Golden Legacy

by Robert James Glider

  “And who is this?” Mulee asked, his dark eyes searching Remy’s tall companion.

  “Kincaid,” Remy replied.

  “Cerveza!” Mulee yelled.

  A pretty young girl with large breasts hurried toward them. She wiggled her hips, smiled, and winked at Remy. She carefully placed three bottles of Cuban beer on the table before sauntering away.

  “You will like this beer. Drink and be happy. We have some time to get to know each other. Murdoch was detained.” Mulee took a swig of the beer, held the bottle up as if he was going to make a toast, and nodded at Remy.

  “Thank you.” Remy tilted his beer bottle, acknowledging Mulee’s gesture. His eyes followed the girl who had served the beer. She looked back at him, laughed, and turned to whisper something to the two armed men sitting close by watching them.

  Mulee guzzled his beer and licked his lips. “Murdoch told me you lost something and want it back.”

  “Yeah … we’ll talk about it when Murdoch shows.”

  “Not a problem, my friend, but first, why not be happy? It could be a long time.” Mulee took another swig from the bottle and stood up when a man with a gun in his hand appeared from the foliage behind Kincaid. “Joseph, put our friends’ luggage on board.”

  Kincaid’s eyes showed fear as sweat beads broke out on his forehead.

  Joseph yelled for one of the men at the nearby table to fetch the luggage and take it to the boat.

  “That’s my oldest son,” Mulee said with pride as he leaned across the table staring into Kincaid’s eyes. “Why are you afraid?”

  Sweat ran down Kincaid’s face. He turned toward Remy pleading for an answer.

  Remy sensed this was a test to see if they were really the tough Americans Mulee had been told they were. Mulee lacks respect, Remy thought, and needs a lesson.

  The knife secreted in Remy’s sleeve moved to his hand, and in a swift decisive move, like a mongoose attacking a cobra, he grabbed and held Mulee while pressing the knife to his throat.

  “Don’t kill him!” Kincaid yelled.

  “He won’t. Mulee’s my friend,” James Murdoch said as he walked toward the four men who were now pointing their guns at Remy’s head. “Put your guns away. It’s all right.”

  Remy released his grip and removed the knife from Mulee’s neck. Mulee’s men eased back, and Kincaid slid back into his chair.

  Murdoch shook his head as if he was a teacher scolding a child for a wrong answer. “I already know what you want from Kidd, so let’s get down to business.”

  Mulee yelled out for the young waitress standing nearby to fetch his last bottle of the real Russian vodka hidden under the bar.

  Twenty minutes later, they were all laughing. The laughing stopped when Murdoch told them he had to check in with the police since they were looking for him in connection with a body they’d found floating in Montego Bay.

  “Just one thing,” Murdoch said. He looked at Remy. “In the islands, I am the boss. Any problem with that?”

  “No problem. I’ll take your orders. Besides, I really want to taste blood again,” Remy said as he raised his glass in a toast. “Nostrovia,” and he downed a double shot of the hundred-eighty-proof Russian vodka thinking, At least for now you can be the boss.

  Mulee threw back the contents of his glass, downing the pure vodka in one gulp.

  Murdoch stood up, leaned over toward Mulee, and gave the order, “Get the boat ready to follow my mother and her new friends to Tortola. We’ll leave when I’m finished with the police.”

  Kincaid was staring at the full glass of vodka in front of him.

  Across the table Mulee sat with drool hanging from his thick lips staring at Kincaid. “Now that we have an agreement, who are we going to kill?”

  Remy smiled thinking, The time will come when I will have to kill Mulee, but first I have to get rid of James Murdoch.

  CHAPTER 28

  The island of Tortola

  Early morning

  Jac turned off the engine and guided the Golden Adventurer smoothly into a dock on the west side of the island of Tortola at Smuggler’s Cove. Michael jumped off and secured the bow and stern ropes.

  Jac and Michael walked with Chauncey to the end of the dock. “I’ll get us a car,” she said. I have friends who live close by.” She set off walking toward the small village of Long Bay. Jac and Michael watched until she disappeared around a curve in the road. Jac sat back on a shipping crate next to Michael and closed his eyes to wait for her return. Peri, Mandrago, and the ladies stayed on board.

  “Jac, what do you know about this island?” Michael asked.

  Jac opened his eyes. “On the voyage from Jamaica, your uncle researched the island of Tortola and the British Virgin Islands. He found that Columbus was the first European visitor to the Virgin Islands—in 1493. Impressed by the number of islands and by their plentiful cays, Columbus named the group of islands after Ursula and her eleven thousand virgins.”

  Jac then told Michael the rest of what his uncle had found: Tortola is the largest and most populated of the British Virgin Islands. The name—Tortola—according to local tradition, was given by Columbus. It means “land of the turtle dove.” In reality, Columbus had named the island Santa Ana. Since Columbus’s expedition was funded by Spain, the islands initially became Spanish possessions. But the Spanish lost interest when they couldn’t find gold, and quickly moved on. The Dutch came next to claim the islands. These were the years when Britain ruled the seas. The English took permanent possession of the islands. English buccaneers were attracted to the islands because their hidden coves and complex reef systems made them the ideal location for ravaging passing ships transporting riches from the New World back to Europe. Blackbeard, one of the most infamous buccaneers in history, made his base of operations at Soper’s Hole on Tortola’s west end in the early 1700s. The pirates would lie in wait for an unsuspecting trade ship, pounce on it, kill the crew, and claim the ship and its cargo. Tortola is a small, mountainous island only thirteen and a half miles long and three miles wide. The English aristocracy built large homes on the island sending the older settlers—descendents of the early Dutch settlers—to live around the area of Smuggler’s Cove and Long Bay.

  “That’s where we are now?” Michael said.

  “Yes.”

  “Our contact on Tortola will be calling soon,” Mulee said.

  “Good.” James grunted. He took a cigarette pack from his jacket pocket, tore off the filter, and propped the cigarette, with the ragged end out, between his lips.

  Mulee flicked the wheel on his purloined Zippo lighter, cupped his hands around the flame, and lit his and James’s cigarettes. Ironically, the lighter showed the embossed head of an American bald eagle, and the inscription, “Screaming Eagles,” the insignia of the 101st Airborne.

  James blew out the smoke in a forced exhale. He was thinking of the day before yesterday when he had strolled into the Montego Bay station house and boldly asked for Inspector Townsend. Townsend’s men had been looking all over the island for him, yet he had slipped past them unnoticed.

  Then, after two hours of Townsend’s good-cop-bad-cop threats, he had walked out of the station. Townsend had reluctantly dismissed him. Townsend had no evidence to connect him with any crime. After ditching the tails Townsend put on him, he, Austin, Kincaid, and six of his men had set course for Tortola. And since Mulee’s boat was faster than a sailboat, they soon caught sight of the sails of Kidd’s boat and followed at a distance. James wanted them to land and get the evidence he knew was hidden at his great aunt’s house on Tortola. Then, when they had everything they needed to search for the location of the treasure Remy had told him about, they would take the boat. James pondered and was feeling uneasy about Remy. The man was ruthless, and James knew Remy would kill them all if he got the chance. James formulated a plan to take care of these Americans when
the time came.

  An hour before sunrise, after several days of following Kidd’s sailboat, Remy climbed up the stairs and stepped out onto the deck. He was in a foul mood when he moved to the rail and stared through the rising mist at the distant shoreline of Road Harbor on the island of Tortola.

  “We’re close. I feel it,” Remy muttered. “You won’t see me coming, Abigail Chance. But I guarantee you’ll know it’s me when I kill you.”

  Mulee and his men scurried around the boat skillfully attaching new numbers and a new name—Mo’ Betta—on the bow and keel. So far they had not been bothered by the local Coast Guard or customs people on any of the islands they frequented. Crew members would just wave and smile if a gunboat came near. Mulee had made a run through the islands to Cuba every other month for the past seven years. He had developed contacts and paid off the right people. Most of the local police who gave the orders to the gunboat captains patrolling the offshore waters were on his payroll. With unobstructed entry to the islands, his organized band of thieves appropriated tourists’ toys like MP-3 players, tablets, e-readers, laptops, and cell phones to resell to the technologically starved Cubans at top price.

  Cuban currency was literally worthless. Mulee and his men would take mostly gold and valuable antiquities as payment. Every family had antique gold, statues, English china, and paintings that had been passed down from the time the islands were open to rich Americans who owned property and operated large businesses.

  When Castro marched into Havana and took control of the government, the Americans had fled, and their properties had been confiscated by the government. What followed was a mass looting of the homes and businesses owned by the foreigners. Most of the treasures were stashed and traded to visitors approved by the Castro government. For many years, the Russians were the only foreigners allowed on the island. The ban on visitors was relaxed in later years, allowing many Europeans to visit and vacation on the island. Now with the Obama administration reestablishing relations with Cuba, Americans could once again visit the island. Many American property owners were taking the Cuban government to court seeking reparation for properties that had been confiscated.

  Darkness faded as the rising sun streamed orange rays through cracks in the clouds that hung on the eastern horizon.

  “Kidd’s sails are down. He’s motoring into the harbor,” Mulee called out from the bridge.

  “Call our contacts on the island. Tell them to greet my mother and her newfound friends with a scare,” James said.

  “Mullee, make sure to tell them it’s only a scare. I don’t want my mother hurt.”

  “Okay, boss.” Mulee picked up his sat phone.

  CHAPTER 29

  Auntie Mick’s house, Tortola, British Virgin Islands

  An hour after her departure, Chauncey returned driving an older silver Lexus sedan she had borrowed from a friend.

  “Here, catch, Mr. Kidd.” She threw him the keys after she parked near the dock and got out of the car.

  “Would you go on board and get everybody so we can get going?” Jac asked her.

  “Yes, I will,” Chauncey said.

  Jac and Michael loaded the luggage into the trunk of the car.

  Jac and Peri waved to Michael as they pulled away from the dock. Michael and Mandrago were staying with the boat and would join them later.

  “Take a left turn and follow the road for three miles,” Chauncey said. “My aunt’s house is at the west end of the island.”

  When he pulled out onto the road, Jac felt again as if an ice pick was nudging the nerves in the back of his eyes. He usually suffered with this sensation when he experienced a premonition or a past painful event. The doctors at the VA hospital said it was a gift. Bullshit. It was a headache, pure and simple. On the approximately 850-nautical mile crossing from Jamaica to Tortola, he and Peri had learned some new information about Anne and Mary, but Jac had a feeling there was still something important Chauncey was hiding. If he believed the doctors, then he could only categorize this feeling as ominous.

  Outside Chauncey’s Tortola family house, two men in a black Mercedes sedan with dark tinted windows cruised slowly beyond the driveway looking for a place to park. After two passes up and down the road, the car backed into an overgrown dirt road. This vantage point provided cover as well as an unobstructed view of the house. A small, muscular man wearing all black clothes with his ebony-black hair tied back into a ponytail sat in the passenger seat. He pressed the redial button on his phone and waited until he heard a click.

  “No one here yet,” the man reported.

  “It won’t be long. Wait a minute. Hold on.”

  Mulee pressed the speaker button and put down the phone as a light mist began to fall. He looked through his binoculars. “They’re leaving the dock now in a light-colored sedan.”

  “We’re leaving now.”

  The driver of the black Mercedes pulled out from behind the mound and drove a half mile toward town to intercept Chauncey. He picked a spot just before an upcoming curve and purposely skidded across both lanes of the wet pavement. The Mercedes’ high beams shone in the direction of an oncoming car. The two Asian men in the front seat waited with their 9 mm automatics at the ready.

  The man who was on the phone with Mulee turned to the driver. “Let’s scare the hell out of them. James’s mother is in the car.”

  “What the hell?” Jac hit the brakes and stopped fifty feet from the blinding headlights blocking the middle of the road.

  “It looks like someone lost control. Maybe we should help,” said Abigail.

  “No way,” Jac said. He pressed the horn button and held it down for a few seconds.

  The black car stood its ground.

  Seeing movement behind the blackened windows, Jac yelled, “Get down! Get down now!”

  Everyone ducked, except Jac and Chauncey.

  The front passenger window on the black car slid open. A black-clad arm emerged with a gun.

  “Shit!” Jac yelled. He slammed the gas pedal hard to the floor, waking up the three hundred horses in the engine. The tires spun on the wet pavement sending two plumes of steam skyward. The Lexus lurched forward like a missile aimed directly at the Mercedes. But at the same moment, the Mercedes came to life, swerved to the side, and streaked by, barely clearing Jac’s front right fender.

  Jac had taken a gamble.

  “What the hell was that all about?” yelled Peri.

  Jac scowled as he turned to watch the rear lights of the Mercedes ignite when the driver touched the brakes before disappearing around a curve in the road. “I don’t know, Peri. Someone with a warped sense of humor wanted to play chicken.”

  “It was James,” Chauncey said. “He’s sending us a warning. He knows we’re here.”

  Huddled in the back seat of the Lexus, Abigail and Roni trembled.

  The automatic wipers began removing the scattered raindrops that were hitting the windshield. The early-morning light was receding to darkness as the drops quickened into a torrential downpour.

  “It’s just a tropical rain shower. It’ll only last for a few minutes,” Chauncey said loud enough to be heard over the pounding water hitting the metal roof. “Clouds move fast over the islands.”

  Obviously James had ordered the scare. Jac was certain more trouble was on the way. James was just telling his mother he was coming, and showing all of them how far his power extended. Jac had a feeling that there was a lot more to fear than James. Remy Austin wanted what Abigail had found, and he was capable of killing her to get it.

  “I’m glad you insisted that Mandrago and Michael stay with the boat,” Peri said.

  Sitting directly behind Chauncey, Peri leaned forward and whispered, “Jac, we’re going to need to protect the ladies.”

  Jac nodded. “We need to get our weapons that are stowed aboard the Adventurer.”

 
Peri sat back for a moment, thinking. Then he spoke. “Jac, you and I need to go to the boat after we get everyone settled at the house, okay?”

  “I’m with you, Peri.”

  “I’m going too,” Roni said.

  “Before anyone leaves, you need to meet my Auntie Mick and have one of her famous breakfasts,” said Chauncey.

  “I can’t wait,” Peri said. “I’m famished.”

  “Jeez … what a surprise!” Jac jibed.

  Everyone chuckled.

  The rainfall ended as they neared their destination. Jac pushed his window button down to let in some fresh air.

  “Go slow now. It’s just a little farther,” Chauncey said. “Turn there.” She pointed toward a driveway just past a large, two-story house, bright green with yellow trim, set back about seventy-five feet from the road.

  As Jac turned into the driveway, he noticed a large hotel about a hundred feet down the road facing the ocean. The driveway was narrow and wove through a passage of towering white plumeria bushes. The sweet aroma of plumeria and jasmine wafted through the open window of the Lexus, and Jac could hear Peri sniffing at the sugary air as if he was about to sample a freshly baked pastry.

  Sitting majestically on a small rise in a grove of tall, skinny palm trees sat the Caribe House, as Chauncey called it. Colorful red, white, and blue flowers overflowed yellow window box planters beneath all the windows. The setting could have been used as a model for a painting by Cezanne, the famous French painter who was fascinated with the islands and the colorful people inhabiting them.

  An older woman, tall and straight for her age with facial features that bore a striking resemblance to Chauncey’s, stood waving from the porch. Her snow-white hair was tied back in a bun. She had a complexion two shades darker than Chauncey’s, but her face looked as smooth as alabaster. She had a smile on her face that reminded her visitors of sunshine on a cloudless day.