Under Full Sail - A Connie Barrera Thriller: The 7th Novel in the Series - Mystery and Adventure in Florida and the Caribbean (Connie Barrera Thrillers)

by Charles Dougherty

  The man with the pistol laughed. "She just done what I told her to, you stupid shit. You said you knew about sailboats. You ain't makin' a very good impression on the lady. She ain't gonna want to be nice to you if you carry on like that."

  "She ain't got a choice," the second one said. "I like it better when they fight, anyways."

  The man with the pistol shook his head, laughing. "You gonna piss her husband off, you keep that up."

  "Like I give a shit. Let's make him watch. I bet that'll make him talk."

  "He likes to watch," Connie said. She ran her hands through her hair, fluffing it in the wind. "And I like to put on a show. Must be our lucky day. Yours, too." She pushed her lips into a pout and tipped her head forward, looking up, making her dark eyes appear even bigger. "Who's first?"

  The man with the gun frowned and glanced at his partner, who was advancing toward Connie. "I'm in charge here; you take the gun and keep an eye on this asshole." He tipped his head toward Paul. "You like it rough anyway," he said, as the second man took the pistol. "I'll take her first. You can have her while we're askin' the questions."

  "I like it rough, too," Connie said. "Can't we just skip to that part?"

  "I can be rough enough, babe," the man said. "I ain't never had no complaints. You just wait one second." He began to fumble with his belt, his eyes glued to Connie as she reached back and unhooked the bikini top, tossing it toward the man who now held the pistol. He batted at the scrap of fabric when it hit his face. She laughed, stepping out from behind the helm and unbuttoning her shorts.

  As the first man aboard grabbed her, Paul jumped the man with the pistol. Connie whipped the icepick from her waistband and drove it into her attacker's left ear, cupping his head on the right side with her free hand. She grunted as she forced the ice pick in to the hilt. When he convulsed, she shoved him aside just in time to hear the pistol fire. Grabbing a winch handle from the holder on the steering pedestal, she drew back to swing.

  Before she followed through, Paul clipped the other man on the point of his chin with a right cross, stunning him and shoving him away. Paul held the pistol in his left hand, bringing it to bear on his assailant.

  "You okay?" Connie asked.

  "Yes. You?"

  "I'm fine," she said. "Did you shoot him?" She scooped up her bikini top and put it back on.

  "No. It went off while we were struggling. Shot over the side; no damage done."

  "Now what?" she asked, retrieving the hair clamp from her pocket and pulling her tresses back into a ponytail.

  "We're far enough offshore so I'm sure nobody noticed what happened," Paul said, keeping the pistol pointed at the man he had punched, who was shaking his head, coming to. "How cold-blooded are you feeling?"

  "Ice water in my veins," she said. "I saw how battered that woman on Windsong was."

  "We didn't do that," their prisoner said. "That was them people workin' for some feller named Jefferson. We don't never hurt a woman."

  "Uh-huh, sure," Connie said. "How do you know who did that, then?"

  "We captured them men what did it and questioned them."

  "We?" Paul said.

  "Me and Henry, there. You let us go, and we'll tell you all about it."

  "You work for SpecCorp, then," Connie said.

  "I ain't sayin' nothin' else 'til you say you'll let me and Henry go."

  "It's just you," Connie said.

  "Nope," he said, "both of us."

  "Henry's finished," Connie said.

  "Huh?"

  "Didn't you see what she did to him?" Paul asked.

  Connie grabbed Henry's hair and twisted his head so that their prisoner could see the handle of the icepick protruding from Henry's ear. "Henry's finished. You're next, unless you want to talk."

  "Okay, okay. But we got to make a deal."

  Connie braced her left hand on the side of Henry's head and grasped the icepick with her right. She jerked the icepick free. Turning to their captive, she asked, "What's your name?"

  "Davey, but I ain't tellin' you — "

  He went silent as Connie grabbed a handful of his hair and put the tip of the icepick in his right nostril. "Just one good shove," she said, "and you can join your friend Henry."

  "You wouldn't," he said.

  "I already did Henry. Are you that dense? You really think you're going to make a deal with me?"

  Davey swallowed hard, blinked, and said, "Okay, but take that outta my nose."

  "If I were you, I'd start talking and hope she changes her mind," Paul said. "Right now, I think she'd just as soon kill you as listen to you babble."

  "You two assholes scratched the paint on my boat," Connie said. "Paul's wrong. I'd rather just kill you and be done with it." She slipped the icepick into his nostril a bit farther. His eyes began to water.

  "What did the people on Windsong tell you?" Paul asked.

  "Holsclaw knocked that Canaday feller out and they threw him overboard, way out from land. Figgered he was dead until they saw him with you two, goin' in the police station at Rodney Bay. The woman decided they better kill her husband — that's Canaday — the feller what y'all picked up wherever. So Holsclaw, he called this feller Dick Kilgore he knew in Miami what was in the drug business. Kilgore give him the name of somebody in St. Lucia. Sent them two men to your boat that night, lookin' for Canaday. Reckon y'all know that part."

  "Yes," Paul said. "Why are you here? What were you supposed to ask us? Where Canaday is?"

  "Yeah. That, and about the drugs."

  "What drugs?" Connie asked.

  "We was told y'all was goin' to set up a drug smugglin' deal with Canaday. Our job was to find out the particulars, like."

  "Who hired you?" Connie asked.

  "SpecCorp. That's all I know."

  "Who hired SpecCorp?" Connie asked, moving the icepick.

  "Please, lady, if I knowed, I'd tell you, but they don't tell us stuff like that. It's 'cause of security, in case I was to get captured, see."

  "Like now," Connie said.

  "Yes ma'am. That's it."

  "So far, you haven't told us anything to make it worth letting you live. Can you think of a good reason why I shouldn't go on and kill you?"

  "I'd come to work for you."

  "To work for me?" Connie asked, frowning.

  "Your cartel. Anything you want, I'll do."

  "My cartel?"

  "They said you was runnin' a cartel. They thought Canaday was tryin' to cut a deal with you to bypass them."

  "They who?" Connie asked.

  "Whoever it was what hired us."

  Connie traded glances with Paul. "What do you think?" she asked.

  He shrugged. "You a strong swimmer, Davey?"

  "Pretty good, I reckon."

  "The current's running two knots to the west," Connie said. "He'd never make it to Honduras. That would take weeks."

  "Saves getting blood on the deck," Paul said.

  "True," Connie said. "Your choice, Davey. Which is it? Swim? Or die like Henry?"

  "What about our boat?" Davey asked.

  "What about it?" Connie said.

  "You could drain the fuel tank and set me adrift."

  "Oh. No, you don't want that. Too dangerous. That boat's about to explode."

  Davey frowned. "How do you know that?"

  "Woman's intuition," she said. "If you're going swimming, now's the time." She stepped back from him.

  "Stand up, Davey," Paul said. "Step over the side and start swimming. Henry's going to be right behind you, and he'll probably bleed enough to draw sharks, so you ought to put some distance between you."

  Davey got up and stepped over the lifelines, holding on to one of the mizzen shrouds with his left hand. "Please?" he asked.

  Connie shook her head and brandished the icepick. Davey let go, tumbling into the water. As he began to swim, Paul dragged Henry's body to the lifelines and rolled it over the side.

  "I thought we could shoot a few holes in the gas tanks
of that thing and set it off with a flare," Connie said.

  "Go get the flare," Paul said, grasping the speedboat's bow line and beginning to pull it in.

  By the time he had it alongside, Connie was back on deck, flare in hand. She had started Diamantista II's engine, ready to put some distance between them and the speedboat. Paul took aim at the boat's gas tanks and fired until the pistol's slide locked back. He tossed the empty pistol in the water and they waited a few seconds for some of the gas to run out into the boat's bilge.

  "That should do it," Paul said. "You ready?"

  "Ready," Connie said, twisting the knob on the handle end of the flare. It hissed and began to burn as Paul tossed the coiled bow line into the boat.

  Connie waited until they drifted a few yards from the speedboat and then threw the flare into the boat's bilge. Paul got behind the helm and shifted the transmission into forward. He opened the throttle and spun the helm, putting them back on course and letting the backwinded sails fill. By the time the gas tanks blew, they were a hundred yards away.

  "You okay with all that?" Paul asked, putting an arm around Connie's shoulders.

  "I just keep thinking about that poor woman and her boyfriend. That's what they had in mind for us. What choice did we have, really? Call the cops? I'd already killed Henry. No telling how long it would have taken to sort that out, if we ever could."

  "Still think Martinique's the place?" Paul asked.

  "Yes. Let's come about and get on with it."

  29

  “Well, I reckon we done took care of that little problem," Gator Jaw said. He and O'Toole were drinking coffee in a roadside diner off the Tamiami trail, waiting for the tired-looking waitress to bring their breakfasts.

  "Poor dumb bastard never saw it coming," O'Toole said. "You shoulda seen the look on his face when you put that pig sticker in his kidney."

  "Surprised, huh?" Gator Jaw chuckled. "Best thataway."

  They sipped coffee in silence for half a minute, then Gator Jaw asked, "You really gonna do it?"

  "Yeah, they been askin' me for years. I think the time's right. I got the nomination pretty well sewed up, and we're past due for a southerner in the White House, don't you think?"

  "Shit, I reckon. But we ain't had no bachelor run since I can remember."

  "I got that covered," O'Toole grinned.

  "No shit, Willie?"

  "No shit. And it's gonna nail the Hispanic vote, too."

  "Do I know the lucky lady?"

  "Nope. We been keepin' this real quiet. She had some stuff she needed to wrap up, but she's got it all squared away, now."

  "She a Cuban-American, then?"

  O'Toole shook his head. "From Argentina. Richer than shit, too. Not that it matters, except ain't nobody gonna figure she's after my money."

  "Argentina, huh?"

  O'Toole nodded, grinning. "Drop dead gorgeous, and hotter 'n the hinges of Hell."

  "She got a name?"

  "Graciella Angelica Montalba. Goes by Gracie."

  "Well, congratulations, I reckon. You gonna want me to do you up one of them prenuptial things?"

  "Might as well," O'Toole said. "We ain't set a date yet, but I figure we ought to do that right away. It's gonna be a while before the party makes the announcement about me runnin'."

  "Yeah, boy! That's excitin', Willie. Don't be forgettin' your old friends when you get to Washington, you hear?"

  "Not me, Gator Jaw. I'm gonna need me a slick shyster to run the Justice Department."

  "I might know somebody could help you out, there."

  "Uh-huh. Figured you might,” O'Toole said.

  "Hey, speakin' of justice, did you hear the feds busted your buddy Oscar Jefferson late yesterday?" Gator Jaw asked. "I meant to say somethin' earlier."

  "No, but I reckon that's good news for me. What did they get him for?"

  "Money launderin'." Gator Jaw said. "Word is, he ain't likely to make it to trial."

  "Is he gonna cop a plea?" O'Toole asked.

  "Uh-uh. Them people whose money he was managin' done put a contract out on him. He knows too much 'bout certain folks. He ain't gonna last long in jail."

  "Get you boys anything else?" the waitress interrupted, putting their plates on the table.

  "Naw, sugar. That ought to do us," Gator Jaw said. "Let's eat 'fore these damn eggs get cold, Willie."

  "I feel bad that we didn't give Phillip and Sandrine a call," Connie said, sticking her fork into a melon cube. She and Paul had arrived in Ste. Anne, Martinique, late the previous evening. "We're just going to show up on their doorstep."

  "Not exactly," Paul said.

  "Well, you know what I mean." Connie took a sip of coffee and looked up at the clock on the bulkhead.

  Paul, following her glance, said, "If we don't see Sandrine at the customs office when we clear in, we'll give Phillip a call," Paul said. "They'll understand. Maybe they can meet us for lunch somewhere. We should call Cedric, too."

  "Should we tell him?"

  "About SpecCorp?" Paul asked.

  "Uh-huh," Connie said.

  "What do you think?"

  "A part of me says we should," Connie said, dragging her finger through a few drops of moisture on the table, tracing a question mark. Her eyes followed her fingertip.

  "To what end?" Paul asked. "What would it change?"

  She looked up at him, holding his gaze for a few seconds. "I see what you mean. It just feels like we should."

  "I understand, but it would just complicate everything. He's got enough on his plate, now, and that didn't even happen in St. Lucia. We were in international waters. If we were going to tell somebody, it would go back to the U.S. Coast Guard; that's where we're flagged. Talk about red tape ... "

  "I know you're right. I'll get over it. It's part of that lingering Catholic guilt, I guess."

  "We did what we thought was right at the time. You having second thoughts?"

  "No. I'm okay. We won't tell him about SpecCorp, but let's see what he learned about Windsong. Let's call him before we go ashore. It's early enough so we might catch him before he gets wrapped up in something."

  Paul nodded and reached for his cellphone. Scrolling through the call log, he touched the last entry from Cedric Jones and put the phone on the table.

  "Good morning, Paul," Cedric answered, his voice distorted by the speaker. "I was just thinking about you two. Connie there with you?"

  "Good morning, Cedric," Connie said. "We're both here."

  "How's the sailing? Are you in Bequia?"

  "No, we had a change of plans and decided to come to Martinique instead," Paul said. "It's a long story — not important. We were curious about the Canaday woman. How's she doing?"

  "Amazingly well, considering what happened to her. Her companion didn't make it, though."

  "We saw the Coast Guard take her off in a stretcher," Connie said. "And then there was a body bag. That was right before they told us we could go. They wouldn't answer any questions, so we were guessing."

  "Right. That was Herbert Holsclaw in the body bag. Lucky for Mrs. Canaday that you spotted them and called it in. I don't know that she would have lasted a lot longer."

  "Has she regained consciousness?" Paul asked. "She looked pretty out of it, from what we could see."

  "She's in and out," Jones said. "They've got her sedated. Putting together what we got from her and some of the locals, they were at anchor off Vieux Fort when they were boarded by two men. They took them offshore and beat them, asked them a lot of questions. Mostly about where her husband was, and what his relationship was with the two of you. That's why I was thinking about you just now."

  "His relationship with us?" Connie asked. "What could that mean?"

  "She said the men seemed to think that Canaday might be trying to set up some kind of drug smuggling arrangement with you."

  "What?" Paul said. "Where could that have come from? You know all about how we found him."

  "I have no idea, Paul. I'm jus
t telling you what she said. It doesn't make any sense, except that it does tie in with those two men who boarded you looking for him. They had some involvement with a suspected dealer here on the island."

  "Did she think Canaday was mixed up in the drug trade?" Connie asked.

  "No, she seemed as puzzled by that as you are. But she also said they were asking a lot of questions about how Canaday might have arranged for you to pick him up after they threw him overboard."

  "So she's saying they threw him overboard, now?" Paul asked. "Not that he fell overboard?"

  "Not they," Jones said. "She says Holsclaw hit him with a winch handle and thought he was dead. Then he tossed him over the side, somewhere between Guadeloupe and Dominica."

  "Okay, that kind of tracks with his washing up at Isla de Aves," Connie said. "And you were right, Paul."

  "Right about what?" Jones asked.

  "The knot on his head," Connie said. "I thought maybe he got hit by the boom and knocked over the side — an accident. But Paul said the knot was in the wrong place."

  "I see," Jones said.

  "Why did Holsclaw hit him?" Paul asked. "She offer any explanation?"

  "Just that Canaday accused her and Holsclaw of having an affair," Jones said. "Which could be the truth, given what Luke Pantene told us about the situation in Fort Lauderdale."

  "So where are you on finding Canaday?" Paul asked.

  "We think he was traveling under yet another name; it's the only one from the airline's manifest that we couldn't match with our immigration database of people coming into St. Lucia. He used a temporary travel document in the name of Samuel Michael Andrews, forged of course. Supposedly issued by the Canadian Embassy in Barbados. He probably got several from Murphy. Who knows?"

  "He checked in with French immigration using that?" Paul asked.

  "No. They can't find him. We have no information on what name he used with them. The French haven't had any luck matching his picture with airport security videos, either. He's been on the loose in Martinique for three days, now. If he's even still there. We've given them all the aliases we have, but who knows what other documents he might have gotten from Murphy?"

  "Any more on Murphy?" Paul asked.