Island. As a teenager, I’d felt invincible, as strong as an ox. I recalled bumping my leg against a shark once, but only paused briefly before continuing my push through the crashing waves to reach the levee. I grew stronger, more determined with each stroke.

  Just like now. Nothing was going to stop me. As my head turned to take in a gulp of air, I picked up bursts of music, and I knew I was close. And that only gave me another surge of energy. I could see the hull, and I pulled up.

  “Hey!” I yelled up to the main deck.

  Something whizzed by my ear at high speed. I jerked my head around, but was immediately blinded by a spotlight. Shading my eyes, I heard the strained grumble of an engine and knew it was a motorboat heading straight for me. Someone was shooting at me.

  An orange flash from the boat, and a bullet hummed just under my arm. I took in a gulp of air and curled my body beneath the surface, kicking and flapping my arms with everything I had. Another bullet zinged past me. They were shooting directly into the water, but I kept diving farther down, while also moving east across the harbor, hoping to find the hull of the ship again. I couldn’t see a damn thing under the water, but that didn’t stop me from swimming with all of my might.

  But what about the mine? We only had seconds until the yacht reached the point of no return.

  Just then, I rammed into the hull. I wanted to hug it, but it was moving, so I tried to kick next to it with one hand on the side, staying beneath the surface.

  Something hit the hull just next to my hand. I slid my hand over a few inches and felt a hole. The people in the motorboat had either spotted me or were shooting wildly into the water. A plume of water exploded by my ear. Damn, they were good shots.

  And then it hit me. Air. I needed air. Throbbing pains shot through my skull. I could feel intense pressure throughout my body, especially in my chest, like I was about to burst through my skin. I couldn’t hold it any longer as air escaped through my lips. But I knew if I went above the surface, I might get my head blown off.

  I dove downward to find the bottom of the yacht with the hope of swimming under it to the other side. Two seconds later, I knew I couldn’t make it. My lungs screamed for air, so I kicked and flapped my arms, propelling my body straight up, the quickest point to the surface. A few feet before the top, I had nothing left, and I swallowed the salty seawater. My throat spasmed, but I somehow kept my arms and legs moving, even as the cloak of unconsciousness engulfed my mind.

  My arms felt the first chill of the night air. A second later, my head popped out of the water, and I coughed and spit up as my lungs felt the warm embrace of oxygen. The euphoria lasted for two breaths. The motorboat engine was nearly on top of me. I quickly turned, and I could see two men—the Cullen brothers—both in black diving suits. The shorter guy, Patrick, held a rifle under his arm. The engine died to nothing as they floated closer. I thought about taking another gulp of air and diving back in, but my lungs couldn’t do it. The only question was would I die from Patrick’s gun or from the mine that was about to blow up the yacht next to me.

  I could hear him chuckling, and I’m pretty sure I could see his white teeth as he raised his rifle and took aim. Still gasping for air, I thought about my love for my kids, Erin and Luke, and how we’d never had the chance to share the experience of going to the beach—a real beach with a warm breeze, sand castles, and the roar of waves lapping against the shoreline.

  A shot fired. I flinched as my heart skipped a beat. Patrick’s head burst open in the front. The rifle fell from his hands and clanged off the side of the boat and into the water. His body crumpled as his brother cried out and grabbed for him, but Patrick slid through his fingers and dropped into the ocean. Two more breaths, then I realized we still weren’t safe.

  Flipping around, the Double Barrel Two had just passed me. Of course they didn’t stop. They were trying to evade the crazy shooter. I spotted a crewmember at the stern, his head peeking over the side.

  “Drop anchor!” I yelled.

  He raised his head a few inches as he looked over the side again.

  I kicked, pushing my body as much above water as possible while cupping my hands. “Stop the yacht. Drop anchor!”

  He held up a hand toward the top of the stairs leading to the bridge behind him.

  Then I heard another boat. This one larger and moving fast. Was it another Maguire surprise? I turned back to the yacht and could see the man talking to someone on the well-lit bridge. Another man wearing a hat, maybe the captain, quickly smacked the control panel. The yacht’s engine stopped. He had dropped the anchor.

  “Alex!”

  That was Nick’s voice. Twisting in the water, the smaller boat came into view, and I could see the United States Coast Guard logo.

  “About damn time,” I said, moving closer to the craft.

  I could hear helicopters overhead and a fleet of boats closing in.

  Once I climbed on board, Nick held a phone to my ear. “It’s Jerry.”

  “We got ’em, Alex. We got that motherfucker, Patrick Cullen.”

  “Did you shoot him, Jerry?”

  “Hell yes, I did. Thank God you’re okay.”

  I took a breath and felt a warm blanket placed around my shoulders.

  Many lives had been saved. But far too many had already been taken.

  17

  Gretchen sighed dramatically as she stood and placed her cup on the coffee table in my living room. Her eyes were focused on the kitchen, her gaze blank. She was not a happy camper.

  The boys—my son, Luke, along with the grownup boys, Nick, Brad, and Jerry—whooped and hollered as if they were watching their hometown Patriots win another Super B
owl. The stories hadn’t stopped since Brad and Luke arrived home from their epic game against the five bullies from Luke’s school. Apparently, Brad’s athletic prowess had been one of the more closely held FBI secrets. The good guys won, 20-4.

  “I think it’s pretty natural to see guys drop to the maturity level of the youngest in the group. Luke’s not even twelve yet,” I said with a smile, hoping to cheer up Gretchen.

  She forced a smile at the edge of her lips, then reached a hand to my arm.

  “I finally came to the conclusion that Brad and I were never meant to be anything more than friends.”

  “Hey, it’s still early; he could come around. Guys can be strange animals.”

  “I’ve tried everything I know to get his attention, at least in a romantic way, but it’s just not there for him, I guess.”

  She dropped her head, but I put a finger to her chin.

  “There are other fish in the sea, Gretchen.”

  “But they don’t look like Brad or act like Brad.”

  We both turned our heads back to the kitchen and caught a glimpse of Brad reaching for a bowl, his shoulder muscles flexed against his Dri-FIT tee.

  Gretchen sighed again. “I might need a cold shower when I get home.”

  “Whatever works,” I said, arching an eyebrow.

  “Actually, I have a few movies cued up. I might go home and fall in love with some B-list actor while eating Twizzlers and popcorn.”

  She walked to the door. Gloom and doom.

  “You’re not going to say goodbye?” I asked.

  I was reminded of my awkward exchange with my ATF friend, Allen Small, a few days earlier. He’d pressed me again to go have a drink together. But as I thought about it more, I told him it just didn’t feel right, but to not take it personally. Unfortunately, I think he did.

  “I don’t want to get emotional, Alex. I guess it’s time to move on.”

  As I shut the door, Erin rumbled down the stairs and beat me to the kitchen, where Ezzy was dishing out more of her homemade dishes. Erin poked a finger into something Ezzy had in a bowl.

  “You turning Jerry into a vegetarian yet?” I asked Ezzy.

  Luke butted in with, “Mom, you wouldn’t believe the move Brad made. He juked that bully right out of his jock, then went for a layup. Two guys tried to block it, but he sailed through the air and went in for a reverse layup.”

  “Luke, that’s really cool, but I asked Ezzy a question.”

  “It’s all good, Dr. Alex,” Ezzy said, playfully smacking Erin’s wrist as she dipped her hand into the bowl.

  “Not Ezzy or anyone else can turn this meat lover into a vegetarian,” Jerry said, holding a hand to his oversized chin. “Then again, I think Tracy did make me eat vegetables about four years ago.”

  We all laughed as Nick sidled up next to me.

  “You still got quite a shiner there.” He crinkled his nose as he touched his cheek. “Ouch. I think I feel the pain.”

  “Just what a woman wants to hear, Nick.” I put my arm around his shoulder. “If I haven’t told you, thanks for almost rescuing me in the ocean last week.”

  “Hey, I got there only a few seconds late.”

  I winked at him, knowing his investigative work had helped fill in the gaps on the Maguire-Cullen plan. He’d spoken with Dermot’s wife that same day everything went down on the yachts, and she was an open spigot. She ranted on about her husband, then Patrick, and finally shared what she knew: the men had been training off an uninhabited part of Spectacle Island for the underwater dive for the last six months. The Coast Guard later found a cache of bomb material at their site that was covered by brush and thick trees. Our own FBI team learned that Maguire had indeed lost a cousin in Bloody Sunday, and as his bank account grew, so did his bitterness toward those who had put down their arms and advocated a peaceful end to the occupation of Northern Ireland, especially those who had actively worked with British intelligence to provide names of those who were committing the acts of terrorism. He was all about an eye for an eye, and then some. In an effort to ratchet up the impact of his targeted explosions, Maguire used his wealth to tap into a web of terrorists until he found Shaheen...Abdul that is. Apparently, after further investigation by MI6 and the DGSE, Ahmed Shaheen was deemed a non-combatant, much to Jerry’s delight.

  The FBI cyber team found a long list of future targets on Maguire’s computer. It was an international list, with people’s names and locations from across the States and even a few throughout Europe and Asia.

  I heard a horn honking from outside. “That must be Trish’s mom,” Erin said, running over to the mudroom and grabbing a bag and tennis racquet.

  “Hey, you haven’t had lunch yet, and what are you doing with Trish?” I held out my arm as she jogged by.

  She actually stopped and took hold of my arm. “Mom, I’m going to go for it. I love tennis. I can see myself getting better almost every day, even if I can’t get my first serve in to save my life.” She giggled and flipped loose strands of hair out of her face.

  “Okay.” It was cool to hear she was putting her heart into something other than cheerleading, even if it was a sport I played in college. I bit my lip, literally, trying not to offer advice or guidance. “I’m proud of you.”

  “Thanks. I’ve been thinking...” She smiled. “It would be kind of cool if you ever want to volley some.”

  “Hey, that sounds like fun.”

  “And maybe you can show me a few tips on my serve?”

  “Of course. I’ll share everything I know.”

  She hugged me and ran out the door.

  “Kids, they just make you so proud,” Nick said teasingly, holding his hand over his heart.

  I laughed at his theatrics. “Like you would know, mister.”

  “And that’s why I shook their hands, Luke.”

  I turned to see Luke staring at Brad and nodding. “So even though they are jerks, I’m supposed to shake their hand?”

  “Character is about doing the right thing, even when your mom, your coach, or your teacher isn’t watching. It’s not easy.”

  Luke nodded again. “I think I get it. Hey, thanks for helping me out and everything.”

  “You’ve got skills, Luke. Just don’t let anyone tear you down. Confidence comes from in here.” He tapped his chest. “Not from what some punks tell you. And just know that I’ll always be here to help you with a move, or you can ask me anything you want. I’ll be your personal coach, your number one fan...right after your mom, of course.”

  Brad shot me a wink, but then Luke grabbed him by the neck and hugged him. “Thanks, Brad. You’re pretty cool.”

  I couldn’t help but stare an extra few seconds. Something fluttered inside, but I took in a breath and attempted to eat a plate of food. A moment later, I recalled I had a special something for Luke out in the car.

  The boys were still yucking it up, so I snuck out of the house, waved at Mr. Dunkleburger, who was sweeping his driveway, and walked into the garage. I pulled out Luke’s birthday present—a fancy game station—and closed the trunk.

  Brad was standing right there, and I whooped.

  “Dammit, Brad, you scared me. What’s up?”

  He didn’t say anything. He just looked at me as his eyes sparkled. His gaze was serious, yet meaningful.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  I could feel heat invading my neck and other regions south. I reached for my cheek where I felt the goose egg. “This awful thing. Must be butt-ugly,” I said with an awkward giggle.

  He took a step toward me, gently wrapping his long fingers around my arms, and pressed his body closer. “You’re beautiful.”

  I took in a quick breath as he leaned closer, his lips pausing just an inch from mine. I could feel his pecs ripple against my breasts, and my body broke out in chills.

  “Do you mind if I kiss you?”

  I nodded, then shook my head. “Uh...”

  “Alex, just once, let it all go.”

 
; He pressed his lips to mine, and a jolt of electricity shot up my spine. I couldn’t help but grab his hips and pull him even closer, as our heads turned and our bodies swayed in perfect rhythm. It felt like we were floating above ground as I lost myself for a moment. We came up for air, our heads still touching.

  “You just rocked my world,” I whispered without thinking, my tongue still tingling.

  He laughed. “I’d like to take you out, you know, on a date.” He winked, his dimples as cute as ever.

  I wanted to tell him how it warmed my heart to see how he interacted with Luke. And then the kiss.

  “I think I’d like that. I can’t now...but soon, okay?”

  He kissed me again, squeezing my lower lip between his full lips. “I’ll be waiting.”

  I looked into his eyes and kissed him with all the passion I felt.

  Life decisions would have to wait for another day.

  18

  Summer

  The man took a long pull from his cigar, then set his palms on the table and admired the greenbacks piled so high they nearly cut off his view of the front door.

  There were seven bundles, each tallied four separate times.

  Four times he’d counted to ensure each of the seven stacks contained the same amount of cash. Four times he’d felt the surge of adrenaline zip through his bloodstream. Four times his ego had grown just a bit more than the last.

  The exercise was both tedious and exciting, tormenting yet tempting.

  But it was all necessary. It was how he and his six compadres had done business for the last five years. Despite their lasting relationship, trust wasn’t part of the equation. In their world, how could it be?

  He released a puff of smoke into the air, propped his boots on the table, and waited on the six others in his gang to show up. Before the smoke had disappeared into the rafters, the ramshackle door slammed open. It was Number Seven—that was how they were identified themselves, by the order in which they’d joined the cocaine-smuggling operation.

  Number Seven removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped sweat from his face. “It’s a hot sonofabitch out there. Water?”