by Matt Lincoln
Rolling Thunder
Coastal Fury Book 1
Matt Lincoln
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Prologue
I still wasn’t sure if early retirement suited me, but it sure as hell suited Rolling Thunder, formerly known as Mike’s Tropical Tango Hut. As if anyone had ever tangoed across the worn floors of this dive.
Former dive, I corrected myself. It had taken me a month of hard labor and a small boatload of cash, though I still had plenty of boatloads left where that came from, but I’d finally gotten the bar up to my standards. All the damned toucans and flamingos and palm trees had been the first things to go, followed by the furniture and fixtures and just about everything else. I’d practically gutted it down to the studs.
Now there were hardwood floors instead of linoleum, pine walls in place of cracked plaster. Gone was the horseshoe-shaped Frankenstein of a main bar in favor of a hand-built custom rectangle, teak with mahogany inlays and brass rails. In the other room, I had the requisite pool tables, dartboards, and pinball machines, along with a platform stage for live entertainment and an actual dance floor that still wouldn’t be tangoed across, by anyone. Strictly rock at the Rolling Thunder. The kitchen was fully upgraded, the basement and stock rooms full of fresh product.
Only one piece of the original establishment remained, a single bar stool at the far end of the bar. Its floor-bolted, rust-flaked steel pole and faded, vinyl-padded swivel seat were at odds with the gleaming wood and comfy cushions that comprised the rest of the seating. The old stool still had the bullet hole right near the top. Mike had never patched it up, though I’d long since fished out the spent round.
That stool was for Robbie.
I tossed the bar rag over my shoulder and took a few steps back to admire the overall work. Not half bad, if I did say so myself. I’d always wanted to own a bar.
Well, okay, that wasn’t completely true. I’d always wanted a life of action and adventure, chasing down bad guys, kicking ass and taking names, and I’d had that for more than twenty years, even though it hadn’t come around exactly the way I expected. Always thought I’d be a bounty hunter, or an international spy, or possibly a ninja. I’d been disappointed as a kid to find out that “ninja” wasn’t an actual job title you could put on your resume. What I had been was damned good at my job, and through it, I’d gotten everything I always wanted and then some.
So, yeah, “bar owner” hadn’t been first on my childhood list of dream careers, but it had been a close second ever since I discovered the joys of alcohol.
I walked toward the bar and the bullet-scarred stool, smiling faintly as I picked up the folded RESERVED sign from the counter and placed it on the seat. Then I picked up the bottle of Four Roses and poured two shots into the glasses I’d set out earlier. I lifted one and clinked it against the other.
“Sorry you couldn’t be here, asshole,” I said with a smirk. “Here’s to you.”
Just as I tossed back the shot, there was a knock at the front door.
My hand moved instinctively to the place where I no longer carried my weapon, and I shook my head and blew out a short, exasperated breath. You’re a civvie now, dipshit. The most dangerous thing that might knock on my door these days would probably be some pissed-off drunk who’d been relieved of his keys, and it couldn’t even be that yet since the place didn’t officially open for another half-hour. My reaction to unexpected sounds was just hard to break.
I grabbed a coaster from one of the stacks on the counter, tipped the emptied shot glass upside-down on the surface, and headed for the door. Couldn’t see who was out there through the high windows, but whoever it was knocked again when I was halfway there. It might be one of the girls. I’d hired four of them to waitress and help me tend bar, figuring if I didn’t attract any business right away, at least I’d enjoy their company. I’d told them to go around back when they got here and given them the security code, but maybe one of them forgot.
I reached the door, twisted the deadbolt and cracked it open, ready to repeat my instructions about using the back entrance… for the first and last time, because whichever one it was, she’d be out of here if she forgot again. I didn’t like repeating myself. Fortunately for the girls I’d hired, though, it wasn’t one of them.
“Mike,” I said as I looked the older man on the sidewalk up and down, then pulled the door open wider and tempted the hot Florida sun to breach my air conditioning. “You look… touristy.”
“You don’t.” He cracked a lopsided grin and craned, trying to look over my shoulder. “Evening, Special Agent Marston. Just swung by to see what you’ve done to my place.”
“One, it’s my place, for which I paid you way more than this rathole was worth. Two, it’s just Noah now. I’m retired.” I only winced a little as I said the R-word this time. “And three, we’re not open until five. It’s four-thirty.”
Mike snorted. “Well, it’s five o’clock somewhere,” he said as he tried to push past me, “and let’s not forget point number four: I seem to recall ‘free drinks for life’ being part of my asking price for this-here historic watering hole. Now, if you’d be so kind as to move your large, cranky ass out of my way, I hear a double shot of whiskey calling my name.”
“You sure you don’t want a Mai-Tai or something to go with that getup?” I relented with a laugh and let him pass, resplendent in his board shorts and Hawaiian shirt, complete with flip-flops. “What the hell, come on in. Drink all you want. With you, I figure ‘for life’ is only gonna last a few years, anyway.”
Instead of the smart-ass comeback I expected, Mike stopped short and gave a low whistle. “Okay. Not what I thought you’d do with the place.”
“Yeah, what’d you think I’d do?” I quipped with a smirk. “Throw in some garland and hula girls to complement your classy décor?”
“No idea. Just not this, I guess.” He flashed a grin over his shoulder, and it wasn’t hard to see it was truly impressed. “Pretty good for a grunt.”
I shrugged. “Say that when the hula girls get here,” I said with a short laugh as I steered him toward the bar. “You looking for Evan or Jim?”
“Jack,” he said. “Trying to cheap out on me, Marston?”
“Never saw you hit the Jack, old man.”
“Yeah, that’s because it was coming out of my pocket. Now it’s coming out of yours, and they’re a lot deeper than mine.” He laughed. “Seriously, though, I’ll take whatever’s handy.”
I nodded, slipped behind the bar, and snagged a bottle of black-label Jack Daniels from the mirrored shelves before bringing it over to him with two clean double-shot glasses.
“I’ll join you,” I said as I set it all down on the bar.
“Won’t stop you, but I will offer you a bit of advice, ex-bar owner to newbie bar owner,”
he said as he watched me pour the shots. When I finished, he picked one up and grinned. “Try not to drink all your profits.”
“Good advice.”
Our glasses clinked, and we threw back the shots. Mike let out a satisfied exhale and set his empty glass on the counter, pretending not to notice when I grabbed a coaster and slipped it beneath just before the glass touched down. While I refilled him, he stared down the bar at the lone mismatched stool. “You really left that thing in,” he said as he shook his head in wonder. “And here I thought you weren’t the sentimental type.”
“It’s for Robbie,” I said simply.
Mike cranked an eyebrow and nodded once. I knew he wouldn’t mention it again.
As I started to pour the second round, I heard footsteps from somewhere beyond the bar and managed not to whirl toward the sound or reach for my nonexistent sidearm this time. Instead, I turned calmly to see a tanned, dark-haired girl in her early twenties, wearing a snug halter top and capris molded to her long, shapely legs and standing in the doorway to the kitchen.
“Hi, Mr. Marston,” she called with a little wave. “Kaiti and I got here a little early. Mind if we start the dinner prep back here?”
I smothered a grin at Mike’s dropped jaw. “Go for it, Rhoda,” I told her, “and from now on, you don’t have to ask.”
“Got it.” She winked and sketched off a mini-salute, then disappeared into the kitchen. A pair of muted giggles drifted through the open doorway, and then things started clanking around back there.
Mike recovered and shook his head, one corner of his mouth twitching up. “Nice hula girls,” he said. “How many did you hire?”
“Four.”
“Bet they’re all half your age, too,” Mike noted with a smirk. “Do they all drool over you like that?”
I shrugged. “Must be my charming personality.”
“Right. The baby blues and the six-pack have nothing to do with it, you glorious bastard.” Mike grimaced good-naturedly and downed half his shot. “So, you’re ready for your grand opening tonight?”
“Yeah.” I waved a hand around at the empty bar. “Grand.”
“Well, you can’t exactly expect a rush yet. Your door’s still locked.” Mike motioned toward the front door.
“Because we don’t open until five,” I lifted my shot glass, “and I’ve still got a few more profits to drink.”
“I can help you with that.” Mike laughed.
That’s what we did for the next twenty minutes. When I unlocked the entrance and flipped the outside lights on, I didn’t expect a lot of fanfare. Nobody camped out on the sidewalks to wait for the so-called grand opening of yet another Orlando bar.
What I got, just as my ass hit the seat of the stool next to Mike, was a group of six filing in the door, laughing and talking all over each other. Three couples, all of them twenty-somethings and half of them military, two of the guys and one of the girls. I pegged them as Navy sailors on leave, out with their SOs for the night. Not likely to cause much trouble.
Before I could get up to serve my first customers, Joey and Nadia, the other two girls I’d hired, were out of the kitchen and behind the bar before the group bellied up. Joey was the kind of curvy blonde people associated with California, Nadia a slender black woman with a light Caribbean accent. They’d both worked bars before, and they handled the group like a well-oiled, tip-maximizing machine, all smiles and service.
I decided to keep my ass where it was for now. Might as well enjoy being retired for a minute after slaving over this place for a month.
The group had lined up on the right-hand side of the bar, out of sight of the oddball reserved stool, while Mike and I still sat at the front. Once their drinks had been served, one of the Navy boys nudged his buddy and pointed at something on the back wall, one of my personal decorations, a smooth wooden staff topped with a snake’s head carved from black onyx.
“That look familiar to you, Jeff?” he said.
The kid whose name was apparently Jeff stared at it, and then his brow went up. “Cobra Jon.”
“Yeah,” the first one said.
His girl looked from the carved snake to him. “What’s Cobra Jon?”
“Who,” Jeff said. “Bahamas gang leader. Big-time drug dealer, mass murderer. Had a walking stick just like that with a spring-loaded knife. We studied him at boot.”
“Yeah, our CO was a little obsessed with that psycho… or the guy who brought him down, anyway,” the kid who’d started the conversation said with a faint sneer. “Captain Tolbert practically worshipped the ground this guy walked on.”
From the look on Mike’s face, I could see he was listening to their conversation and preparing to jump in.
I elbowed him in the ribs to cut him off hopefully.
“Your captain worshipped a mass murderer?” the other civvie girl asked. “Seriously, Ty, that’s creepy.”
“Not Cobra Jon. The guy who caught him,” Ty said. “Guess he was some kind of super-badass. The Bahamas cops never could make anything stick, but this guy took on Cobra Jon and his whole gang by himself or some shit. Least, that’s how Tolbert made it out.”
The other kid, Jeff, shook his head. “He never said by himself. You suck at paying attention, Ty,” he said, “but you’re right about one thing. Cap did have a hard-on for that Marston guy.”
I managed not to groan aloud. Now there’d be no stopping Mike.
“They had a bunch of replicas like that one in boot for training,” Ty said, pointing to the staff again. “Wonder how one got into this place. Hey, did Cap Tolbert ever say what happened to Cobra Jon’s actual weapon?”
“You’re looking at it, kid,” Mike called out across the bar.
Goddamn it.
His words got the group’s attention. Ty stood slowly and stared at him. “You serious?”
“Damn straight I am.” Mike raised his glass in a mock toast. “Want to hear about it?”
“You know those few years I said you had left in you?” I muttered under my breath. “That’s about to be shortened to a few minutes.”
“Lighten up. You’re retired,” Mike said as he flashed me a grin. “Besides, socializing is good for you. Don’t you want to help shape the minds of the next generation of American patriots?”
“Yeah, I do,” I sighed, “but I’m not allowed to shape minds with a sledgehammer.”
“Be nice.” He turned his smile to the group, who’d gotten up and circled the bar with polite curiosity that suggested they didn’t mind humoring an old man with a crazy story. They had no idea that Mike’s crazy story happened to be true.
“So… that’s really Cobra Jon’s walking stick,” Jeff said when they reached us. “How’d it get there?”
Mike jerked a thumb at me. “Ask him.”
Six pairs of eyes turned to me, and I sighed and rolled my shoulders. “It got there with a couple of metal brackets and some shaped wood dowels,” I said. “Picked them up at Home Depot.”
The girl with the military bearing laughed and punched Jeff’s shoulder. “Ask a stupid question,” she said.
Mike gave me a look. “Are you gonna tell them, or am I?”
“Tell us what?” Ty seemed a little agitated. Definitely the cocky hotshot of the group, probably at least a rank above the other two enlisted and itching to throw his weight around in front of them. “That can’t be the real thing.”
Instead of refuting him, Mike calmly drained the rest of his drink and set his glass down. “Where are my manners? I haven’t introduced myself,” he said. “Name’s Mike Birch, former owner of this establishment, and this here’s the new owner.” He nodded at me. “Noah Marston.”
Ty flinched back a half-step in surprise but didn’t speak. Jeff found his voice faster, despite the goggle-eyed stare he leveled at me.
“You … you’re Special Agent Marston?”
“Retired Special Agent,” I tried not to growl, deliberately avoiding Mike’s expression. He was enjoying this far too much.
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All three Navy officers snapped to attention, and Mike about fell off his stool while he held back a laugh.
“Don’t do that,” I sighed, and when they didn’t relax I added, “At ease.”
The instant the words left my mouth, they all started talking at once.
I gestured with both hands to get them quiet. “You really want to know?” I asked. “Yeah, that was Cobra Jon’s, but the snake carved on it isn’t actually a cobra. It’s a black mamba.”
Ty blinked a few times. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said quietly. “I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t ‘sir’ me,” I said rougher than I intended to, and then forced myself to ease down. There wasn’t a boot-camp soldier alive who’d ever fully bought their CO’s war stories, and I was sure Tolbert had… embellished whatever he told these kids. “Really, it’s no big thing. This is just a bar, and I’m just the guy who owns it.”
“You’re a legend,” Jeff said eagerly. “Can you tell us about it? Cobra Jon, I mean. What really happened.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but a look from Mike stopped me. “Yeah, all right, but I’m gonna need another drink,” I said as I signaled for Nadia, who was closest to us. I asked her to pour me a draft and then settled back on the stool.
“Well,” I said, “like all the best stories, this one starts with a girl and a sandy beach.”
Chapter 1
Southern coast, Florida — ten years ago
Donald had warned Tessa that it would be a little muggy in Florida, but he hadn’t emphasized it nearly enough. Actually, he’d flat-out lied. There was muggy, and there was Florida, which she would definitely describe as soggy-bordering-on-drenched. How could there possibly be enough moisture in the air to make every outdoor space feel like a sauna?
