The Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Series Boxset

by David F. Berens

  Wyatt raised an eyebrow. This was unusual behavior for his hard-working chief drill rigger.

  “You’re not gonna believe this,” —Gene’s face had widened into a huge smile— “it went through!”

  “Huh?”

  “The drill permit,” he said as he pointed at his screen, “it came back approved within an hour after I submitted it.”

  George Wyatt almost fainted for the second time this week. “How is that possible?” He leaned over to peer at the computer screen.

  “This new president is all about drill-baby-drill, I guess,” Gene said and swiveled his chair around to face Wyatt, “and we’re gonna be rich.”

  Wyatt let his mouth hang open.

  “Not like millionaire rich,” —Gene stood and put his hands on Wyatt’s shoulders— “like, Bill Gates, eat your heart out rich!”

  “Ha!” Wyatt exclaimed, “Finally!!”

  The two men jumped around in a circle in the booth, nearly knocking over the nearby desk chairs. After a few minutes, they had both settled into a chair and were staring at each other. The door cracked open and Bill Bane stuck his head in.

  “You tell him?” he asked Gene.

  “Yup,” he said and flashed a thumbs up.

  “What’s the order, boss?” Bill turned to Wyatt and smiled.

  George Wyatt inhaled deeply. After a second, he said, “Bring it up.”

  “Yes, sir.” Bill Bane grinned and mocked a salute.

  The huge man closed the door behind him, leaving the other two in silence.

  “Oh, by the way,” Wyatt said, suddenly remembering why he’d come in here in the first place, “I need you to check the radar. I want to see where a boat I just spotted is going.”

  “You bet,” Gene said and turned toward the console, then clicked a few keys.

  After a second, the image pinged. One dot was tracing across the screen. Gene used his finger to point farther along their path. “Hmmm,” he said, “strange to be going there at this time of night.”

  “Where are they headed, Gene?”

  “Fort Jefferson.”

  Vince Pinzioni slammed the iron bars shut. The fort had been shut down after the homicide investigation and they’d only had to cross the yellow police tape in one spot.

  He’d thought about shooting his two captives, but decided to wait. He needed Troy too, and he would do them all together. And by the time he had him out here, he’d have a plan to make all of this go away and with zero trace left behind.

  R.B. and Megan Simons were bound and their mouths covered with duct tape. R.B. stood defiantly, but there wasn’t much defiance in the face of a gun. Vince had also duct taped their wrists together and then wrapped their wrists to the bars of the fort’s prison cells, R.B. in one and Megan in the other.

  “You’ll never get away with—”

  Vince slammed the butt of his pistol against R.B.’s forehead. “You have no idea what you’re dealing with, kid.

  R.B.’s head lolled back and his eyes closed… he was out cold.

  The girl screamed, but Vince raised his arm as if to hit her too. That had quieted the bitch, and now she was whimpering with her head down.

  “Ain’t nobody anywhere near this place,” he said, grinning, “so scream all you want, honey.”

  She was a good looking broad. Maybe he could spend a little time with her before he left them out here. He thought back about how good she had looked in that bikini. She cringed away from him as he took a step, but his cellphone chirped, temporarily saving her from him.

  He would get to that in a minute, but not before she gave up the location of the artifacts they had pulled from the shipwreck site.

  As he climbed back onto his boat and fired up the engine, he clicked open his cellphone and tapped out a message.

  -All proceeding as planned, Papa.

  -Good. Let me know when it’s done.

  -Yes, Papa.

  He slid the phone back into his pocket and eased the throttle up to pull his boat off the sand. He never saw the figure crouched down in the trees at the edge of the beach.

  38

  Overheard

  Troy jerked his head back toward the others milling around the drunk tank.

  “Hey, fellas,” he asked them politely, “can you keep it down?”

  A few of them grumbled, but most just rolled over and went back to sleep.

  One of them walked up to him and tapped his shoulder. “Hey, bro,” he said with a grin that showed a distinct lack of teeth, “you got any Molly?”

  Troy could smell something acrid and rotten as the man breathed on him. He tried hard not to breathe through his nose.

  “Nope,” he replied, “sorry, dude.”

  “Aw, man, you’re just a big ole jabroni, ain’t ya?”

  “Jabroni?”

  “Yeah, man,” —the guy stuck a finger into Troy’s chest— “a big fat jabroni.”

  Troy put his hands up in a surrendering gesture, and lied. “Hey, I had some, but I did it right after they brought me in.”

  The man’s tone changed immediately. “Right on, bro. If I had some, I woulda taken it too. You’re all right, dude.”

  “Thanks,” Troy said, and nodded.

  The man turned away from him and said to the others in the room, “Any of you other jabronis got any Molly?”

  Nobody answered, so he proceeded to walk around the room asking everyone individually. No Molly here.

  Troy turned his attention back to the conversation happening between Joe and Steve, the officers out in the office just beyond the holding cell.

  “So, what we’ve got is a dead park ranger,” the officer named Joe said, “gunshot to the head. No DNA on the blood yet.”

  “Check,” the officer named Steve said, and Troy thought he heard the sound of a dry erase marker squeaking across a whiteboard.

  “A missing park ranger, one,” —there was a pause and some papers being shuffled— “Natasha… Wainwright. Current C.I.A. agent.”

  Dangit, Troy thought. He knew where Natasha was… the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico, which meant that the dead park ranger was James. Who the hell would want to kill James? Shit, he was one of the good guys.

  “Hector Martinez,” —Joe again— “Cuban drug runner. Shot by Officer Steve Haney in self-defense.”

  “Check.”

  “Hector’s G.P.S. shows several trips to Fort Jefferson. Suspect in the murder of James Howard, former C.I.A. Blood evidence on the scene in the lab.”

  “Check,” Steve said, and added, “You think maybe James was dealin’? Deal gone bad or somethin’?”

  James? Troy thought. C.I.A.? That had to be bad info. Ain’t no way James was C.I.A.

  “No evidence to support that at the fort, but it’s worth exploring,” Joe said.

  Steve scribbled something on the whiteboard. Then there was a pause in the conversation and the sound of a cardboard box being opened.

  “Bundle of DVDs,” Joe said, “encrypted tighter than a well-digger’s butt. And a couple of kilos of heroin.”

  “Check,” Steve said and marked the board again. “Lisa’s workin’ on the DVDs. Should have somethin’ for us soon.”

  “Okay, I think that’s it,” Joe said and exhaled heavily.

  “I think so.”

  “Now, what about the possibles?” Joe asked.

  “Right.” Steve sounded like he was turning pages on a notepad. “Possibly related, Vince Pinzioni’s boat at the same marina, in the water and recently driven. G.P.S. shows last trip was to Fort Jefferson.”

  “I don’t think that goes in possibly related,” Joe said. “I think it’s definitely related, given the timeframe and location evidence.”

  Troy heard the sound of an eraser on the whiteboard and then more scribbling… moving Vince into the related column.

  Dangit, Troy thought, why the hell was Vince out at Fort Jefferson?

  There was a lull in the conversation, then the sound of a chair squeaking as it leaned.
/>
  “Hey,” Joe asked suddenly, “where was the trip to, the one right before Fort Jefferson on Vince’s G.P.S.?”

  “Um… I dunno,” —Steve resumed shuffling around in the box— “lemme check it out.”

  A few clicks later he said, “Eh, just some random location out in the gulf. Middle of nowhere, just off the reef.”

  The wreck site, Troy thought, Vince went from the wreck site out to Fort Jefferson. Shit…

  “What about Hector’s last few trips?”

  More shuffling and clicking sounds. “Um… looks like he went to Cuba and back.”

  “No surprise there,” Joe said.

  “And had a pit stop at the Wyatt oil rig,” Steve added.

  “The Wyatt oil rig?”

  “Yup.”

  “What the hell for?”

  “No clue.”

  The officers were silent for a minute. Troy’s head was swimming with all the details. He had no idea how they all fit together, but he was sure there was something bad happening here. And it all seemed to revolve around his shipwreck… the wreck of The Santa Maria.

  “What else is in the box, Steve?”

  “One cellphone found at Fort Jefferson,” he said, “presumed to belong to James.”

  “And the message we saw?”

  “Just said, REPORT.”

  “And before that?”

  Troy heard Steve click a few times. “Message from James says, I see them. Then the other guy says, take them. Then James says, 10-4. Then the other guy says, let me know when it’s done. Then there’s a few hours gap, and then, REPORT.”

  “What’s the number it came from?”

  “Blocked.”

  “Hmmm… okay.” Joe thought for a second. “What’s the last incoming call?”

  “Looks like a local number,” Steve said, “no name matched with it in his contacts.”

  “Dial it,” Joe said, “and put it on speaker.”

  “Okay.”

  Troy heard the muffled sound of the ringing, then someone picked up.

  “Who the hell is this?” the voice asked.

  Troy immediately recognized the voice.

  “Who the hell is this? Steve asked.

  “Screw you,” the voice said and the line went dead.

  “Shit,” Joe said, “get that traced. We need to know who that is.”

  Troy was stunned. Random pieces came together in a way that suddenly made it clear what was happening. Vince had shot James. He was certain of that. And he’d done it after James had shot at them and sunk their boat. Troy slumped down to the cement floor of the drunk tank.

  His friend, James Howard, had shot at them, sunk their boat while trying to kill them, and had sent Natasha to her death at the bottom of the ocean. And he must’ve known where to look because Vince had told him where the site was after their first trip out. Then Vince had killed James to cover up his involvement.

  Troy put his hands on his temples. Vince must be after his shipwreck… he must’ve thought they’d found treasure. He’d killed James for it and was probably coming for them. Oh, my God, Troy thought. R.B. and Megan! I have to warn them!

  “Hey!” he shouted through the bars as he stood, “I know whose voice that is on the phone!”

  He heard the startled sounds of two police officers clipping down the hall toward the cell.

  “I have to get out of here,” Troy yelled, “there are more people in danger.”

  The two officers rounded the corner. “Open it,” the man named Joe called to the officer at the desk.

  An electric buzz sounded and the door clicked. He opened it and motioned to Troy.

  “Okay, let’s go,” he waved him out of the cell. “What have you got?”

  As they walked back to the office where the two men had been going over the case, Troy urgently mapped it out for them. He told the whole story of the wreck, finding Megan Simons to help them, their excursion on Vince’s boat followed by the trip on the Wyatt Knott, his friendship with James who had apparently shot at them sinking the Wyatt Knott and Natasha’s boat killing her… he spelled it all out for them.

  “Whoa,” Steve said. “Now, that’s a tangled web.”

  “All comes back to Vince Pinzioni,” Joe said, “doesn’t it?”

  “Where do you suppose he is now?” Steve asked.

  “He’s after my brother and Megan,” Troy said, “and then probably me. He wants everyone out of the way so he can take the shipwreck for himself.”

  A new voice surprised them all from the office doorway. “That’s not exactly what he wants.”

  “Who the hell are you?” Steve asked.

  “Steve, please,” —Joe held his hand to quiet his partner and stood— “So? Who the hell are you?”

  The man smiled. He was impeccably dressed. Troy didn’t know what a thousand-dollar suit really looked like, but he thought this man was surely wearing one. His hair was close cropped, but wavy, and brushed back from slightly greying temples. His eyes were blue; not plain, like Troy’s, but crystalline looking. They almost glowed.

  “My name is Chris Collins,” he said coolly, holding out a hand toward Joe, “I’m the Deputy Director of the C.I.A.”

  Dangit, thought Troy, there goes my treasure.

  39

  Santa Maria

  “Last year,” Chris Collins began, “I got a credible lead on a find in the waters of the Gulf of Mexico that could perhaps have belonged to the Santa Maria. Yes, the Santa Maria, of Christopher Columbus fame. It was a piece of the stern that gave us a very rough idea, with carbon dating and material analysis, that it might be that famous ship. Without going into too much detail, we had a great many people working on this find.”

  Troy inhaled sharply. How the hell does the Deputy Director of the C.I.A. know anything about this? And, dangit, why does he care?

  “You may be wondering why I care about the Santa Maria,” he continued.

  Whoa, Troy thought, is this dude in my head?

  Joe’s phone rang, interrupting the monologue. It was Steve Haney.

  “Go ahead, Steve,” Joe said into the phone. He nodded as he listened. He did not smile. Clicking the phone to disconnect, he turned to Troy.

  “They’ve scoured the island,” he said grimly, “ and there’s no sign of your brother or Ms. Simons.”

  “Dangit.” Troy stood. “I gotta get out there and find them.”

  “Mr. Bodean,” —Chris spoke to him directly for the first time— “you may want to hear what I’m about to say so you’ll know what you’re going up against.”

  Troy eased back into his chair. “I know what I’m going up against. Vince Pinzioni has probably kidnapped and maybe murdered my brother and my friend.”

  “Please,” Chris said, holding up a hand, “five minutes. Then I’ll get on the phone and get the whole of the C.I.A. down here on this case to find them. It’s very likely he hasn’t killed them yet.”

  “How can you know that?” Joe piped in.

  “Because he’s after me.”

  “What?” Troy and Joe said in unison.

  “You see, our family name has not always been Collins,” he said. “It has gone through several changes. Before Collins it was Collier. Before that it was Columa. And before that, it was Columbo or in English, Columbus.”

  “So, your name should really be Chris Columbus?” Troy asked.

  “Precisely.”

  “As in, the Christopher Columbus who sailed the ocean blue in 1492?”

  “Well, that’s the fictionalized version,” Chris nodded, “but essentially… yes.”

  “Dangit,” Troy said and slapped the arm of his chair.

  “What is it?” Chris Columbus asked him.

  “You’re gonna take all the stuff we found,” he said, exhaling, “ain’t ya?”

  He smiled and nodded yes. “But there is a considerable reward. Not the millions you were thinking, but it should ease the pain.”

  “Forgive me for intruding,” Joe Bond said as h
e tapped a pen on his desk, “but how does Vince Pinzioni fit into all of this?”

  “Well, much like my family name is not Collins,” —Chris looked out the window— “his is not Pinzioni.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Not many people would,” he said and turned back toward them. “Most of us know the story of Columbus, as flawed as our version might be, but we know almost nothing of the captains of the Niña and the Pinta. They were Martín Alonso and Vicente Yáñez Pinzón.”

  “Okay, let me get this straight,” —Joe Bond was scribbling notes on a yellow pad— “the Columbuses and the Pinzóns have come down through history searching for this boat?”

  Chris nodded.

  “And Troy here found it in the gulf,” Joe said.

  “Well, technically,” Chris said, “we found it last year and sent a drone to examine the site and take a satellite image for us.”

  Joe scratched out the last line about Troy. Troy grimaced.

  “Right,” Joe continued. “So, you found the boat with the drone.”

  “Not exactly,” Chris said, “the drone was shot down. We suspect someone working with Vince brought it down. The last images sent by the drone show what appears to be a Latin man aiming a 1960s era bazooka at it. We sent Natasha Wainwright down to recover anything left of the drone last year.”

  He looked over at Troy. “She had no idea why it was here, only that it was top secret and should be recovered discretely.”

  “She didn’t know about the shipwreck until she found us,” Troy said and looked down at his hands. He wrung them together. After a few moments of silence, he inhaled deeply. “So, I got her killed, is basically what you’re saying?”

  “Mr. Bodean,” Chris said and put a hand on his shoulder, “Vince Pinzioni is a brutal man. He would’ve killed her just for getting too close to the site.”

  “But I’m still lost on this whole Pinzón – Columbus feud,” Joe Bond interjected. “What’s so important about the remnants of the Santa Maria? Is it really worth killing over?”

  “The part of the story that you may not know is that the Pinzóns mutinied,” Chris explained as he turned toward the detective. “They sunk the Santa Maria off the coast of Haiti, claiming it was unfit for the voyage. Because of this lost ship, they had to leave some of their crew behind.”